Mask Market

“Anytime after midnight.”

“You’ll have it by then?”

“One way or the other,” he said, grimly.

He lit another smoke.

“It took a lot of guts for you to walk in here,” I said, making a gesture to encompass the whole wired-up plaza. “To come in all alone.”

“I always work alone,” the middleman said. “And this”—imitating the gesture I’d just made—“this is just another tunnel.”

“Charlie Jones, a tunnel rat,” the Prof said, musingly. “Who would’ve thought there was any glory in his story?”

“Everybody’s got a story. That’s not the same thing as an excuse.”

“You didn’t buy his lie, Schoolboy?”

“I…I guess I did, Prof. Even the timing works. The woman who came to the door first—his wife, now we know—she went right back into the house, left me outside talking to Charlie. That’s when she has to have made the call.”

“That’s why he asked you if the snatch team was Russians?”

“Has to be.”

“Which means he knows more than he gave up,” Michelle put in. “Which is what we’d expect.”

“Yeah. But it wasn’t Charlie,” I said, more sure of myself after a few hours of thinking it through. “If he wanted to set me up, all he had to do was ring the number he has for me, make a meet, like he had a job—”

“Like he did before,” Clarence said.

“Right. And if he just panicked, seeing me at his door, and called in muscle, why would they have tried to grab me? If they’re the same crew that hit Daniel Parks, they’re not shy about shooting.”

“So you’re going to talk to them because you think that’s what they want?”

“No, honey,” I said to Michelle. “I’m going to talk to them because the guy they hit is a money man. Was a money man, anyway. We’ve been trying to figure out if there’s something for us in all this. If anyone knows, they do.”

“Or your girl,” the Prof said.

“Yeah. Or her. But, so far, we can’t find Beryl. And we can find the Russians.”

“Uh-huh,” the Prof grunted. Not convinced, and making sure I knew it.

“Any way you want to do it.” Charlie’s voice, on the phone. “It’s not you they want, it’s information.”

“And if I don’t have it, they’re going to take my word for it?”

“They don’t expect you to have it. They know it’s a real long shot.”

“Any way I want to do it?”

“Yes.”

Two-fifteen the next morning. The man in the blue-and-white warm-up suit had been standing on the corner of a Chinatown back street for almost half an hour, as still as a sniper. He never once glanced at his watch.

When the oil-belching black Chevy Caprice—Central Casting for gypsy cab—pulled up, he got into the back seat.

From that moment, his life was at risk. Not because the hands of Max the Silent could find a kill-spot like a heat-seeking missile, but because those hands were on the steering wheel. Max drives like he walks, expecting everything in his path to step aside. He still hasn’t figured out that cars are like guns—they make some morons braver than they should be.

We box-tailed the Chevy all the way out to Hunts Point. If the man in the warm-up suit had brought friends, we couldn’t see any sign of them. I’d already told Charlie what would happen to whoever they sent if we found a transmitter on him. Or a cell phone. Or a weapon.

Wesley rode with me. My brother, still protecting me from the other side. Charlie couldn’t be sure Wesley was really gone, but I was sure he wouldn’t want to bet his life on it.

A riderless bicycle sailed past on the sidewalk. I looked over and saw a clot of kids way short of puberty. They were gathered around a few more bikes, one of them holding his hand high. I knew what would be in it—a piece of fluorescent chalk. The kids were ghost riding. You take a bike—I mean take; the game is played with stolen property—get it going as fast as you dare, then bail out. The trick is to jump off while keeping the bike pointed straight ahead. The bike that goes the farthest before it crashes is the winner; the chalk is for marking the spot.

After all, every educational system needs report cards—otherwise, some child might be left behind.

The Chevy stopped on the prairie. It looked like a black polar bear, alone on a dirty ice floe.

I walked over as Max opened the back door for the guy inside, who stepped out lightly and moved in my direction. I held out my hand for him to stop. He stood still as Max searched him. The Mongol nodded an “okay.” I gestured for the man to follow me. We walked over to the gutted-out shell of what had once been a car. I leaned against the charred front fender, opened my hands in a “go ahead” gesture.

“You were never going to be hurt,” he said, without preamble.

“I couldn’t know that.”

“Oleg only has one eye now.” Looking at my bad one, as if we were sharing something he didn’t need to explain.

I didn’t say anything.

“We don’t want to fight,” he said. Not pleading—stating a fact. He was a burly man, a little shorter than me, and a lot thicker. I could see a gold chain, more like a rope, at his neck, and a diamond on his right hand that threw enough fire to give a pyromaniac an orgasm. His watch cost more than some cars. And that warm-up suit wasn’t the kind you buy where they sell sneakers.

“Me, either,” I said, waiting.

“Okay, then.” He put his hands together like we’d just sealed a deal. “We did not know who you were, or where to find you. We still do not. But we had to talk with you, so we…did what we did. You know how such things are.”

I didn’t say anything.

“We would have preferred to do what I am going to do now,” he said, watching my face as he spoke the words. When I didn’t react, he went on: “Pay you for your time. For your time and your trouble.”

“What’s the going rate for being tortured?”

“You think we were going to—?”

“You weren’t looking to hire me,” I said, keeping my voice edgeless. “So you must think I know something. Something you want to know. If I told you that you were wrong, that I didn’t know anything, what were you going to do? Thank me for my time and cut me loose? Or use that Taser on me?”

“We would never have—”

“I like this way better,” I cut him off.

He grunted something I took for understanding. “My name is Yitzhak,” he said. “But I don’t have to know your name to know you are a professional. So! A man hired you to do something. All we want to know is what he hired you to do.”

“Which man?”

“The man who can’t pay you anymore.”

“What’s it worth to you to know?”

“That depends on what you tell us.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Bravo. What is it worth to you, then?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, making it a question he had to answer, if he wanted us to keep talking.

“This man, he stole from us. Money. A great deal of money. Wherever that money is, it’s not in a wall safe. Or a suitcase.”

“Why didn’t you just ask him?”

“You mean, instead of…? All right, I will tell you. Maybe, if you understand us, you will believe us, too.”