Mask Market

long time,” Michelle said. “Even before she met that Daniel Parks guy, you think?”

“Yeah. That is what I think. She bought the property in ’94.”

“She would have been…twenty-two years old then,” Clarence said, looking up from his laptop.

“Pretty young to be that smart,” Michelle said. “She must have had a crystal ball, too, buying a house in that neighborhood back then. I’ll bet it’s worth five times what she paid for it.”

“It wasn’t leveraged, either,” I told them, tapping a stack of paper in front of me. “She put a hundred down, leaving her with a twenty-one-hundred-dollar-a-month nut for everything—mortgage, taxes, insurance, the whole thing. It’s a two-family, and she was getting eight fifty for the first floor, seven hundred for the second. The C of O for the building says it’s strictly a two-family, but I’ll bet the basement’s another apartment, off the books.”

“You sure it’s our girl?” the Prof said.

I looked around the table, ticking the points off on my fingers: “One, the name on the ownership papers is ‘Jennifer Jackson.’ That’s a motel-register name. Two, whoever owned that property put up the whole thing, deed and all, to make bail for Beryl when she was arrested. Three, we know she knows how to change her name, and how to move money around, too. And, four, she’s the kind of operator who never builds a house without a couple of back doors.”

“Park Slope’s gone way upscale, but it’s no gated community,” Michelle said, looking over at the Mole.

I love these,” Loyal said, fitting the blue leather bustier over her breasts. “But you can’t get into them without help.”

“At your service,” I said, slowly pulling the laces tight.

“That’s what you think I am, don’t you?”

“Huh?”

“You know what I mean, Lew. I’ve been so honest with you.

Now it’s coming around to hurt me.”

“I don’t—”

“You know what? I thought you loved me. I don’t mean I was your great love. Not that special, once-in-a-lifetime-if-you-get-real-lucky love. But a whole lot more than…than just liking me, I guess. I guess I just told you too much truth, didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t. You told me just enough. And you showed me a lot more.”

“But I’m not the one you—”

“You are the one,” I said. “Not like you think, but…Look, Loyal, to me you’re a princess. A little princess. And I’ve got a plan for this to have a happy ending.”

“But not a marriage plan, right?”

“Better.”

“What could be—?”

“Just wait,” I said. “Wait a little bit. You wanted to know what I do for a living, remember?”

“Yes. But I don’t—”

“I’m a gambler, little girl. And I’ve got something going now. The dice are already tumbling. If I can throw the hard eight, you’re going to have your happy ending. That’s all I can tell you now. Is that enough?”

Loyal paused in the act of pulling on one of her stockings. “A coral snake is one of the most beautiful things you could ever see. But one bite and you’re all done. Then there’s milk snakes. They’re just as pretty, but they’re harmless. You know how to tell them apart?”

“Red and black, he’s a good jack. Red and yella, kill the fella.”

“Oh!” she said. She raised her chin, looked down at where I was sitting. “You’ve spent some time in the South, haven’t you? I wondered about that, ever since I told you about people saying I looked like Jeannie, remember? And you said I do favor her. That’s not the way people around here talk.”

“I’ve traveled a little bit.”

“Gambling?”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re going to win me a happy ending?”

“I’m trying.”

“That would be the sweetest thing a man could give a woman, a happy ending.”

“I—”

“I’m a girl who gives as good as she gets,” Loyal said, turning away from me and bending over the couch. “And you don’t have to wait for yours.”

“That’s her?” Clarence asked, pointing at his laptop screen.

“Go through them one more time,” I said.

He trailed his finger over the touchpad, and a new set of thumbnails popped into life. He clicked on them, one by one, and each new image burst into full-screen life.

A woman in a beige parka, so densely quilted that it was impossible to tell if she was a stick or a sumo, walked down a tree-lined street, carrying a large green tote bag with a yellow logo.

The same woman inside a market, the tote draped over the handlebars of a shopping cart. She had pixie- short light blonde hair, bright-red lipstick.

“I can zoom in on that one,” Clarence said.

“Go.”

The woman had china-blue eyes, a beauty mark at the corner of one of them. It looked like one of those tattooed tears gang kids put on their faces, one for each jolt Inside.

“That’s her,” I said.

“Are you sure, mahn? She looks nothing like the girl on that—”

“Her stuff is tough,” the Prof interrupted his son, “but it ain’t close to enough. That’s the same girl Schoolboy and me snatched.”

“You have not seen her for—what?—twenty years?” Clarence said. Not challenging, fascinated.

“She’s still got the look,” the Prof said.

“She does not look afraid to me,” Clarence said, respectful but doubting.

“She never did,” the Prof answered. “Ain’t that right, Schoolboy?”

“On the move.” Terry’s voice, over my cell. “Walking.”

“Probably a Starbucks run,” I said, glancing at my watch. “Gives us twenty minutes, tops.”

“I can double that for you,” Michelle said. “Drop me off at the next corner.”

I glanced over my shoulder at the Prof. He patted the outside pocket of his ankle-length canvas duster. “I already been in once,” he said. “I left it so’s I can pop that box like I had me the key.”

“Eight-fifteen,” Clarence said. “The tenants have all gone to work.”

“You take the wheel,” I told him.

I heard the sound of a key working the lock. Pointed my finger at Max to warn him.

She walked into the living room, one hand holding a paper cup. A sixteen-ounce double skinny mocha latte, if she hadn’t changed her usual order.

“Hello, Beryl,” I said, from the darkness of the couch.

She was fast, but Max was ready for the move, wrapping her up as she bolted back toward the front door. He held one finger against the buccinator muscle in her right cheek, nerve-blocking the pressure point so she couldn’t scream.

He lifted her off the ground with his left hand, letting her feel the price of resistance. She got the message and sagged, allowing him to deposit her next to me on the couch.

“Nobody’s going to hurt you, Beryl,” I said. “Just the opposite. We know people are looking for you; we’re here to fix that.”

“Who are—?”

“You know who we are, child,” the Prof said, as he stepped forward. “We’re the ones who got you back from that pimp when you were just a kid. Remember?”

“You’re…” She paused, looking at Max. “You were there,” she said to the Prof. “And him, too”—nodding at Max. “But who are—?”