“I will not hear of it. The bedroom is yours.” He stepped back. “Let me look at you.”
She was clothed with proper modesty in accordance with al-hijab—a khimar over a dark abaya, leaving only her hands and face exposed. His little sister had grown into an observant Muslim woman.
She might prove very useful.
9
Cristin covered her mouth as she laughed around a mouthful of beef and broccoli in garlic sauce. “I can’t believe you’re such a klutz.”
Jack didn’t look up. He was concentrating on manipulating the tips of his chopsticks around a shrimp in the heap of fried rice on his plate.
“I grew up in a meat-and-potatoes house in the hinterlands, better known as Middle of Nowhere, New Jersey.”
“So did I.”
“No. You grew up in Tabernacle, a bustling metropolis compared to Johnson.”
“Okay, so we had a pizza place, but never Chinese takeout.”
Jack had trapped the shrimp. Now to get it to his mouth.
“And don’t forget—you’ve had four years in the city to practice. I haven’t been here a year yet.”
Into his mouth—success. But jeez that was a helluva lot of work for a single shrimp.
They’d settled on a little restaurant on Elizabeth Street. The neon sign over the front window was in Chinese and they were the only Caucasians in the place. Cristin had assured him that this was a good sign. He’d come to enjoy Chinese food at college, but had eaten it with a fork. This place hadn’t offered any utensils beyond chopsticks, and Jack was determined to conquer them.
Leaning back, he took a swig from his Tsingtao and watched Cristin manipulate her sticks like she’d been using them all her life.
Sundays with Cristin. Jack had become used to the ritual but lately had found himself feeling a little restless with it. He didn’t want to want more but … he wanted more. Not more than Cristin—more of Cristin.
But her party-planner job kept her tied up all week. And forget holidays. He would’ve loved to have spent New Year’s Eve with her, but no way. Her biggest night of the year—parties up the wazoo.
He said, “The Doors opens Friday. Want to go see it?”
“Sure. I love their music.”
He wasn’t a particular fan, though he liked “Roadhouse Blues” a lot. He’d much rather catch The Silence of the Lambs, but figured The Doors was more up her alley.
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“You’ve got all their CDs on your shelf.”
“‘Light My Fire’ is like the story of my life.” She smiled. “Besides, it’ll make for a warmer Sunday afternoon than car hunting.”
“I meant opening day.”
Her smile widened. “What? You’ve got the hots for Val Kilmer?”
Perfect opening: “No. Just for you. Enough to want to see you twice in one week.”
Her smile faded as she shook her head. “No can do. Got a big corporate party Friday night.”
“How about during the day?”
Another head shake. “Meetings.”
“How about Saturday then?”
She sighed and reached into her pocketbook. She emerged with a business card and handed it to him.
“See that?”
He looked at the card: bright red with CELEBRATIONS across the middle in lemon-yellow script. “Events” ran below it in smaller block print. An 800 number was tucked in the lower left corner.
“‘Events,’ huh? What happened to ‘parties’?”
“Memo from on high: We’re no longer ‘party-planners,’ we’re now ‘event-planners.’ Because while a party can be an event, an event is not necessarily a party. And events tend to be more profitable.”
He looked again. “Your name’s not on it.”
She shrugged. “The company has them printed up. All the planners get the same card. But that’s not the point.” She took the card back and held it up between them. “The point is, I make very good money with these folks. I’m socking away a ton. But Celebrations isn’t the only party—sorry, event-planning service in town. Loads of competition out there, and so to do the job right, I’ve got to be available. I’ve been building a very tony client base—CEOs, state senators and assemblymen, deputy mayors, city council members—and that’s important, because I work on commission. The more elaborate and expensive the party, the more I take home.”
“I know, I know. It’s just—”
She made a show of looking over her shoulder. “Is that a string I feel attaching to me?”
Cristin had a thing about no strings. Jack was no fan of them either, but sometimes she took it to extremes. Not once had he slept over. He was looking for a new apartment—he’d never asked her to his current place because it was such a dump—but he was sure if she came on a Sunday, she’d leave before morning.
“No. Just me looking for a little flexibility.”
“I could work seven days a week at this job, but Sundays tend to be slow, so that’s my day off. The rest of the week—I’m booked.”
“I get it.”
She popped a sauce-laden broccoli floret into her mouth. “We set ground rules when we started, right?”
Well, she had. But yeah, he’d gone along.
“Right.”
“Aren’t things good between us, you know, as friends with benefits?”
“Better than good. Great.”
“Then can we agree not to ruin it with strings?”
“You got it. The Doors next Sunday?”
She smiled. “It’s a date.”
10
Maybe the MSG in their food had some sort of aphrodisiacal effect on Cristin. Or maybe she was simply Cristin being Cristin. Whatever the cause, as soon as the apartment door closed behind her she practically attacked Jack, yanking at his belt buckle. Before he realized what was happening, his jeans dropped to the floor along with the Ruger in its SOB holster. It landed with a loud thunk.
“What the—?” she said.
“Just my wallet.”
He kissed her, hoping to distract her. But her curiosity wasn’t about to be turned.
“Then your wallet must be filled with gold coins, because—holy crap!” She’d twisted and craned her neck to see around him. “Is that a gun?”
“Um, yeah.”
Well, standing there with his jeans around his ankles, and the Ruger’s grip and hammer protruding from the nylon holster, what else could he say? He waited for some horrified response, but instead she dropped to her knees for a closer look.
“Oh, coooool!”
Cool?
She looked up at him. “When did you start carrying this?”
“Um, today.”
Sort of true. After their first few Sundays together, when he’d had a couple of close calls trying to hide it from her, he’d stopped carrying when they were together. But after yesterday’s narrow escape, he’d decided he needed to be armed at all times.
“Why?”
He decided he may as well tell her the truth, but he made it sound like a question: “Would you believe I’ve got a bunch of Dominicans mad at me?”
“Monks?”
Was she kidding? Then she winked and he knew.
“What did you do to make this necessary?” She patted the holster. “Steal their Frangelico recipe?”
“Long story. A bunch of them almost caught me yesterday, so I decided I needed to keep an equalizer handy.”
“Can I see it?”
“It’s right there.”
“Will you take it out for me?”
“The pistol?”
She slapped him on the leg. “We’ll get to that later. First…”
“Okay.” He winced as he squatted next to her and reached for it. “You can—”
“Oh, my God!” She was staring at the large bruise on his thigh. “Did those monks do that?”
“No. That’s from my Harley yesterday.”
“No wonder you’ve been limping.”
He pulled the Ruger free of the holster. Its nickel finish gleamed.
“Take it. Just keep your finger away from the trigger.”
“Heavy!” she said, then handed it back to him. “Okay. Time for you to shoot me.”
“What?”
She laughed and slid her hand up his thigh. “With your other gun, silly.”
They resumed undressing each other but that came to another halt when Cristin spotted the bandage on his arm.
“What?” she said, running her fingers over it.
“Those monks.”
“The Dominicans?”
“Well, they did run the Inquisition. Accused me of heresy.”
“No, really.”
He didn’t want to get into it.
“Just a disagreement. It’ll all work out.”
“You’re sure?”
Not in the least, he thought. But he said, “Absolutely.” He put his arms around her. “Now where were we?”
11
They’d caught their breath now and lay entangled under the sheets—Jack on his back and Cristin snuggled next to him. Neither spoke. Neither felt the need.
After a while she kissed his cheek and said, “Whatcha thinkin’, my battered Lincoln?”
He’d been thinking about their dinner conversation and how he still wished they could have more than one night a week together. No point in bringing it up again.
“Thinking about that Corvair.”
Not entirely untrue. Flashes of its front end kept popping into his head.
“Oh, reeeeally? In my bed?”
“It’s stuck in my head. You know, like part of a song gets stuck in your brain and keeps repeating and repeating? That car’s doing something like that.”
“Then there’s only one thing to do.”
“What?”
He figured she’d say Buy it. But this was Cristin Ott.
“I’m gonna have to fuck it out of your brain.”
He laughed. “I’d like to see you try.”
She succeeded, but the effect was only temporary.
MONDAY
1
“Pie?” Abe said, looking scandalized. “You brought pie for breakfast?”
Jack had wanted to try something different. He’d stopped in a mom-and-pop called Costin’s that carried a little bit of everything. It served hot coffee but had no seating. A convenience store that looked like it had been around since long before anyone dreamed up the term. Some of the dusty items on the shelves looked like they’d been there since it opened.
But the boxed pies looked fresh so he’d picked up a peach and brought it to the Isher Sports Shop.
“You might not have ever had pie for breakfast,” Jack said, “but you’ve heard of eating fruit for breakfast, right?”
“Of course.”
“And I know you’ve eaten pastry for breakfast.”
Abe waggled a hand. “Once, maybe. Okay, twice.”
Jack pointed to the pie. “Well, the filling is fruit and the crust is pastry.”
Abe’s gaze shifted to the pie, then to Jack—his wide-eyed expression made it obvious he was experiencing an ecstatic epiphany—then back to the pie.
“I think maybe you’re onto something.”
He reached under the counter and produced a knife more suited to skinning rhinos than cutting a pie. He sliced across the diameter, then made a similar cut at a ninety-degree angle. He pried up the quarter nearest him and took a big bite from the pointed end.
He rolled his eyes as he swallowed. “A balmalocha of breakfast, he is. Vast vistas of possibilities open before me.”
“This balmalocha,” Jack said. “It’s something I want to be?”
Christ, I’m starting to sound like him.
Abe nodded. “Sort of like a maven.”
Jack knew maven. He pulled out a quarter of the pie and went to work on it. As good as it looked. Abe finished his first piece and attacked a second.
“Crumbs,” Abe said around a mouthful of pie.
“What?”
He swallowed. “A crumb topping, like on Entenmann’s crumb donuts, and this would be perfect.”
Jack thought the pie was pretty damn near perfect as it was.
Abe brushed off his hands on his shirtfront, smearing a bit of peach filling across the breast pocket, and then placed a plain cardboard box, a little smaller than the pie, on the scarred counter.
Jack nodded toward it. “What’s that?”
“What you asked for.”
“Which is…?”
“Nu? You got Alzheimer’s already?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Didn’t you call me yesterday and tell me you wanted to ‘bug’ someone’s car?”
“Oh, right.”
As soon as Jack had left Julio’s on Saturday, he’d called Abe to see if he could help him out.
Last fall, Jack and Julio had trailed Zalesky and one of the old ladies he was scamming. They watched him pick her up at her house and drop her off at a bank with a briefcase. After she returned, he put that briefcase—presumably full of cash from the bank—in the trunk. They waited for nearly an hour, then he dropped her off home with the briefcase.
Neither had been able to figure out how he was working his scam. Easy enough for Jack to put eyes on him, but he needed ears too. He couldn’t get a line on how to counter Zalesky without hearing his sales patter.
Jack pulled the box closer. “So soon? You work fast.”
“Fast, shmast. All a matter of knowing who to call.”
Jack lifted the lid and found a tangle of wires coiled around a couple of black metal boxes the size of cigarette packs.
“Looks complicated.”
“Not to worry.” He pointed to one of the boxes. “This one with the little antenna is the transmitter. Its wire attaches it to this tiny electret microphone. This other box is the receiver. Its wire attaches to an earplug so you can listen. Range is supposed to be one hundred meters—”
“What’s that in feet?”
“A little over three hundred.”
Jack pictured a football field. “Nice.”
“The operative word is ‘supposed.’ My friend says you shouldn’t count on the full one hundred. If you want to be sure you don’t miss anything, stay within half that.”
Jack thought that was still pretty doable, but saw potential problems.
“Battery life?”
“Long. It’s voice activated. Doesn’t draw power until there’s something to transmit.”
“Cool. Does this guy do installation?”
Abe shook his head. “This guy? Like a hermit he lives. Barely leaves his basement.”
Jack had figured custom installation was a long shot anyway. “Well, I sure as hell don’t know anything about electronics. How do I get it into his car?”
Jack couldn’t see any way to plant it on Zalesky himself, and since driving his marks around in his car seemed to be part of the scam …
“You know already how to break into a locked car, yes?”
“Well, yeah.”
“So all you’ve got to do is sneak into his car, put the little microphone where it can pick up voices, and then hide the transmitter.”
Jack laughed. “Is that all?”
“What else? Simple already.”
“Yeah. Simple.” Like who will bell the cat?
Zalesky drove a late model Dodge Dynasty. Jack knew nothing about the model’s interior, or its trunk. How was he going to hide that bug inside Zalesky’s car with no one the wiser?
And then an idea.
“Got a phone book?”
Abe reached under the counter and produced a battered copy of the Yellow Pages. It occurred to Jack that he seemed to have one of just about everything down there.
“What for?”
“Gonna start calling car rental places.”
If he could get his hands on a Dynasty for a dry run at installing the bug, this might work.
2
/> Vinny glided past a row of warehouses in Canarsie and turned into his salvage yard on Preston Court. He hadn’t wanted his own name on the business, so he’d left the original: Preston Salvage.
His fists tightened on the steering wheel when he recognized one of the cars in the lot. Tommy’s cherry red Nissan 300ZX.
Okay. Be cool. This may work out.
If Tommy’s being here brought in the extra business—over and under the table—that Tony had promised, the financial end might come out okay. But money wasn’t the only consideration here. Preston Salvage was Vinny’s baby, something to call his own. He’d hunted around, he’d done the legwork, found it, made a deal for it. Now he had to share it with Tommy Ten Thumbs Totaro. He didn’t like sharing. Never had. Never would.
The forced calm shattered as soon as he stepped into the office and found Tommy in his chair … behind his desk … going through his papers with the short fat sausage fingers that had earned him his nickname. Only mid–late thirties or so, he had his head down and Vinny could see a bald spot growing within his wavy, sandy hair.
He looked up and smiled. “Howdy, pardner.”
“That’s my chair,” Vinny said.
“Yeah, well, there’s another one right over there.”
“And that’s my desk.”
“Well, there’s only one desk, and I needed to get acquainted with your operation here.”
Good thing he wasn’t carrying at the moment or Vinny figured he might have already popped Tommy a couple of times by now.
Tommy shuffled the papers. “I was going through your expenses here and I noticed bills from a marina out in Jamaica Bay.” He grinned. “You got yourself a party boat you never told me about?”
Vinny unclenched his teeth. “It ain’t a party boat. It belongs to the company.”
“The company’s got a boat?” Tommy’s smile broadened. “I didn’t get to go through all the assets yet. That means we’ve got a party boat.”
Vinny could almost see the fantasies dancing in Tommy’s head: a bag of blow, a couple of pros, and sailing off to sea for an all-night party.
“I don’t think—”
“What’s it called?”
“Daisy Two.”