Part 2 (1/2)

”Yeah, great, fine, terrific. Listen, what do you think about this? I'm a pa.s.senger on a train, right? And I've got this bag, like a doctor's bag, or maybe a briefcase, and I leave it on my seat, unattended. Go for a drink in the club car.”

”Who'd buy?”

”Ha f.u.c.king ha. Do you want to hear the grift or not?”

”Go on.”

”So okay, so when I come back, I look inside and, Whoa! Whoa! My money's all gone. Where did it go? Who stole it? And it was for my sister! Who's a My money's all gone. Where did it go? Who stole it? And it was for my sister! Who's a nun nun!”

”Your sister the sister?”

”That's right. It was for orphans. Blind Blind ones. Or no, not blind. What do you call it when the mouth's all screwed up? Cliffed palate?” ones. Or no, not blind. What do you call it when the mouth's all screwed up? Cliffed palate?”

”Cleft.”

”That's the one. So anyway, I sob it up for a while, till the other pa.s.sengers all pitch in to make me feel better.”

”Or maybe just to shut you up.”

”That works, too. What do you think? Cla.s.s A con?”

”But n.o.body messed with your bag.”

”Yeah? So?”

”People will have seen that. They'll know you're lying.” Like everybody always knows a Mirplo is lying because that's all a Mirplo ever does.

”Oh. Oh, yeah, you're right. d.a.m.n, I thought that one was foolproof.”

”Depends on the fool.”

”s.h.i.+t. d.a.m.n. Where am I gonna get some money?”

I suddenly had an idea. Probably a bad one, but when you can't fight fire with fire, you fight it with fools. ”I know where you can get some coffee,” I said.

I waited for Vic on a side street around the corner from Java Man, and it wasn't too long before he drove up in his forlorn Song Serenade, an exhausted Chinese beater he called s.h.i.+rley Temple and loved with all the pa.s.sion a man can have for a sedan as fundamentally flawed as he is. The driver's door squealed a pained protest as he opened it and clambered out. With his greasy hair pulled back in a lank ponytail and a flannel s.h.i.+rt hanging from his bony chest, he had the look of a grunge junkie, Seattle, circa 1990. ”What's the gaff?” he asked, his eyes almost wet with excitement. ”Who are we taking down?”

”No gaff,” I said. ”I just need you to check something out.” I gave him a description of Allie-cinnamon s.h.a.g and those teal eyes being the key signifiers-and sent him in to see if she was there and who she was with. ”Take your time,” I said. ”Look around. Her team'll be spread. See who she makes eye contact with.”

”Got it,” said Vic. He started off, then turned back. ”Uhm ...” He rubbed his thumb against his fingers.

I forked over a five spot. Vic c.o.c.ked a brow. ”What?” I said. ”Not enough?”

”Lattes don't grow on trees, man.” I handed him a ten. He ”forgot” to give back the five. Say this for a Mirplo: they work every inch of the grift.

He sidled off. A few minutes later he returned, holding a cup the size of a tub. ”Does this feel light to you?” he asked, hefting the drink. ”It feels light to me. Why can't they foam it all the way up?”

”Hey, Vic, how heavy is foam?”

”Oh,” he said. ”Oh, yeah. I see your point.” He took a sip, and recoiled in pain, slos.h.i.+ng some of the drink on the ground, and some on his ratty jeans and bad sneakers. ”Ow! s.h.i.+t! I burned myself.” He eyed the cup speculatively. ”Think I can sue?”

”Later,” I said. ”Did you see the girl?”

”Yeah, no, she's not there.”

”Are you sure?”

”Dude. You send me in to check out a notable rack of lamb, and you don't think I'll spot her? She's not there.” He got a faraway look in his eye as he mentally called up the scene inside Java Man. ”There's ... let's see ... two goth-looking counterettes, one with bad acne, the other with a lip ring which I'm here to tell you does not not do a thing for her look, some sad pud pounding away on his laptop, a Brian Dennehy-looking motherf.u.c.ker by the door, and a creepy wedge with a s.e.x offender goatee reading the do a thing for her look, some sad pud pounding away on his laptop, a Brian Dennehy-looking motherf.u.c.ker by the door, and a creepy wedge with a s.e.x offender goatee reading the New York Times.” New York Times.”

”Did you check the bathroom?”

”Does a dog fart? I'm not stupid, Radar.”

”That's debatable.”

”And that's beneath you. Who is she, anyway?”

”n.o.body. Just this chick I met.”

”Well, she stood you up. Wanna go shoot stick? We could hustle.”

”Vic, ...” I was about to point out that you had to have some kind of skill to make the back end of a pool hustle work, but then I thought, Why bother? Why bother? Talking to a Mirplo about strategy is like talking to two-year-old about sharing. ”You go,” I said. ”I'm gonna wait this out.” Talking to a Mirplo about strategy is like talking to two-year-old about sharing. ”You go,” I said. ”I'm gonna wait this out.”

”I gotta say, man, it's not like you to get hooked on trim.” Hooked on trim? Hooked on trim? Who talks like that? ”But I'm not gonna leave you, buddy. I'll be your wingman.” Who talks like that? ”But I'm not gonna leave you, buddy. I'll be your wingman.”

”Thanks anyway. I'll be fine.”

”Yeah, huh? But I've got no place else to go, and besides ...” again the thumb-and-forefinger gesture. ”... no scratch.”

I sighed heavily. ”Will twenty get you in the wind?”

”You kidding? Twenty'll get me half a hooker.” I paid Vic to leave, and I have to tell you, it didn't feel half bad. Like taking care of a r.e.t.a.r.ded brother. He drove off, his perilous Serenade coughing the blue smoke of an engine badly in need of a ring job. I went back to watching the Java Man, but no one of note came or went. Eventually I decided to go in and check it out for myself.

I had to credit Vic's observational skill. He'd nailed everyone in the place (except for the girl with the lip ring-I actually thought it worked). I ordered a coffee and read the inspirational quote on the cup: ”The truth speaks with a trumpet voice.” ”The truth speaks with a trumpet voice.” That had some logic, but grift logic: If you can't be right, be loud; if you're loud enough long enough, you will appear to be right. I settled in at a wobbly round table by the window and occupied myself with someone's cast-off crossword puzzle. This nimrod had arrived at That had some logic, but grift logic: If you can't be right, be loud; if you're loud enough long enough, you will appear to be right. I settled in at a wobbly round table by the window and occupied myself with someone's cast-off crossword puzzle. This nimrod had arrived at naked naked as a synonym for as a synonym for succulent succulent (it' (it's juicy), which made Alaska's capital Nuneau Nuneau.

Okay, then.

At first I kept half an eye on the door, but I soon became absorbed in the puzzle. I'm like a dog with a bone with these things. Once I get my teeth into one, I can't let go. I was just figuring out that 23 across, linguistic keystone linguistic keystone, was Rosetta Rosetta, when I noticed the guy Vic had identified as a Brian Dennehy-looking motherf.u.c.ker bending down beside me.

He did bear a resemblance. The barrel chest, the jutting jaw, the close-cropped hair all gone to gray. I made him to be in his sixties but had to give or take a decade, for though he looked hale enough, there was a weary or distracted air about him, like he was feeling, I don't know, maybe old before his time.

”You dropped this,” he said, picking up a thick wallet from the floor and holding it in his beefy hand. It was a counterfeit Calvin Klein, which you could tell at a glance because the embossed lettering on the front read Calvin Klien. I knew where it came from. They sell them downtown in Santee Alley, along with $20 Bolex watches, Barbee dolls and Narlboro cigarettes.

”That's not mine,” I said.

”Really? Because it was right under your chair.” He dropped it on the table. We made eye contact. This was unusual, for most strangers won't look you in the eye, not even over a found wallet fat with cash.

As for the wallet ...