Part 2 (2/2)

”It's really not mine,” I said. I reinforced the point by patting the bulge in my back pocket. ”Turn it in at the counter. Maybe someone will claim it.”

”Okay,” he said. He picked up the wallet, but awkwardly, so that it fell out of his hand and splayed open on the table. (I had to admire the deft clumsiness of the move.) We could both see that the credit card slots all were empty. ”Strange,” he said. ”There doesn't appear to be any identification.” He picked up the wallet again and gave it a good going over-making a point, I thought, of showing me the sizable number of sizable bills inside. ”Nothing,” he said after his inspection. ”Just cash. Oh, and this.”

I knew what ”this” would be before he handed it to me: evidence of some kind that the money in the wallet was tainted or criminal and therefore not traceable or returnable. Sure enough, he pa.s.sed me a creased and folded piece of paper, which bore columns of figures, including dollar amounts and numbers expressed as odds. ”What do you think it is?” he asked.

I played along. ”Looks like a betting slip,” I said. ”Whosever wallet this is, the guy makes book.”

”Book?”

”He takes bets illegally.”

”Really?” The man's eyes grew wide, as if I'd just fingered a white slaver or serial killer. ”Well, I wouldn't know anything about that.”

Lay it on a little thicker, why don't you? I thought. But I let the man make his pitch. It had been a long time since I'd seen someone try to pull off a pigeon drop. I was interested to see how he'd set the hook. I thought. But I let the man make his pitch. It had been a long time since I'd seen someone try to pull off a pigeon drop. I was interested to see how he'd set the hook.

He played the guileless angle to the hilt, which isn't typically how the pigeon drop goes down. Usually the wise guy leans heavily on cynicism and outrage, noting how he and the mark have an almost moral responsibility to keep the ill-gotten cash they've found. Still, even draped in innocence, he managed to hit all the cla.s.sic pigeon-drop beats. Having verified that the money was both dirty and anonymous, he then phoned ”a lawyer friend” for advice on how to proceed. The friend apparently suggested that we rathole the cash while we took the necessary legal steps to ratify our claim. Then came the bit about how both of us should put up some earnest money to demonstrate our good faith. At this point, his faux naivete played particularly well, for my new best pal simply couldn't see ”any reason in the world” not to trust me-but his lawyer friend said to approach it this way, and in matters such as this, lawyers generally know best, right? I matched him innocence for innocence, and enthusiastically a.s.sured him that I had no problem fronting as much cash as necessary, but I hoped it wouldn't be more than five hundred bucks, because that's all I had on me. I looked to see if his eyes would give away his greed on this, but to his credit, he kept his ”concerned citizen, slightly out of depth” mask firmly locked in place.

All that remained at this point was for us to divvy the loot. He'd hold my earnest money and, ”because I seemed trustworthy,” I could hold the wallet and its much larger sum. First, though, did we really feel comfortable with the wallet in plain sight? He asked one of the counter girls for a paper bag, which, of course, sets up the ol' switcheroo, where a wallet full of cash becomes a wallet full of Yellow Pages pages.

But we weren't going to get that far. It was time to blow the guy's cover.

Because here's the thing about coincidences: Generally, they aren't. If I was waiting in a random Java Man for someone who knew suspiciously too much about me, and I ”just happened” to get hit with a chestnut like the pigeon drop, the chances were vanis.h.i.+ngly small that these two events were unconnected. So when the citizen returned from the counter, I took a stumbly step into him-and picked his pocket. A moment later, he was staring at two Calvin Klien wallets, lying side by side on the tabletop. One contained cash, though of course a grifter's roll, with a few big bills for show and the rest just a whole bunch of ones. The other wallet contained money-cut pages from a Bible. Or no, not the Bible, the Book of Mormon, which I thought was an interesting touch.

”Well,” he said with sheepish frankness, ”that didn't take you long.”

”Nor would it,” said a voice by the door. Allie's, of course. She crossed to us and cast a casual arm around the old man's shoulder. ”You have to remember, Grandpa: This is Radar Hoverlander, the brightest bulb on the bush.” Then she turned to me and said, ”h.e.l.lo, Radar. And where's my G.o.dd.a.m.n shoe?”

dishonest honesty.

I gave her the shoe. She stuffed it in a dilapidated h.e.l.lo Kitty backpack, and patted my cheek. By way of thanks, I suppose. ”Want some coffee?” she asked. ”I'm buying.” gave her the shoe. She stuffed it in a dilapidated h.e.l.lo Kitty backpack, and patted my cheek. By way of thanks, I suppose. ”Want some coffee?” she asked. ”I'm buying.”

”I'm good,” I said.

”Oh, that you are, sweetie. Why do you think I tracked you down?”

”The question,” I admitted, ”has crossed my mind.”

”Of course it has. Well, don't worry. All will be made clear just as soon as I get my hands on a hammerhead.”

”Hammerhead?”

”Black coffee, extra shot.”

”Won't that keep you awake?”

”Honey, nothing keeps me awake. When I want to sleep, ...” She shot me a wink. ”... I sleep.”

She ordered her drink from one of the goth counterettes, while I and the man she'd identified as Grandpa stood on either side of an awkward silence. I sized him up a second time, in light of the new information. Grandpa? He looked old enough, but then again not. I wondered if grandpa grandpa was code for was code for sugar daddy sugar daddy. After a moment, he said, ”I'm Hines, by the way. Milval Hines.”

”What kind of name is Milval?”

”Family,” he said with the laconic shrug of a man who's been asked that question many, many times before. It made me feel self-conscious. After all, it's not like I've ever won the John Doe Prize for Everyday Names; I guess people who live in Radar-shaped houses shouldn't throw stones. But Hines was already past it, on to other subjects. He asked with self-deprecation, ”What gave away my play?”

I didn't know where to begin. To the trained eye, everything about his approach-the overly overt pigeon drop, the all-text-no-subtext betting slip, the call to the alleged lawyer-shrieked amateur antic. Even Vic would've done a better job; at least he'd have put some spin on the gaff, colored it up with distracting noise. Hines's pitch had the wide, flat feel of a curveball that didn't break. Truly it had been doomed from the start. But I didn't feel like busting his chops, for who holds an amateur to pro standards? So instead I said, ”You did fine. I'm just hard to mark. Like that one said,” I hooked a thumb in Allie's direction, ”I'm the brightest bulb on the bush.” This seemed to satisfy Hines, and the bubble of silence formed around us again.

After a moment, Allie sauntered over, and when I say she sauntered, I mean she moved through s.p.a.ce like she owned it, every bit of it, from the racks of vacuum-sealed coffee bags and Java Man T-s.h.i.+rts pinned up on the wall for sale all the way down to the atoms that comprised these things and the quarks and neutrinos that pa.s.sed through them, and us, on their infinite voyage from wherever to f.u.c.kall.

To put it more prosaically, she had that look of someone holding all the cards.

She s.h.i.+vered theatrically. ”It's cold in here,” she said, though it was not, particularly. ”Let's go to your place.” A gesture with her cup, up and through the back wall of the Java Man, pointed roughly in the direction of my duplex.

This could have been a bluff. It was possible that she knew approximately, like to the nearest Java Man, where I lived, without actually knowing the street address. So I prevaricated. ”My place is a mess,” I said. ”The maid hasn't come since ...”

”The maid comes on Thursdays,” she said most matter-of-factly ”She's with a service, the Damsels of Dirt, and if she cleaned in the nude, I wouldn't be surprised-perv-but in any case, she spends three hours at your place.” Allie fired out the address like pellets from a paint gun, ”2323 Silver Sedge Road. From there she goes to Eagle Rock, to the condo of a day trader who, I know for a fact, has her clean in the nude.” She smiled at me sweetly. ”Her name is Carmen. Strawberry margaritas loosen her lips.”

I closed my eyes, then opened them again. I could feel muons and leptons pa.s.sing through my body. ”It's a bit of a climb,” I said at last.

”We don't mind,” said Allie. ”We're fit.”

And fit they were. I took them the back way, the hard way, up a flight of steep, crumbly steps that ended about thirty feet below my back deck, and gave way there to a narrow path where it's almost hands-and-knees time. You can get dirty; if you're not careful, you can lose your footing and slide all the way downhill till the Dumpster behind the Java Man breaks your fall or, possibly, neck. But Allie took the ascent with the placid alacrity of an alpaca, not even breaking a sweat. Hines was less nimble but more stoic. I walked them around to the front of my place and let them in. It seemed weird, and not altogether comfortable, having guests in my home.

I'm a terrible host. Are you supposed to offer people drinks? Snacks? What? The sort of characters who come to my place-Mirplo, his low-rent friends, random other bit players in the grift-usually bring their own, and it's usually Steel Reserve and pork rinds. In fact, looking at my joint through strangers' eyes, I suddenly became quite self-conscious. Damsels of Dirt notwithstanding, the place was congenially unkempt, with books and magazines scattered about, naked CDs pining for their cases, and piles and piles of unopened mail. Dust motes dancing in the last red rays of sunset gave the very air a shabby feel. I pointed the pair to a couch and hoped nothing would crunch when they sat. Then, to regain some semblance of cool, I grabbed a chair from the dining table, flipped it around backward, and straddled it, resting my head on my crossed arms and affecting the most convincingly who-gives-a-d.a.m.n mien I could muster.

”First things first,” I said. ”Tell me how you found me. This conversation goes nowhere till you do.”

Allie shrugged prettily. It occurred to me that she did most everything prettily. It should have occurred to me that this would be a problem. ”I met a friend of yours,” she said. ”Not long on social graces or, you know, brains. But he does sing your praises.”

Of course. Mirplo. If it were a snake, it would've bit me.

”He should keep his opinions to himself,” I said.

”Maybe. But ...” Again the shrug. This time I took it to mean that whatever Allie wanted out of Vic-information, money, maybe a foot rub-he'd have been powerless to resist. Doubtless, she was right. You recognize people with personal power, and Allie oozed charisma from every pore. I shot her a nod to acknowledge her manifest mastery over the weak mind of a Mirplo. She continued, ”I told him I needed someone with a specialized set of skills. Your name came up.”

”I'm surprised he didn't promote himself for the gig.”

”Oh, he did, but ...”

”I know, last float on the clueless parade.”

”I gave him a finder's fee. The thing is, I need someone with some actual ability here. Just because Vic calls himself an oven doesn't mean he can bake bread. Besides,” she said, ”your reputation precedes you.” This sent a chill through me. In my business, reputations that precede you also often haunt you. Sometimes they chase you down and knock you in the head with a brick.

”Where, exactly, did this precedent take place?”

”In my office,” offered Hines. ”I'm an investment counselor. Well, semiretired. Apparently one of my clients took your advice over mine.” Oh, man Oh, man. I could think of ten different ways that had gone wrong: pump and dump, insider-trading fake, phantom gold mine; cla.s.sic pyramid, death-benefit buys, financial-planning seminars, affinity fraud, trapdoor hedge fund. When I get my hands on loose money, I'm not the kind to let go.

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