Walter Mosley - Known to Evil

After that smirk, he studied me like a religious scholar carefully perusing an original leaf of the New Testament, scrawled upon crumbling parchment.

It took him a minute but finally he said, "Show me some ID."

John Tooms had a detective's license with my picture on it. It was laminated and stamped, official to even the closest of inspections, and as counterfeit as a hundred-thousand-dollar bill.

If there was any flaw in the document Pete would have found it. He studied the card with an expert's eye. He tested everything from the texture of the photograph to the edges of the lamination.

Handing the card back to me, he asked, "How much?"

"Thousand dollars if I get any information that I should be able to chase down."

"Thousand dollars," Lonnie whispered.

"Let's see it."

"Let's hear what your friend here has to say first."

"Okay," Pete said. "Come on upstairs and we'll talk over a beer."

"I would prefer to take a walk down to the restaurant on the corner."

"You scared?" Pete asked, giving me a triumphant grin.

"I never enter the living quarters of a man who has threatened me."

"How can I be sure you'll pay if I let Lonnie talk to you?"

"You know my name and you know the location of my office. I'm not stupid enough to try and cheat a whole house full of ex-cons."

The three of us stood around for a few seconds more. Everything had already been decided, we just needed a short time for that decision to settle.

The Cisco Kid Cafe was a dilapidated restaurant-bar with posters of old westerns on the walls. The strawberry-blond waitress wore a very short cranberry skirt over stout shapeless legs and sported clashing tattoos that bore witness to a life of rebellion and failure.

"Hey, Lonnie," she said to the youngest of us.

"China," he responded.

"What can I get for you guys?"

"I'll take whatever you got on tap and they can have anything they want," I said, making it clear that the bill should come to me.

Lonnie ordered a beer, while Pete asked for a double margarita without salt.

"So this is how it works," I said to the men once China had gone. "What I need is information I can work with. Descriptions, license plates, things they said or that Angelique said about them. I need something to help me find her. That's what I'll base the payment on. If you can't give me a few things like that then we can just have our drinks and move on."

Lonnie and Pete looked at each other. It was straight talk and they accepted it.

Pete nodded. "What if you can't find her with what we give you?"

"That's my problem. I'll pay for good intelligence. But I don't want to hear about some black Lincoln and two guys in suits."

"What if you're workin' for the guys after her?" Lonnie asked. He was still an innocent, in spite of his associations.

"Do you know where she went?" I asked.

"No."

"Then anything you give me the guys who tried to grab her probably already know. I need to get to them."

China came back with our drinks and served them. She and Lonnie exchanged a few pleasantries before she wandered off to the bar to chat with the young bartender-who sported a bright-yellow Mohawk.

"I wrote down the license-plate number," Lonnie said when the girl was gone. "It was a dark-green Lincoln… pretty late model."

"You got the number on you?"

"In my wallet."

"Anything else?"

"Figg-Figgis-an' me heard the girl screaming when we were workin' on his motorcycle," Lonnie said. "We run out and see these two white guys in business suits tryin' to drag her into their car. They didn't look like cops, so we run over there. Figg took a tire iron. He got there first and told 'em to let her go. They said he better get away and he cracked the passenger's side of their windshield. One guy reached into his pocket and I hit him in the jaw."

"What'd they do then?"

"Figg broke a headlight, and I think they were worried that a cop would pull 'em over, even if they got away from us. There was people stoppin' to look by then. They let her go and took off. That's when I memorized their license-plate number… at, at least long enough to write it down."

"What did Miss Lear say?"

"She thanked us. We asked what did they want and she told us that she didn't know but that they were probably workin' for some guy that'd been hasslin' her. We asked her who the guy was but she didn't say."

"Did she say what it was they wanted with her?"

"She said that she wasn't even sure what it was about."

"Anything else?"

"Uh-uh. She just thanked us and went up to her place."

"How long ago was this?"

"Two weeks today. I remember 'cause we had a party that night. We invited Angelique, and she said she'd come by, but she didn't."

"You call the cops?" I asked.

"We don't talk to cops, man," Pete said. "Not never."

"Then why take down the plate number?"

"I gave it to her," Lonnie said. "I thought she might call the police herself."

"Can I have it?"

Lonnie looked at Pete and the elder nodded. The kid had a green wallet made from desiccated plastic that was cracking. From this cheap billfold he produced a grayish- white scrap with a number written on it.

"It was a New York plate," the kid said.

I reached into my right-front pocket and came out with a roll of cash that I had prepared before getting to the house.

"Who do I give this to?" I asked the men.

Pete reached for the wad and Lonnie didn't complain. I let go the money and watched it disappear into Pete's overalls.

"Anything else?" I asked, just to say something.

"Yeah," Lonnie said. "She said that her luck had run out."

"What did she mean by that?"

"She told Figg that she'd had a run of real good luck for seven years, just about. Now she figured she had to pay for it."

I digested that little piece of secondhand editorializing and then stood up.

"You not gonna finish your beer?" Pete asked me.

"Strike while the iron's hot," I replied. "I'll leave fifty with China. You guys have a good time."

I walked westward toward the Village proper, thinking about luck. Wanda Soa was unlucky-definitely. The man who probably shot her shared the same ill fortune. Ron Sharkey and a few dozen others that I'd focused my attention on were luckless bastards who were blindsided by disasters while they planned vacations, retirement, and weekends with their grandkids.

In this way Angie and I had something in common: we were descendants of Typhoid Mary, passing over earth that would one day soon inter the bodies of our luckless victims.

My cell phone sounded, proving to me, for at least that moment, that providence favors the arbiters of evil.

"Hey, Breland," I said into the phone. "What's up?"

"They arrested Ron Sharkey. Have him in that special federal facility down south of Houston on the West Side."

"What's the charge?"

"They don't have one yet, but I was told by the agents who arrested him that they were considering terrorism."

"You're kidding."

"That's what the man said."

"Can I get in to see him?"

"I'll work on it. You in the city?"

"Call me when you got something."

TAKAHASHI'S IS A JAPANESE coffee house on the third floor of a nondescript building between University and Fifth. Twill had found the place when he was only twelve and truancy was his pastime. He liked the people who owned and ran the odd establishment, even learned a few phrases in Japanese. They served good coffee and great tea, had a small menu, free bowls of rice crackers, and various performances in the evening, from workshop poetry to Asian string music.

During the day not many people came around.

It was the perfect place for surreptitious afternoon meetings.