Laura Lippman - By A Spider's Thread

"Hand-pegged," Mickey Harvey said, running his fingers lightly over the top. "It's for my son. His grandparents-my parents-bought him a set of The History of Civilization for his bar mitzvah, and I'm building this to hold them. He'll have it all his life. He'll give it to his sons, who will pass it on to their sons. I've given him something that no one else can."

"You also gave him life. Don't forget that."

"But I took another child's. You know, that's my biggest fear. That God will take my kid, an eye for an eye. Sometimes I think I should kill myself, just to even the score, keep Benjamin safe."

"I don't think it works that way." Tess was almost frightened for this man, stranger though he was, needful for him to believe in his future.

"But if it did, I would. You have kids?" She shook her head. "Then you can't really understand. Here's the worst thing." He lowered his voice, as if an omniscient God couldn't hear whispers. "If I had to choose between my kid and another kid, if God came to me and said I could have my life to live over-I could choose not to do what I did, but I'd have to give him Benjamin-I wouldn't think twice."

"You mean…?"

"I mean I'd do it all over again, make all the same fucking miserable mistakes to save my kid's life. Oh, sure, I'd try to cheat, find a loophole. That's what we all do when we bargain, whether it's with God or the devil. I'd take the deal, and then I'd try to wiggle out of it. And if I couldn't undo what I did, at the very least I'd stay there. I wouldn't run away again. I'd stay at the scene, take the Breathalyzer. I wasn't drunk, you know. And I wasn't even entirely at fault. I just was worried that I'd blow too high and that would be it for my job. For my fucking job . This time I'd help the parents get that little boy out of the car and hold him in my arms."

"I should go." She knew that the words sounded abrupt, even uncaring, but they were true. She should go. The longer Mickey Harvey spoke, the further he seemed to retreat into his own taunting memory. This conversation couldn't be good for him.

"Sure, I understand, you're a working girl. Hey-" He fished into the pocket of his painter's pants, pulled out a card. Tess gave him one of hers in exchange, just to be polite. She doubted Mickey Harvey had anything more to tell her. "If you need any woodworking. My ex is always telling me I have to learn to network. It's funny about exes. They know you, but they're not invested in you anymore, so they can be really honest. Know what I mean?"

Tess didn't, but she nodded her head anyway. Agreement was a small enough gift to give to Mickey Harvey, and he seemed grateful for it.

"DO YOU KNOW WHEN I REALIZED I WAS GOING TO BE A thief when I grew up? When I stole the afikomen ." Tan and fit, Larry Kirsch had prematurely silver hair and bright blue eyes, which sparkled with… well, Tess was still trying to determine what accounted for that glint. Since she had arrived at Kirsch's fragrant cigar store, he had been ladling charm over every word. Sometimes the effect was flirtatious and focused, as if she were the most fascinating creature in the world. But his energy lagged at moments, and his patter became perfunctory, as if he didn't want to put out 100 percent for a woman disinclined to pay forty dollars for a cigar. Then he turned it on again, and she was beguiled-almost. He was trying so hard to make sure she liked him that she didn't think she should.

Plus, Tess couldn't quite shake Mickey Harvey's gloom, not even after two bags of fresh-made Utz chips, one crab and one barbecue. She had read mat potato sales were down because of the mania for low-carb diets, and she wanted to help the farmers of the world.

"You're supposed to steal the afikomen ," she said, brushing a fleck of salt from the corner of her mouth. "It's part of the Passover ritual. If every afikomen filcher ended up in prison, there wouldn't be any nice Jewish boys left."

"Ah, but I stole the afikomen from the kid who stole the afikomen . You see, I was the best negotiator among my cousins, and I always got more money for it. I hated seeing Adam and Jody give it back so cheap."

"I've seen your record. You weren't in prison for stealing."

"I stole tens of thousands of dollars from my employer to feed my cocaine habit." He laughed at Tess's arched eyebrows. "I know-cocaine was so over by the time I got hooked. A client gave me a little taste, to get me through tax season. By the time April fifteenth arrived, I was a full-fledged addict. Hey, but at least I was ahead of the curve on accounting fraud."

"You served time for possession with intent to distribute."

"Oh, puh-leeze. I wasn't a dealer. I was a pig . I planned on snorting every last bit of that myself. Well, maybe selling a little, just so I could make enough profit to buy more. Anyway, my family made restitution for what I stole, so the theft charge was dropped as part of my plea. But they couldn't make the distribution charge go away. You know what my mother said when she found out I had a cocaine habit? 'At least he doesn't drink, like the goyim.' "

"Where are you getting your material- Portnoy's Complaint ?"

"What does an Irish lass named Monaghan know from Portnoy and afikomensi I imagine you reading James Joyce and drinking pints of Guinness in Locust Point bars." He leaned across the counter toward her, making serious eye contact. "I like the freckles, by the way."

Tess smiled enigmatically. She had no intention of telling this garrulous charmer that she was half Jewish. She wasn't convinced Kirsch had kicked all his bad habits, but she had outgrown her bad-boy jones long ago.

"I hate to dredge up your life in prison-"

"Dredge away. It's some of my best material. In fact, it's the centerpiece of my first-date story. Do you think that's why I'm not getting many second dates?"

She let the pass pass. "I'm curious about the group of Jewish prisoners who met back at Jessup, going back more than ten years ago. One prisoner's daughter ended up marrying one of the volunteers, and now she's missing."

"Whose daughter?"

"Boris Petrovich's."

"Ah, yes. The nubile Natalie. I had first crack at her, you know."

Tess didn't like to show surprise-it was a fatal weakness-but she couldn't help being flustered. "Excuse me?"

"Petrovich showed her photo around our cell block, along with one of a friend. I don't remember the friend so well-she was a little coarse. But Natalie. You don't forget a face like that."

"What do you mean by 'first crack'?"

"Boris was pimping her."

"Bullshit. You can't pimp in prison, not to other prisoners."

"Ah, you're not quite as innovative an entrepreneur as our friend Boris. He had a whole fee schedule. You could get letters from her or photos in a variety of garb-or lack thereof. If you were willing to put more money in his account or slide a few more of your privileges his way, he'd offer to get the girls on your visiting list. The prices went up steeply from there, of course."

"Of course?"

"A hand job from a woman costs a lot more in prison than it does on the street. The old law of supply and demand."

"No way." But even as one part of Tess's mind was trying to knock the story down, the more calculating part was seeing how such an arrangement might work for prisoners who weren't in maximum security. She had been close enough to Boris to touch him-not that she would-and the guards had been selective about what they noticed. It had taken Boris's sudden movement to get their attention.

"It's not very private, to be sure. And the guards draw the line at visitors going down on their knees. But groping is within bounds."