William Lashner - Marked Man

“Sure,” I said. “How else did Teddy know so much about what was going on in your lives? From what you told me before, I figured one of you was recruited before Teddy ever stepped into that bar.”

“Hugo. Damn.”

“So the four of you signed on.”

“All that talk of becoming something new, it was more intoxicating than the booze we were swilling. So we were in, and Teddy, he had a plan for each of us.”

“You took care of the burglar alarm.”

“That was my job, that’s right, that and the driving. Teddy, somehow he got the electrical drawings for me. The setup was complicated, the drawings looked like a plate of spaghetti, but I eventually figured a way to beat the thing. A wire’s just a wire, a current’s a current, it ain’t too hard to make them electrons dance the way you want.”

“What was Ralph’s job?”

“Muscle during the operation. And all the while we was preparing, he was quietly setting up a shop in his mother’s basement to take charge of whatever gold and silver we brought in. He was going to melt it into something we could sell without it being traced.”

“What happened to all the equipment after?”

“We buried it, right there in the basement. Cracked the cement floor with a sledge, buried it in the dirt, along with our clothes and the guns we used to keep the guards quiet. We poured homemade concrete right on top. It’s all still there, best I know.”

“Buried in the basement so that nothing could be traced.” I made a mental note to give Sheila the Realtor a call. “And Charlie was there to take care of the safe, right?”

“If he could. If not, Teddy said they’d blow the damn thing. When he laid out his plan, it was all ‘if this, then that, if not that, then this.’”

“How did you guys get inside?”

“That was Hugo’s department. Hugo was hard and sly, like a fox with brass knuckles.”

“How did he get in?”

“I’m not talking about Hugo.”

“Why not?”

“Remember what I said about ghosts? Some of them are more dangerous than others. More solid, too.”

“Then just tell us how the girl got mixed up in everything.”

“What girl?”

“The girl in the picture, Joey. Chantal Adair.”

“I never saw her.”

“Joey?”

“No, I admit, I recognize her picture. I seen that picture before, in all the papers. About the same time as the heist, this girl went missing. It was that girl, right?”

“That’s right,” said Monica.

“But it wasn’t her who was hanging around all the time as we were making our preparations.”

“What are you talking about?” I said. “Who was hanging around?”

“Teddy was a real pied piper. All the kids took to him. Always had a piece of candy or a little toy. It was just the way he was. And there was one kid who was hanging around all the time, flitting around like a moth. A boy. Towheaded dude.”

“What was his name?” said Monica.

“Who the hell remembers?” said Joey. “Who the hell knows?”

“I do,” I said.

Sometimes it’s a choreto find someone, sometimes it can take days, years, an entire bureau of detectives. Whole investigations have stalled because one key witness couldn’t be found. Sometimes it’s a chore, and sometimes it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“What are you doing here?” he shouted.

The room was an airless filthy mess, the floor covered with clothes and crumbs, the bed an unmade tumble of creased sheets and blankets. It smelled of the sickly-sweet scent of contained sweat. The screen of the computer in front of which he was sitting suddenly transformed from a lurid mix of flesh tones and red to a photograph of a gently rolling hill of green beneath a lightly clouded sky.

“No one’s allowed in here,” he said. “Get the hell out. Both of you.”

He was wearing a grimy T-shirt and ripped briefs, a pair of black socks, a pair of glasses. His arms were flabby, his jaw unshaven, the hair on his legs bristly. And when he turned to stare at us, his expression was one of horrified indignation, the holy imam whose mosque had been invaded by gaunt crusaders.

“Hello, Richard,” I said. “How’s tricks?”

“Monica,” he whined, “get him out of my room.”

She looked around at the mess, shook her head, and then leaned forward to pick up a wrinkled pair of sweatpants. She tossed the pants to her brother. “Put these on,” she said.

He clutched them to his groin. “Go away. Please.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “We have business to discuss.”

“Monica.”

“Put on your pants, Richard dear,” she said.

He looked at his sister, then at me, then back at his sister before standing and turning around. His skin was the color of hard-boiled eggs, his ass was saggy, the back of his neck was pimpled. Until looking at Richard Adair in his underwear, I had never realized the health benefits of simply walking outside. With his back to us, he climbed into the sweatpants and then turned around again.

“Now will you go?”

I stepped to his desk, littered with half-eaten food, empty soda cans, scraps of paper, magazines, rolled-up panties. Panties? I fiddled with his mouse until the verdant hill was transformed once again into the mass of lurid colors. I tilted my head and stared at the colors for a moment until the array of limbs and breasts and lips and cocks all came clear.

“Yowza,” I said. “Doing research for our Web site, Richard?”

He reached over and pressed a button on the screen, turning the cathode-ray tube to a deep, empty green.

“What do you want?”

“Like I said, we have business to discuss.”

“What kind of business?”

I pointed at the now-dead computer screen. He stared at it for a moment and then turned to his sister. She shrugged.

“Really?”

“Sure,” I said. “Let’s talk.”

“Monica?”

“We discussed it,” she said. “I’m ready to listen.”

“Okay, then. Great.” He rubbed his hands. “I knew I’d get you on board, Victor. This will work out, I’m sure of it. Why don’t you guys take a seat.”

“Where?” I said, looking around at the room.

“Here,” he said, grabbing a bedspread and pulling it over the mess of his sheets and blankets. “Just sit down here.”

I looked at the filthy spread now covering his bed, shook my head, and leaned against the doorjamb. “I’ll stand.”

“Monica, go ahead,” he said, gesturing to the bed.

Tentatively, she sat, her hands safely in her lap.

“Good,” said Richard, turning around his chair and sitting, leaning forward like a copier salesman making a pitch. “Now, I have some experience with these sites, and I know this will be huge. We’ll start with just photographs and a chat room, small like, you know. I’ll take care of all the chatting. I know what these guys want to hear, how to make them depart with the cash. And I’ll answer all the e-mails. Later we might want to do a Web camera, but that’s way down the line, when you’re more comfortable with things. Right now we should start small. A few pictures, a few advertisements, a minimal access fee to talk to Monica online, and a very few items to sell.”

“Items?” I said.

“You know, underwear and things that Monica has worn.”

“Doesn’t it bother you, Richard, to put me up on a site like that?” said Monica.

“It’s just pictures, just digital dots and dashes. It’s not real. Trust me, Mon. And half the girls with sites that are bringing in real cash are like little rodent girls compared to you. It’s all attitude, you know. You just got to work it.”

“What about the photographs?” I said.