When the laughter around the table subsided, I asked Max how he’d become the author of best-selling books, given his start.
“I’m no author, Kid,” he corrected me. “I’m a writer. There’s a difference.”
“What do you mean?” asked April.
I got the feeling she was seeing a new side of Max and the publishing business, one very different than she had learned while earning her master’s degree.
Max took another swig of beer from his bottle and thought before he answered.
“Well, young lady, it’s like this.” He waved his hand at the beaded curtain that led to the store. “Out there you’ve got what? Three, four thousand books?”
I closed my eyes and did a quick tally. “About forty-five hundred, all but fifteen hundred of them used.”
Max nodded. “Okay, and some of those books are by people like Gaiman, Chabon, and that Kenyon lady, bless her heart. To my mind, those are authors. They work very hard at writing what people call literature. Sometimes it takes one of those authors a decade or more to turn out a book, and make no mistake, those are damn well-written books.” He paused and stroked his mustache, then pointed at his chest. “Then there are writers like me. We crank out a book every year, sometimes faster. I won’t claim my writing holds a candle to those others, but you know what? People like to read them.”
“And you make a lot of money,” said Lynn.
Max slowly shook his head. “Sorry, little lady, but for a mid-list author like me, the money’s not all that great. The publishers only pay for part of the expenses of these tours.” He nodded at April. “I’m lucky my publisher lent me Miss April while I’m in town.” He shook his head again and then smiled widely. “But hey! I get to hang out with you guys in the back of a bookstore and drink beer and tell stories. Life’s not so bad, is it?” He let out a roar of laughter.
Such was his infectious spirit that we all laughed with him without really having cause to do so, or perhaps because of that.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The next morning I became aware of someone following me soon after I left The Book Nook. I can’t claim to be an expert at spotting a tail, but in this case it wasn’t too hard. I waited for him to catch up with me at the street corner. It was Max Carson.
I crossed my arms. “Max, what are you doing? You can’t follow me.”
His face had a sheepish look. “I was sort of hoping to tag along and watch you pick some pockets.” He held up a palm, “Hey, you never know, I may be able to use it in a book.”
I was going to say no, but then he added, “I’ll buy you lunch?”
I gave in. “Oh, the heck with it,” I said. “Come along. I’ve never had an audience before, but,” I gave him a sideways look, “as long as I get to pick the place.”
“So long as it doesn’t involve vintage bottles of wine or food I can’t pronounce, no problem. Where?”
“Dee’s Italian Beef,” I told him. “It’s the best sandwich in the city.”
That sealed the deal for Max.
We crossed the street and turned the corner on Oak. As we walked I tried to give Max a series of conditions to his watching me at work. Foremost of these was, “Stay a good way’s away, and don’t look at me directly. I really don’t need to be caught at this point.”
As we walked toward City Square, I noticed I had to slow my pace for Max and realized he had a slight limp. He caught me looking and explained with another of his stories. This time it was when he was fifteen and fell off the roof of a building under construction at night with his friends, and after consuming a significant quantity of alcohol.
“Oh, man,” said Max, shaking his head, “To this day, I don’t know how I managed to survive that fall. I had no idea how hurt I was at first. Then I noticed the bottom of my foot was facing me at an angle that couldn’t be good. It turned out my leg was broken in three places.”
He gave me one of his over-powered slaps on the back. “But who cares about that stuff, right, Kid?”
I began to answer and then realized Max was no longer walking next to me. He had veered over to a store window and was standing in front of it, staring at a poster.
We were in front of the bookstore at City Center, and of course it was one of his own posters at which Max was staring. The photo showed him in the classic author pose, turned at an angle from the camera, looking back with an intense and knowing stare.
Max turned and saw that I was watching. He backed up against the window, next to the poster, and then struck the same pose but with an exaggerated, almost bug-eyed stare.
I couldn’t help laughing, and he joined in as he walked back to me.
“Isn’t that the stupidest goddamned thing you ever saw?” he asked me. “I spent three hours in that photographer’s studio. He took picture after picture, one pose after another.” He grinned. “Apparently my good side isn’t easy to find.”
I noticed a sidewalk vendor I knew across the street. “Wait here,” I told Max and cut across the stopped traffic.
Carl is a third-generation street vendor of walking sticks and canes. There’s a sense of timelessness to Carl and his cart. You could pick up both his cart and him and drop them down on a city street of a hundred years ago, and they would fit right in.
“Hi, Kid,” called Carl as I approached. “How’s tricks? I hear you’re back on the street.”
I gave Carl a vague answer and rooted through his collection of canes. It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for. It was a gentleman’s walking stick made of black ebony and topped by a heavy silver head of simple design. Carl raised his eyebrows.
“It’s for a friend of mine.”
“Sure, Kid. No problem.” Carl named his price. I countered, and we settled somewhere in between. I was going to have to explain the expense to Lynn, but I figured she wouldn’t mind.
I had made certain to stand in a way so that Max couldn’t see from across the street what I was buying. I took the walking stick and pushed the small end up my sleeve as far as it could go, without it poking up and distorting the shoulder of my jacket. This left a good deal of it extending down from my hand, but by holding said hand against my leg, I was able to keep it from view as I walked back to where Max was waiting.
This time I took the crosswalk and made certain I had to wait for the signal to change. Max’s curiosity was written on his face by the time I got back.
“Hey, Max,” I said. “I’ve got a present for you. Hold out your hand.” He did that and I extended my hand and placed the head of the walking stick in his. He took hold, I stepped back, and the rest of the cane came into view.
Max’s smile reached all the way to his eyes. He held up the walking stick and admired it both its looks and its heft. “Well, thank you, Kid. Such a handsome thing.” He tapped the stick on the pavement. “I accept.”
We continued back on our way with Max swirling the walking stick in a dandy, debonair fashion.
Soon we reached City Square and split up, though not before I reminded Max of the rules.
The fall weather, the overall good nature of the people out and about that day, all converged to create an ideal place for me and other pickpockets. Jackets and coats were worn unzipped and undone. People were distracted by the sounds of street musicians, the hum of a hundred conversations, the cell phones in their hands.
Knowing that Max was watching, I took my time choosing my first mark. Several minutes later I spotted a likely target, yet another businessman walking toward me, cell phone to his ear.
I changed my direction and picked up my pace, angling to intersect with him in about twenty paces. His left front pocket would be my first dip. If there was nothing there I’d have, I hoped, time to check the right side of his coat. If his wallet wasn’t in either place, then I’d have to move on and find another mark.
At five paces out a loud shout came from behind me.
“Stop him! Stop that kid!”
My target and pretty much everyone else
stopped walking to watch what was going on behind me. I had no choice but to do the same.
A teenager in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt ran across the square, chased by a middle-aged man in a suit.
“Stop him,” the man called. “He stole my wallet.”
The boy ducked and dodged through the pedestrians and might have made it had not someone stuck out a leg and tripped him. He went flying and landed flat on his stomach. It looked like his breath had been knocked out of him as he lay there, gasping for breath.
His victim hurried up to him, reached down and grabbed a wallet from the kid’s hand. A uniformed policewoman walked up as the man was checking its contents.
I was too far away to hear what was said, but it wasn’t necessary to hear the words to know what was happening. The policewoman put handcuffs on the boy and helped him to his feet. His nose was bleeding. My sympathies were with the boy, I have to admit. That would have been me not too many years ago, with my hands in cuffs and blood on my face.
I sensed someone walking near me and heard the tapping of a cane on the pavement. I didn’t have to look to see who it was.
“Maybe we should try another time,” Max said, considerately.
I nodded. He was right. Everyone would be on their guard for a while.
Max’s cell phone rang. He answered it, spoke briefly and then put it away.
“That was Miss April,” he said. “She and Candy are swinging by to pick me up. It seems I’ve got another appearance to make.”
We walked over to the Market Street side of the plaza, and only a minute later April’s car pulled over. Candy was in the passenger seat.
Max clapped me on the shoulder. “Another day, eh, partner?” He opened the rear door and climbed in. The door shut with a thud. Candy waved to me as they pulled out into traffic.
Only after they disappeared from view did I realize that Max never did buy me that lunch.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The next morning I took a break from boosting wallets. I had promised Donnie I’d try to help Joey. Donnie’s idea was that I’d use my supposed pull with the FBI to keep Joey out of jail. My idea was that Joey might know where that damned data card was. Lynn’s idea was that she would go along. I knew better than to argue.
We headed out in her little Geo Metro to visit Joey’s sister. Candy had sent word the evening before that Esther might know where he was hiding. We puttered through the late rush hour traffic downtown and down Prospect Avenue to the outer districts.
The neighborhood of Butchertown got its name back at the turn of the previous century when the nascent city’s meat packing businesses were congregated over the hill from the rest of the population, where a strong bay breeze kept the smell of the slaughterhouses from spreading inland.
A hundred years later the meat packinghouses and their smells were gone, but remaining were blocks of small craftsman houses and cottages. The neighborhood has yet to fall prey to gentrification, so these remnants look much as they did in decades past with paint peeling, roofs in need of repair and front yards growing more weeds than grass.
We drove along potholed streets until we found the address we wanted. Lynn parked across the street, and we got out and studied the house where Joey’s sister lived. It was much like its neighbors, narrow and long, and it extended most of the way to the back of its lot. Inside, I imagined it was a typical shotgun layout with the livingroom in the front, then a hallway down the side of the house all the way back to the kitchen with occasional doors opening on bedrooms and one bathroom.
We went across the street and up the old concrete walkway to the front door. I knocked on the screen, rattling it as best I could, as there was no doorbell visible. There was no response. I knocked again, louder. This time a voice came from somewhere within the house, telling us to wait a minute.
The minute passed, and its passing brought the sound of someone walking toward the door. A few seconds later a figure appeared behind the screen.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” a woman’s voice demanded.
“Esther?” I asked.
“Who wants to know?”
I gave my name and told her I was looking for Joey.
“Joey ain’t here. Now go away.” She turned and walked away.
“Let me try,” Lynn said.
She rattled the door again. “Joey,” she called. “It’s Lynn. Lynn Vargas. You remember me from The Pink Poodle? I was one of the dancers. I’m here with The Kid. We need to talk.”
There was another long silence, and then we saw the woman’s figure shuffling toward us again. She unhooked the screen door and opened it. She looked at us with suspicion and then cast an eye up and down the street. Appearing satisfied, she motioned us inside and latched the door behind us. We followed her down a long, dimly lit hallway with walls covered in wallpaper that probably was original to the house. She stopped in front of a closed door and rapped with her knuckles.
“Joey, they’re here. They look okay.” We heard the sound of a key turning in a lock, and then the door opened. We slipped inside, and the door shut behind us. I heard the lock click again. Lynn and I turned and faced Joey.
He was the same and yet different. The Joey I knew from The Pink Poodle days provided muscle for Donnie. Big and beefy, he had a confidence in his size and menace that flowed from him like the cheap cologne he wore.
Joey moved a few feet in the dim light and sat on the edge of an unmade bed. I studied the room. This must have been Joey’s bedroom all through high school. There were posters of rock bands on the wall, a couple of small bookcases that mainly held wrestling trophies, and other odds and ends. Near the window, where the curtains were drawn tightly against the daylight, there was a small desk and chair, the kind called a student desk, made of cheap pressboard. I pulled the chair out and turned it to face the bed and offered it to Lynn. She sat while I leaned against the desk, being careful not to put too much weight on it.
Poor Joey. He looked miserable and seemed to have shrunk to only half his size. His hair, normally slicked back and combed, was a tousled mess, and his clothes were wrinkled and creased as though he’d slept in them, if he had slept at all. His face was puffy and unshaven.
“I’m in trouble, ain’t I, Kid?”
“I don’t know, Joey. What happened the other day? Why did you run?”
“He told me to.”
“He? Who told you to run, Joey?”
“Mr. Zager. When I leaned over him after he got shot. He told me, ‘Get out of here, Joey, or they’ll get you, too.’ So I did like he said. I got out of there.”
I marveled at the ability of some people to do blindly as they were told no matter what was going on. A dying man told him to leave, so he did. Simple.
“Did you see who shot Zager?”
“Just a guy in a suit. Oh, yeah, he had a ponytail.” Curiosity finally made an appearance in Joey’s mind. “What’s this all about, Kid?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“Well, I’ll tell you another thing that’s strange.”
“Another thing?”
“Yeah. Mr. Zager was acting weird ever since I met him at the airport the night before. Usually he’s cracking jokes and stuff, asking me about how I’m doing, that kind of thing. This trip he wasn’t like that at all. Kept quiet all the way from the airport.”
“You didn’t stay with him at the hotel?”
“No. I always offered to, but he didn’t think it was necessary. I came home and then went back the next morning to pick him up. Nine o’clock sharp. Those were his orders, and I was there on time.” He shook his head. “I done this three, four times before. Never any trouble, and I never saw this coming. But maybe he did.”
“How so?”
Joey was wary. “I don’t know how much I ought to be telling you about this, Kid. I think I’m in enough trouble as it is.”
Lynn got up from the desk chair and sat on the bed next to Joey. “We don’t want you to get i
nto trouble, Joey. It’s just that everyone is looking for something that was in Mr. Zager’s wallet, a data card. Do you know where it is?”
“You mean like they use in a computer or a camera?”
My hopes shot up and then dropped back down again.
Joey shook his head. “No, nothin’ like that. I did just what I was hired to do. I picked up Mr. Zager at the airport and dropped him off at his hotel, just like I was told to do. I came back in the morning, just like I was told to do. It was no different than the other times I picked him up and dropped him off,” Joey shrugged, “except for the part about him getting shot and all.”
I tried again. “What did you mean when you said that maybe Zager expected trouble?”
Joey thought for a second. “Well, it sounds funny, but Mister Zager seemed to know something was going to happen to him. He told me he had a,” Joey faltered as he searched for a word, “you know, one of those things where you know what’s going to happen?”
“A premonition?” prompted Lynn.
“Yeah, that’s it. He said he had a premonition,” Joey sounded the word out carefully, “that someone was going to try something. I think that’s why he was acting so strange, on account of that premonition.” Again he sounded the word out syllable by syllable.
He checked an alarm clock on the desk next to where I was perched. “I got to go soon. He wants to talk to me.”
“Who wants to talk with you, Joey?” asked Lynn.
“The guy who hired me,” Joey answered.
“Who is that?”
Joey lifted his big shoulders and dropped them. “I don’t know. I never met him. Hell, I never even talked to him. Mr. DeMarco told me when and where I was supposed to go.”
Getting information from Joey was like nailing jelly to a tree, not that I’ve ever tried that. “Did Mr. DeMarco tell you that the man who hired you wants to meet you?”
Joey frowned. “No, he didn’t.” He pointed to the desk. “The guy called my sister on the telephone, and she wrote down the message for me.”
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