“She joining us?”
I shake my head.
He turns to her. “What’s your name, darling?”
That’s something we hadn’t yet discussed, and I curse myself for not thinking to do it sooner. There is an art to a fake name, and we should have decided on one a long time ago, before we entered the country. I’m hoping she doesn’t answer, but one thing I’ve learned about Risina, she rarely does what I think she’ll do. I may not have thought of a name for her, but she has.
“Tigre,” she says, not missing a beat, her accent thick.
I feel warmth rise up in my chest, though I keep my face blank. A tiger is a goddamned tiger. Since Smoke located me in that bookstore, I’ve thought I was the tiger, the hibernating predator who recognized the familiar scent of prey after a long lay-off. What I hadn’t thought about, what I hadn’t considered until just now, is that Risina, too, is a tiger. I’m not sure how I feel about this. Am I relieved she is more like me than I thought, or disappointed?
Kirschenbaum seems satisfied and spins back to me.
“You two working a tandem?”
“That’s right.”
“How can I help you, Columbus?”
“You know my work?”
“I’ve been following you since your early days with Pooley. I never met the guy but his reputation was solid. It’s too bad he had his ticket punched. You were with Bill Ryan after that?”
“Yeah.”
“Too bad about that one, too. And now Archibald Grant.”
“Yeah.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’ve had some bad luck with fences?” He says this matter-of-factly, and pops the cigar back in his mouth. I’m starting to understand how Kirschenbaum made such a name for himself. I feel like maybe I stepped under the ropes and into a ring, except we’re going to spar with words instead of boxing gloves.
“That’s why I’m here. Archie’s been taken.”
“I heard. That’s why you approached my gate. Where I live. With no appointment. No warning. Just walked up to my front gate.”
“Like I said, I want information.”
He spins to Risina again. “Can you get me a glass of water, honey?”
She doesn’t move, just smiles. He turns back to me, now grinning. He raises his eyebrows like he took a shot at shaking her, and no harm done. Then his face turns grave again. He’s switching tones and moods and expressions so fast, it’s dizzying.
“Information costs.”
“It always does.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to know everything about a contract killer you represent named Spilatro.”
He doesn’t blink. “I know quite a bit about him.”
“That’s good. Now I know we’re not wasting each other’s time.”
“Here’s a tidbit to wet your whistle. He doesn’t do the work you think he does.”
He’s telling me this so, like any salesman dangling a carrot, I’ll bite. Instead I duck his jab…
“Do you know his real name?”
“As sure as I know your real name ain’t Columbus. And you’re originally from Boston. And your first fence wasn’t Pooley but a dark Italian named Vespucci. And…”
Fuck, is he good. He’s jabbing, jabbing, jabbing, trying to stagger me. To throw him off his rhythm, I interrupt. “And if I were here to find out what you know about me, I’d be impressed, but I’m not, so I could give a shit. I want you to give up Spilatro.”
“So you can kill him.”
“Possibly.”
“How much you guesstimate giving him up is worth?”
“You tell me.”
“I’ll take her.”
He jerks his thumb over his shoulder at Risina. The air in the room cools instantly, like a chill wind blew in through the vents. He puffs out a cloud of smoke and watches me through the haze.
I narrow my eyes but otherwise check my emotions. I hope Risina won’t react, won’t drop her wall, but Kirschenbaum doesn’t give her the chance. He brays out laughter, a harsh, barking sound that, like his voice, seems to come from deep inside him.
“You should see your face right now. Jesus. I’m just fucking with you. Something tells me if I tried to take-what’d you call yourself again, babe? Tigre? — something tells me if I tried to take her, Tigre would stick a knife down my throat.”
“Try me,” Risina says, coolly.
“Nooooo, thank you.” He holds his hands up innocently, then turns back to me as his smile fades. “Two hundred thousand.”
“How do you want the money?”
“Bank transfer. You have a cell phone?”
I shake my head. He fishes one out of his pants pocket, moving quickly and deliberately, not at all concerned that one of us is going to shoot him for putting his hands where we can’t see them. He punches some numbers into the panel and then flips the phone to me.
“That’s my accountant’s number. Have your bank call him and work it out.”
“Okay. Transfer goes through in the morning… I’ll pick up the information on Spilatro tomorrow night. Where do you want to make the exchange?”
“I’m sure as hell not going to write anything down for you. You know where I live, so come on over and we’ll pour drinks, clink glasses, and have a powwow. You’re invited this time.”
I flip him back the phone.
“Keep it,” he says and starts to toss it again my way.
“No thanks. I’ll remember the number.”
“Of course you will, Columbus.” He bolts up quickly and, without shaking hands, heads for the door. “Tomorrow night then. And like you said to me so colorfully, you come in with guns leading the way and you’ll be dropped.” He takes one last look at Risina and says, “That goes for you, too, honey. You mind if I call you ‘honey’?”
“You can call me whatever you want as long as you give us what we’re looking for.”
“What part of Italy are you from?”
“The part that ends in an ‘a.’”
He smiles at that-or it could be a sneer-shoots a finger-gun her way, turns the knob, and heads out, only a cloud of smoke left behind to let us know he was here.
“How’d I do?” Risina asks when we’re sure he’s gone.
“You’re a natural,” I say, and I’ll be damned if I don’t mean it.
Eight minutes later, and we’re out of the hotel without checking out, leaving Ridgefield until tomorrow night.
After breakfast at an all-night diner, we hole up in a chain bookstore in nearby Danbury, a two-story anchor to a shopping center. The place isn’t crowded this time of day, and a clerk with “Janine” on her nametag points us upstairs to the fiction shelves where we can get lost in the maze of bookcases, couches, and corners.
Risina flits among the titles like a butterfly, stooping over here or standing on her tiptoes there to read an author’s name or a jacket blurb. She looks over the books, and I look over her.
Why aren’t I more concerned? Or better yet… why don’t I feel guilty over what I’ve done? I’m like a condemned prisoner who, instead of slinking off to a cell to live out his sentence, drags someone down the hole with him. I’ve lived sleeping with one eye open for so long, why would I ever wish wary nights and watchful days on someone else? But it’s not that simple, and here’s the part I have trouble admitting. This job is dangerous, yes, it is haunting, yes, and it exacts a moral toll, yes, but it also holds an allure that is almost impossible to understand until you’ve hunted a mark, ended his life, and escaped without a soul knowing you are the shooter. It’s a drug, a high, a tonic. It’s not a delusion of grandeur, because it is grandeur itself.
What I realize now is I want someone to share the experience with me. It’s one thing to tell these details to a stranger, another to discuss everything with someone who is there, going through the same swings, the same highs with me.
Was I lying to myself when I justified bringing Risina along by saying she was already in the game so she might as well learn the rules? Or was I, once more, putting myself first?