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"That may be the connect, Marques."

"I'm not reading you, man."

"Read this: One of my people was looking around. On that job you and me talked about?"

"Yeah?"

"And he met Mortay. I don't know if it was just a territory thing, wrong guy in the wrong place… maybe so. It happens to all of us."

"So?"

"So Mortay warned him off. Maybe he's front–ending the thing. Guarding the van."

Marques snapped his fingers. The blonde on the left pulled a vial from her purse, tapped out some white powder on a mirror. She cut it into four lines with a gold razor blade, put it in front of Marques. He rolled a bill into a tight straw, snorted a line up each nostril. Each of the blondes took a remaining line for herself. The pimp looked across at me, letting the coke rush around inside his head.

"I can't see it, man. You're off the wall."

"Could be. What if I'm not?"

"Look, man. We had a deal. You're working for me. I pay, you play my tune."

"Watch your back, Marques," I said, starting to get up.

"Hey! Hold up, I'm not downing you. Just lay it out, okay? Why you here?"

"I'm here because you know things I don't know. And you can find out things I can't. I don't want any more to do with this Mortay than you do. But if I'm going to do the job on the van, I need to know if he's in the play."

"How would I know?"

"I'll find that part out myself. What I need is whatever you can find out about Mortay. Anything could do some good—I won't know till I get it. He's out there—he has to live someplace, hang out someplace. I'm not asking you to walk the wire, just listen to what you hear, okay?"

"I don't know, man."

I felt like breaking his face. I lit another cigarette, centering myself, coming to what would work. I kept my voice quiet, letting another pitch take over, working the corners. "Marques, there isn't another player in this town with your weight. You want to take the Ghost Van off the streets, protect your women—I respect that. You know your game—I know mine. That's why we got together, right? We're partners on this thing. Now I need your help. That's why I came here. This Mortay, he had people with him. Guy named Ramón, for one. If they show anywhere on the set, somebody'll scope them out. All I want is for you to use your network—you don't have to get out of your Rolls–Royce—just let it come to you. And pass it along."

The pimp sat like he was considering, basking in the praise. "I'm the one that can get the lowdown, no question about it."

"None at all," I agreed.

"All right, hijacker. I don't promise nothing, but I'll get back to you if something comes up."

"Thanks," I said, getting up to go again. Putting the butane lighter back in my pocket. I don't use it to light cigarettes.

The blondes never said a word. Good bitches. Whores in their hearts. Renting out what they never owned.

83

I SLIPPED the Plymouth through Times Square on the way back. Sin City was a monster building squatting in the middle of a long block. It stood four neon–faced stories high, towering over the storefront–sized sleaze shops on either side. I stopped at the corner. A black stringbean sporting a red porkpie hat was hunched over a folding table covered with gold chains. Cesspool Specials: the chains were broken, so the suckers would think they'd been snatched on the subway. The hustler breaks the chains himself—nobody snatches gold–plated junk. "Check it out!" he called to the passing pack of slugs. He wouldn't be there tomorrow.

I motored slowly around the block—couldn't see the back of Sin City from the other side. The buildings were packed tighter than the crowd at a lynching.

The Prof felt the pain before Mortay ever touched him. That kind of power leaves a scent.

But only to those he marked.

Tenth Avenue was quiet. Eleventh was alive with working girls. The river was only a block away. A black woman in a blond wig strolled up to the Plymouth. Red spandex pants, a matching halter top, red heels. All yesterday's stuff, like she was.

"You want some action,