Sex, Lies & Serious Money

40

Sofia Buckstein got off a train at Grand Central and made her way toward the main hall, towing her carry-on suitcase that contained four days’ of clothing, all of it with the labels removed, in case she had to abandon it. Her shoes were good for sprinting, if necessary, and the big bag slung over her shoulder contained the stuff of her work: cash, credit cards, and wristwatches she had taken off marks; three wallets, each stuffed with a different passport, a driver’s license, a couple of credit cards, and some useful fluff like insurance cards. Her iPhone was tucked into a silk holster, clipped to a bra that supported her ample breasts. She didn’t carry a gun, but there was a very sharp little switchblade tucked into a garter. She had had to use it only once, but it was always there. Then she looked up and saw the guy.

He was clearly rough trade, and she liked that. He was heavy, in a muscular way, had a shaved head tucked under a tweed cap — very different from the men in handmade suits on the train that she could think of only as marks.

She walked straight up to him. “Where can a girl get a drink around here?” she asked him, straight-out. “And are you buying?”

He gazed down at her. She was only five-three, but very well built. “Right this way, sweetheart,” he said, taking the handle of her roll-on and starting down the platform. “You gotta name?”

“One for every occasion,” she said. “Let’s start with Maria.”

“That’s classy, I like it. I’m Curly, for obvious reasons,” he said, lifting his cap. He led her into a restaurant in the station, parked her case in the cloakroom, and steered her to a bar stool.

“So,” she said, “how’s business?”

“Slow,” he replied, “but not too slow.” He beckoned a bartender. “What’ll you have, Maria?”

“Macallan 12 will do me.”

“Two of those,” he said to the bartender, and laid a fifty down, “and make them doubles.”

“You work the platforms regular, Curly?”

“When I don’t have anything better to do.”

“What’s your pitch?”

“A judo chop to the back of the neck,” he said. “If you do it just right, you can catch them before they hit the pavement.”

“How do you get away with that in a place like this?”

“I start yelling for somebody to call nine-one-one, and I give the bum chest compressions while I pick his pocket. Then I get somebody to spell me and I disappear. Anybody stops me, I tell ’em I’m going for a cop.”

“Well, it’s simple, I’ll give you that, and you save a lot of time not having to work the guy.”

“That’s me, simple and direct. Charm has never been my strong suit.”

“I like that in a man. You ever get picked up for that dodge?”

“I have another talent — I run like a deer, and nobody, but nobody, catches me.”

“Where’d you get in such good shape?” She poked him in the belly. “Hard as a rock.”

“In a prison gym. There wasn’t anything else to do. How ’bout you, babe? What’s your game?”

“Whatever works. I like trains, ’cause you can always get off before somebody tumbles and misses his stuff. I’ve done it on the run a couple of times and walked a few miles to get another ride. Mostly, though, I leave ’em on the platform, having made a dinner date — one I never keep. By dinnertime, he’s changed his pants and missed his wallet.”

“Where are you based?”

“Down South, where the sun always shines.”

“And where do you lay your head, here in the Apple?”

“Is that an offer?”

“Could be. Are you always so hot to trot, Maria?”

“Could be. What’d you have in mind?”

“You name it, I love it.”

“A man after my own heart. You got a place in town?”

“I do. It’s a fifteen-minute cab ride this time of day.”

She tossed off her scotch. “What’re we waiting for?”

He knocked back his own drink, left another ten on the bar, grabbed her case, and led her to a cab. She gave him half a blow job on the way uptown. Best not to wear him out too soon, leave him wanting more.

Sofia/Maria eased out of the bed and used the john, then she grabbed a robe off a hook, rolled up the sleeves, and had a look around. A one-bedroom with a king-sized bed, a kitchenette, a sleeper sofa with a biggish TV across the room — the basics, but not bad. Curly was pretty much in that category, too; she had only to test his stamina. This place was good for three or four days before she dumped him and took a train somewhere. She hadn’t done a Chicago run for a while, and she usually had good luck going west. A hundred in the pocket of a conductor kept him sweet and dumb, when the cops questioned him. She watched the evening news and read the Daily News, which was on the coffee table, then she went back to the bedroom, dropped the robe, got into bed, and took his balls in her hand.

Curly stirred. “What’s that I feel?” he mumbled.

“Your balls in my hand,” she said. “You up for another run?”

“You read my mind,” he said.

“Oh, are these where you keep your mind?” She gave them a little squeeze and got the correct response.

He rolled over on her. “Put it wherever you like,” he said.

And she did.

Curly made a good breakfast, the mark of a man alone. He made soft, scrambled eggs, microwave bacon, an English muffin, fresh orange juice, and very strong coffee. “Getcha anything else?”

“Anything else, and I’d explode,” she said. “You mind a strictly professional observation?”

“As long as it doesn’t hurt too much.”

“Why do you work so hard looking like an ex-con?”

“’Cause that’s who I am.”

“Then try being somebody else for a while, you’ll do better, make more money.”

“Be specific.”

“You’ve got a full head of hair hidden in your skull — grow some of it, and get it cut nice.”

“It’s a lot of trouble.”

“Looking good already is. And get a couple of suits made.”

“Too expensive.”

“If you read something besides the tabloids you’d see ads for tailors. They ain’t Savile Row, but they’d look a lot better on you than that low-end mall stuff you wear. They’d fit, for one thing.”

“It’s a thought.”

“Something else — you keep your weight up to intimidate people.”

“It’s a good thing when you want their money.”

“Lose thirty pounds and talk ’em out of it. If you keep hitting people in the back of the neck you’re going to paralyze somebody or worse, kill ’em.”

“So what?”

“So the cops want you a lot worse when it’s a serious crime. I mean, a guy gets rolled in a train station, a cop can dust him off and send him home with a few words of friendly advice, but when the cop has to ride in the ambulance with him to the ER and watch some intern try to bring him around and fail, and his wife and kids show up and scream, that makes the cop want to put you away, or worse, shoot you.”

“You have a point.”

“And that tattoo on your neck really sets you up for a lineup in a precinct, you know?”

“It’s permanent.”

“It’s a couple of hours in a doc’s office and a grand out of pocket. Ditch it, grow some hair, get some clothes.”

“Then I’d look like everybody else.”

“That’s kind of the point, Curly. That’s how you stay out of lineups. Nine out of ten people the cops question are going to say you looked like the guy on the Three Stooges, don’t you know that?”

“I always kind of liked it.”

“It’s fine in prison, not so good on the street. Do you have a real name?”

“Marvin Jones.”

“Well, Marv, that’s nice and anonymous. A girl could like a name like that.”

“Okay,” Curly said, “my hair is already growing, I’ll skip lunch, and you can pick out a tailor for me and walk me through the experience.”

“And when I get back in a week or two, you can take me to a nice restaurant and buy me a steak.”

“Back from where?”

“A girl’s gotta keep moving, if she wants to make any money.”