FIVE

The next day the clouds had lifted, the morning clear and cold. She had breakfast at the West Way, read most of the New York Times over eggs and bacon, got a second cup of tea to go.

Back in the apartment, restless and caffeinated, she put on her red and black Puma track suit, stretched on the living room floor. She needed to run, to clear her head, to think.

When she left the lobby, the black cat with the torn ear was lurking behind a stone planter. It fled when it saw her.

It felt good to hit the street. The sky was bright blue, the air sharp. She jogged south along Broadway for a block, the street smells strong; scorched pretzels, falafel, bus exhaust. All that remained of the snow was gray sludge in the gutters.

Crossing at the light, she headed west on 107th to Riverside Drive, picking up speed on the downhill slope. At the corner, she jogged in place, waiting for the light to change, then headed into the park.

Sunlight glared off the Hudson as she ran south along the promenade, weaving around runners and bicyclists, putting on speed. A cluster of pigeons flew away as she neared them.

She measured off the half mile from memory, then turned, jogged in place for a moment, and started back, her breath clouding.

She wondered how long it would take to raise two hundred and fifty thousand, and what it would buy her from the lawyer in Texas. Or if it was all just a scam, money for empty promises and no results. Money she would never get back.

She went up to 114th, dodging rollerbladers, then left the park, crossed Riverside again to take the long way home. Running east on 114th, she passed chattering groups of Columbia students, people walking dogs, then turned south on Amsterdam.

The neighborhood was different here, less gentrified. A group of Dominican teens outside a liquor store yelled something at her. She ignored them, fought the urge to speed up, not wanting them to see her react.

At 112th and Amsterdam, she slowed as she always did, looked across at Diego’s. It was the last bodega in the neighborhood, the plate glass window crowded with signs for calling cards, money wiring services, cigarettes. There in the lower left-hand corner, the Corona beer poster, a sweating amber bottle beneath a palm tree. Just another sign in the cluttered window—but today this one was upside down.

She kept going, did the last four blocks and turned back onto 108th, slowing now as she neared her building.

The sign was like that only two or three times a year, a message from Hector. It meant only one thing. Work.

*   *   *

Her phone was almost out of minutes, so she got another from the desk in the bedroom and broke it out of its plastic package. She bought them whenever she could, always in different places, and with cash.

She activated the phone, punched in Hector’s number, got his voice mail. She said, “Me,” and ended the call.

When he called back, she was on a yoga mat in the living room, stretching the soreness out of her legs.

“You in town?” he said.

“Just got back. Saw your message.”

“Up for lunch?”

“Heavy lunch or light lunch?”

“Light now, maybe heavier later if you like what they’re serving.”

“When?”

“Free now?”

She looked at her watch. One thirty.

“An hour,” she said. “Same place as last.”

“See you there,” he said and ended the call.

*   *   *

The Hop Ling restaurant was in a warren of short, crooked streets off Mott, in between a toy shop and a store that sold nothing but ornamented purses.

She went down the street level stairs, shouldered open the door. A wave of heat and scent hit her—fried food, steamed rice. Inside the low-ceilinged room were booths, a plywood counter, a roped-off table area in the back.

Hector was in a booth in the far corner, facing the door, wearing a green flight jacket. He was the only non-Asian in the room. Half the other booths were occupied, people eating purposefully.

She had to sidestep fast-moving waiters on her way over. The kitchen doors flew open and shut, smatterings of urgent Cantonese coming from inside.

She slipped into the booth across from him. There was a silver teapot on the table, two ceramic cups, a pair of oversized menus.

“I didn’t order,” he said. “I was waiting for you.”

She shifted to get a sight angle on the door. He opened his menu flat on the table. As always, her eyes were drawn to the Gothic script tattoo on his neck, his brother Pablo’s initials, birth and death dates. Pablo had started out working with Wayne, then gone on to run his own commercial burglary crew, with Hector as his contact man. He’d been killed by federal marshals trying to serve a fugitive warrant on him in an Atlantic City motel.

“How was the road trip?” Hector said.

“Not so good.”

“Were the sights exaggerated?”

“A little. Nobody’s fault.”

“That’s too bad. Charlie’s information is usually accurate.”

“Way it goes,” she said. “Nothing for it.”

She took an envelope from her inside jacket pocket, slid it under his menu, held up three fingers to show him how much. Whenever he steered her to work, she gave him ten percent of her take-home. It was the arrangement they’d had for the last three years, since she’d come north.

“That bad, huh?” he said.

“That bad.”

He slipped the envelope into his jacket.

An elderly waiter came over, pulled a pencil from behind his ear, and stood pad in hand. She wasn’t hungry, but it would attract attention to be here without food. She ordered hot and sour soup. Hector pointed to a special on the handwritten card in the menu’s plastic liner. The waiter took their menus, left without speaking.

“I figure I better eat,” Hector said. “I have to go out to Paterson later on, help my brother-in-law move some furniture. Like my back’s not fucked up enough.”

“How are the girls?”

“Getting big. Elita turns seven next month. She’s got her First Holy Communion coming up this spring, at Saint Anthony’s. Already her mother’s worried about it. I said, ‘Ay por dios, let’s get through Christmas first.’ ” He patted his jacket. “This will help.”

“I was surprised to get your message. I’ve only been back a couple of days.”

“I know. But I didn’t want to wait either.”

He poured tea, looked at her. She nodded, and he filled her cup, steam rising up.

“I don’t know that I’m up to traveling again yet,” she said.

“That’s what I figured. But if I didn’t think it was worth your time…”

She sat back to listen.

“You remember that guy from Staten Island? Runs an electronics store?”

She shook her head.

“Bald guy. Big dude. Little beard here.” He stroked his chin.

Stimmer. “Yeah, okay.”

“He’s looking for associates for an out-of-area opportunity.”

“He say what it was?”

“No, just that it would be worth it. He bad news to you?”

“No more than anyone.”

Their food arrived, the waiter dropping the steaming plates in front of them without a word and vanishing as quickly. Hector ripped the paper off his chopsticks, pulled them apart.

“He’s planning a seminar soon. Asked if I knew anyone with experience who wanted to attend.”

“He mention my name?”

He shook his head, pushed rice and chicken around his plate, the smell of it wafting up.

“No names. But he knows who I talk to.”

She took noodles from a bowl, crushed them into her soup.

“What makes you think it’s worth my time?”

“He said it might be a Stage Seven project.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

Stage Seven meant seven figures or more. She blew on her soup, sipped a spoonful. It made her eyes water.

“Where at?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Where’s the seminar?”

“Across the river, he says. Not far. I didn’t get all the details.”

Jersey. She frowned. She didn’t like doing anything close to home, even prep work.

“Is that where the project is?”

“I don’t think so. If I thought it was, I wouldn’t have bothered you with it.”

She stirred her soup. Even if the figures were exaggerated, Stimmer was solid. Depending on how big the crew was, it might be worth it. She thought about the lawyer in Texas.

“I might look into it,” she said. She spooned soup.

“I’ll get back in touch with him,” he said. “If it still sounds good, I’ll call you.”

“He say how many associates he was looking for?”

“No. Just that the work-to-reward ratio was high. Not very labor-intensive. I got the impression he meant three, maybe four.”

She drank tea. Stimmer was a pro, but underestimating the work involved and crew needed was a common mistake. Greed sometimes led to undermanning. The times that happened, she’d tried to convince the organizers otherwise. If she couldn’t, she walked.

She’d yet to put together a crew herself, though. She dealt almost exclusively with men, and many of them refused to take direction from a woman. When Wayne had run crews, she was his right hand, gave orders, made suggestions, and the others went along with it. Now she was on her own.

“So I’ll tell him maybe?” Hector said.

“If I like what I hear. I want your sense of it first. If you get details and don’t think it’s worth it, that’ll be it. I don’t want the complication of hearing his pitch and then saying no. Makes people nervous.”

“He might not want to tell me. Might only want to talk to you.”

“Then he’s out of luck,” she said.