"You served time for possession with intent to distribute."

"Oh, puh-leeze. I wasn't a dealer. I was a pig. I planned on snorting every last bit of that myself. Well, maybe selling a little, just so I could make enough profit to buy more. Anyway, my family made restitution for what I stole, so the theft charge was dropped as part of my plea. But they couldn't make the distribution charge go away. You know what my mother said when she found out I had a cocaine habit? 'At least he doesn't drink, like the goyim.' "

"Where are you getting your material-Portnoy's Complaint?"

"What does an Irish lass named Monaghan know from Portnoy and afikomensi I imagine you reading James Joyce and drinking pints of Guinness in Locust Point bars." He leaned across the counter toward her, making serious eye contact. "I like the freckles, by the way."

Tess smiled enigmatically. She had no intention of telling this garrulous charmer that she was half Jewish. She wasn't convinced Kirsch had kicked all his bad habits, but she had outgrown her bad-boy jones long ago.

"I hate to dredge up your life in prison-"

"Dredge away. It's some of my best material. In fact, it's the centerpiece of my first-date story. Do you think that's why I'm not getting many second dates?"

She let the pass pass. "I'm curious about the group of Jewish prisoners who met back at Jessup, going back more than ten years ago. One prisoner's daughter ended up marrying one of the volunteers, and now she's missing."

"Whose daughter?"

"Boris Petrovich's."

"Ah, yes. The nubile Natalie. I had first crack at her, you know."

Tess didn't like to show surprise-it was a fatal weakness-but she couldn't help being flustered. "Excuse me?"

"Petrovich showed her photo around our cell block, along with one of a friend. I don't remember the friend so well-she was a little coarse. But Natalie. You don't forget a face like that."

"What do you mean by 'first crack'?"

"Boris was pimping her."

"Bullshit. You can't pimp in prison, not to other prisoners."

"Ah, you're not quite as innovative an entrepreneur as our friend Boris. He had a whole fee schedule. You could get letters from her or photos in a variety of garb-or lack thereof. If you were willing to put more money in his account or slide a few more of your privileges his way, he'd offer to get the girls on your visiting list. The prices went up steeply from there, of course."

"Of course?"

"A hand job from a woman costs a lot more in prison than it does on the street. The old law of supply and demand."

"No way." But even as one part of Tess's mind was trying to knock the story down, the more calculating part was seeing how such an arrangement might work for prisoners who weren't in maximum security. She had been close enough to Boris to touch him-not that she would-and the guards had been selective about what they noticed. It had taken Boris's sudden movement to get their attention.

"It's not very private, to be sure. And the guards draw the line at visitors going down on their knees. But groping is within bounds."

"Yeah, but he was her father. What kind of man would do that to his daughter?"

Kirsch shrugged. "A man who knew his daughter was a whore and figured he deserved a piece of whatever she earned. Once a pimp, always a pimp."

"I was told that Petrovich was a thief, who killed a man in a dispute."

"He did a thriving business in stolen goods, sure. But from what I understand-and I'm good at getting information, I'd be a decent private investigator myself-he killed a pimp who tried to take Natalie and her friend away from him. He didn't care if his daughter turned the occasional trick, but he sure as hell expected her to bring her earnings home every night."

"No way," Tess repeated. It was not that she found the information so unfathomable, more that her mind balked at taking this news back to Mark Rubin. Natalie, a teenage whore. And Lana must be the friend in question. The pool of possible traveling companions had just swelled tenfold, a hundredfold, to all Natalie's former tricks, or even her would-be pimp. No, he was dead, if Kirsch was to be trusted, killed by a father who resented the loss of income, as opposed to the loss of his daughter's innocence.

"Well, I have to admit, she opted out of the prison thing early on, stopped coming around at all. But her friend even married a guy. Boris must have gotten a bundle for that."

"One of the guys in the group?"

"Yep. Famous Amos, the world's biggest Jew. I told my mom about Amos, and she said he couldn't possibly be Jewish. But I think that's because he knew how to fix cars, not because of his size."

I was married once, Lana had told Tess, for about six months. No wonder she had found matrimony so dreary. Her groom had been locked up.

"Natalie was last seen in French Lick, Indiana, with a man of medium height and average looks. Dark hair, slender frame."

"Dark hair. Well, that lets me out, unless I was dipping into the Grecian Formula. French Lick, huh? I guess they must be hard-core Larry Bird fans."

Hirsch's unending supply of glib chatter was beginning to wear on Tess. If he was really worried about getting second dates, he should drop the Catskills-style delivery and try a moment or two of simple sincerity.

"Why did you sign up for the men's group anyway?" She couldn't help feeling aggrieved on her uncle's behalf, and Rubin's. They had been trying to do something worthwhile, and the only man who had valued their efforts was Mickey Harvey. Boris Petrovich was pimping, first to his fellow prisoners, then to Mark. The other guys were just passing time. "Everything seems like a big joke to you."

"I admit-at first it was just for the distraction. An Islamic fundamentalist might have signed up for that group, just to vary the routine a little. But I gotta tell you, it helped. Those guys reminded me that I came from a community, and although I had sinned against that community, I could work my way back if I tried."

"The prodigal son."

"No, that's New Testament, your people's gig. The Old Testament isn't quite as big on absolute forgiveness, but I had broken only one commandment. Well, two, because a drug is like a false god. Plus, I did a little coveting on the side."

"What about taking the Lord's name in vain? Keeping the Sabbath?"

"Four, five-the point is, it was good being reminded that I was a Jew. I didn't have a wife, I didn't have kids, and I sure as hell didn't have a career left as an accountant. But I was part of something that was bigger than me, and there was a comfort in that."

"Sounds like you did some twelve-stepping along the way."

"Still do. I catch a meeting once or twice a week. I've got an addictive personality. Then I realized almost everyone has an addictive personality. The trick is to peddle legal ones that don't particularly appeal to you. It came down to this or coffee." He held a cigar up to his nose, inhaling its aroma. "Of course, I'm late to a trend again, just like I was with cocaine. Cigar sales aren't what they used to be, and the Internet is kicking my ass. But I'm doing okay."

"Congratulations. And thank you for your time today."

"So…" He was back to full-bore-charm mode. "You ever date an ex-con? I may have embraced my heritage, but I've never quite lost the shiksa thing."

Tess didn't have the heart to tell him that she was not the goy of his dreams. "I sorta have a boyfriend."

"Sorta?"

"I mean, I have a boyfriend. He's just away right now, tending to some personal business."

"I don't know. Sounds like a Freudian slip to me, as if you'd be willing to not have a boyfriend under the right conditions."

"Yeah, well, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."

"Not in this shop, sweetheart. Not in this shop."