6

"Here you go," Richie Cordova said, handing a five to the kid from the mail drop.

Every time something popped into his box at the drop—hardly ever more than three times a week—the kid ran it up the two blocks to Richie's office on his break. Worth the fiver every time. Saved Richie the trip, but more important, it meant he never had to show his face down there.

A good thing to avoid. Never knew when one of the cows might get the dumb idea of watching Box 224 to see who opened it. Might see Richie and follow him back to the office, or home, and look for a chance to get even. Didn't want none of that shit.

With Richie's delivery setup, they'd be waiting till they was dead and gone before seeing anyone so much as touch Box 224.

"So what've we got today?" Richie muttered when the kid was gone.

One manila envelope. Typed label. Hmrara.

He pulled a folding knife from a desk drawer and slit il open. He found a legal-sized envelope within. Inside that was a note in a woman's hand and a hundred-dollar bill.

A hundred bucks? What's this shit?

The note was from the nun, whining about how she didn't have no more to give. Richie smiled. Normally he'd be royally pissed at the short payment, but not with this little lady. Oh, no. He wanted her tapped out—at least personally.

But was today the right day to put the screws to her?

He picked up the Post and turned to the horoscope page. He'd been there once already this morning and hadn't been too crazy about what he'd seen. He folded the tabloid into a neat quarter page for a second look.

Gemini (May 21—June 21): It seems as if you have a dwindling safety margin. Don't confuse aggression with initiative. Live in the moment, follow the rules, and close the week in triumph despite these obstacles.

Dwindling safety margin… that didn't sound so good.

But it might not be so bad. His birthday was June 20, which meant he was officially a Gemini. But because Cancer started June 22, lots of astrology experts said people like him was "on the cusp" and could go either way.

He checked the next reading.

Cancer (June 22-July 22): It might be necessary to experience what you thought you wanted in order to better appreciate what you have. Dearest ones help you find fresh resources which might be able to hook you up in a surprising way.

He read the first sentence three times and still couldn't scope out what it was saying. As for the rest…

Dearest ones? That would have to be the crowd at Hurley's.

Sure as hell couldn't be a woman. He'd been split for seven years now from the stupid bitch he'd married, and his mother was five years gone. No gal at the moment—most of them were slobs anyway and the ones who weren't never seemed to stay. His mother, God love her, had left him her house in Williamsbridge and everything in it. He'd grown up there and, because it was so much better than the crap apartment he'd been living in after his divorce, he'd moved back instead of selling.

He decided what these horoscopes was telling him was that since he was going to fmd fresh resources today, his dwindling safety margin wouldn't matter, and he'd close the week in triumph.

Good enough.

He unfolded the paper and laid it on his desk with the front page up. Then he used a Handi Wipe to remove the newsprint smudges from his fingers. That done, he wheeled his chair over to the radiator and pulled a padded envelope from behind it. He added the nun's hundred to the rest of the cash. The total was up to about three thousand now. Time to make a trip to the safety deposit box. His office was alarmed, sure, but it wasn't no bank. He'd head there come Friday.

As he stuffed the envelope back into its hiding place and rose to his feet, he burped and rubbed the swelling dome of his belly. That liverwurst and onion sandwich wasn't sitting too good. He loosened his belt a notch—to the last one. Shit, if he swelled any more he'd have to buy a whole new set of clothes. Again. He already had one closet full of stuff he couldn't wear. He didn't need another.

He slipped on his suit jacket—didn't even try to button it—and straightened up his desktop. Not much there. He kept a lean look in everything but his body. He realigned the photo of Clancy so it was centered across the far left corner, then headed for the waiting area.

"Going out for a little walk, Eddy," he told his receptionist. "Be back in thirty or so."

Edwina checked her watch and jotted the time on a sticky note.

"Sure thing, Rich."

Uppity black skank, but she was good, one of the best receptionists he'd ever had. Wouldn't come across with any extracurricular activity like some of them, though. Couple that with the way business had slowed, and he just might have to let her go soon.

But he'd put that off as long as he could. A fair number of his clients had some bucks. Not big bucks, but comfortable. They came to him from Manhattan and Queens—first time ever in the Bronx for a lot of them. When they called for directions they were relieved to hear he was near the Bronx Zoo and the Botanical Garden—civilization would be close by.

The bad part about this location was that parking was a bitch and his clients wouldn't see anyone like them on the street; the good part was they damn sure wouldn't bump into anyone they knew, and that was important. Nobody wanted to run into a friend or acquaintance in a detective agency.

So they hauled themselves all the way up here, and after that sacrifice they needed the reassurance of seeing a receptionist when they stepped through the door.

He adjusted Eddy's RECEFHONIST sign, lining it up with the leading edge of her desk, and walked out.

7

Tremont was jumping today. But nobody on the crowded sidewalk seemed to be looking for a PI. They weren't his sort of clientele anyway.

Richie didn't know why business had been off lately. He gave good service to his clients and got a lot of referrals from them, but things had been unaccountably slow since the summer.

Which was why his second income stream had become more important than ever. The regular snoop jobs had always been the meat and potatoes, but the gravy had come from blackmail.

Blackmail He hated that word. Sounded so dirty and underhanded. He'd tried for years to find a substitute but hadn't come up with anything that worked. Private knowledge protection … secret safekeeping service … classified information management . . . none of them did anything for him.

So, he'd resigned himself to blackmail … which made him a blackmailer.

Not something he talked about at Hurley's, but not as bad as it sounded. Really, when you got down to it, he was simply supplying a service: I have information about you, information you don't want made public. For a regular fee I will keep my mouth shut.

What could be fairer than that? Participation was purely voluntary. Don't want to play? Then don't pay. But be ready to face the music once your ugly little secret gets out.

Plus he had to admit he loved being able to pull people's strings and make them dance to whatever tune he felt like playing. That was almost as good as the money.

Richie rounded the corner and walked up past the newer apartment houses toward the zoo.

Yeah… blackmailer. Not exactly what he'd planned for himself as a kid.

What do you want to be when you grow up, Richie?

A blackmailer, Mom.

He hadn't planned on being a cop either. Cops had been "pigs" back then. But as he grew older in a crummy economy and saw his old man lose his factory job, he started thinking maybe being a cop wasn't so bad. Chances of getting laid off were slim to none, the pay was decent, and you could retire on a pension after twenty or twenty-five years and still have a lot of living ahead of you.