are your needs?” he said.
“I want a carry knife that I can hang my life on.”
“You’re not a collector?”
“I’m a user,” Favor said.
“Thrust or slash?”
“Both.”
“What are you carrying now?”
“I’m not. I used to carry a good knife, but I put it away some time ago. I wish I had it now. I’m far from home, though, and I think I might need it soon, but I can’t get to it.”
“What exactly are you looking for?”
“Something that will go in my pocket. A very sturdy balisong would be good. A blade of three or four inches. Double-edged or at least with a hollow-ground swage. A strong spine for sure.”
“You plan on hitting bone?”
“I don’t plan on it, but sometimes it happens.”
Esqueviel said, ”Okay, you’re a user.” He picked up the cigarette and gestured Favor to come along as he disappeared through the curtain at the rear.
Favor followed him into a small workshop. In the middle of the floor was a brick forge where chunks of charcoal were glowing red. Esqueviel stood on a wooden bench and reached up into an overhead shelf. He came down with a handful of soiled rag, and when he unfolded the rag he revealed a knife, a balisong, with a very dark, smooth handle.
He put the knife in Favor’s outstretched right hand.
The knife had heft, Favor noticed. Heavier than the usual balisong.
“Ironwood?” Favor said.
“I had some laying around.”
Favor opened the knife. The split sides revealed a wide dagger shape, the twin edges curving to a point. A raised spine added weight and strength.
Favor held the knife at arm’s length. He turned it over in his fingers, studying the blade at different angles. It was perfectly symmetrical. The steel was bluish gray, burnished to a glow.
“What is your bar stock?” Favor said.
“The steel is from the leaf spring of a 1953 Dodge flatbed truck. My father bought the leafs when I was a boy. He made dozens of knives from it, and I have made dozens more. Now I’m down to my last two pieces.”
“This is a fantastic piece of work.”
“I make knives for meat markets and for housewives and for tourists,” Esqueviel said. “Once in a while I make one for myself. I don’t keep it forever. I’m no collector. I don’t care for collectors. I just hang on to it until I’m ready to make another. Then I find a good place for the old one.”
“I want this knife.”
“I wouldn’t know what it’s worth.”
“It’s worth plenty. Name your price.”
“You’re from the States, huh?”
“Yes,” Favor said.
“There’s something you can do for me.”
“Just say it.”
“If this knife helps get you home, I want you to send me another set of leaf springs from a 1953 Dodge flatbed truck.”
Favor admired the knife for a few more seconds. The fit. The balance. Perfect.
“I can do that,” he said.
Twenty
The door buzzer sounded in the bodega.
Favor went to the door, checked the peephole. Edwin Santos. Favor opened the door and Santos came in carrying the clamshell storage bin. He brought it to the table. Stickney opened the folding top and began removing items. A length of PVC pipe, about a foot and a half. Electric drill and bits. Soldering iron. Two gallon-size cans, labeled by hand.
Stickney looked at what was left inside, taking inventory.
He said, “I think we still need some sixteen-gauge wire, twisted pair.”
“Ah yes, the wire,” Santos said. He went over to a shelf on the wall, rummaged through a box, came up with a spool of wire.
“I’m in business,” Stickney said.
“The other items, I should have those late tonight. I can bring them first thing tomorrow. The passports and the weapons, tomorrow afternoon.”
“Can we say twenty-four hours?” Favor asked. The current time was about 2:20 p.m.
“My source for the documents won’t be getting much sleep tonight,” Santos told him. “How about six p.m. at the latest? Will that work?”
“But no later than six,” Favor said.
“No problem.”
Favor went with Santos to the door, shook his hand, shut the door behind him.
When he turned back to the table, Stickney was already at work.
Twenty-one
Stickney was still busy with his project, tools and materials spread across the tabletop, when Arielle returned to the bodega.
She said that she had something to show them. But she didn’t want to disturb Stickney’s work, so she opened the laptop on a top of a shipping crate. They all gathered around the screen; even Stickney stopped what he was doing.
She said, “On Ronnie, the story is simple but not very encouraging. At 1052 on the day of