dry, and hit it with a dryer while she went over her legal notes propped on the sink before her. She could be out the door in fifteen minutes. Her makeup was minimal, sometimes nonexistent. Despite this lack of primping, she had a radiant natural beauty that had earned her half-a-dozen offers to model by New York agents … sleek, well-dressed men who smelled of aftershave and slipped agency cards in her hand, suggesting she call. She dismissed these entreaties as sleazeball pickup routines, despite the fact that the cards they gave her were sometimes embossed in gold with the names of prominent agencies.
“There,” Victoria said, clipping the other side of Carol’s hair back with a barrette.
“I don’t know,” Carol said, studying her reflection dubiously. “I think I look stupid. Makes my face seem round.”
“Maybe if you don’t pile it up so high … let some of this, up here, straggle on the sides,” Victoria said, pulling a few strands down. Since she took so little interest in her own hairstyle, she felt ill equipped to give beauty tips to others. She was much better at conducting a withering cross-examination.
“You got the dress!” Carol exclaimed, finally spotting the garment bag Victoria had draped over the commode.
“Yep. Gil Green shit a brick when he saw the bill. But, if O.J. can get Rosa Lopez that ugly blue outfit, you oughta get this pretty tan one.” She pulled it out of the bag and held it up.
“Love it, love it, love it,” Carol said, as she unzipped it and stepped in, then turned to the mirror. “Whatta you think?”
“You’re gonna knock ‘em dead, girlfriend.” Victoria grinned. Under all the easy chatter she continued to marvel: Why would somebody risk everything just because it was the right thing to do? When she evaluated the tremendous sacrifices Carol Sesnick was making, it took Victoria Hart’s breath away.
In the back of the gray Econoline van, Tommy “Two Times” Rina and Texaco Phillips were hunched over a Building Department schematic of Trenton Towers. They had computer-accessed the plans from the City Building Inspector’s office by using a Rina Family computer technician. He’d downloaded everything.
“Fucking heating ducts are tiny. … We’ll never get inside them, they’re forty fucking years old,” Tommy said angrily, looking at the plans and smelling Texaco’s horrible odor, which he knew was caused by anabolic steroids. In the front seat, behind the wheel, chewing on a toothpick, was a skinny Jamaican Rastafarian. His dreadlocks were greased and beaded; his dusky skin lacked luster.
Texaco Phillips kept flicking his gaze in the direction of the Rasta. He didn’t, for the life of him, understand why Tommy would want a wheel man who looked like a fucking jigaboo street character. Texaco had asked Tommy that question twenty minutes ago when the Rasta had gone to take a leak in the gas station can.
“‘Cause he’s a Dixie cup.” Tommy grinned and refused further comment.
Texaco didn’t know what the hell that meant, but the grin had spooked him, so he shut up. Texaco couldn’t get away from Tommy Rina fast enough. Tommy was Joe Rina’s older brother and Joe had put them together for this piece of work, so Texaco had no choice. Tommy, like his brother, Joe, was short, only five-seven, but that was all they had in common. At thirty-eight, Joe Dancer was much more handsome, and walked on the balls of his feet to gain a little height. He’d been doing it since junior high and the habit had earned him his nickname. Joe had beautiful wavy hair and perfect teeth that glittered like a box of Chiclets.
Tommy had the same wavy hair, but it seemed to grow too far down on his forehead, giving him a simian appearance. He had the same white teeth as his brother, but they protruded, giving him a leering overbite. His eyes were blue like Joe’s, but instead of reflecting intelligence, they were pig-mean. The family resemblance was definitely there, but the recipe was off, the results skewed.
“Take us around the block. I wanna see this here fire exit,” Tommy said to the Jamaican, pointing to a door indicated on the plans.
“Ya, we be rollin’, mon,” the Jake mumbled unintelligibly, as he put the van in gear and pulled out.
“Why the fuck don’t you put on some cologne?” Tommy Two Times said to Texaco, who couldn’t smell himself and didn’t know what Tommy was talking about.
They sat in silence as the van rounded the block. The tires hissed on