thought he was bragging to secure a righteous lay,” Ray said, nodding. “He thought someone who was newly arrived to this country would find his tales exciting and very New World and shit. That she’d look up to him for guidance, and feel a little knee-scraping gratitude.”
But what Kolyadenko found was a blueprint to the city more detailed than the tattoos webbing Marco’s body. Without giving up a single kiss from her glossed lips, she overtook giant swaths of the city’s drug trade with new, stronger product, and huevos most men didn’t possess.
And Marco, Grif thought, shaking his head, blustering and full of macho Latino id, never even saw her coming.
“He fell for it hook, line, and sinker,” Ray confirmed, stubbing out his own cigarette. “He never respected women before, but man, he despises them now.”
Not all of them, Grif thought, memory winging back to the humble house held up by an altar and faith, scented with spice. “He lives with his grandmother, you know.”
“Yeah, and have you seen her teeth?” Ray asked, miming gums. Miming fists. Then he shrugged. “Ack, well. Women make men do crazy things.”
He gestured around the room where men traded bills for sins of the flesh. Yeah, Grif thought wryly. They were all being strong-armed.
“Thanks, Ray.” Pocketing the photo, Grif rose to leave. It was a good story, but it was clearly all he was going to get tonight.
“Hold on, man.” Ray held out a hand, just short of touching Grif. “About your grandpops . . . there might be a guy.”
Grif waited.
Ray shrugged. “Old Al Zicaro is still around.”
Grif squinted, recalling the name. “The newshound?”
He remembered Zicaro vaguely from his first lifetime, accusatory headlines that’d blared like horns while Grif had been working to find Sal DiMartino’s niece. Grif had even caught a few choice arrows flung in his direction, though Zicaro had never been able to do more than intimate that Grif was made. Because he wasn’t. He was just there to collect a paycheck for finding little Mary Margaret.
But the memory of those last weeks bum-rushed him now. Zicaro had been young and eager, always waving that pad and pen, jaw flapping a mile a minute. Grif suddenly recalled wanting to punch that motor mouth on more than one occasion.
“He’s gotta be in his seventies now, but the bastard always had a mind like a steel trap.” Ray’s lip curled, remembering Zicaro with the same fondness Grif did, and he added, “Of course, you’re betting on him playing with a full deck in the first place. That bum ran stories about spaceships filling the desert sky right next to beefed-up mobsters whacking everything in sight. He saw a conspiracy in everything, but verified nothing. Ask me, it made him crazy.”
Grif would take crazy over nothing. “Know where I can find him?”
To Grif’s surprise, Ray did. “Sunset Retirement Community, last I heard,” he answered immediately. “The Trib did a piece on him a while back, honoring his years of—get this—service to the community. The piece said he was still chasing down stories, but he’s using the retirement home’s copier to print them, and he hand-delivers them to the other residents’ doors every morning. Like I said, nutso.”
Grif agreed, but just shoved his hands into his pockets. “Thanks, Ray.”
Ray shrugged. “I wish I could help you more. I really do. Your grandpops was a good man, always took time for me, and not everyone did that. Not everyone really . . . saw me.” Ray frowned a little at that, then shook it off. “Anyway, if what you say is true, and someone whacked Old Man Shaw and his pretty little wife . . . well, I hope you find ’em.”
Grif thanked him again, then exited the club into a night still heated by the runaway sun. The doorman motioned a cab forward from the queue, but Grif waved them both away. Hoofing it helped him think, and the night held a nice enough breeze that he could do so comfortably for miles. Besides, despite the neon’s nightly onslaught, desert pockets and darkness still bloomed here and there in the industrial district. So Grif put his hands in his pockets, tucked his head low, and headed into it. There was something else he wanted to try as well. And it was best if he did so alone.
Grif waited until he was sure the darkness had covered his tracks, and was far enough from Masquerade to know he hadn’t been followed. He reemerged from the