Read Mask Market for Free Online

sir.”
    “Thanks.”
    I took the elevator. The building was new enough so that it actually had the thirteenth floor marked.
    I stood outside the door to 13-D, waiting. I didn’t touch the tiny brass knocker, or the discreet black button set into the doorframe.
    “How come you never knock?” she said as the door opened.
    “You’re going to look through the peephole before you open the door, right? And you knew I—or someone, anyway—was on the way up, so you’d be on the watch.”
    “What do you mean, ‘someone’?” she said, standing aside to let me into the apartment.
    “You don’t use video in this building. All the doorman had was a name. Anyone can use a name.”
    “He described you, too,” she said, slightly sulky.
    “And that description would fit—what?—a million or so guys in Manhattan alone.”
    “Oh, don’t be so suspicious, ” she said, standing on her toes to kiss me on the cheek, right over the bullet scar. “That’s how you get lines on your face, being suspicious of everything.”
    “Then my face should look like a piece of graph paper,” I said, putting my coat in her outstretched hands.
    “I’m not dressed yet,” she announced, as if coming to the door in a lacy red bra and matching panties hadn’t been enough of a hint. “Go sit down; I’ll only be a few minutes.”
    She turned and walked down the hall with the confidence of a woman who expects to be watched and is ready for it. I sat down in a slingback azure leather chair and watched tropical fish cavort in the flat-screen virtual aquarium on the far wall. I slitted my eyes against the vibrant pixel display until it became the kind of kaleidoscope you get when you press your fingers against your eyelids. I don’t mind waiting; it’s one of the things I do best.
    The lady I was waiting for was a zaftig blonde without a straight line anywhere on her body, like a pinup girl from the fifties; the kind of woman who turns a walk to the grocery store into an audition. A sweet little biscuit, bosomy and wasp-waisted, with big hazel eyes like a pair of jeweler’s loupes. Her idea of foreplay is what she calls “presents,” and the right ones make her arch her back like a bitch cat in heat.
    I met her in a BMW showroom on Park Avenue. I was there to see a guy who does beautiful custom work…on VIN numbers. She was just window-shopping, keeping in practice.
    I was dressed for the part I was playing, all Zegna and Bruno Magli. She was wearing white toreador pants, a fire-engine-red silk plain-front blouse, and matching spike heels with ankle straps, holding a belted white coat in her right hand. As soon as she was sure she had my attention, she turned around to caress the gleaming fender of a Z8. Instead of back pockets, the white pants had a pair of red arrows, pointing left and right. I wished she’d get mad at something, and walk away.
    Instead, she walked over to where I was standing.
    “Want to buy me a car?” she said, flashing a homicidal smile.
    “I never buy cars on the first date,” I said.
    “Ooh!” she squealed, softly.
    That’s where it started. She doesn’t know what I do for a living, but she’s sure it’s something shady. She’s real sure I’m married—you wear a wedding ring long enough, when you take it off it leaves a telltale mark a woman like her could spot at a hundred yards.
    She’s so gorgeous she can show off just by showing up. Keeps a big mirror on her bed, where the headboard should be. Her favorite way is to get on all fours and wiggle a little first. She wants it so that the last thing she sees before she lets go is herself, watching me doing her.
    When I pretend to go to sleep afterwards, she vacuums my clothes with a feather touch. She’s not looking for money, just information.
    She thinks my name is Ken Lewis. She calls me Lew. I never asked her why.
    There’s a dirty elegance about her. She looks as lush as an orchid, and comes across just about as smart. But that’s just