“That easy?” I asked.
“I’ve been running this shop for over twenty years, kid. I know who follows the law and who deals with dirty customers. I’m sure it’s the same for you in your world.”
“I guess you’re right.”
He laughed. “Damn true. But if you plan on going over to Parker’s, you be careful. Just because he’s older than sin doesn’t mean he’s gonna be a granddaddy to you. His son does the questionable work these days. Ben Parker’s his name.”
Consider me aptly warned.
I raised the paper up. “Could I have a copy?”
“Well… if Mark or Richard or whoever he is, is bothering you, you ought to—”
“He’s dead,” I clarified. “But I still would like a copy.”
“WOW!” MAXshouted as we were on the sidewalks of Midtown again, making toward Ninth Avenue. “That was so cool. You’re like a totally different guy when you go sneaking around.”
“Am I?”
“Hell yeah! I can see why you like this—it’s kind of exciting. I take back all the crap I gave you.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“I won’t, I won’t,” Max promised. “Mostly since you’re not paying me to be Assistant Sleuth, right?”
“Right.”
“Why did you want a copy of his old license?”
“He had a different address listed,” I answered.
“So? Maybe he moved.”
“Maybe. But most people don’t change their full name when they move a few zip codes.” I took the picture Gerald supplied me with and handed it to Max. “I might have to go check out his apartment building.”
“What good will that do? It’s not like he’s going to come home.”
“Well… no,” I muttered. “But if I could somehow confirm he still occupied both apartments, it would certainly aid in Calvin’s search for the missing bag.” I glanced up at Max by my side. “Besides, if anything, it does make Dick-Mark seem pretty suspicious. The whole point of this insane game is simply to prove he was guilty of something during life. That seems to be all our joyful maniac wants.”
“Hey, Seb?” Max stopped walking.
I turned around to look at him. “What is it?”
“I know this address.”
“What?”
Max tapped the paper. “This Mark Lewis address in Brooklyn. My buddy lives here. Same building.”
“Max, don’t fuck with me.”
“No, I’m not kidding!” Max took out his phone and snapped a picture. “Give me a second and I’ll ask him if he knows the guy. He’s friendly with most of his neighbors.” Max handed the photo back to me and typed a quick text to his friend.
We stood between Eighth and Ninth Avenue. A cold wind ripped down the street, warm air rose from the subway grates, and the stench of piss seemed to permeate the entire block.
Max made anah-ha!sound when his phone pinged. “He says, ‘That guy lives on the second floor. But his name is Todd, not Mark.’”
Dick-Mark-Todd was most definitely anything but innocent.
