Free Double-Crossing Delancey by S. J. Rozan Page A

time.”
     
    “Sounds great.”
     
    “Cost brother-in-law twelve hundreds of dollars. Thinks, sell to tourists on street, make big bucks. When crates come, all lighters don’t have fluid, don’t have wick.”
     
    “Oh, no.”
     
    “Brother-in-law complain to guy sold him. Guy saying, ‘Why you thinking so cheap? Come on, brother-in-law, I have fluid, I have wicks sell you.’ Now brother-in-law sitting home filling lighters all night after job, sticking wicks in. Don’t know how, so half doesn’t work. Now, sell cheap, lose money. Sell expensive, tourist don’t want. Also, brother-in-law lazy jackass. By tomorrow, next day, give up. Many lighters, no wick, no fluid, no bucks for brother-in-law.”
     
    My eyes narrowed as I heard this story. Leaving aside Charlie’s clear sense that no bucks was about what his brother-in-law deserved, I asked, “Who was the guy your brother-in-law bought these things from, do you know? Was he Chinese?”
     
    “Not Chinese. Some lo faan , meet on Delancey Street. Say, have lighters, need cash, sell cheap. I tell brother-in-law, you stupid sh — “ Charlie swallowed the word “ — stupid jackass, how you trust lo faan guy with ruby in tooth?”
     
    “ Lo faan ” means, roughly, barbarian; more broadly, it means anyone not Chinese. For emphasis Charlie tapped a tooth at the center of his own grin.
     
    “Charlie,” I said, “I have to go. So do you, or you’ll be late.” Charlie works the eight-to-four shift in a Baxter Street noodle factory. “See you tomorrow morning.”
     
    “Sure, gaje. See you.”
     
    With another grin and a wave, Charlie was off to work. With shoulders set and purposeful stride, so was I.
     
    These clear June mornings in New York wilt fast. It wasn’t quite so bright or early, I had accomplished a number of things, and I was sweaty and flagging a little by the time I finally spotted Joe Delancey on Delancey Street.
     
    Delancey Street is the delta of New York, the place where the flood of new immigrants from Asia meets the river of them from the Caribbean and the tide from Latin America, and they all flow into the ocean of old-time New Yorkers, whose parents and grandparents were the last generation’s floods and rivers and tides. Joe Delancey could often be found cruising here, looking for money-making opportunities, and I had been cruising for awhile myself, looking for Joe.
     
    I stepped out in front of him, blocking his path on the wide sidewalk. “Joe,” I said. “We have to talk.”
     
    Joe rocked to a halt. His freckled face lit up and his green eyes glowed with delight, as though finding me standing in his way was a pleasure, and being summoned to talk with me was a joy he’d long wished for but never dared hope to have.
     
    “Lydia! Oh exquisite pearl of the Orient, where have you been these lonely months?”
     
    “Joe — “
     
    “No, wait! Do not speak.” He held up a hand for silence and tilted his head to look at me. “You only grow more beautiful. If we could bottle the secret of you, what a fortune we could make.” I laughed; with Joe, though I know him, I often find myself laughing.
     
    “Do not vanish, I beg you,” he said, as though I were already shimmering and fading. “Now that I have at long last found you again.”
     
    “I was looking for you, Joe.”
     
    He smiled gently. “Because Fate was impatient for us to be together, and I too much of a fool to understand.” He slipped my arm through his and steered me along the sidewalk. “Come. We shall have tea, and sit awhile,and talk of many things.” We reached a coffee shop. Joe gallantly pulled open the door. As I walked in past him he grinned, and when he did the ruby in his front tooth glittered in the sun.
     
    I’d once asked him what the story was on the ruby in his tooth.
     
    His answer started with a mundane cavity, like all of us get. Because it was in the front, Joe’s dentist had suggested filling it and crowning it. “In