“What if it’s not all about drinking? I mean, an ID can get you access to all sorts of things.”
“Like what?”
“Well, if you’re under eighteen, your own cell phone.”
“After-hours phone,” he states, no prompting required.
“You know about those?”
“Everyone knows about those.”
I scowl. “Then it gets you . . .” I honestly falter. Being eighteen or twenty-one, depending on your preference, is worth the right to vote, the honor of joining the military, and . . . well, access to Boston’s night life.
“How many kids you think want a fake ID?” I ask him, changing gears.
“Plenty. Boston’s a college town. Most of the freshmen want to drink or party. And owners like me take carding seriously or risk losing our licenses. You know what it costs to get a liquor license?”
“A small fortune?”
“A large fortune. Enough most establishments aren’t playing it fast or loose anytime soon.”
“So there’s a decent enough demand for fake IDs. A person could make some cash.”
Another Stoney shrug. “If you’re into counterfeiting, why not just print money?”
“Turns out that’s really hard.”
“No shit. Well, what about stocks or bonds or bank notes on one particular ancient neighborhood bar?”
I hear what he says. “Might be possible. I don’t know.”
“Green card.” A voice speaks up from the end of the bar. One of the regulars. Michael Duarde. I’ve served him several nights, but this is our first conversation. His accent is definitely not from here, though I’m hard-pressed to pick a country. The fact that he’s slightly slurring his words doesn’t help. “Gonna fake something, fake a fucking green card. Or work visa. That’s what everyone wants.”
Michael raises his beer and takes a long pull. Both Stoney and I watch him.
“You have TPS status?” I ask him. As in Temporary Protected Status, which is what most of the Haitian immigrants, such as Angelique and her brother, were granted post-earthquake.
“Not me. Plenty of others.”
“Can you fake a visa?” I ask Stoney, genuinely curious. Because the drunk guy raises a good point.
“Can you fake a passport?” he asks me.
“Not without a lot of expertise.”
“There you go.”
“Harder than a hundred-dollar bill?” I ask him.
“Beyond my pay grade.”
He’s right, but he’s got me thinking about Lotham’s point from the car ride home. Even if Angelique and Livia were making thousands a month dealing fake IDs, that’s small potatoes compared to illegal drug revenue . . . Why kidnap two girls over small potatoes?
Counterfeiting green cards or work visas would be big leagues. Crazy amounts of money. Except if you can’t nail a hologram on a Massachusetts driver’s license, how the hell are you going to fake a document on par with a U.S. passport? Forging a visa is terrorist-cell kind of crazy. Or Russian-printed-bills kind of savvy.
It feels to me it all boils down to one key question—Angelique and Livia were clearly involved with something illegal, but how illegal? What kind of crime would incentivize kidnapping and holding two teenagers for nearly a year?
I mull the possibilities as I wrap up for the night. Closing out tabs, carrying the last of the dirty dishes to Viv, cleaning.
“Where’s your handsome hunk?” she asks me as she finally bustles out, pulling on her coat.
My phone hasn’t rung. I refuse to admit how many times I’ve checked it. “Working.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Been a long day.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Oh look, there’s your husband waiting for you.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Stop that!”
Finally a smile. “Girl, you gotta get your priorities straight. None of us have forever. You know what I’m talking about?”
“My eggs have petrified in my ovaries?”
“Forget that, honey. I’m talking fun. You hear me?”
She’s not wrong. But it doesn’t help my cause as I let her out the front door, then lock up behind. I watch as her husband takes her arm. They look adorable. Two peas in a pod. Viv shoots me a final cheery wave. I do my best not to vomit in her general direction.
Stoney closes out the register, brings me my tips. I wave him off. “I keep eating out of the kitchen. My bad.”
“You’re both eating my food and showing up late?”
“What I lack in discipline I make up for in personality.”
He gives me a look.
“Hey, I’m confessing my sins up front. Offering you money back. As employees go, that’s not too shabby.”
He seems to accept this.
“I even clean up after your homicidal cat.”
“Piper’s a good worker. Complains less than you do.”
“I haven’t bitten off anyone’s toe lately.”
He shrugs. Apparently that’s not as impressive a feat as I’d hoped. “You gonna bring that little girl home?” he asks me.
I’m feeling reckless. “Hell, I’m gonna bring two little girls home: Angelique Badeau and Livia Samdi.”
He hands over the fifty bucks in tip money, cash I sorely need. “You do that, and we’re even.”
“You love this community, don’t you?”
“It’s my home.”
“I don’t have a home, but I still know what you mean.”
We both finish up our work in silence. Then Stoney exits stage left and I climb up the stairs to my apartment. I meant what I said to Lotham; today had been a long day. Best to retire early.
Yet I still check my phone. No calls, no messages. I feel restless, thrumming with the edge of unfinished business. What has Lotham learned about Livia Samdi’s other brother? Or what about possible bank accounts for Angelique’s alter ego, Tamara Levesque? I hate being in the dark.
Pacing my tiny apartment back and forth, back and forth. Feeling my restlessness grow, my skin start to tingle, my scalp pull tight. Maybe I should head to a meeting. Nights like this are exactly when I need a meeting.
No need for a fucking police escort. I’ve lived tougher, seen neighborhoods more dangerous. I wasn’t lying to Lotham when I said as much earlier. I can do this.