"Well?" he said, giving Tom a hard stare. "You gonna get it back?"
Tom looked at him as if he'd just told him Dad was a space alien.
"Hell no."
Jack resisted the impulse to punch his brother's doughy face. Instead he took out his wallet, found a ten and two fives, and flagged down the barmaid.
"Could you give me a twenty for these?"
She glanced at Jack, then at Tom, then back again.
"Is this some kind of game?"
"No. I just need a twenty."
She shrugged and retrieved the bogus bill. Jack took it, then snatched a five from Tom's change and handed it to her.
"For your troubles."
She smiled. "Thanks."
Tom shot him a venomous look.
Screw him.
Jack started toward the elevators up to street level.
"Let's get you set up in your room."
But still…
Vodka usually made the world look a little friendlier, a little easier to handle. Not today.
This city was partly to blame. He'd never liked New York. Always struck him as more toxic landfill than city. Too big, too coarse, completely lacking the elan of Philadelphia. Philly… now
lumpenproletariat
He watched his brother walking ahead of him. The Jackie—oops, he wants to be called Jack now—Tom remembered used to be a klutzy younker. A skinny little pain in the ass who was always underfoot.
He was still a pain in the ass—an
pain in the ass. Look at how he'd reacted to switching that twenty. Like some sort of Miss Priss. Where'd he pick up his holier-than-thou?
Yeah, still a pain in the ass, but no longer skinny. His shoulders filled out his sweatshirt; he'd pushed his sleeves up to his elbows revealing forearms that rippled with sleek muscles just below the skin. Not much fat on Little Brother.
But that's okay, Tom thought. I've got enough for two.
"Used to be the Statler," Jack said. "Look, you're right across the street from Madison Square Garden, and just crosstown from the morgue."
Tom shook his head. "Yeah. The morgue." He looked up at the tall ionic columns of the entrance. "
Tom had a feeling Jack didn't give a good goddamn if he liked it or not.
Too bad they'd got off on the wrong foot, but that was Jack's fault, not his. And anyway, who cared what a college dropout loser thought of him?
Jack led him across the wide, retro lobby toward the registration desk.
Blast. He'd been sort of counting on staying with Jack. He didn't feel like ponying up for a hotel, especially on a completely unnecessary trip like this. Why Jack couldn't have simply signed for the body and shipped it back to Johnson was beyond him.
Well, at least it had got him out of Philly. That counted for something. As much as he revered the place, he wished he could find a way to be a former Philadelphian for good.
"I reserved it in your name," Jack said, pulling out his cell phone. "Go ahead. I've got a call to make."
Tom gave his name to the check-in clerk, an attractive twenty-something with curly black hair, pretty despite the fact she looked like a mix of every race on earth, and waited while she checked her computer.
"Ah, here it is," she said with a dazzling smile. "You're staying only one night, correct?"
She put down the card and began tapping on her keyboard. Tom noticed his own name on the form; a credit card slip with a handwritten name and number was attached. He edged forward for a closer look.
Tom hid a smile. This presented an interesting opportunity. Could he pull it off?
Well, never look a gift horse…
The clerk looked up and smiled at him. "Which credit card will you be using, sir?"
"Mr. Tyleski is covering the room."
"Really?" She studied the reservation card. "It doesn't say so here."
Tom gave a perturbed sniff. "Well, he is. He
always
"I'm sorry, sir, but—"
"On the other hand, the Plaza is used to our arrangement. I suppose John simply could have forgotten to mention it." He waved his hand in bored annoyance. "Call him if you must."
He watched her hesitate, then pick up the phone.
Oh, shit. His bluff hadn't worked.
Well, it had been fun while it lasted.
He glanced over at his brother the wet blanket, still talking on the phone. Tom would have to come up with an explanation for the clerk as to why John Tyleski had never heard of him, and bring it off without Jack knowing. He didn't need another of those appalled looks. What a ninny.
"Mr. Tyleski, this is the Pennsylvania Hotel calling. We'd like to confirm the payment arrangement on the room you reserved today. Please call us back at…"
She was leaving voice mail! Tom almost let out a whoop.
Now, if this Tyleski character didn't check his messages until tomorrow…
The clerk hung up and turned to him.
"We'll leave it on Mr. Tyleski's card for now. If you speak to him, please ask him to confirm with us."
"Of course. I'm scheduled for a dinner meeting with him tonight at the Plaza."
She gave him a card to fill out with his address and telephone number, both of which he fabricated out of thin air. The less the Pennsylvania Hotel knew, the better.
Jack finished his call and walked over just as she handed him the key.
"All set?"
Tom nodded. "Room six-twenty-seven. Is there a restaurant here?"
"Joe O's. Never been but it's supposed to be pretty good."
"Great. What time do you want to meet for dinner?"
"Sorry. Can't."
"Come on. We'll eat at this Joe O's—my treat."
Actually, John Tyleski's treat. Tom would charge it to the room.
Jack shook his head. "Got some loose ends I've got to tie up tonight."
"Okay." He feigned a sad look. "I guess I'll have to eat alone."
Jack appeared unmoved.
Tom gave him a wink. "I suppose I could always rent some company."
"Jesus, Tom. Don't get rolled. I need you in one piece tomorrow."
The implication was not lost on him: no concern for Tom himself, just his presence to claim Dad's body. Talk about getting off on the wrong foot…
He'd been kidding about the rented company. He'd seen plenty of hookers during his years at the bar and on the bench. Some were knockouts and some were harridans, and some weren't even women. Trouble was, you never knew who their last John was or what you might catch.
Not that he'd ever needed them—plenty of legal secretaries around the courthouse happy to give it up for a judge.
"Don't worry, Jack. I'll be here, intact and ready to roll. And maybe on the way over to the morgue you can explain why you couldn't take care of this yourself."
"Maybe," Jack said. "And maybe not. Pick you up at nine thirty tomorrow morning."
He watched Jack exit through the glass doors. Just as well. The thought of spending a couple of hours over dinner with that guy, trying to make conversation… Jesus, what could they talk about besides Dad? Not as if they had a store of fond memories to revisit.
Nope. Looked like dinner for one tonight.
At least that would give him time to gather his thoughts as to what he should do with the money he'd inherit. Tom had helped Dad change his will after Kate's death and in the process had got a peek into the old guy's finances. Still couldn't believe it—seven figures and growing. Dad had practically invented day trading and was damn good at it.
A third to Tom, a third to Jack, and a third to Kate's kids. His share would help loosen
Had to find a way to hide it. He was executor, after all. He was sure he could find a way.
What a fucking mess he'd got himself into.
But no point in more self-excoriation. He'd done plenty already, and it hadn't changed a thing.
Here you are, Jack thought.
He crouched in a tiny, dark, stuffy Bronx apartment. The neighbor directly above was playing one of Polio's thrashing aural assaults at subway-train volume. The pounding bass sounded ready to peel the paint from the walls. If it was that loud down here, what was it like up there?
In Jack's hand sat a baseball—pardon, an "Official National League" baseball—encased in a clear plastic sphere on a round, gold-plated base. For something more than fifty years old, it appeared to be in damn good shape. Then again, why not? It had never been in a game.
He flashed his penlight on it again to double-check the inscription, directly below the Spalding logo:
"Sure. I had to do it now and then when I was hungry and tapped out. Why?"
"Because you're gonna do it again. Long distance. From the roof."
Jack added a quaver to his voice. "N-no, wait. W-we can—"
"We can nothin', fuck face!" He sidled in an arc to Jack's right and cocked his head toward the door. "Move. We got us some stairs to climb."
Jack shook his head. "N-no. I ain't goin'."
"Fuck you ain't!" He stepped closer, extending the pistol toward Jack's midsection. "Shoot you right here an' be done with it!"
A little closer… just a little closer…
"What are you so mad about?" He jutted his chin toward the love doll on the floor. "Not like I raped your girl or nothin'!"
Scotty's gaze flicked toward the doll. His face reddened, then whitened.
"That does it!"
The muzzle pushed forward. Jack's hand darted out and grabbed the top of the pistol. Wrapped his fingers around the cylinder. Clutched it in a death grip.
"Hey!"
Scotty pulled on the trigger. But the cylinder had to rotate before the hammer could fall. Jack had the cylinder locked in place.
Yanked on the gun, bringing Scotty closer. The fence's eyes wild with shock, confusion. Kept yanking on the trigger but getting no result. When Jack had him close enough, he let loose a vicious head butt, crushing Scotty's nose. The sound of collapsing bone and cartilage echoed through Jack's skull.
Music.
Scotty's head snapped back. Blood flowed from his flattened nose. But he didn't let go of the gun. So Jack reeled him back in for another butt. Scotty tried to use his free hand to fend him off. Jack slapped it aside and butted him again. Harder this time.
That did it. Scotty's knees buckled, his grip loosened, and Jack had the pistol all to himself.
But Scotty wasn't finished. With the loss of his weapon he became a wobbly, panicked, fist-swinging dynamo. Must have thought Jack was going to shoot him. Not the plan. Too much noise.
Ducked or blocked the fence's wild swings until he had an opening, then slammed the pistol against the side of his skull. Opened a gash but he didn't go down. Guy must have an iron skull. Leaped at Jack, slammed into him and got his arms around him. They went down, landing on the love doll. It popped and deflated with a loud hiss.
Scotty took a wild swing at Jack. This one connected. The flash of pain through Jack's chin released something within him. Dropped the gun. Grabbed one of the doll's deflated legs. Wrapped it around Scotty's throat and pulled. Felt a fierce joy, building toward exaltation, then rapture, finally exploding into a black consuming ecstasy as he tightened the plastic noose further and further—
Until he heard a small, weak, strangled voice whimper, "Please… you're killin' me… please… killin'…"
Jack stopped and saw Scotty's face. Felt the dark joy boil away. Let go and backed off, scrabbling away on palms and heels. And sat and stared at what he'd done.
A pressure built in his chest, then released. He heard a sound like a sob. And realized it had come from him.
Jesus, what's wrong with me?
The fence opened his left eye—the right was swollen shut—and looked at Jack.
"You crying?" he croaked. "You beat the shit outta me and almost choke me't'death and then you cry about it? Motherfuck, what's wrong with you?"
Jack wished he knew. He closed his eyes and felt tears squeeze between the lids.
He opened them to find the fence sneaking a hand toward the pistol lying on the floor between them. Jack stomped on the hand with the heel of his boot and heard a bone snap. The fenced wailed as he snatched it back and cradled it on his chest.
Jack sobbed again.
I'm seeing far too much of this place, Jack thought.
Just six weeks or so ago he'd walked this same hallway. The tiled walls and floor drains looked too familiar.
He'd picked up Tom at the hotel and they cabbed over. Jack would have preferred walking. It would take longer. He wasn't in any hurry to see his father's corpse. Again.