Tom shook his head. "Never ceases to amaze me how people never learn: If it sounds too good to be true, it almost certainly is."
"Yeah, well, so Joey and Frank Junior are—were carrying on the family tradition with an Internet booth variation. And they're cleaning up, though not as much as they did with cell phone licenses."
"There's another new one."
"Worked with the same come-on as the phone booth: Get a cell phone license for a given area and you can collect roaming fees from anyone making calls from your turf. Frankie and Joey charged folks eight, nine, ten thousand bucks for a mobile phone license."
"Which were worthless, right?"
"Nope. They delivered the real deal."
"The real thing?" Then Tom smiled. "Oh, I see. The victims could have got them on their own from the government for something like a hundred bucks, right?"
"Seven hundred, actually. All the marks would have had to do was fill out a form. They never needed Joey and Frankie."
Tom smiled. "Who says you can't cheat an honest man?" Then he shrugged. "At least those folks got something for their money. Better than a phone booth that never arrives."
"But not much. Seems the guys neglected to tell the marks that they'd have to spend well into six figures to build the cell tower that would allow them to collect. But how'd you guess about the government selling them for so much less?"
Tom shrugged again. "Not a guess really. A fair number of attorneys are doing very well with a variation on that."
Back when he was in private practice he used to work that sort of thing. Those were the days…
Tom sighed. Sometimes—many times, lately—he regretted leaving private practice. He'd wheeled and dealed and wheedled and angled for a judgeship. He'd heeded the siren song of the prestige, the opportunities it would afford him. But he'd have been better off now—
"Why am I not surprised?" Jack said in a flat tone.
Tom waved his hands. "All perfectly legal."
"I can't wait to hear this."
"Here's how it works. All you need is a mass tort or a disaster that results in the creation of a fund. The breast implant settlement, for example. Or the Ramsey IUD settlement. Guys made tons by putting out ads indicating their 'expertise' in the Ramsey IUD case, then getting claimants to sign on to percentage agreements—some got pushed to as high as forty percent. But all the attorney had to do to earn it was show the claimants how to document their use of the product and their injuries, and then fill out the forms. All of which they could have done themselves in a written application to the fund."
"So instead of getting a hundred percent of the settlement, they wind up with sixty because forty goes into some shyster's pocket."
"Like I said: perfectly legal.
is all that matters. But you have to take into account that a lot of those people wouldn't have wound up with a dime if the ads hadn't spurred them to action."
"Swell system. You sleep okay at night?"
Tom felt his jaw clench. "You're not going to do your Mr. Sanctimonious impersonation again, are you? What about your pal Joey?"
"Not my pal."
"You ever inculpate him about his cell phone scam?"
"That's different."
"Really? How? He bilks thousands. I want to play around with a bogus twenty and you get on your high horse. How come he gets a pass but not me?"
"I don't like what Joey does but, because of the way he was raised, he doesn't know any better. He thinks that's how life is. But that's only a side issue. Joey's not my brother. You are. And you and I were raised with the crazy notion that doing the right thing
All he'd wanted was out. He'd seen Philadelphia and Manhattan and Baltimore and D.C. on class trips and had known immediately that Johnson was not the place for him.
And then he remembered the night he'd almost been killed, and Dad shouting at him. First, because he was scared that Tom had almost killed himself, and then because of
Just one of those teenage things.
"Oh, yeah. I forgot. Saint Jack. Daddy's boy. He never had to worry about you going for a joyride."
"No, he didn't."
Tom had been out of the house by then, but it irked him to think that his kid brother had spent his high school years as some kind of namby-pamby geek. A teenager, especially a boy, was supposed to shake things up, give his parents a few gray hairs. All part of the rite of passage.
"Didn't think so."
Jack grinned. "Even though I went for at least a dozen."
"Bullshit."
He raised his hand, palm out. "Truth."
"Dad never mentioned—"
"That's because he never knew. Nobody knew. After I learned to hotwire a car—a lot easier in those days than now—I set a challenge for myself. The game was to borrow the ride, take it for a spin, then return it to the exact same spot with no one the wiser."
"And no one ever spotted you, no one ever looked out their window and noticed their car missing?"
Jack shrugged. "I did my homework."
Tom had to admit he was impressed. Maybe Jack hadn't been such a sissy boy after all.
"When's check-out?"
Tom hesitated, a look of uncertainty flitting over his face.
"Wait here while I find out."
Jack didn't see why he shouldn't accompany him to the registration desk, but didn't argue. As he stood alone in the virtually deserted lobby, a wave of sadness swept over him.
Had things gone as planned, had the fucking Wrath of Allah stayed home, he and Dad would have been roaming the town, knee-deep in Jack's cool-building tour. They'd have seen the old Pythian Club and the Masons-built Level Club on West 70th by now, and would be heading toward 57th where he could show him the Hearst Magazine Building. Jack had a whole list of Manhattan buildings he loved. He'd looked forward to sharing them with his father. Now…
He felt his throat constrict.
Shit. Shit-shit-
"But why are you staying?"
Tom shrugged. "I don't know. Just feel I should. Then I can drive down to Johnson with you tomorrow."
Oh, hell.
"Why do you assume I have a car?"
Tom looked surprised. "The Phantom Joyrider doesn't own a set of wheels? I don't believe it."
"Lots of New Yorkers are wheelless. A car is more of a hassle—an expensive one—than a convenience in a city like this."
"But that doesn't answer the question: Do you own a car?"
"Yes."
Abe was going to drive him out to La Guardia this afternoon. They'd switch tickets and then drive out. As a recent arrival—he'd say he'd just dropped someone off—he'd be under less scrutiny.
"Are you driving down to make arrangements for the wake tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"Can I hitch a ride?"
How could he say no?
"Of course you can."
Tom gave him a tight smile. "There. Wasn't that easy?"
"But what about your wife—wives—and kids? Aren't they coming?"
"Sure. I'll hook up with them at the wake."
Jack couldn't see any way out of this. Even if Tom was his only living relative, an hour and a half cooped up with him in a car…
And then he had an awful thought. Gia and Vicky were planning on going—Gia was adamant about this—and that meant they'd be exposed to Tom.
"You should know that I'll have a couple of other people along."
Tom's eyebrows rose. "Is that so? Who, pray tell?"
"A woman I know and her daughter."
He grinned. "So, there's a woman in Jack's life. I can't wait to meet her." He snapped his fingers. "Hey! I've got an idea. Why don't I buy you two dinner tonight?"
"We've already got plans."
"Well, if they include dinner, I'm buying." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the hotel restaurant. "Right here."
He'd planned on it being just Gia and Jack tonight, but couldn't see a way out of this.
"Okay. But not here."
"Why not? It's excellent. I ate there last night and—"
"Sorry. We've got reservations at Lucille's tonight."
"So? Break them."
"Can't."
Jack didn't understand Tom's wistful look as he glanced toward the entrance of Joe O's.
"It'll be so easy. I'll just charge it to my room and—"
"Yeah, but the problem is I know the guy who's playing Lucille's tonight. He asked me to come down and listen, fill a couple of seats for him."
Actually the singer, Jesse Roy Bighead DuBois, had told Jack he'd have a surprise for him if he showed. Wouldn't say what, but he'd piqued Jack's curiosity.
But with all that had happened, Jack had forgotten about Jesse and his gig. When Gia had reminded him this morning, telling him she'd call and cancel their reservation if he wanted, his first impulse had been to say yes. But when he considered his other options, sitting with Gia and listening to some blues while having dinner didn't seem like a bad thing. After all, it was the blues.
Tom frowned. "Playing what?"
"He fronts a blues band. Of course if you don't like blues—"
Hope-hope-hope.
"I'm a blues aficionado. Count me in."
Jack repressed a sigh.
But then, maybe it wasn't right to leave his only sib alone two nights in a row.
Or was it?
"
."
He slumped in the chair. The gloating, cold-blooded, matter-of-fact threats, the hatred in the tone stayed with him after the clip. How do people get to that point? Didn't they listen to themselves? If their god was so offended by western culture he could cleanse it from the face of the earth with a thought. Any self-respecting god would take offense at the notion that he needed a bunch of bearded crazies to defend him.
Jack listened twice more, then downloaded the file. He burned it onto a CD. He wasn't sure why. Maybe he simply needed to listen to it now and then to confirm that it was real. Maybe he'd need it as fuel should the fire of his simmering rage ever burn too low.
The place looked deserted. It was early, of course, but Jack couldn't help thinking that the La Guardia massacre had something to do with the low population density.
Lucille's was a casual place and they were dressed accordingly: Gia in black slacks and a loose, sapphire blue velour turtleneck that picked up her eyes and hid what little tummy she had; Jack in khakis, a plaid shirt, and a dark brown leather flight jacket. A nondescript couple out for a drink and a meal.
He glanced at his watch:
"Yeah, well, we never got along growing up and I don't see us getting along any better as adults."
"What did he do to get you so down on him?"
Jack thought of the first line of
"Oh come on now, aren't we exaggerating just a little?"
He didn't want to tell her that Tom was the most self-centered human being he had ever known. Jack imagined him being pissed on 9/11 because the fall of the World Trade towers had preempted his favorite Tuesday night TV shows.
Okay. A little harsh. Tom would have been as aghast as everyone else.
He hoped.
"He was ten years older and when he wasn't ignoring me he was hassling me. A little example. I was maybe eleven and I loved pistachios. As I remember, they were all red back then. Anyway, I didn't like to eat them one at a time. I liked a bunch at a time. So I'd shell a couple of dozen and then gobble them in one big bite. I remember it was summer, Tom was home from college, and I was sitting at the kitchen counter, doing the work of accumulating a pile of shelled nuts. Tom breezed along, grabbed them, shoved them into his face, and walked on. If he'd done it as a tease it would be one thing, but he acted as if he hadn't the slightest doubt about his right to them or that anyone would refuse him anything—as if I'd been shelling them for him."
"And what did you do?"
"Well, they were already in his mouth so I didn't want them back, and he was twice my size so I couldn't attack him. And I was too old to go whining to my folks. So I had to let it pass."
"Since when do you let things pass?"
"I was a kid, so I did. Then he did it again."
"Uh-oh."
"Yeah. Uh-oh. I was insane. Once was bad enough. Twice was intolerable. I decided to put a stop to it."
"Do I want to hear this?"
Jack smiled. "Of course you do. So I went to Mr. Canelli, this sweet old Italian guy up the street who had the town's best lawn in his front yard and a big vegetable garden in the back. I asked him if I could buy a couple of his hottest—
Gia nodded. "I see where this is going."
"Need I say more?"
"Well, did it work?"
"Oh, it worked. Mr. Canelli could eat hot peppers like candy, but he said he had one tepin plant that produced peppers so hot he could only use a tiny bit at a time. Two or three times hotter than the red habanero. He gave me some—half a dozen tiny red things. I crushed them and coated about twenty shelled pistachios with the juice."
"Ouch."
"Ouch to the hundredth power." Jack laughed at the memory. "Tom came by, snatched them up, stuffed them into his mouth, and kept moving—for about five steps. Then it hit him."
"Did he turn red?"
"Red? Ever see someone washing out his mouth with a garden hose—for half an hour? It was two days before his tongue was something he wanted in his mouth."
Gia laughed. "Now I've
"Wallow?"
"You really want to do that?"
He shrugged. He didn't know what he wanted. "I guess not, but being here seems somehow disrespectful… almost sacrilegious."
Gia shook her head. "I didn't know your father, but from what you've told me I can't see him wanting you to do that."
"You're right. He wouldn't."
"And besides, you promised this fellow Jesse Bighead—"
"Jesse
"No. It's a bluesman thing to have a tag with your name. 'Blind' seems to be the most popular: Blind Boy Fuller, Blind Willie McTell, Blind Blake, and the guy with the double whammy, Blind Lemon Jefferson. Then there's Lightnin' Hopkins, Howlin' Wolf, Muddy Waters, Gatemouth Brown, T-Bone Walker, Pinetop Perkins—the list goes on and on."
"But how do you wind up being called 'Bighead'?"
"I asked him that once and he told me it was his mother's doing. He'd been a big baby and whenever anyone would mention childbirth, his mother would go on about what an awful time she had passing his head."
"Think I'm sorry I asked."
"He may have got the 'Bighead' from his mother, but not the rest. She named him William Sutton, and he grew up as Willie Sutton."
"Like the safecracker?" Gia shook her head. "That might be interesting, but Jesse Roy Bighead DuBois is definitely more picturesque." She nudged Jack with her elbow. "Still not going to tell me how you know him?"
"Told you: I did a fix-it for him a few years back."
It had been a simple fix, but Bighead had been impressed, and had never forgotten.
"Which tells me nothing. It's not as if you're a priest and he told you something in confession."
"Yes, it is."
Jack looked around again. Where the hell was Tom?
7
When will I learn to keep my big yap shut? Tom thought as he extracted himself from the cab. I should be back at Joe O's, feasting on John L. Tyleski's tab.