“I live in Washington, D.C. I rushed up as soon as I heard about Grandmother. Do you know where the Waldorf is?”
“Heard of it.”
“Why don’t we meet in Peacock Alley at six?”
I do believe I’m being asked out for a date. Well, why not?
“Sure. How’ll I know you?”
“I’ll be wearing white.”
“See you at six.”
He hung up, wondering at his reckless mood. Blind dates were not his style at all.
But now for the hard part: a call to Gia. He dialed Nellie’s number. After precisely two rings, Eunice answered with “Paton residence,” and called Gia to the phone at Jack’s request. He waited with a curious mixture of dread and anticipation.
“Hello?” Her voice was cool, businesslike.
“How’d things go last night?”
“That’s none of your business, Jack!” she said with an immediate flare of anger in her voice. “What right have you got to pry into—”
“Hey!” he said. “I just want to know if there’s been any ransom note or phone calls or any word from Grace! What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“Oh… sorry. Nothing. No word at all. Nellie’s really down. Got any good news I can tell her?”
“Afraid not.”
“Are you doing anything?”
“Yeah.”
“What?”
“Detective stuff. You know, tracing clues, following up leads. That kind of thing.”
Gia made no reply. Her silence was eloquent enough. And she was right: Wisecracks were out of place.
“I don’t have much to go on, Gia, but I’ll be doing whatever can be done.”
“I don’t suppose we can ask for more than that,” she said finally, her voice as cool as ever.
“How about lunch today?”
“No, Jack.”
“A late dinner, then?”
“Jack…” The pause here was long; it ended with a sigh. “Let’s just keep this businesslike, okay? Just business. Nothing has changed. Any lunches you want to have, you have them with Nellie. Maybe I’ll come along, but don’t count on it. Capisce?”
“Yeah.” He had an urge to rip the phone out of the wall and hurl it out the nearest window. But he made himself sit there, say a polite goodbye, hang up, and place the phone gently on the table, right where it belonged.
He forcefully removed Gia from his thoughts. He had things to do.
2
Gia put the phone down and leaned against the wall. She had almost made a fool out of herself a moment ago when Jack had asked her how things had gone last night. She’d suddenly had a vision of Jack trailing her and Carl to the restaurant, and from the restaurant to Carl’s place.
They had made love for the first time last night. She hadn’t wanted their relationship to get that far this soon. She had promised herself to take this one slow, to refuse to rush or to be rushed. After all, look what had happened with Jack. But last night she had changed her mind. Tension had been building up in her all day since seeing Jack, building until she had felt it was going to strangle her. She had needed someone. And Carl was there. And he wanted her very much.
In the past she had gently refused his invitations back to his apartment. But last night she had agreed. Everything had been right. The view of the city from his windows had been breathtaking, the brandy smooth and burning in her throat, the lighting in his bedroom so soft it had made her bare skin glow when he had undressed her, making her feel beautiful.
Carl was a good lover, a patient, skilled, gentle, considerate lover.
But nothing had happened last night. She had faked an orgasm in time with his. She didn’t like herself for that, but it had seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Carl had done everything right. It wasn’t his fault she hadn’t even come close to the release she needed.
It was all Jack’s fault.
Seeing him again had got her so uptight she couldn’t have enjoyed Carl last night if he had been the greatest lover in all the world! And he was certainly a better lover than Jack!
No… that wasn’t true. Jack had been good. Very good. There had been times when they had spent the whole night—Nellie’s front doorbell rang. Since Gia was nearby, she answered it. It was a messenger from Carl to pick up the artwork she had told him about last night. And there was something for her: a bouquet of mums and roses. She handed the messenger the artwork and opened the enclosed card as soon as the door was closed. “I’ll call you tonight.” A nice touch. Carl didn’t miss a trick. Too bad—
“What lovely flowers!”
Gia snapped alert at the sound of Nellie’s voice.
“Yes, aren’t they. From Carl. That was Jack on the phone, by the way. He wanted to know if there’d been any word.”
“Has he learned anything?”
Gia shook her head, pitying the almost childish eagerness in the old woman’s face. “He’ll let us know as soon as he does.”
“Something awful has happened, I just know it.”
“You know nothing of the kind,” Gia said, putting her arm around Nellie’s shoulders. “This is probably all a big misunderstanding.”
“I hope so. I really do.” She looked up at Gia. “Would you do me a favor, dear? Call the Mission and send them my regrets. I won’t be attending the reception tomorrow night.”
“You should go.”
“No. It would be unseemly.”
“Don’t be silly. Grace would want you to go. And besides, you need a change of scenery. You haven’t left this house all week.”
“What if she calls?”
“Eunice is here to relay any messages.”
“But to go out and have a good time—”
“I thought you told me you never had a good time at these affairs.”
Nellie smiled, and that was good to see. “True… very true. Well, I rather suppose you’re right. Perhaps I should go. But only on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You go with me.”
Gia was startled at the request. The last thing in the world she wanted to do on a Saturday night was stand around in a room full of U.N. diplomats.
“No. Really, I couldn’t—”
“Of course you can!”
“But Vicky is— “
“Eunice will be here.”
Gia racked her brain for excuses. There had to be a way out of this.
“I’ve nothing to wear.”
“We’ll go out and buy you something.”
“Out of the question!”
Nellie pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket and dabbed her lips. “Then I shan’t be going either.”
Gia did her best to glare angrily at Nellie, but only managed to hold the expression for a few seconds, then she broke into a smile.
“All right, you old blackmailer—!”
“I resent being called old.”
“—I’ll go with you, but I’ll find something of my own to wear.”
“You’ll come with me tomorrow afternoon and put a dress on my account. If you’re to accompany me, you must have the proper clothes. And that’s all I shall say on the matter. We shall leave after lunch.”
With that, she turned and bustled away toward the library. Gia was filled with a mixture of affection and annoyance. Once again she had been outflanked by the old lady from London.
3
Jack walked in the main entrance of the Waldorf at six precisely and went up the steps to the bustling lobby. It had been a hectic day but he had managed to get here on time.
He had arranged for analysis of the contents of the bottle he had found in Grace’s room, then had gone down to the streets and looked up every shady character he knew—and he knew more than he cared to count. There was no talk anywhere about anybody snatching a rich old lady. By late afternoon he was drenched with sweat and feeling gritty all over. He had showered, shaved, dressed, and cabbed over to Park Avenue.
Jack had never had a reaso
n to go to the Waldorf before so he didn’t know what to expect from this Peacock Alley where Kolabati wanted to meet him. To be safe, he had invested in a lightweight cream-colored suit and a pinkish shirt and paisley tie to go with it—at least the salesman said they went with it. He thought at first he might be overdoing it, then figured it would be hard to overdress for the Waldorf. From his brief conversation with Kolabati he sensed she would be dressed to the nines.
Jack absorbed the sights and sounds of the lobby as he walked through it. All races, all nationalities, all ages, shapes, and sizes milled or sat about. To his left, behind a low railing and an arch, people sat drinking at small tables. He walked over and saw a little oval sign that read “Peacock Alley.”
He glanced around. If the Waldorf Lobby were a sidewalk, Peacock Alley would be a sidewalk cafe, an air-conditioned model sans flies and fumes. He didn’t see anyone at the outer tables who fit his image of Kolabati. He studied the clientele. Everyone looked well-heeled and at ease. Jack felt very much out of his element here. This was not his scene. He felt exposed standing here. Maybe this was a mistake—
“A table, sir?”
A middle-aged maitre d’ was at his shoulder, looking at him expectantly. His accent was French with perhaps a soupçon of Brooklyn.
“I think so. I’m not sure. I’m supposed to meet someone. She’s in a white dress and—”
The man’s eyes lit up. “She is here! Come!”
Jack followed him into the rear section, wondering how this man could be so sure he had the right party. They passed a series of alcoves, each with a sofa and stuffed chairs around a cocktail table, like tiny living rooms all in a row. There were paintings on the wall, adding to the warm, comfortable atmosphere. They turned into a wing and were approaching its end when Jack saw her.
He knew then why there had been no hesitation on the part of the maître d”, why there could be no mistake. This was The Woman in the White Dress. She might as well have been the only woman in the room.
She sat alone on a divan against the rear wall, her shoes off, her legs drawn up sideways under her as if she were sitting at home listening to music—classical music, or maybe a raga. A wine glass half-full of faintly amber liquid swirled gently in her hand. There was a strong family resemblance to Kusum, but Kolabati was younger, late twenties, perhaps. She had bright, dark, wide-set, almond-shaped eyes, wide cheekbones, a fine nose dimpled over the flare of the left nostril where perhaps it had been pierced to set a jewel, and smooth, flawless, mocha-colored skin. Her hair too was dark, almost black, parted in the middle and curled at the sides around her ears and the nape of her neck. Old fashioned but curiously just right for her. She had a full lower lip, colored a deep glossy red. And all that was dark about her was made darker by the whiteness of her dress.
The necklace was the clincher, though. Had Jack the slightest doubt about her identity, the silvery iron necklace with the two yellow stones laid it immediately to rest.
She extended her hand from where she was seated on the couch. “It’s good to see you, Jack.” Her voice was rich and dark, like her; and her smile, so white and even, was breathtaking. She leaned forward, her breasts swelling against the thin fabric of her dress as it shaped itself around the minute nipple-bulge centered on each. She did not seem to have the slightest doubt as to who he was.
“Ms. Bahkti,” he said, taking her hand. Her nails, like her lips, were a deep red, her dusky skin soft and smooth as polished ivory. His mind seemed to go blank. He really should say something more. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your necklace.” That sounded good, didn’t it?
“Oh, no. Mine stays right where it is!” She released his hand and patted the cushion next to her. “Come. Sit. We’ve much to talk about.”
Close up, her eyes were wise and knowing, as if she had absorbed all the wonders of her race and its timeless culture.
The maître d’ did not call a waiter but stood by quietly as Jack took his place beside Kolabati. It was possible that he was a very patient man, but Jack noticed that his eyes never left Kolabati.
“May I get M’sieur something to drink?” he said when Jack was settled.
Jack looked at Kolabati’s glass. “What’s that?”
“Kir.”
He wanted a beer, but this was the Waldorf. “I’ll have one of those.”
She laughed. “Don’t be silly! Bring him a beer. They have Bass Ale here.”
“I’m not much for ale. But I’ll take a Beck’s light if you’ve got it.” At least he’d be drinking imported beer. What he really wanted was a Rolling Rock.
“Very good.” The maître d” finally went away.
“How’d you know I like beer?” The confidence with which she had said it made him uneasy.
“A lucky guess. I was sure you wouldn’t like kir.” She studied him. “So… you’re the man who retrieved the necklace. It was a seemingly impossible task, yet you did it. I owe you a debt of undying gratitude.”
“It was only a necklace.”
“A very important necklace.”
“Maybe, but it’s not as if I saved her life or anything.”
“Perhaps you did. Perhaps return of the necklace gave her the strength and the hope to go on living. It was very important to her. Our whole family wears them—every one of us. We’re never without it.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
Full of eccentricities, these Bahktis.
The Beck’s arrived, delivered by the maitre d” himself, who poured the first glassful, lingered a moment, then wandered off with obvious reluctance.
“You realize, don’t you,” Kolabati said as Jack quaffed a few ounces of his beer, “that you have made two lifelong friends in the past twenty-four hours: my brother and myself.”
“What about your grandmother?”
Kolabati blinked. “Her, too, of course. Do not take our gratitude lightly, Jack. Not mine. And especially not my brother’s—Kusum never forgets a favor or a slight.”
“Just what does your brother do at the U.N.?” It was small talk. Jack really wanted to know all about Kolabati, but didn’t want to appear too interested.
“I’m not sure. A minor post.” She must have noticed Jack’s puzzled frown. “Yes, I know—he doesn’t seem to be a man who’d be satisfied with any sort of minor post. Believe me, he isn’t. Back home his name is known in every province.”
“Why?”
“He is the leader of a new Hindu fundamentalist movement. He and many others believe that India and Hinduism have become too Westernized. He wants a return to the old ways. He’s been picking up a surprising number of followers over the years and developing considerable political clout.”
“Sounds like the Moral Majority over here. What is he—the Jerry Falwell of India?”
Kolabati’s expression became grim. “Perhaps more. His singleness of purpose can be frightening at times. Some fear he may become the Ayatolla Khomeini of India. That’s why everyone was shocked early last year when he suddenly requested diplomatic assignment at the London Embassy. It was granted immediately—no doubt the government was delighted to have him out of the country. Recently he was transferred here to the U.N.—again at his request. I’m sure his followers and adversaries back home are mystified, but I know my brother. I’ll bet he’s getting enough international experience under his belt so he can go home and become a credible candidate for a major political office. But enough of Kusum…”
Jack felt Kolabati’s hand against his chest, pushing him back against the cushions.
“Get comfortable now,” she said, her dark eyes boring into him, “and tell me all about yourself. I want to know everything, especially how you came to be Repairman Jack.”
Jack took another swallow of beer and forced himself to pause. He had a sudden urge to tell her everything, to open up his whole past to her. It frightened him. He never opened up to anyone except Abe. Why Kolabati? Perhaps it was because she already knew something about him; perhaps
because she was so effusive in her gratitude for achieving the “impossible” and returning her grandmother’s necklace. Telling all was out of the question, but pieces of the truth wouldn’t hurt. The question was: what to tell, what to edit?
“It just sort of happened.”
“There had to be a first time. Start there. Tell me about it.”
He settled into the cushions, adjusting his position until the lump of the holstered Mauser .380 sat comfortably in the small of his back, and began telling her about Mr. Canelli, his first fix-it customer.
4
Summer was drawing to a close. He was seventeen, still living in Johnson, New Jersey, a small, semi-rural town in Burlington County. His father was working as a C.P.A. then, and his mother was still alive. His brother was in the New Jersey State College of Medicine and his sister was in Rutgers pre-law.
On the corner down the street from his house lived Mr. Vito Canelli, a retired widower. From the time the ground thawed until the time it froze again, he worked in his yard. Especially on his lawn. He seeded and fertilized every couple of weeks, watered it daily. Mr. Canelli had the greenest lawn in the county. It was usually flawless. The only times it wasn’t was when someone cut the corner turning right off 541 onto Jack’s street. The first few times were probably accidents, but then some of the more vandalism-prone kids in the area started making a habit of it. Driving across “the old wop’s” lawn became a Friday and Saturday night ritual. Finally, old Mr. Canelli put up a three-foot white picket fence and that seemed to put an end to it. Or so he thought.
It was early. Jack was walking up to the highway towing the family Toro behind him. For the past few summers he had made his money doing gardening chores and cutting grass around town. He liked the work and liked even better the fact that he could adjust his hours almost any way he wished.
When he came into view of Mr. Canelli’s yard he stopped and gaped.
The picket fence was down—smashed and scattered all over the lawn in countless white splinters. The small flowering ornamental trees that blossomed in varied colors each spring-dwarf crabapples, dogwoods—had been broken off a foot above the ground. Yews and junipers were flattened and ground into the dirt. The plaster pink flamingos that everybody laughed about were shattered and crushed to powder. And the lawn… there weren’t just tire tracks across it, there were long, wide gouges up to six inches deep. Whoever had done it hadn’t been satisfied with simply driving across the lawn and flattening some grass; they had skidded and slewed their car or cars around until the entire yard had been ripped to pieces.
The Complete Adversary Cycle: The Keep, the Tomb, the Touch, Reborn, Reprisal, Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack) Page 50
