He watched her walk across the room. He loved the sight of her naked—her small, firm breasts, her long legs, the pale pubic patch that proved she was a natural blonde.
Jack wondered what she'd look like pregnant. Probably fabulous.
Strangely enough, he'd been thinking about babies lately. Ever since he'd seen Gia holding that AIDS infant at the Center on Friday. The light in her eyes… that nurturing look. Gia was a natural nurturer. Jack knew that from seeing her with Vicky. Physically, Gia was a single parent, but she gave more to Vicky than any half dozen other parents put together.
He heard the bathroom door close and listened to the shoosh of the water in the pipes as she turned on the shower.
He closed his eyes and pictured Gia holding another child… their child. He thought of growing old with Gia and Vicky and a new little person, the fusion of Gia and himself, and the vision lit a little sun inside him.
But to get to that place he'd have to change his life.
Jack got out of bed and went to the bottom drawer of the old oak dresser. He dug through the various wigs, mustaches, eyeglasses, nostril dilators, and other paraphernalia until he found the full beard. He pulled it from its Ziploc and checked it out. Getting kind of ratty-looking. He'd have to get another soon.
He held it up to his face and looked in the mirror.
Not great, but along with a change in the way he combed his hair—moving the part more to the center—it gave his normally rectangular face an oval shape, and hid enough of his features so that no one would recognize him.
Look at you, he thought. You have to wear a beard to go Christmas shopping in midtown. Always looking over your shoulder. What kind of life is that?
If he retired, he could grow his own beard and go wherever he wanted—Gia on one arm and Vicky on the other—and not give a damn who saw them.
Retire…
Well, why not? Maybe it was time. He'd had enough close calls for a dozen lifetimes, but never anything permanently damaging. He liked to credit that to his attention to detail, but maybe it was just luck. What was he going to do—wait until he wound up dead or crippled? What was the point of pushing the odds?
Don't be a jerk, a voice said. Quit while you're ahead.
As usual, the voice was right.
As usual, Jack wasn't going to take its advice.
Not yet, anyway.
MONDAY
1.
Alicia stood uncertainly outside the bar, squinting in the late-morning glare as she peered through the streaked front window to see what it was like inside.
Was this it? Jack had told her the place was called "Julio's," and that was what the sign over the door said, but it looked so seedy. She'd expected some trendy Upper West Side watering hole, but the grubby-looking men pushing in and out of the door most definitely were not yuppies.
Alicia had wanted Jack to drop by her office as he had before, but he'd told her this time she'd have to come to his office. Okay. Fair enough. But who had an office in a workingman's bar?
And couldn't the owner maybe clean the front window once in a while? It was so smeared she could barely see through it. And what little she saw of the dark interior wasn't encouraging.
Mostly she saw plants—spider plants, asparagus ferns, wandering Jews—but they were all dead. Worse than dead. Way beyond dead. What few leaves still adhered to the stems were brown and curled and covered with a thick layer of dust. What was this—a mummy's idea of a fern bar?
All was dark as interstellar space beyond the desiccated plants. Not even stars glowing.
But this was the address he'd given her, and it was called Julio's…
Alicia stepped back and scanned the street. She'd taken a cab up so she hadn't had much opportunity to see if that gray sedan was following her again. She didn't see it on the street now. Maybe it was all in her mind.
And maybe she shouldn't even bother with this Jack. She didn't want to go through another explanation of the whole situation, tiptoeing among the details she could reveal and the ones she couldn't. And then face the questions… the inevitable questions.
Because to someone who didn't know what she knew, her actions appeared completely irrational. Thomas was the only other living person who had all the facts, and even he thought she was crazy.
She couldn't answer those questions. And so she had to settle for people thinking she was nuts.
Did she want to add Just Jack to that list?
Not really. But she had nowhere else to turn right now, and she had a feeling Just Jack was the sort who struck straight to the heart of a problem. She'd obtained a medical report on the thief who'd stolen the toys. The cops hadn't been exaggerating. He'd been thoroughly worked over… numerous fractures, countless contusions. Which told her that Just Jack was not adverse to the judicious application of force.
And after seeing what had happened to Leo Weinstein, that might be just what she needed.
But the possibility that she might be setting him up to end like poor Leo made her hesitate.
She'd looked for other options, but Just Jack seemed the best right now. She was sick to death of anything related to the will and the house, and yesterday she'd flashed on a way to clean up the whole mess. But it was not something a lawyer could handle. She was pretty sure it might be in Jack's line of work.
But did she have the guts to ask him?
Taking a deep breath, Alicia settled her nerves, pulled on the door handle, and stepped inside.
As she waited for her eyes to adjust, she heard the buzz of conversation wither and die… just like the plants in the window.
Slowly, the room came into focus. First, the TV screen, playing what looked like ESPN or one of its clones, then the neon beer signs—Bud, Rolling Rock, and Miller only, no Bass Ale or Zima here—glowing behind the bar, reflecting off the bottles lined up like wishes on the mirrored shelves. A sign over the bar, dark letters carved into light wood… FREE BEER TOMORROW…
And then the patrons, half a dozen grizzled men leaning against the bar, beers and boilermakers before them, all turned her way, staring.
What was this? A gay bar? Never seen a woman in here before?
"You here to see Jack, right?"
Alicia looked down at the short, heavily muscled Hispanic who'd materialized out of the dark. He had a pencil-line mustache and black, wavy, slicked-back hair. His voice was low, his dark eyes bright and active.
"Um, yes. He'd said he was going to be—"
"He's in the back. I'm Julio. Follow me."
Relieved, she followed the swaggering Julio past the bar and into the deeper shadows beyond. Conversation began to flow again as soon as she moved away. Once among the rear tables, she made out a form seated against the far wall. As the figure rose, she recognized Jack.
He extended his hand. "Good to see you again, Doctor."
Alicia's throat tightened as she thought of seeing that toy room full again yesterday. She clasped his hand between both of hers and held it.
"I don't know how to thank you," she said. "How to even begin to thank you for returning those gifts."
"No thanks necessary. I was hired to do a job, and I did it."
Somehow Alicia doubted that. No matter how offhanded his tone, she'd seen his eyes on Friday, and she knew what he'd done to that thief. Did a man simply "hired to do a job" wreak that kind of havoc?
He offered her coffee, which she refused. Julio refilled Jack's chipped white mug, then left them alone.
"Was everything there?" Jack said, sipping his black coffee.
Again, she noticed his long thumbnails. Maybe she'd ask him later why he didn't trim them short like the rest.
"As far as we can tell, yes. The staff is simply delirious with joy. They're calling it a Christmas miracle. So are the papers."
"I've seen them. Good. Then we can consider that matter closed. How's that little guy with the new haircut, by the way? The one who got sick right after I saw you?"
"Hector?" she said, surp
rised he remembered. "Hector's not doing too great."
"Aw, no. You're not going to tell me something awful, are you?"
He cares, she thought in wonder. He genuinely cares.
"His latest chest X ray shows pneumonia."
The lung infiltrates had formed a typical Pneumocystis pattern, and the gram stain had confirmed that as the infecting organism. No big surprise. Pneumocystis carinii loved AIDS patients.
Alicia had started him on IV Bactrim. He was supposed to have been on a prophylactic oral dose, but not all the foster parents were that religious about giving daily medication to seemingly well kids.
"He's going to be all right?"
"The medication he's on usually does the trick."
Usually.
"Anything I can do for him? Send him some balloons or a teddy bear or something?"
How about a mother or a father, or better yet, a new immune system? Alicia thought, but said, "That'd be great. He's got nothing. I'm sure he'll love anything."
"He's got nothing," Jack said, shaking his head and looking glum as he stared at his coffee.
When he looked up at her, Alicia knew he was struggling to find words to express the bleakness of the life he was trying to imagine.
Don't try to express it, she thought. You can't.
"I know," she told him.
He nodded. Then he sighed. "Your message said you had a personal matter you wanted to discuss."
Yes, she thought. Let's move on to something you can do something about.
"First, call me Alicia. And before we get down to business, I want to know about those dead plants in the window. What's the idea?"
Jack glanced over to the window. The dead stuff had been there so long he hardly noticed it anymore.
"Julio uses them as totems. To ward off evil spirits."
"You're kidding. What evil spirits?"
"The kind that order Chardonnay."
Her smile was crooked. "Oh, I get it. A macho bar… testosterone thick in the air."
Jack shrugged. "I can't speak for Julio. He likes a certain type of customer and tries to discourage others. But sometimes it backfires. Sometimes those plants actually attract the wrong type because they think the place is so 'authentic'… whatever that means. But let's get back to you."
She sighed, feeling the tension mount. Here we go.
"It's a long, complicated story, and I won't bother you with all the details. In a nutshell: A man named Ronald Clayton died in a plane crash two months ago and left every damn thing he owned to me."
"Who was he?"
"He fathered me."
"Your father? I'm sorry to hear—"
"Don't be. We shared some genes, and that was the extent of it. Anyway, when I got the call from the lawyer who's the executor of the estate, I told him I wasn't interested in that man's belongings or anything connected to him. Then he told me that I was sole heir."
Across the table, Jack raised his eyebrows. "Not your mother?"
"She died twenty-some years ago—and that you can be sorry about, if you wish."
Alicia barely remembered her mother. If only she hadn't died… things would have been so different…
"Well, anyway, I was shocked. I hadn't spoken to him in a dozen years. Hadn't even thought about him." Wouldn't allow myself. "I told the executor I wanted nothing to do with the damn house and hung up on him."
Jack remained silent. Still waiting for the "problem" part, Alicia figured.
Don't worry, she thought. It's coming.
"Next thing I know, my half brother Thomas is on the phone, and he's—"
"Wait," said Jack. "Half brother?"
"Right. Older by four years."
"Which half—the mother or the father?"
"Ronald Clayton is his father."
Jack cocked his head. "And he was left out in the cold."
"Right. Not a dime."
"Any other halves floating around the Clayton family?"
"No. Just Thomas. He's enough, thanks. So Thomas is on the phone saying that if I don't want the house, can he have it. I tell him no. I say I've changed my mind. I do want it. I tell him I'm going to donate it to the AIDS Center for use as a satellite facility. So forget about it."
"Got along with your brother about as well as your father, I take it?"
"Worse, if that's possible. The next day Thomas is back on the phone offering me two million for the house."
Jack's eyebrow's jumped. "Where is this place?"
"Murray Hill."
He smiled. "No kidding. That might be cheap for Murray Hill."
"It's a three-story brownstone. Worth every penny."
"So far, I don't see why you think you need me. Take the money and run."
Now came the touchy part. Now he'd start wondering why. But Alicia had evaded the hard questions—the impossible questions—with poor Leo Weinstein, and she could evade them with Jack.
"But I didn't. I turned him down."
"You knew the price would go up."
"No way. But it did. Thomas came back and offered me four million. And I gave him the same answer. And then he told me he was tired of bidding against himself and that I should 'name a fucking price'—his words—and I hung up on him."
"Turned him down again… sort of like winning the lottery and not cashing in your ticket, isn't it?"
"Not exactly. You see, Thomas hardly has a dime to his name."
Jack leaned forward and stared at her. Now he looked interested.
"You know that for sure?"
"I suspected it. I mean, he's been in a low-level research job at AT&T since he graduated college. Where would he get approval for a mortgage that size? So I checked him out: His credit rating is the pits, and he quit his job about the time he started calling me."
"So… a guy with no money and no job offers you four mil. I don't blame you for hanging up on him."
"No," Alicia said, "you don't understand. I think he does have the money—in cash."
"In cash?"
"That's what he offered me—said I can take it or he can donate it all to the charity of my choice. How do you explain that?"
"Either he's crazy or somebody's backing him."
"Exactly, but who? And why not approach me directly? Why go through Thomas?"
"Does it matter?" Jack said, leaning back again. "A valuable piece of real estate lands in your lap. You can either live in it or sell it. You don't need me, you need a tax attorney."
Alicia sensed him withdrawing, losing interest. She rushed forward with the rest of her story.
"But I can't live in it, and I can't sell it. When I turned him down, Thomas hired some high-priced attorneys to challenge the will. I can't take possession until this is resolved. They even got a court order to board up the place, so I can't even take a look around inside." Not that I'd ever want to.
"Why board it up?"
"Apparently it's been broken into since it's been empty. Thomas says he wants to protect what he expects to be his property once his challenge to the will is upheld. He's even hired a security firm to guard the property."
Jack smiled. "All this from a guy with no income. Your half brother is very resourceful."
"That's not the word I'd use for Thomas."
"Still, you don't need me—you need a lawyer." Alicia bit her lip. No, she needed Jack for what she wanted. But how would he react when she asked?
Sometimes it's good to deviate from routine, Jack thought, trying to look interested. And sometimes it isn't.
This meeting, never would have happened if he'd followed his usual MO. He always talked to prospective customers before setting up a face-to-face. That way he avoided the Dr. Claytons of the city—people with problems that could be remedied by more orthodox methods.
But because he'd already met Alicia, he'd set up the meeting without the usual preliminaries.
Not a complete waste of time, he thought, but pretty damn close. The only thing that saved it was the good doctor herself.
Alicia Clayton was different. He couldn't get a read on her. Either she was hiding nothing, or she was so good at hiding that she could hide everything, even the fact that she was hiding something.
Jack chose the latter. Because looking at her sitting here across the table from him, he sensed that she had a good figure under that coat and bulky cable-knit sweater, but she was hiding it. In fact, she could have been a striking woman with those fine features and dark, dark hair. Attractive in a steely way. But she chose not to be. She chose to downplay her looks. Hide them.
Well, how he looked was her call. And she wasn't exactly in the glamour business.
Didn't pay to read too much into these things, he supposed.
But she was so utterly composed. Too composed. Almost… wooden.
What else was she hiding? This woman wasn't just locked down tight, she was hermetically sealed. And that took practice. Many years of practice.
All of which intrigued him. Who was this woman who seemed to want to hide everything!
But he knew he was unlikely to pop any of her seals this morning. So he was looking for a way to bring this little tete-a-tete to a close when she leaned forward.
"I had a lawyer," Alicia said. "Until Friday when he was murdered."
Jack smiled. Lawyers who did wills and such didn't get murdered. "You mean 'killed,' don't you?"
"No. I mean murdered. Can you think of a circumstance when a car bomb is anything but murder?"
Jack straightened in his seat. The story had been all over the radio and TV.
"That car explosion in Midtown?" he said. "He was your lawyer?"
Alicia nodded. "We were supposed to meet that morning. I guess someone didn't want him to make it."
Uh-oh. Did he detect a little paranoia here?
"What makes you think you're the reason he was killed? I read they found some cocaine in what was left of his glove compartment."
Repairman Jack [02]-Legacies Page 7
