But then again, maybe he hadn't found the conditions right. He knew about the security guards Thomas had hired but had told her he could easily slip past them. Maybe it hadn't been as easy as he'd thought.
Maybe he'd go back tomorrow night.
Alicia shuddered.
"Do it tonight," she said to the empty room. "I don't know how much longer I can take this waiting."
THURSDAY
1.
"So, did you hear about Benny the Torch?"
Abe's offhanded question stopped Jack in midbite.
He'd dropped by the shop with some bagels and Philly—the cream cheese was for Abe; Jack ate his dry. Abe supplied the coffee.
"No," Jack said as a premonition started a slow crawl up his back. "What about him?"
But Abe's attention had turned to Parabellum, perched on his left shoulder this time. The parakeet was pecking away at the piece of bagel Abe held up to him.
"Look at the little fellow! He loves bagels. A kosher parakeet."
"I think it's sesame seeds he likes," Jack said. "And that one's coated with them. But what about Benny?"
"Found him dead early this morning under a ramp to the Manhattan Bridge."
"He fell?"
"No, he burned. To a crisp, I'm told. With his own accelerant."
The piece of poppy seed bagel Jack was swallowing paused halfway down as his esophagus tightened.
"How'd he manage to do that?"
"Oh, I doubt he had much to do with it. Somebody burned the word 'firebug' in the ground next to him."
"Jeez."
"And word is he was still alive when he burned."
Jack shuddered. Benny was a lowlife… but burned alive…
"Oy, Parabellum," Abe said. "This is the way you show appreciation?"
Jack looked up and saw that the parakeet had dropped a load on Abe's shoulder. From the look of the stains up there, it wasn't the first.
"What goes in, must come out," Jack said. "And look at it this way. You only had stains on the front of your shirts before. Now you've got them on the shoulders as well."
"I know, I know," Abe said, wiping at the glob with a paper towel. "But I think this little fellow's got a condition. Colitis, maybe. Hey, you buy that stock I told you about?"
"You know I can't buy stock."
"Not can't—won't. You're missing out on a lot of easy money. Such a broker I've got. Puts me in these IPOs. I'm out before I know I'm in. A thousand shares, it goes up two bucks, we sell. Money for nothing. All you've got to—" He stopped and stared at Jack. "That face. You're making that 'when-will-you-drop-it-Abe' face."
"Who me?" Jack said, wishing Abe would drop it.
"Yes, you. And I should be making my 'when-will-Jack-wise-up' face."
"Jeez, if it isn't you, it's Gia."
"I'm not telling you to quit. You're too good a customer. I'm telling you to get your money out of those fahkaktah gold coins and put it to work for you."
"You need a social security number to open a brokerage account, Abe."
"So? You've got all those false identities, and I know some of them have social security numbers."
"Dead folks' numbers."
"Fine. You convert some of those ducats and Krugerrands into dollars. You use a dead man's number to open an account with my broker. You let him make trades for you. He makes you twenty percent a year."
"No thanks."
"Jack! How can you say no thanks to doubling your money in less than four years?"
"Because I'd have to pay taxes on those profits."
"Yes, but—" .
"No buts. I'd have to. And sitting back and letting them take their cut is saying it's okay. And saying it's okay…"
Jack couldn't do that. Once he crossed that line, even under another identity, he'd… belong. He'd have joined them. And they'd know him.
"But you wouldn't be saying okay. It'd be the fake guy with the dead man's Social Security number."
"Same thing, Abe."
Abe stared at him a moment, then sighed. "I don't understand you, Jack."
Jack smiled. "Yes, you do. And Parabellum just ejected another casing."
"Oy!"
As he watched Abe wipe the glob away, he said, "Any word on who might've done Benny?"
Abe shook his head. "Nothing. But if you should want my opinion, and I'm sure you do, I say it looks to me like Benny might've tried to set a match to the wrong building."
Jack had a sinking feeling he knew what building that might have been.
He remembered Alicia telling him how two people she'd hired to get involved in her will problems had wound up dead. Did Benny the Torch raise the tally to three?
Only one way to find out.
2.
Alicia had just hung up with the hospital lab—no results yet on Hector's cultures, but the little guy was hanging in there despite more fever spikes;—when Raymond's voice came over the intercom. "That fellow named Jack to see you," he said. "He doesn't have an appointment but says it's important." A faint murmur in the background, then: "Check that—he says it's 'urgent.'"
Alicia's first instinct was to send him away. He'd blown her off two days ago, so as far as she was concerned, they had nothing left to talk about.
But the word "urgent" got to her. It wasn't one she'd associate with Jack. If he said this was urgent, he probably meant it.
Oh, hell. "Send him in."
A few seconds later, Jack slipped past the door and closed it behind him.
"Did you hire Benny the Torch?"
He hadn't sat down, hadn't even said hello. But the name "Benny" made Alicia disregard all that.
He knows! But how could he?
"What are you talking about?" was the. best her startled brain could come up with.
"He was found dead this morning. Someone burned him alive last night. Any connection between him and what you asked me to do?"
"Oh, no!" she gasped. "Not again!"
Jack dropped into the chair. "Okay. That answers my question."
She felt his stare as she fought a surge of guilty nausea.
That twitchy little man… burned alive…
Finally he said, "I thought you weren't going to go running off looking for somebody else. I thought you were going to think about it."
"I didn't have to look," she said. Her voice sounded dull and far away. She felt as if she were listening to herself from another room. "I already had his name. My God… I killed him…"
"You didn't kill him. But I think you may have a point about the short life span of people who get involved in this. Everyone but you. And that's what I don't understand."
"I do," she said, shaking herself and forcing herself to focus. "I read the will yesterday."
"About time. And it clears up all the mysteries?"
"No. Not by a long shot. But it does explain why I'm still alive."
Her mind flashed back to yesterday, and the crawling sensation as she read that man's words, as she tried to fathom what he'd been thinking when he'd drawn it up.
"Which is?"
"Thomas is not next in line for the house."
Jack's eyebrows lifted as he nodded slowly. "Very interesting. And who is?"
"Not who. What. Greenpeace."
"The nature folks?" He laughed. "The ones who sail around ramming whalers?"
"The same."
"No wonder your brother—"
"Half brother."
"Right. No wonder he's ticked. Your father'd rather give the house to an environmental group than him. The two of them must have had one hell of a falling out somewhere along the way."
Alicia remembered the date on the will—only weeks before that man had died. Was that when he'd cut Thomas out—or had he always been out?
"I wouldn't know. As I told you, I've had no contact with either of them since I left for college." And wish it had remained that way. "And as for that man being 'green'… that's almost laughable. I don't think he ever gave a single thought to the en
vironment in his life. He had… other interests."
Jack frowned and leaned forward. "Then why did he—?"
"I have no idea. None of this makes any sense. The way things are worded… I don't know much about law, but I can't imagine this being a typical last will and testament. I mean, it's almost as if he expected this kind of violence in connection with the house."
"Why do you say that?"
Alicia leaned over and pulled the will from her shoulder bag. She had no trouble finding the passage—she'd underlined it.
"Just listen to this: 'If Alicia dies before she can take possession of said house, or if she dies after she takes possession of said house, said house shall be deeded to the international environmental activist group known as Greenpeace with this message: This house holds the key that points the way to all you wish to achieve. Sell it and you lose everything you've worked for.' " She slammed the document down on her desk. "Can you tell me what the hell that's supposed to mean?"
"Can I see it?" Jack said, leaning forward.
Instinctively Alicia reached for the will, to grab it and put it away. She didn't want anyone knowing about her family. But she stopped herself. She had to trust someone, and Jack was all she had right now.
She pushed the will toward him. "Knock yourself out."
She felt her jaw clench as she watched Jack scan the page. She was on edge and knew it. Ready to take a bite out of somebody. She'd thought she was free of that man, but even from the grave he was managing to make a mess of her life.
"You know," Jack said, nodding, "this really does sound like he expected trouble." He looked up at her. "Your brother ever been jailed?"
"No."
"Drug problem? Violence?"
"Not that I know of." Thomas had problems, but not those.
Jack began flipping though the rest of the will. "Then why…?" He stopped and stared. "What's this? Poetry?"
"Yes! Can you believe it?"
Jack began reading. " 'Clay(ton) lies still, but blood's a rover.' "
"That's from Alfred Housman," she said. When he shot her a look, she added, "I looked it up."
"I only know John Houseman."
"The original reads 'Clay lies still.' He added the 't-o-n."
"So what's this mean? That your bro—half brother is a 'rover?' He's a wanderer? Has a wandering eye? What?"
"I couldn't say." It had baffled her too.
"Wait," Jack said. "Here's another: 'Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?'"
"That's from someone named Robert Bridges. I looked up the poems to see if anything else in them helped, but found nothing."
"It's crazy."
"That's exactly what Thomas's lawyers are saying. They're using all this weirdness as evidence that he wasn't competent when he changed the will."
"And when did he do that?"
"According to the date there, shortly before he died."
"Well, whatever his state of mind, he was sure as hell determined to see you got that house."
"I'm not so sure," she said. "It seems to me he wanted to keep it away from Thomas more than anything else."
"Can you think of anything important enough about that house that your half brother would kill for? What could your father have left behind that he wants so bad?"
"I don't know. I don't know Thomas. I can't explain him. I don't even want to try."
"All right, then," Jack said. "Your father. He seems to be at the root of all this. Who was Ronald Clayton? What did he do?"
Alicia closed her eyes and swallowed. He wanted her to talk about that man… who he was… what he did…
If you only knew …
Jack was beginning to wonder if something was wrong with Alicia—sitting so pale and silent on the other side of the desk—but then her eyes popped open and she began to talk.
"People called him brilliant," she said in a flat tone as she stared past Jack's shoulder, almost as if she were reading from a TelePrompter somewhere behind him. "His field was physics, and at various times in his life he was attached to the departments at Princeton, Columbia, and NYU, doing basic research. Somewhere in there he worked at Bell Labs and IBM. He followed the money. I suppose he did have a brilliant mind, but he was utterly ruthless: He wanted what he wanted when he wanted it and to hell with anybody else. His son is no different."
Jack realized he'd never heard Alicia refer to Ronald Clayton as her father. "He" or "him" or "that man," but never "my father."
Had she been abused by him? Her brother? Both of them?
"Doesn't sound like you had a great relationship with him."
Her voice got colder and even flatter.
"Ronald Clayton was scum, a lower lifeform without conscience or scruples. I don't care that he left me his house. I don't want it. I don't care what he left behind in his house. I don't want anything that man touched. I'd be happiest if all traces of him were wiped from this earth. That was why I wanted you to burn the house. That's why I… I…"
She seemed to have run out of words.
Jack too was speechless. Alicia's feelings for her father went beyond anger, beyond rage. She loathed the man. And not simply because of his character faults.
What in God's name happened in that house? Was it physical? Sexual?
Jack watched her closely, hoping she wasn't about to cry. He never knew what to do with a crying woman—or man, for that matter. Gia he could take in his arms and hug. But Alicia? Uh-uh. She was flying a Gadsden flag at full mast.
But she didn't cry. Didn't even come close. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then looked at him.
"Sorry."
"It's okay," Jack said, hiding his relief. "What's your next step? And please tell me it doesn't include the word 'fire.'"
The barest hint of a smile curved her lips. "Okay. No fire." She sighed. "Maybe I should think about giving in. I mean, it would sure as hell simplify my life if I simply sold the damn place to Thomas and his backers. Being a multimillionaire would solve a lot of problems."
Jack was surprised by a sudden pang of disappointment. Who killed the PI, the lawyer, and Benny the Torch? And why? What in that house was valuable enough to kill for?
If Alicia gave in, all those questions would remain unanswered.
"And then again," she said after a pause, her eyes going steely. "Maybe I shouldn't. I don't like to be bullied. Especially by Thomas."
Yes! Jack resisted the impulse to pump his fist. Instead he rose to his feet.
"It's your decision," he said. "And either way, there's not much I can do for you. But I'll keep thinking on it. Maybe I can come up with someone who can help."
"Why?" she said. "Don't get me wrong. I'd welcome any help you care to offer. But I got the impression you're strictly fee for service. Why are you staying involved?"
Jack shrugged. "Curiosity."
"Considering what happened to the others who've gotten involved, curiosity could be dangerous."
"I know," he said. "You're a dangerous lady to be around."
She frowned, and suddenly he regretted the remark. She was feeling bad enough. But it was true: He'd have to watch his back if he linked up with Alicia. Have to find out who was behind all the rough stuff, then throw them off balance by feeding them a few doses of their own medicine. Get them watching their backs.
"Hang in there," he told her as he pulled open the door. "I'll let you know if I come up with something."
Jack walked away thinking about curiosity. One of his worst vices. Rarely did it fail to get him in trouble.
3.
Jack spent most of the afternoon looking at real estate. He finally found the place he wanted: a three-story Victorian town house on West Twenty-first Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues.
The place had a history, and Dolores, the chubby agent from Hudak Realty, told him the whole sordid story. The previous owner had been a psychiatrist who'd blown his head off near Times Square and left the place to one of his patients. The patient later had an ac
cident in the house and didn't want to stay there. So she was offering it for lease, fully furnished.
"Perfect," Jack told her. "But I must, absolutely must move in immediately. Rehearsals begin tomorrow, and I simply can't have any distractions."
Dolores said she was sure that would be no problem. She seemed ga-ga over the fact that her client was the actor who would be taking over the part of Javert in Les Miserables. He promised her tickets for his first performance. "When I step on that stage, you will be in the audience."
Jack signed a one-year lease as Jack Ferris, then paid first-month and last-month rent plus a security deposit with a check from a Santa Monica bank. He'd be done with the place before it bounced.
On the way out of the Hudak office he managed to snag a few pieces of stationery, and a blank deposit receipt form.
He picked up a disposable Kodak camera and hurried back to snap a couple of photos of the town house before the light faded. Then he called Jorge and met him at the Malibu Diner on Twenty-third—decent coffee and a fabulous array of their own baked goods.
He gave him the camera and a sheet with the layout and copy for the flyers they'd planned.
"Get this printed up with the Hudak Realty letterhead on top. Then pass them out like we discussed."
Jorge looked at the camera, at the rough sketch of the flyer, then at Jack.
"This will get me the money I am owed?"
Jack shrugged. "It's bait. If Ramirez bites, we've got a shot. If he doesn't, we'll try something else."
"All right. If you say so."
Jorge left, shaking his head.
Jack couldn't blame him. This was a long shot, even if Ramirez took the bait.
He stepped out under the Malibu's bright orange canopy and watched the crowd for a while. The offices and garment factories had let out and the hordes were on the move, streaming through the dark into the subway entrances or bustling toward Penn Station. Night came so early these days. Barely past five now and already the stars were poking through the inky mantle of night.
He headed back to the Center. All the while he'd been hiking around with the real estate agent—when he should have been concentrating on Jorge's problem—he'd found himself thinking instead about Alicia and that house. He kept reminding himself that it wasn't his sort of gig, that he couldn't resolve this for her.
Repairman Jack [02]-Legacies Page 14
