Nothing, he was sure. Almost sure.
One thing an eavesdropper would have come away with was that the house was worth more than ten million dollars to the buyers. If Alicia Clayton suddenly raised her asking price, Kemel's suspicions would be confirmed.
If she did not… if the deal went through, then he did not care if a whole army had been listening.
5.
Jack found a spot on Thirty-eighth where he could stand and watch the Clayton house unseen. He timed the "security force's" inspection rounds and noticed that they always operated as a pair, leaving the car twice an hour to make a perimeter inspection. No uniforms, just windbreakers and slacks.
Every so often one would walk off and return with a paper sack—coffee and donuts, most likely. And occasionally one would enter the house through the front door and return a few minutes later. They didn't need a Porta Potti; they had the house.
At ten to three, another car showed up. The first pulled out, letting the second into the precious parking space, and the next shift took over.
Satisfied that he had the security boys' schedule down, Jack called Abe for a consultation.
"So you want them down for the count, but they shouldn't be candidates for a nursing home."
"Right. A nice long nap is all."
"T-72 is what you want," Abe told him. "Colorless, odorless, no serious side effects, and best of all, it's made in America for the U.S. Army."
"Sounds great," Jack said. "I'll take some."
"And I would gladly sell you some if I had any. But I do not. It's not exactly a sporting good."
"I can't tell you how disappointed I am, Abe."
"Nu, I should stock everything in the world you will possibly need so that when you ask for it I can give it to you?"
"Yeah. Because you're the best."
"Feh! I'll find you some."
"By tonight?"
"Such a kidder he is. If I'm lucky, perhaps maybe I can have a canister for you tomorrow afternoon."
"Good enough, I suppose."
Jack had wanted to search the house tonight, but he'd have to put it off.
"Good enough? Such a feat should be acclaimed as nothing short of heroic."
"See you tomorrow, my hero."
After he hung up with Abe, Jack called Alicia.
6.
"Shall I open another?" the waiter said, holding up the empty merlot bottle.
Will looked at her and raised his eyebrows.
Alicia shrugged. "I could go for a little more. It's delicious."
So was everything else she'd tried tonight. Zov's was this noisy little place off Union Square, more of a bistro than a restaurant. But the rack of lamb on the platter between them had been marinated in something indescribable and was by far the most delicious meat she had ever eaten.
And as for the wine: she could go for a lot more.
Jack's call this afternoon had unsettled her. That Thomas had an Arab backer willing to pay the ten million she'd asked for the house had shocked her; that they were convinced the house held a secret many times more valuable had floored her; but Jack's plan to sneak into the house and search it had stopped her dead in her tracks.
And he wasn't talking about some unspecified time in the future. He wanted to go in tomorrow. Tomorrow!
She'd said no. No, no, no. She'd have to prepare herself for something like that. If he wanted to search the place tomorrow, he'd have to go by himself.
But Jack had insisted, saying she'd grown up there, she knew all the hidey holes. She had to be along.
Telling herself it was only a damn house, she'd agreed.
Jack would be picking her up tomorrow night at seven.
Alicia shuddered and looked up from her meal. Will and the waiter were watching her… expectantly.
"I'm sorry," she said. Obviously she'd missed something.
"Do you want to do the honors?" Will said, pointing to the fresh bottle of wine in the waiter's hands.
"No," she said. "If it's the same as the first bottle, I'm sure it will be fine." She could never get into that wine-tasting rigmarole. Her palate wasn't that discerning anyway. Either you liked the wine or you didn't.
"So," Will said after the waiter had refilled their glasses, "what are your plans for the week?"
I was an accessory to an illegal trespass in Midtown today, and I'm planning a breaking and entering tomorrow night.
"The usual, I guess. You know, stamping out disease. How about you?"
"Like you, the usual: seeking out the weed of crime and tearing it out by its roots."
They laughed. Maybe it was the wine, but she found she liked Will's offhanded manner, the way he didn't take himself too seriously. She liked his slightly crooked smile and the way he held his wineglass by the rim, letting it dangle from his fingertips as he talked, and the way he looked into her eyes when she talked. All things she'd never noticed about him before.
They just about killed that second bottle of merlot, and so by the time they left the restaurant, Alicia was feeling warm and happy. She heard herself ask Will to come in when he dropped her off at her place.
She felt a spasm of alarm—Why did I do that?—but told herself to be calm. It would be all right. Tonight, in this place, with this man… it would be all right. She wanted this… she needed this.
"Want some coffee?" she said as she hung up his coat.
"No," he said. "That coffee we had at Zov's will probably keep me up half the night as it is. But I would like something else."
As Alicia turned to face him, he took her in his arms—gently—and pulled her close.
She fought a stab of anxiety and moved closer. She sensed his tentativeness, and knew if she resisted, he'd back off. That was good. But she didn't want to resist. She wanted to be held, to feel protected, to relax and let go, and for once, just once, feel that she didn't have to be alone all the time, didn't have to be so completely self-contained and able to handle everything on her own, do everything on her own. Just once to feel that she could have someone to share with. Just once.
Her anxiety level surged as he bent his head to hers, but she didn't pull away.
It's all right… it's going to be all right…
Their lips met and his were soft and warm, and the wine was warm within her, and yes, it was going to be all right…
But then his arms encircled her and suddenly she couldn't breathe. She felt trapped, and she had to get away, get free, get some air.
She tore her lips from him, got her hands between them, and pushed.
"Let me go!"
Will released her and backed away, his expression stunned. "Alicia—what's—?"
"Get away!"
He held up his hands and backed up another step. "I am away. Look."
Panic—wild, formless, constricting, suffocating, unyielding to reason—choked her, and she wanted to run, but she couldn't, she lived here, so he had to get out. Part of her cried, No, let him stay! but a larger, fiercer, stronger part was in control.
"I'm sorry, Will," she said, forcing her voice to stay calm. Still, the words seemed to rattle in her throat. "I just can't… I can't do this right now. Okay?"
He looked so confused. "Okay. Sure. I just thought… is it me?"
"No… yes…" I'm babbling. "I just can't explain it now." Not now, not ever. "Would you mind if we just call it a night? Please?"
She was so embarrassed she wanted to cry.
"Yeah. Sure." He reached out to touch her arm but withdrew it before contact. "I'll call you," he said, retreating into the hall. "To see if you're all right."
Alicia nodded. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."
And then she closed the door. Finally,' the panic faded. She leaned against the door and sobbed.
I'm out of control, she thought.
She'd almost lost it in Haffner's conference room this morning, and now she'd done the same with Will.
She'd never done too well with men, but this was over the top.
W
hat's happening to me?
The house… it had to be the house. Nothing had been right since that man and his house had forced their way back into her life. She'd tried to burn it, and tomorrow night she was going to have to go back there… inside…
That was the problem: Going back…
The house was the whole problem. She had to conquer that house, because by doing so, she'd conquer him. And then she'd be free of both of them.
Or would she? Would she ever be free?
TUESDAY
1.
"It's going to be okay," Jack said as they drove east on Twenty-third in his rented white Chevy. He glanced over at Alicia sitting straight and silent in the passenger seat. "Don't worry. We won't get caught."
"What makes you think I'm worried about getting caught?" she said.
"Because you look like you're ready to jump out the window."
She'd been like an overwound spring since he'd picked her up.
She's afraid of that house, he thought. That empty house.
As he reached Broadway, the traffic light went amber. Good. He'd been waiting for this opportunity. Instead of speeding up, he held back until the light turned red, then he gunned it and yanked the wheel to the right, turning downtown.
"Maybe it's your driving," Alicia said, and made a poor try at a smile, as if to let him know she was kidding—maybe. "And if we're going to Thirty-eighth Street, this is the wrong direction."
"I know," he said, pulling over and studying his rearview mirror.
"And how come we're not taking a cab?"
"Because I wanted to make sure we weren't followed."
He watched the street behind them, waiting to see if anyone ran the red to keep up with them. Since leaving Alicia's place, he'd had this vague feeling of being watched, usually a good indicator that somebody was following him. Or maybe someone was following Alicia.
But nobody else turned off Twenty-third.
"Well?" Alicia said. "Are we?"
"Not that I can see." Or if we are, whoever's dogging us is damn good. "I also figured the car's a good idea because we don't know what we'll find in the house. Maybe it'll be something we can't carry out and load into a taxi. And besides, I needed a place to store a few props."
"Props? For what?"
"All in good time, my dear. All in good time."
He made a couple of lefts to put them on Third Avenue, and took that uptown. In Murray Hill, they cruised past the house and saw the security car out front.
"We'll never get past them," Alicia said.
Jack got the distinct impression she didn't want to get past them.
He checked out the exhaust pipe on the guard car as he passed and saw it smoking. No surprise. The temperature had dropped to about 40 degrees, and they had the heater running.
He smiled. Good.
"Let me worry about that," he told her.
He pulled around the corner and found a barely legal spot near a fire hydrant on Thirty-ninth.
"There's not going to be any fighting is there?" Alicia said.
"I definitely want to avoid that. And with the right kind of help, I figure I can."
He stepped out of the car and looked around at the mix of office buildings and town houses. Not many people out on this cold night. He shrugged into a shapeless old stadium coat he pulled from the backseat; next a pair of ratty leather gloves; then he yanked a knitted cap over his head, fitting it over his ears and down to his eyebrows. The final touch was a bucket containing two inches of soapy water and some other goodies.
Alicia leaned forward, staring at him through the open door. "What on earth…?"
"Meet the scourge of the streets: the sight of him can cause even the toughest New York City driver to quail. Meet… Squeegeeman!"
"I don't believe this."
"Wait five minutes, then walk around the block and meet me in front of the house."
"But what—?"
"Be there. See you."
He closed the door and trotted around to Thirty-eighth. He stopped twice along the way to scan the passersby and the streets for a tail, but could spot no one suspicious.
Damn. Why did he feel he was being watched?
2.
That was close, Yoshio thought as he turned onto Thirty-ninth Street.
For a moment there he had been sure the ronin helping Alicia Clayton had spotted him, but he'd managed to drive past without arousing suspicion. The man seemed to have a sixth sense, almost a counterpoint talent to the one that allowed Yoshio to tail without being seen. Yoshio would have to be very careful with this one.
He had chosen to watch Alicia Clayton for the early part of the evening, then move on to Kemel. Yoshio had been glad to see the arrival of her ronin. This man seemed to be popping up everywhere. Yoshio had followed Kemel and Thomas Clayton to their attorney's office yesterday; while waiting outside, wishing he had a bug in the meeting room, Yoshio had seen this man emerge from the building in the company of a tall black man, both in suits. It could not be a coincidence.
So tonight, when they had driven off in a rented car, Yoshio had followed. Along the way, the ronin had lost Yoshio with a sudden, last-second turn off Twenty-third Street. Yoshio had been stuck, two cars behind. But he had suspected that they might show up at the Clayton house, so he headed in that direction. He had taken his time, munching on a bucket of extra crispy Kentucky Fried Chicken along the way, and had been pleasantly surprised to see their car pass him on Third Avenue.
And now the ronin, shabbily dressed and with a bucket in his hand, was walking toward the Clayton house.
Very curious.
Yoshio wondered what he had in mind. He decided to follow him on foot and find out. He'd been so bored with the recent lull in events, but things had become interesting since this man arrived on the scene. Yoshio had a feeling something very interesting might happen tonight.
But even if it didn't, this was still more to his liking than sitting and watching Kemel's apartment.
3.
When Jack reached the corner he untied his sneakers and pulled them open, leaving the tongues sticking up. He buttoned his coat wrong, and then started up the sidewalk opposite the security car.
About halfway there, he shambled across the street, approaching the car from the front. He didn't want to startle these two by appearing out of nowhere—somebody might do something stupid.
Jack stopped about ten feet from the front bumper and pointed at the car, grinning. He pulled his window-cleaning squeegee from the bucket and held it high as he approached.
Squeegeeman had spotted a customer.
Through the windshield he could see the two beef jerkies inside waving him off, but Squeegeeman is never deterred by a reluctant driver. Drivers so rarely seem to appreciate how much more efficiently and safely they will be able to perform the task at hand, namely driving, after their windshield has been smeared with soapy water and then wiped clean.
The driver's window slid down and a head leaned out. The few features Jack could make out in the dim light suggested that evolution sometimes worked in reverse.
"Keep moving, asshole," said the head.
Jack leaned over the fender and quickly lathered up the windshield.
The front door started to open. "Fuck!" said the voice. "Didn't you hear me—?"
"I heard you, man," Jack said, launching into his patter, "but Squeegeeman's offering a Try-Before-You-Buy special tonight. Here's how it works: I do your window, just like I'm doin' now, and when I'm through, if you don't think it's the cleanest window you ever seen, then you don't pay. I mean, you can't beat that, can you? I mean, I'm out here in the cold doin' all the work while you're in there nice and warm and cozy. You tell me what could be better than that. Go ahead—you tell me."
The beef jerky hesitated and stared at him, both of his brain cells obviously working overtime as he considered Squeegeeman's offer. Then the guy in the passenger seat said something, and the driver door, pulled closed.
Jack
smiled. He'd been counting on their reluctance to cause a scene and risk someone calling the police. But if worse came to worst, he had a Tokarev 9mm automatic in his shoulder holster.
"That's right," he said. "Roll up your window, sit back, and watch how beautiful the world looks when I'm finished with your glass."
The window slid closed. Jack added a little more lather to the windshield. When he had it satisfactorily opaque, he pulled a small vial of T-72 from the bucket and poured its contents into the heater's air intake at the base of the windshield wipers.
Then he began wiping the glass dry. He took his time on the windshield, moving slowly, dabbing at the corners, playing the role to the hilt. And doing a damn fine job, by the way.
When he was done, he stepped up to the driver window, grinned, and held out his hand.
The driver returned the grin—and gave him the finger.
Jack looked hurt and pressed his hands together as if praying.
The driver's grin broadened as he brought up his other hand to add a second bird to the window display.
"Keep smiling," Jack said softly.
And then the guy in the passenger seat slumped against the driver's back. The driver jerked around, pushed him off, and shook him, but the guy was limp as overcooked linguine. Then the driver turned back to the window and Jack could all but see the light go on in his head.
"That's right, guy," Jack said. "You got trouble."
The driver fumbled for the inner handle and started to open the door, but Jack slammed against it and held it closed. The driver struggled and might have got out—he was bigger than Jack—if the T-72 hadn't been working on him. He made a couple of weak shoulder butts against the door, then slumped against the steering wheel and joined his friend in slumber land.
Jack waited to make sure he was out, then he opened the door and quickly ran through the driver's pockets. He found two sets of keys and took both. He closed the door and left the motor running.
He glanced around—no one in sight. Good.
After pocketing the T-72 vial, he placed his bucket and squeegee by the curb and settled back to wait for Alicia.
4.
Repairman Jack [02]-Legacies Page 23
