“Relax. It’s a game. And it’s only twenty bucks.”
“It’s not ‘only’ to her, and she’ll get docked for accepting it.”
Tom shook his head and stared at him. “No need to get all touchy-feely on me, Jack. I got the impression from Dad that you were some sort of tough guy. I guess I got it wrong.”
“If I’m tough, it’s not with working stiffs trying to earn a living.”
My brother the judge, Jack thought.
Wasn’t that about as high as you could go in the legal profession? The arbiter of right and wrong, of admissible and inadmissible, the guy in charge of the blind lady’s scales… and he was acting like a lowlife. A bottom-feeding lowlife.
Jack knew loads of people on the wrong side of the law, and could think of a few who’d be only too happy to knock over Houlihan’s and clean the cash registers of every last dime. But none of those guys would stoop to stiffing the barmaid. Okay, maybe he knew one or two who’d shortchange their blind, deaf, crippled mother, but they left a telltale trail of slime wherever they went and topped Jack’s AVOID list.
“Well?” he said, giving Tom a hard stare. “You gonna get it back?”
Tom looked at him as if he’d just told him Dad was a space alien.
“Hell no.”
Jack resisted the impulse to punch his brother’s doughy face. Instead he took out his wallet, found a ten and two fives, and flagged down the barmaid.
“Could you give me a twenty for these?”
She glanced at Jack, then at Tom, then back again.
“Is this some kind of game?”
“No. I just need a twenty.”
She shrugged and retrieved the bogus bill. Jack took it, then snatched a five from Tom’s change and handed it to her.
“For your troubles.”
She smiled. “Thanks.”
Tom shot him a venomous look.
Screw him.
Jack started toward the elevators up to street level.
“Let’s get you set up in your room.”
* * *
5
“The Pennsylvania Hotel?” Tom said as he followed Jack across Seventh Avenue. “Never heard of it.”
He was feeling the vodka percolating through his bloodstream now, dulling the pervasive shock of being the son of a man murdered by terrorists. He and Dad had never been close—hell, who have I ever been close to?—but still… he was his father and he’d been scheduled for a stayover next week. Tom didn’t kid himself—Dad’s primary reason for coming had been to see his grandkids.
But still…
Vodka usually made the world look a little friendlier, a little easier to handle. Not today.
This city was partly to blame. He’d never liked New York. Always struck him as more toxic landfill than city. Too big, too coarse, completely lacking the élan of Philadelphia. Philly… now there was a city.
But here…
He eyed the passing parade of New York’s lumpenproletariat: the glaborous, the rugose, the nodose, the labrose. An endless procession of elves, spriggins, goblins, trolls, fakirs, shellycoats, gorgons, Quasimodos, and Merricks.
He watched his brother walking ahead of him. The Jackie—oops, he wants to be called Jack now—Tom remembered used to be a klutzy younker. A skinny little pain in the ass who was always underfoot.
He was still a pain in the ass—an uptight pain in the ass. Look at how he’d reacted to switching that twenty. Like some sort of Miss Priss. Where’d he pick up his holier-than-thou?
Yeah, still a pain in the ass, but no longer skinny. His shoulders filled out his sweatshirt; he’d pushed his sleeves up to his elbows revealing forearms that rippled with sleek muscles just below the skin. Not much fat on Little Brother.
But that’s okay, Tom thought. I’ve got enough for two.
“Used to be the Statler,” Jack said. “Look, you’re right across the street from Madison Square Garden, and just crosstown from the morgue.”
Tom shook his head. “Yeah. The morgue.” He looked up at the tall ionic columns of the entrance. “This could be a morgue.”
“It’s old, but it’s been completely renovated.”
Tom had a feeling Jack didn’t give a good goddamn if he liked it or not.
Too bad they’d got off on the wrong foot, but that was Jack’s fault, not his. And anyway, who cared what a college dropout loser thought of him?
Jack led him across the wide, retro lobby toward the registration desk.
Blast. He’d been sort of counting on staying with Jack. He didn’t feel like ponying up for a hotel, especially on a completely unnecessary trip like this. Why Jack couldn’t have simply signed for the body and shipped it back to Johnson was beyond him.
Well, at least it had got him out of Philly. That counted for something. As much as he revered the place, he wished he could find a way to be a former Philadelphian for good.
“I reserved it in your name,” Jack said, pulling out his cell phone. “Go ahead. I’ve got a call to make.”
Tom gave his name to the check-in clerk, an attractive twenty-something with curly black hair, pretty despite the fact she looked like a mix of every race on earth, and waited while she checked her computer.
“Ah, here it is,” she said with a dazzling smile. “You’re staying only one night, correct?”
She put down the card and began tapping on her keyboard. Tom noticed his own name on the form; a credit card slip with a handwritten name and number was attached. He edged forward for a closer look.
John L. Tyleski.… who was that? Jack would have had to give a credit card number to hold the room, but this obviously wasn’t his. The hotel must have screwed it up.
Tom hid a smile. This presented an interesting opportunity. Could he pull it off?
Well, never look a gift horse…
The clerk looked up and smiled at him. “Which credit card will you be using, sir?”
“Mr. Tyleski is covering the room.”
“Really?” She studied the reservation card. “It doesn’t say so here.”
Tom gave a perturbed sniff. “Well, he is. He always covers my accommodations when I’m in town. Whoever took the reservation must have forgotten to write it down.”
She was shaking her head. “I don’t know…”
Tom sighed. “This never happens at the Plaza. He always puts me up at the Plaza, but this consultation was a last-minute thing and they’re full. More the pity.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but—”
“On the other hand, the Plaza is used to our arrangement. I suppose John simply could have forgotten to mention it.” He waved his hand in bored annoyance. “Call him if you must.”
He watched her hesitate, then pick up the phone.
Oh, shit. His bluff hadn’t worked.
Well, it had been fun while it lasted.
He glanced over at his brother the wet blanket, still talking on the phone. Tom would have to come up with an explanation for the clerk as to why John Tyleski had never heard of him, and bring it off without Jack knowing. He didn’t need another of those appalled looks. What a ninny.
“Mr. Tyleski, this is the Pennsylvania Hotel calling. We’d like to confirm the payment arrangement on the room you reserved today. Please call us back at…”
She was leaving voice mail! Tom almost let out a whoop.
Now, if this Tyleski character didn’t check his messages until tomorrow…
The clerk hung up and turned to him.
“We’ll leave it on Mr. Tyleski’s card for now. If you speak to him, please ask him to confirm with us.”
“Of course. I’m scheduled for a dinner meeting with him tonight at the Plaza.”
She gave him a card to fill out with his address and telephone number, both of which he fabricated out of thin air. The less the Pennsylvania Hotel knew, the better.
Jack finished his call and walked over just as she handed him the key.
“All set?”
Tom nodded. “Room six-t
wenty-seven. Is there a restaurant here?”
“Joe O’s. Never been but it’s supposed to be pretty good.”
“Great. What time do you want to meet for dinner?”
“Sorry. Can’t.”
“Come on. We’ll eat at this Joe O’s—my treat.”
Actually, John Tyleski’s treat. Tom would charge it to the room.
Jack shook his head. “Got some loose ends I’ve got to tie up tonight.”
“Okay.” He feigned a sad look. “I guess I’ll have to eat alone.”
Jack appeared unmoved.
Tom gave him a wink. “I suppose I could always rent some company.”
“Jesus, Tom. Don’t get rolled. I need you in one piece tomorrow.”
The implication was not lost on him: no concern for Tom himself, just his presence to claim Dad’s body. Talk about getting off on the wrong foot…
He’d been kidding about the rented company. He’d seen plenty of hookers during his years at the bar and on the bench. Some were knockouts and some were harridans, and some weren’t even women. Trouble was, you never knew who their last John was or what you might catch.
Not that he’d ever needed them—plenty of legal secretaries around the courthouse happy to give it up for a judge.
“Don’t worry, Jack. I’ll be here, intact and ready to roll. And maybe on the way over to the morgue you can explain why you couldn’t take care of this yourself.”
“Maybe,” Jack said. “And maybe not. Pick you up at nine thirty tomorrow morning.”
He watched Jack exit through the glass doors. Just as well. The thought of spending a couple of hours over dinner with that guy, trying to make conversation… Jesus, what could they talk about besides Dad? Not as if they had a store of fond memories to revisit.
Nope. Looked like dinner for one tonight.
At least that would give him time to gather his thoughts as to what he should do with the money he’d inherit. Tom had helped Dad change his will after Kate’s death and in the process had got a peek into the old guy’s finances. Still couldn’t believe it—seven figures and growing. Dad had practically invented day trading and was damn good at it.
A third to Tom, a third to Jack, and a third to Kate’s kids. His share would help loosen some of his financial straits, but not all. Especially if he couldn’t keep it.
Had to find a way to hide it. He was executor, after all. He was sure he could find a way.
What a fucking mess he’d got himself into.
But no point in more self-excoriation. He’d done plenty already, and it hadn’t changed a thing.
Here you are, Jack thought.
He crouched in a tiny, dark, stuffy Bronx apartment. The neighbor directly above was playing one of Polio’s thrashing aural assaults at subway-train volume. The pounding bass sounded ready to peel the paint from the walls. If it was that loud down here, what was it like up there?
In Jack’s hand sat a baseball—pardon, an “Official National League” baseball—encased in a clear plastic sphere on a round, gold-plated base. For something more than fifty years old, it appeared to be in damn good shape. Then again, why not? It had never been in a game.
He flashed his penlight on it again to double-check the inscription, directly below the Spalding logo:
To Danny Finder
Batter up!
Duke Snider
1955
The scribbled “Duke” looked like “Dude” but, yeah, this was the one. And Danny Finder Jr. was paying Jack a pretty penny to get it back.
Seems it belonged to his father who was way on in years and not thinking too clearly. His mind had regressed to childhood when he’d been a rabid Dodgers fan. His favorite had been the cleanup hitter, Duke Snider. Danny Sr. had been at Ebbet’s Field for one of the World Series games in 1955 when the Bums beat the Yanks, and he’d snagged a signature from his hero.
That signed baseball loomed large in what was left of the old man’s mind, and when it disappeared from his nursing home room, he went into a tailspin. The man-child was inconsolable, refusing to leave his bed or even eat.
His son had gone to the police but the NYPD had no time for a stolen baseball, even one worth a couple—three thousand because it was signed and dated by Duke Snider in a World Series year.
And so he’d come to Jack.
Money was no object—he seemed to have plenty—if he could get back that ball.
Strange what ends a man will go to for a sick father. Fathers and sons…
Here came that lump again.
So Jack had put out feelers but got nary a nibble. For the hell of it he’d checked eBay and whattaya know—there it was. Jack had started bidding. The price topped out at $2,983. Jack simply could have bought it and ended the job then and there. But the thief would have walked off with nearly three grand. Yeah, he’d have retrieved the ball but he wouldn’t have worked a fix. And that was a big part of what it was all about. Jack liked to leave his stamp on his work.
So he’d e-mailed the guy asking where to send the check and received the address of this rat hole.
Tonight he’d come to collect.
Leaving the ball in its display globe, Jack placed it in the flimsy plastic grocery bag he’d brought along, then looked around for a few other small items to take. He wanted this to look like a simple B and E—nothing personal.
A lot of… merchandise littered the floor and tables: DVD decks, iPods and other MP3 players, X-Boxes and PlayStations, video games. This guy had to be a small-time fence.
He opened the room’s only closet and let out a yelp as someone leaped toward him. He had his Glock in hand and snapping up before he realized it wasn’t human: But it looked human. Well, as much as a blow-up sex doll could look human. Its wide eyes and mouth fixed in a perfect 0 lent it a perpetually surprised look.
Jack backed away and watched it make a slow-motion descent to the floor, where it bounced once and lay still.
Nothing much else in the closet but some ratty-looking clothes.
Jack reholstered the Glock and stuffed a couple of iPods and some video games—he’d heard good things about the new Metal Gear—into the bag. He stepped to the door and pressed his ear to the wood. All quiet in the hallway. He turned the knob—
—and felt the door slam into him, knocking him back. He was reaching for the Glock when he saw the pistol in the skinny white guy’s hand.
“Hold it right there, fucker! Don’t you fuckin’ move!”
“You need help, Scotty?” said a black guy in the hall.
“Nah, I’m cool. Thanks for the call, though.”
“Want me get the cops?”
“I’m cool, Chuck, I’m cool. Let me handle this.”
Of course he didn’t want anyone calling the cops—not with all this hot stuff in his pad.
With his free hand Scotty flipped on the overhead light, then kicked the door closed.
“Well, well, well,” he said, swaggering closer. “What have we here?”
Jack put on a sheepish grin—damn well should be sheepish. He’d screwed up. One of Jack’s rules was never go out on a fix if you’re not one hundred percent. And he hadn’t been near a hundred percent since yesterday afternoon. His concentration had been way off.
Jack could see how it went down: Someone spotted him picking Scotty’s lock. The spotter called Scotty and the fence had been waiting in the hall for Jack to open the door. Good strategy, especially with Polio’s delicate musicianship to mask any sounds that might have given him away.
“Heh-heh. Kind of funny, isn’t it,” Jack said. “I mean, you with all this stolen stuff and me stealing some of it.”
“Do you see me laughing, fuck face?”
Jack flicked his gaze between Scotty’s mean dark eyes and the .32-caliber pistol—a Saturday night special if he’d ever seen one—pointed at his midsection. A revolver—good. Hammer down—even better.
Guy was an amateur.
“Well, no, but—”
“But
nothin’. Drop the bag.”
Jack complied and raised his hands to upper-chest level. He was waiting for Scotty either to check the contents of the bag or try to pistol whip him. That was when Jack would make his move.
“Wh-what are you gonna do?”
F Paul Wilson - Secret History 03 Page 6
