Finally, Johnson, NJ, on the edge of the fabled Jersey Pine Barrens.
And then he was turning the corner by what had been Mr. Canelli's house. Canelli had died and the new owner must have been trying to save water, because the lawn had burned to a uniform shade of pale brown. He pulled into the driveway of the three-bedroom ranch in which he, his brother, and his sister had all grown up, turned off the car, and sat a moment wishing he were someplace else.
No sense in delaying the inevitable, so he got out and walked up to the door. Dad pushed it open just as he reached it.
"Jack!" He thrust out his hand. "You had me worried. Thought you'd forgotten."
His father was a tall, thin, balding man tanned a dark brown from daily workouts on the local tennis courts. His beakish nose was pink and peeling from sunburn, and the age spots on his forehead had multiplied and coalesced since the last time Jack had visited. But his grip was firm and his blue eyes bright behind the steel-rimmed glasses as Jack shook hands with him.
"Only a few minutes late."
Dad reached down and picked up his tennis racquet from where it had been leaning against the door molding. "Yeah, but I reserved a court so we could warm up a little before the match." He closed the door behind him. "Let's take your car. You remember where the courts are?"
"Of course."
As he slid into the front seat, Dad glanced around the interior of the Corvair. He touched the dice, either to see if they were fuzzy or if they were real.
"You really drive around in this?"
"Sure. Why?"
"It's..."
"Unsafe at Any Speed?"
"Yeah. That too."
"Best car I ever owned."
Jack pushed the little lever in the far left of the dashboard into reverse and pulled out of the driveway.
For a couple of blocks they made inconsequential small talk about the weather, and how smoothly Jack's decades-old car was running, and the traffic on the Turnpike. Jack tried to keep the conversation on neutral ground. They hadn't had much to say to each other since Jack dropped out of college all those years ago.
"How's business?"
Dad smiled. "Great. You've been buying any of those stocks I told you about?"
"I bought two thousand of Arizona Petrol at one-and-an eighth. It was up to four last time I looked."
"Closed at four-and-a-quarter on Friday. Hold onto it."
"Okay. Just let me know when to dump it."
A lie. Jack couldn't own stock. He needed a Social Security number for that. No broker would open an account for him without it. So he lied to his father about following his stock tips and looked up the NASDAQ listings every so often to see how his imaginary investments were doing.
They were all doing well. Dad had a knack for finding low-priced, out-of-the-way OTC stocks that were undervalued. He'd buy a few thousand shares, watch the price double, triple, or quadruple, then sell off and find another. He’d done so well at it over the years that he quit his accounting job to spend his mornings wheeling and dealing. He was happy. He was living by his wits and seemed to love it, looking more relaxed than Jack could ever remember.
"If I come up with something better, I'll let you know. Then you can parlay your AriPet earnings into even more. By the way, did you buy the stock through a personal account or your IRA?"
"Uh...the IRA."
Another lie. Jack couldn't have an IRA account either. Sometimes he wearied of lying to everybody, especially people he should be able to trust.
"Good! When you don't think you'll be holding them long enough to qualify for capital gains, use the IRA."
He knew what his father was up to. Dad figured that as an appliance repairman Jack would wind up depending on Social Security after he retired, and nobody could live off that. He was trying to help his prodigal son build up a nest egg for his old age.
They pulled into the lot by the two municipal courts. Both were occupied.
"Guess we're out of luck."
Dad waved a slip of paper. "No worry. This says court two is reserved for us between ten and eleven."
While Jack fished in the back seat for his new racquet and the can of balls, his father went over to the couple who now occupied court two. The fellow was grumpily packing up their gear as Jack arrived. The girl—she looked to be about nineteen—glared at him as she sipped from a half-pint container of chocolate milk.
"Guess it's who you know instead of who got here first."
Jack tried a friendly smile. "No. Just who thinks ahead and gets a reservation."
She shrugged. "It's a rich man's sport. Should've known better than to try to take it up."
"Let's not turn this into a class war, shall we?"
"Who? Me?" she said with an innocent smile. "I wouldn't think of it."
With that she poured the rest of her chocolate milk onto the court just behind the baseline.
Jack set his teeth and turned his back on her. What he really wanted to do was see if she could swallow a tennis racquet. He relaxed a little as he began to rally with his father. Jack's tennis game had long since stabilized at a level of mediocrity he felt he could live with.
He was feeling fit today; he liked the balance of the racquet, the way the ball came off the strings, but the knowledge that there was a puddle of souring chocolate milk somewhere behind him on the asphalt rippled his concentration.
"You're taking your eye off the ball!" Dad called from the other end of the court after lack's third wild shot in a row.
I know!
The last thing he needed now was a tennis lesson. He concentrated fully on the next ball, backpedaling, watching it all the way up to his racquet strings. He threw his body into the forehand shot, giving it as much topspin as he could to make it go low over the net and kick when it bounced. Suddenly his right foot was slipping. He went down in a spray of warm chocolate milk.
Across the net, his father returned the ball with a drop shot that rolled dead two feet from the service line. He looked at lack and began to laugh.
It was going to be a very long day.
5
Kolabati paced the apartment, clutching the empty bottle that had once held the rakoshi elixir, waiting for Kusum. Again and again her mind ranged over the sequence of events last night. First, her brother disappeared from the reception; then the rakosh odor at lack's apartment and the eyes he said he’d seen. There had to be a link between Kusum and the rakoshi. And she was determined to find it. But first she had to find Kusum and keep track of him. Where did he go at night?
The morning wore on. By noon, when she had begun to fear he would not show up at all, she heard the sound of his key in the door.
Kusum entered, looking tired and preoccupied. He glanced up and saw her.
"Bati. I thought you'd be with your American lover."
"I've been waiting all morning for you."
"Why? Have you thought of a new way to torment me since last night?"
This wasn't going the way Kolabati wanted. She’d planned a rational discussion with her brother. To this end, she’d dressed in a long-sleeved, high-collared white blouse and baggy white slacks.
"No one has tormented you," she said with a small smile and a placating tone. "At least not intentionally."
He made a guttural sound. "I sincerely doubt that."
"The world is changing. I've learned to change with it. So must you."
"Certain things never change."
He started toward his room. Kolabati had to stop him before he locked himself away in there.
"That is true. I have one of those unchanging things in my hand."
Kusum stopped and looked at her. She held up the bottle, watching his face closely. His expression registered nothing but puzzlement. If he recognized the bottle, he hid it well.
"I'm in no mood for games, Bati."
"I assure you, my brother, this is no game." She removed the top and held the bottle out to him. "Tell me if you recognize the odor."
Kusum
took the bottle and held it under his long nose. His eyes widened.
"This cannot be! It's impossible!"
"You can't deny the testament of your senses."
He glared at her. "First you embarrass me, now you try to make a fool of me as well!"
"It was in Jack's apartment last night!"
Kusum held it up to his nose again. Shaking his head, he went to an overstuffed couch nearby and sank into it.
"I don't understand this," he said in a tired voice.
Kolabati seated herself opposite him. "Of course you do."
His head snapped up, his eyes challenging her. "Are you calling me a liar?"
Kolabati looked away. Rakoshi were in New York. Kusum was in New York. She could imagine no circumstances under which these two facts could exist independently of each other. Yet she sensed that now was not the right time to let Kusum know how certain she was of his involvement. He was already on guard. Any more signs of suspicion on her part and he would shut her out completely.
"What am I supposed to think?" she told him. "Are we not Keepers? The only Keepers?"
"But you saw the egg. How can you doubt me?"
She heard a note of pleading in his voice, of a man who wanted very much to be believed. He was so convincing. Kolabati was sorely tempted to take his word.
"Then explain to me what you smell in that bottle."
Kusum shrugged. “A hoax. An elaborate, foul hoax."
"Kusum, they were there! Last night and the night before as well!"
"Listen to me." He rose and stood over her. "Did you ever actually see a rakosh these last two nights?"
"No, but there was the odor. No mistaking that. "
"I don't doubt there was an odor, but an odor can be faked—”
"There was something there!"
"—and so we're left with only your impressions. Nothing tangible.”
"Isn't that bottle in your hand tangible enough?"
Kusum handed it to her. "An interesting imitation. It almost had me fooled, but I'm quite sure it's not genuine. By the way, what happened to the contents?"
"Poured down a sewer."
His expression remained bland. "Too bad. I could have had it analyzed and perhaps we could learn who is perpetrating this hoax. I want to know that before I do another thing."
"Why would someone go to all the trouble?"
His gaze penetrated her. "A political enemy, perhaps. One who has uncovered our secret."
Kolabati felt the clutch of fear at her throat. She shook it off. Absurd! Kusum was behind it all. She was sure of it. But for a moment there he almost had her believing him.
"That isn't possible!"
He pointed to the bottle in her hand. "A few moments ago I would have said the same about that."
Kolabati continued to play along. "What do we do?"
"We find out who is behind this." He started for the door. "And I will begin right now."
"I'll come with you."
He paused. "No. You'd better wait here. I'm expecting an important call on Consulate business. That is why I came home. You must wait here and take the message for me."
"All right. But won't you need me?"
"If I do, I will call you. And do not follow me—you know what happened last time."
Kolabati allowed him to leave. She watched through the peephole in the apartment door until he entered the elevator. As soon as the doors slid closed behind him, she ran into the hall and pressed the button for the second elevator. It opened a moment later and took her down to the lobby in time to see Kusum stroll out the front entrance of the building.
This will be easy, she thought. She should have no problem tailing a tall, slender, one-armed Indian through midtown Manhattan.
Excitement spurred her on. At last she would find where Kusum spent his time. And there, she was quite sure, she would find what should not be. She still did not see how it was possible, but all the evidence pointed to the existence of rakoshi in New York. And despite all his protests to the contrary, Kusum was involved.
Staying half a block behind, she followed him down Fifth Avenue to Central Park South with no trouble. The going became rougher after that. Sunday shoppers were out in force and the sidewalks became congested, Still she managed to keep him in view until he entered Rockefeller Plaza. She’d been here once in the winter when the area had been mobbed with ice skaters and Christmas shoppers wandering about the huge Christmas tree. Today there was a different kind of crowd, but no less dense. A jazz group was playing imitation Coltrane and every few feet men with pushcarts sold fruit, candy, or balloons. Instead of ice skating, people were milling about or taking the sun with their shirts off.
Kusum was nowhere to be seen.
Kolabati frantically pushed her way through the crowd. She circled the dry, sun-drenched ice rink. Kusum was gone. He must have spotted her and ducked into a cab or down a subway entrance.
She stood amid the happy, carefree crowd, biting her lower lip, so frustrated she wanted to cry.
6
Gia picked up the phone on the third ring. A soft, accented voice asked to speak to Mrs. Paton.
"Who shall I say is calling?"
"Kusum Bahkti."
She thought the voice sounded familiar. "Oh, Mr. Bahkti. This is Gia DiLauro. We met last night"
"Miss DiLauro—a pleasure to speak to you again. May I say you looked very beautiful last night."
"Yes, you may. As often as you wish." As he laughed politely, Gia said, "Wait a second and I'll get Nellie."
Gia was in the third floor hall. Nellie was downstairs in the library watching one of those public affairs panels that dominate Sunday television. Shouting down to her seemed more appropriate to a tenement than a Sutton Square townhouse. Especially when an Indian diplomat was on the phone. So Gia hurried down to the first floor.
As she descended the stairs she told herself that Mr. Bahkti was a good lesson on not trusting one's first impressions. She had disliked him immediately, yet he’d turned out to be quite a nice man. She smiled grimly. No one should count on her as much of a judge of character. She’d thought Richard Westphalen charming enough to marry, and look how he’d turned out. And after that there had been Jack. Not an impressive track record.
Nellie took the call from her seat in front of the TV. As the older woman spoke to Mr. Bahkti, Gia turned her attention to the screen where the Secretary of State was being grilled by a panel of reporters.
"Such a nice man," Nellie said as she hung up. She was chewing on something.
"Seems to be. What did he want?"
"He said he wished to order some Black Magic for himself and wanted to know where I got it. The Divine Obsession, wasn't it?"
"Yes." Gia had committed the address to memory. "In London.”
"That's what I told him." Nellie giggled. "He was so cute. He wanted me to taste one and tell him if it was as good as I remembered. So I did. They're lovely! I think I'll have another." She held up the dish. "Do help yourself."
Gia shook her head. "No, thanks. With Vicky allergic to it, I've kept it out of the house for so long I've lost my taste for it."
"That's a shame," Nellie said, holding another between a thumb and forefinger with her pinkie raised and taking a dainty bite out of it. "These are simply lovely."
7
Match point at the Mount Holly Lawn Tennis Club:
Jack was drenched with sweat. He and his father had scraped through the first elimination on a tiebreaker: 6-4, 3-6, 7-6. After a few hours of rest they started the second round. The father-son team they now faced was much younger—the father only slightly older than Jack, and the son no more than twelve. But they could play. Jack and his father won only one game in the first set; but the easy victory must have lulled their opponents into a false sense of security because they made a number of unforced errors in the second set and lost it 4-6.
So with one set apiece it was now 4-5 with Jack behind in his serve: deuce with the advantage to the receiver.<
br />
Jack's right shoulder was on fire. He’d been putting everything he had into his serves but the pair facing him across the net had returned every single one. This was it. If he lost this point, the match was over and he and Dad would be out of the tournament. Which would not break Jack's heart. If they won it meant he'd have to return next Sunday. As much as he didn't relish that thought, he wasn't going to throw the match. His father had a right to one hundred percent and that was what he was going to get.
He faced the boy. For three sets now Jack had been trying to find a weakness in the kid's game. The twelve-year old had a topspin forehand, a flat, two-handed backhand, and a blistering serve. Jack's only hope lay in the kid's short legs, which made him relatively slow, but he hit so many winners that Jack had been unable to take advantage of it.
Jack served to the kid's backhand and charged the net, hoping to take a weak return and put it away. The return came back strong, forcing Jack into a weak volley to the father who slammed it up the alley to Jack's left. Without thinking, Jack shifted the racquet to his left hand and lunged. He made the return, but then the kid passed Dad up the other alley.
The boy's father came up to the net and shook Jack's hand.
"Good game. If your Dad had your speed he'd be club champ." He turned to Jack's father. "Look at him, Tom—not even breathing hard. And did you see that last shot of his? That left-handed volley? You trying to slip a ringer in on us?"
His father smiled. "You can tell by his ground strokes he's no ringer. But I never knew he was ambidextrous."
They all shook hands, and as the other pair walked off, Jack's father looked at him.
"I've been watching you all day. You're in good shape."
"I try to stay healthy." His father was a shrewd cookie and Jack was uncomfortable under the scrutiny.
"You move fast. Damn fast. Faster than any appliance repairman I've ever known."
Jack coughed. "What say we have a beer or two. I'm buying.”
"Your money's no good here. Only members can sign for drinks. So the beer's on me." They began to walk toward the clubhouse. His father was shaking his head. "I've got to say, Jack, you really surprised me today."
The Tomb (Repairman Jack) Page 22
