"What's in there?" Jack asked, pointing to the grape.
Vicky held it out of his reach behind her back. "Just my Ms. Jelliroll doll."
"I should have known." At least she's talking to me.
"Can we go now?" Gia said.
She’d been transformed from a reluctant evictee to someone anxious to be as far away from this house as possible. He was glad for that.
Jack took the large suitcase and led the two of them up to Sutton Place. He hailed a cab and gave the address of Isher Sports.
"I want to get home," Gia said. She sat in the middle, Vicky on her left and Jack on her right. "That's in your neighborhood.”
"You can't go home." As she opened her mouth to protest he added: "You can't go to my place, either.”
"Then where?”
"I've found a place in Queens."
"Queens? I don't want to—"
"No one'll find you in a million years. Just hang out there for a couple of days until I see if I can put a stop to this."
Gia put an arm around Vicky and hugged her close. "I feel like a criminal."
Jack wanted to hug both of them and tell them they'd be all right, that he'd see to it that nothing ever hurt them. But after his outburst this morning, he wasn't sure how they'd react.
The cab pulled up in front of Abe's store. Jack ran in and found him at his usual station, perusing his customary array of newspapers. Mustard brightened his black tie, poppy seeds peppered his ample shirtfront.
"The key's on the counter and so's the address," he said, glancing over his reading glasses without moving from his seat. "This won't be messy, I hope. Already my relationship with Sarah is barely civil."
Jack pocketed the key but kept the address in hand.
"If I know Gia, she'll leave the place spotless."
"If I know my daughter, Gia will have her work cut out for her." He stared at Jack. "I suppose you have some running around to do tonight?"
Jack nodded. "A lot."
"And I suppose you want I should come over and babysit the two ladies while you're out of the apartment? Don't even ask," he said, holding up a hand, "I'll do it."
"I owe you one, Abe," Jack said.
"I'll add it to the list," he replied with a deprecating wave of his hand.
"Do that."
Back in the cab, Jack gave the driver the address of Abe's daughter's apartment.
"Take the Midtown Tunnel," he said.
"The bridge is better for where you're going," the cabby said.
"Take the tunnel," Jack told him. "And go through the park."
"It's quicker around."
"The park. Enter at Seventy-second and head downtown."
The cabby shrugged. "You're paying for it."
They drove over to Central Park West, then turned into the park. Jack stayed twisted around in his seat the whole way, watching through the back window for any car or cab that followed them. He’d insisted on taking the route through the park because it was narrow and winding, curving through the trees and beneath the overpasses. Anyone tailing would want to stay close for fear of losing them.
No one following—Jack was sure of that by the time they reached Columbus Circle, but he kept his eyes fixed out the rear window until they reached the Queens Midtown Tunnel.
As they slid into that tiled fluorescent gullet, Jack faced front and allowed himself to unwind. The East River was above them, Manhattan was rapidly falling behind. Soon he'd have Gia and Vicky lost in the mammoth beehive of apartments called Queens. He was putting the whole island of Manhattan between Kusum and his intended victims. Kusum would never find them. With that worry behind him, Jack would be free to concentrate his efforts on finding a way to deal with the crazy Indian.
Right now, however, he had to mend his relationship with Vicky. She sat on the far side of her mother with her big plastic grape sitting in her lap. He began by leaning around Gia and making the kind of faces mothers always tell their children not to make because you never know when your face'll get stuck that way.
Vicky tried to ignore him but soon was laughing and crossing her eyes and making faces, too.
"Stop that, Vicky!" Gia said. "Your face could get stuck that way!"
5
Vicky was glad Jack was acting like his old self. He’d frightened her this morning with his yelling and grabbing her orange and throwing it away. That had been mean. He’d never done anything like that before. It had frightened her, but worse, he’d hurt her feelings. She’d got over being scared right away, but her feelings had remained hurt until now. Jack was making her laugh. He just must have been grouchy this morning.
Vicky shifted her Ms. Jelliroll Carry Case on her lap. It had room in it for the doll and extra things like doll clothes.
Vicky had something extra in there now. Something special. She hadn't told Jack or Mommy that she’d found two oranges in the playhouse. Jack had thrown the first away. But the second was in her carry case, safely hidden beneath the doll clothes. She was saving that for later and not telling anybody. That was only right. It was her orange. She’d found it, and she wasn't going to let anybody throw it away.
6
Apartment 1203 was hot and stuffy. The stale smell of cigarette smoke had become one with the upholstery, rugs, and wallpaper. Gia spotted dust bunnies under the front room coffee table from the door.
So this was the hideout: Abe's daughter's place.
Gia had met Abe briefly once. He hadn't looked too neat—had little bits of food all over him, in fact. Like father, like daughter, apparently.
Jack went to the big air conditioner in the window. "Could use some of this."
"Just open the windows," Gia told him. "Let's get a change of air in here."
Vicky was prancing around, swinging her strawberry carry case, delighted to be in a new place. Nonstop chatter:
"Are we staying here Mommy how long are we staying is this going to be my room can I sleep in this bed ooh look how high we are you can see the Umpire State Building over there and there's Chrysler's building it's my favorite 'cause it's pointy and silvery at the top..."
And on and on. Gia smiled at the memory of how hard she’d worked coaxing Vicky to say her first words, how she’d agonized over the completely unfounded notion that her daughter might never speak. Now she wondered if she would ever stop.
Once the windows on both sides of the apartment were open, the air began to flow through, removing the old trapped odors and bringing in new ones.
"Jack, I've got to clean this place up if I'm going to stay here. I hope no one minds."
"No one'll mind," he said. "Just let me make a couple of calls and I’ll help you."
Gia located the vacuum cleaner while he dialed, listened, then dialed again. Either it was busy or he got no answer, because he hung up without saying anything.
They spent the better part of the afternoon cleaning the apartment. Gia took pleasure in the simple tasks of scouring the sink, cleaning the counters, scrubbing the inside of the refrigerator, washing the kitchen floors, vacuuming the rugs. Concentrating on the minutiae kept her mind off the formless threat she felt hanging over Vicky and herself.
Jack wouldn't let her out of the apartment so he took the bedclothes down to the laundry area and washed them. He was a hard worker and not afraid to get his hands dirty. They made a good team. She found she enjoyed being with him, something up until a few days ago she thought she'd never enjoy again.
The certain knowledge that a gun was hidden somewhere on his body and that he was the sort of man quite willing and able to use it effectively did not cause the revulsion it would have a few days ago. She couldn't say she approved of the idea, but she found herself taking reluctant comfort from it.
The sun was leaning into the west over the Manhattan skyline before she declared the apartment habitable. Jack went out and found a Chinese restaurant and brought back egg tolls, hot-and-sour soup, spareribs, shrimp fried rice, and mooshu pork. In a separate bag he had an Entenm
ann's almond ring coffeecake. That didn't strike Gia as a fitting dessert for a Chinese meal, but she didn't say anything.
She watched as he tried to teach Vicky how to use the chopsticks he’d picked up at the restaurant. The rift between those two had apparently healed without a scar. They were buddies again, the trauma of the morning forgotten—at least by Vicky.
“I have to go out," he told her as they cleared the dishes.
“I figured that," Gia said, hiding her unease. "How long will you be out?"
She knew they were lost in this apartment complex among other apartment complexes—the proverbial needle in the haystack—but she didn't want to be alone tonight. Not after what she’d learned this morning about the chocolates and the orange.
"Don't know. That's why I asked Abe to come and stay with you until I get back. Hope you don't mind."
"No. I don't mind at all." From what Gia remembered of Abe, he seemed an unlikely protector, but any port in a storm. "Anyway, how could I object? He has more of a right to be here than we do."
"I wouldn't be too sure of that."
"Oh?"
"Abe and his daughter are barely on speaking terms." Jack turned and faced her, leaning his back against the sink. He glanced over her shoulder to where Vicky sat alone at the table munching on a fortune cookie, then spoke in a low voice, his eyes fixed on her. "You see, Abe's a criminal. Like me."
"Jack—" She didn't want to get into this now.
"Not exactly like me. Not a thug." His emphasis on the word she’d used on him was a barb in her heart. "He just sells illegal weapons. He also sells legal weapons, but he sells them illegally."
Portly, voluble Abe Grossman—a gunrunner? It wasn't possible! But the look in Jack's eyes said it was.
"Was it necessary to tell me that?" What was he trying to do?
"I just want you to know the truth. I also want you to know that Abe is the most peace-loving man I've ever met. "
"Then why does he sell guns?
"Maybe he'll explain it to you someday. I found his reasons pretty convincing—more convincing than his daughter did."
"She doesn't approve, I take it."
"Barely speaks to him."
"Good for her."
"Didn't stop her from letting him pay the tuition for her bachelor and graduate degrees, though."
A knock on the door and a voice in the hall: "It's me—Abe. Open up already."
Jack let him in. He looked the same as the last time Gia had seen him: An overweight man dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt, black tie, and black pants. The only difference was the nature of the food stains up and down his front.
"Hello," he said, shaking Gia's hand. She liked a man to shake her hand. "Nice to see you again."
He also shook Vicky's hand, which elicited a big smile from her.
"Just in time for dessert, Abe," Jack said. He brought out the Entenmann's cake.
Abe's eyes widened." Almond coffee ring! You shouldn't have!" He made a show of searching the tabletop. "And the rest of you having what?"
Gia laughed politely, not knowing how seriously to take the remark, then watched with wonder as Abe consumed three-quarters of the cake, all the while talking eloquently and persuasively of the imminent collapse of western civilization.
Although he’d failed to persuade Vicky to call him "Uncle Abe" by the time dessert was over, he had Gia half convinced she should flee New York and build an underground shelter in the foothills of the Rockies.
Finally, Jack stood and stretched. "Gotta go. And if you don't hear from me, don't worry."
Gia followed him to the door. She didn't want to see him go, but couldn't bring herself to tell him so. A persistent knot of hostility within her always veered her away from the subject of Gia and Jack.
"I don't know if I can be with him too much longer," she whispered to Jack. "He's so depressing!"
Jack smiled. "You ain't heard nuthin' yet. Wait till the network news comes on and he gives you his analysis of what every story really means." He put his hand on her shoulder and drew her close. "Don't let him bother you. He means well."
Before she knew what was happening he leaned forward and kissed her on the lips.
"Bye."
And he was out the door.
Gia turned back to the apartment and found Abe squatting before the television. A Special Report about the Chinese border dispute with India was on.
"Did you hear that?" Abe was saying. "Did you hear? Do you know what this means?"
Resignedly, Gia joined him before the set.
"No. What does it mean?"
7
Finding a cab took some doing, but Jack finally nabbed a gypsy to take him back into Manhattan. He still had a few hours of light left; he wanted to make the most of them. The worst of the rush hour was over and he was heading the opposite way of the flow, so he made good time getting back into the city.
The cab dropped him off between Sixty-seventh and Sixty-eighth on Fifth, one block south of Kusum's apartment building. He crossed to the Park side and walked uptown, inspecting the building as he passed. He found what he wanted: a delivery alley along the left side secured by a wrought iron gate with pointed rails curved over and down toward the street. Next step was to see if anybody was home.
He crossed over and stepped up to the doorman who wore a pseudomilitary cap and sported a handlebar mustache.
"Would you ring the Bahkti apartment, please?"
"Surely," the doorman said. "Whom shall I say is calling?"
"Jack. Just Jack."
The doorman buzzed on the intercom and waited. And waited.
Finally he said, “I do not believe Mr. Bahkti is in. Shall I leave a message?"
No answer did not necessarily mean no one was home.
"Sure. Tell him Jack was here and that he'll be back."
Jack sauntered away, not sure of what his little message would accomplish. Perhaps it would rattle Kusum, although he doubted it. Probably take a hell of a lot to rattle a guy with a nest of rakoshi.
He walked to the end of the building. Now came the touchy part: getting over the gate unseen. He took a deep breath. Without looking back, he jumped and grabbed two of the curved iron bars near their tops. Bracing himself against the sidewall, he levered himself over the spikes and dropped onto the other side. Those daily workouts paid off now and then. He stepped back and waited but no one seemed to have noticed him. He exhaled. So far, so good. He ran around to the rear of the building.
There he found a double door wide enough for furniture deliveries. He ignored this—they were almost invariably alarmed. The narrow little door at the bottom of a short stairwell was more interesting. He pulled the leather-cased lock picking kit out of his pocket as he descended the steps. The door was solid, faced with sheet metal, no windows. The lock was a Yale, most likely an inter-grip rim model. While he worked the slim black rake back and forth in the keyhole, his eyes kept watch along the rear of the building. He didn't have to look at what he was doing—locks were picked by feel.
And then it came—the click of the tumblers within the cylinder. A certain quiet satisfaction in that sound, but Jack didn't take time to savor it. A quick twist of the tension rod and the bolt snapped back. He pulled the door open and waited for an alarm bell. None came. A quick inspection showed that the door wasn't wired for a silent alarm either. He slipped inside and locked it after him.
He stood in the dark of the basement. While he waited for his eyes to adjust, he created a mental picture of the layout of the lobby one floor above. If his memory was accurate, the elevators should be straight ahead and slightly to the left. He moved forward and found them right where he’d figured. The elevator came down in response to the button and he rode it straight up to the ninth floor.
Jack stepped immediately to the 9B door and with drew the thin, flexible plastic ruler from his pocket. Tension tightened the muscles at the back of his neck. This was the riskiest part. Anyone seeing him now would call the police.
Had to work fast. The door was double locked: a Yale deadbolt and a Quikset with a keyhole in the handle. He’d cut a right-triangular notch half an inch into the edge of the ruler about an inch from the end. Jack slipped the ruler in between the door and the jamb and ran it up and down past the Yale. It moved smoothly—the deadbolt had been left open. He ran the ruler down to the Quikset, caught the notch on the latch bolt, wiggled and pulled on the ruler...and the door swung inward.
The entire operation took ten seconds. Jack jumped inside and eased the door closed behind him. The setting sun poured orange light through the living room windows. All was quiet. The apartment had an empty feel to it.
He looked down and saw the smashed egg. Thrown in anger or dropped during a struggle? He moved quickly, silently through the living room to the bedrooms, searching the closets, under the beds, behind the chairs, into the kitchen and the utility room.
No Kolabati. A closet in the second bedroom was half-filled with women's clothes; he recognized a dress as the one she’d worn in Peacock Alley; another to the Consulate reception. She wouldn't have gone back to Washington without her clothes. Kolabati was still in New York.
He stepped to the window and looked out over the park. The orange sun was still bright enough to hurt his eyes. He stood and stared west for a long time. He’d hoped to find Kolabati here. It had been against all logic, but he’d had to see for himself so he could cross this apartment off his short list of possibilities.
He turned and picked up the phone and dialed the number of the Indian Embassy. No, Mr. Bahkti was still at the UN, but was expected back shortly.
That did it. No more excuses. He had to go to the only other place Kolabati could be.
Dread rolled back and forth in his stomach like a leaden weight.
That ship. That godawful floating piece of hell. He had to go back there.
8
"I'm thirsty, Mommy."
"It's the Chinese food. It always makes you thirsty. Have another drink of water."
"I don't want water. I'm tired of water. Can't I have some juice?"
"I'm sorry, honey, but I didn't get a chance to do any shopping. The only thing to drink around here is some wine and you can't have that. I'll get you some juice in the morning. I promise."
The Tomb (Repairman Jack) Page 31
