Infernal rj-9

by F. Paul Wilson

  Jack checked right and left. The neighboring houses looked equally deserted.

  "So what's the plan? Tie up like we belong here?"

  Tom smiled. "Exactly. Like I said: Hide in plain sight."

  He turned the Sahbon so that its stern faced the bulkhead, then tried to maneuver it into the dock. The wind and current did their best to frustrate his attempts.

  After the third failure Jack said, "Wouldn't it be a lot easier to go in nose first?"

  Tom nodded. "Damn straight, but I don't want the transom visible to everyone who cruises by."

  On the fourth try he maneuvered the stern close enough to the dock for Jack to jump to it with a rope. While he quick-tied to a piling, Tom hurried forward along the narrow port deck to the bow where he grabbed a rope and threw it to Jack. With the bow and stern tied, they were docked.

  "Not pretty," Tom said, "but we made it."

  Jack stepped off the dock planks onto the yard. He ground his sneakers into the sandy soil.

  "Guess what?"

  Tom turned to him with a worried look. "What? No surprises, please."

  Jack spread his arms. "This is the first time I've set foot on foreign soil."

  Tom stared at him. "You're kidding."

  "Nope. You might say I'm a homebody."

  A homebody without a passport. Can't get too far without one of those.

  "Welcome to the rest of the world. How's it feel?"

  "Pretty much like anyplace else I've been."

  Why should it feel different? With no official identity, he didn't officially belong anywhere. He was a man without a country.

  Not such a great position in these times.

  3

  After Tom had adjusted the securing ropes to his satisfaction, they hurried north along a narrow asphalt road toward the ferry stop. Jack had his new backup strapped to his ankle, and carried a small duffel with clean clothes. Tom had his backpack and nothing more.

  Jack knew from the tourist guide that the Ferry Authority cut the number of runs in the off season, and the next could be the last of the day.

  He hadn't been able to call Gia from the boat—Tom had insisted that absolute radio silence was necessary—but he'd take care of that as soon as they got to town.

  The ferry wait was less than twenty minutes. Not much to see at first as they plowed across the open water of the Great Sound, so he sat inside on the lower deck and nursed one of the beers Tom had brought along. When the shoreline began to close in, Jack climbed to the upper deck and took in the view.

  A range of dark green hills rose from the water to the south. The pastel colors and white roofs of the houses clinging to their flanks reminded him of a grassy mound studded with mushrooms. Here and there a Nelson pine or a narrow cedar jutted dark green fingers above the surrounding vegetation.

  But the smaller islands, clumps of palm and pine-encrusted lava rock scattered throughout the eastern half of the sound, caught his attention. Many were too small for habitation, while others supported compact neighborhoods. But the in-between size, the ones with only a single house, captured his imagination.

  What would it be like to live on one of those? Like owning your own country, or an island fortress protected on all sides by deep water. The isolation appealed to him: He, Gia, Vicky, and the baby, living apart from the world, making their own rules for their own tiny sovereign state.

  An impossibility, of course. A wild, absurd fantasy. But still… no law against dreaming. At least not yet.

  The ferry wove a path through the islands, stopping here and there among them, then veered north toward a crowded shore—Bermuda's business, entertainment, and cultural center, Hamilton.

  As soon as they docked Tom led him down Front Street. It ran along the waterfront; the arcaded sidewalk sported a wide array of tony shops, but few pedestrians. Definitely the off season around here.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Well, the bank's closed, so that'll have to wait till tomorrow. Eventually we'll get to a place called Flanagan's, but I've got a few stops I want to make along the way."

  "So do I."

  Jack meant to call Gia before he did another thing.

  4

  Joey Castles sat in a rear-corner window booth of the Empire Diner. He watched the traffic on Tenth Avenue and marveled at the power of a phone call from the right people.

  Joey used to love diners. Mainly because he used to love breakfast. Used to be he could eat bacon and eggs or a ham-and-cheese omelet—American, never Swiss—three times a day. And the only place you could do that was a diner.

  Trouble was, he hadn't been feeling very hungry since Frankie bought it. He ate maybe once a day, if that. He was losing weight. He had to pull in his belt an extra notch yesterday morning, and the way things were going, it'd be two notches soon. He'd never been fat or even chubby, but Christ, he'd be a scarecrow soon.

  He and Frankie had been more than brothers. They'd been like one person. Half of him was gone. Had to get a grip or this would eat him alive.

  The man across from him snapped his phone closed and smiled apologetically.

  "Business. Always business."

  Joey nodded. "I hear you."

  This was their second meeting. The first had been in a Coney Island merdaio that served them tea and some mix of black bread, sour cream, and onions that had made his breath stink into the next day. That meeting had been precall, and a waste of time.

  This guy was Valentin Vorobev but everyone called him Valya. He had no license to sell guns but that hadn't stopped him from supplying factions of the Russian mob in Brighton Beach for years. He'd agreed to meet with Joey, but only on his home turf. But as soon as Joey mentioned the Tavor-2, Valya had developed a sudden case of amnesia.

  Joey had wanted to put a few into the cacchio right then and there. He didn't care who sold the guns to the Arabs—

  All right, he did care. After 9/11, anybody who sold anything lethal to a fucking Arab ought to be redesigned so he could join a castrati choir. But Joey was willing to overlook that.

  You made a sale. Fine. Okay. That's just doing business. I'm all for doing business. Just tell me who did the buying.

  What he wanted more than life itself was the names of the shits who pulled the trigger on his brother.

  He'd contacted three runners before his meet with Jack. Same old story: Nobody was talking. Nobody knew nothin'.

  Then he'd called Pop. Soon as he got on the phone the old man went off on a ten-minute half-English, half-Italian rant. His folks had come over on the boat from Palermo, so he'd grown up speaking Italian at home and English on the street. Sometimes when he got upset he spoke both at once. Joey and Frankie had heard a lot of Italian growing up. Frankie had picked it up pretty good. The only thing Joey could do in Italian was curse and swear.

  But he knew enough to hurt when Pop dismissed his efforts as minchia del mare. No fucking fair.

  But Pop's attitude did a one-eighty when Joey told him Jack's idea—except he'd said it was his own. The old man got right down to making calls to people who started making calls to other people, and finally one of those calls had reached out and touched good old Valya. Which had led to this second meeting—not, it was worth noting, at a place of Valya's choosing, but Joey's.

  Others had called back as well. He'd be doing a round of new meetings during the coming days. Maybe one of them…

  "Again, I am sorry for your brother," the Russian said in a thickly accented voice. "Terrible thing to lose brother."

  He had a broad face, small dark eyes, and a jarhead haircut.

  "You got that right."

  Joey wanted a cigarette. Bad. But you couldn't light up indoors anywhere in this fucking city no more. Normally he might just fire one up and flip the old vaffanculo at anyone who hassled him. But the last thing he needed now was to draw attention to this booth.

  So he tried to satisfy himself with coffee.

  "I thought long and hard about your sorrow and decided that I,
Valya, should share with you what little I know."

  Yeah, right. You got a call telling you to cooperate.

  "That's very kind of you." Joey leaned forward. "What can you tell me?"

  "Only that items you are interested in, they are easy to get, but not easy to sell."

  "What's that mean?"

  A big shrug. "No one wants. Or better to say, no one cares. Not well known. Everyone want other Israeli item. You know what I mean?"

  Joey nodded. He knew: Uzis. Every gangbanger and cugine lusted for a Mac-10 or an Uzi.

  "Before this happened, who has heard of this item you seek? No one, I think. I have two of them for three years now and no one even ask. Not once." Another elaborate shrug. "If I have business where I could send back, I would send these back today."

  Joey felt his voice rising with his temperature. "That's it? You meet with me and that's it?"

  "I do this out of respect for your sorrow. And to save you from waste time."

  Joey found himself talking through his teeth.

  "Ay, puttanal Frankie was my brother! This ain't wasted time!"

  Valya held up his hands. "You do not understand. What I say is these items most probably bought not in States. If this Wrath of Allah connects to al-Qaeda, then guns most likely smuggle in."

  That was what Joey had been afraid of all along. He didn't want to hear it. It meant he'd never track down the bastards.

  Joey stood, threw a five on the table to cover the coffee, and walked out. No good-bye. The mamaluke didn't deserve one. Not like Joey was ever going to see him again.

  He lit up as he hit the sidewalk. Then his cell rang.

  "Joey?" said a voice. "It's Jack. What's up?"

  "Ay, goombah. Not a lot, man. Not a whole fucking lot."

  "My idea work?"

  "Like a charm as far as getting people to talk. But so far I got oogatz."

  "Afraid of that."

  "Hey, it ain't over. I'm still on it. Something's bound to come through sooner or later. And when it does, you gotta number I can reach you?"

  "No. Just my voice mail. But I'll be checking that and I'll keep checking in with you."

  "Good enough. We'll have something soon." I hope.

  5

  "Sure you don't want a cigar?"

  It was the third time Tom had asked.

  "All right."

  "Good man. Not often you get a chance to smoke a real Havana."

  While Tom had gone cigar shopping, Jack had found a liquor store where he'd bought a prepaid Bermuda calling card. He phoned Gia to let her know he hadn't been lost at sea. She'd sounded relieved. All was fine back home, and Jack had promised to call her again in the morning. Then he'd called Joey.

  So now Tom and he sat on the outside deck of Flanagan's, poised over Front Street and overlooking the quiet harbor. The pub seemed authentically Irish—even had a dartboard—with dark wood, subdued lighting, and lots of regulars calling and waving to each other through the smoky air. Jack knew half a dozen places exactly like it back home. Well, not exactly. Smoky bars were now a thing of the past in New York.

  The "authentic" came to a screeching halt with the Korean maitre d'.

  Tom had said the fish chowder was a must, so Jack had ordered that and fish and chips. He was looking forward to eating something a little more substantial—and warmer—than a sandwich.

  He bit a small piece off the butt end of the cigar and fired up the tip with Tom's lighter. He'd smoked cigarettes for a few years as a teen but the allure of tobacco, especially cigars, had eluded him.

  He took a deep draw and let it out slowly. Tom was watching him with an expectant look.

  "Well?"

  "Tastes like roofing material."

  It didn't taste that bad, but it didn't taste good either. What was all the fuss about Cuban cigars?

  Tom sputtered. "B-but it's-it's a Montecristo!"

  "I think you got gypped. It's an El Shingelo."

  Tom muttered, "De gustibus," then glared and fumed and puffed while Jack rested his cigar in the ashtray and hoped it would go out.

  "Was Dad ever here?" Jack said.

  Tom blew blue smoke and looked at him over the rim of his third vodka on the rocks.

  "Bermuda? Yeah. I think it was back in your freshman year. Mom had an empty-nest thing going and so Dad brought her here. Don't you remember?"

  Jack shook his head. Something about that hovered on the edge of his memory, just out of reach. He'd done such a bang-up job of leaving his past behind for fifteen years that a lot of it had slipped away.

  "Do you know if he liked it?"

  Tom shrugged. "Never asked. But hey, what's not to like?"

  Jack nodded. Bermuda might be one of the only areas where he and Tom were in agreement.

  He was sure his folks had loved it. How could they not? Even in its cold season, with the deciduous trees standing naked here and there among the palms, it looked like paradise.

  On the rare occasions when Jack had thought of Bermuda at all, he'd considered it little more than a newlywed destination—pink-sand beaches and all the rest of the honeymoon hype. But the ride across the Great Sound had shown him a different island.

  Tom signaled for another vodka. "Speaking of Dad, have you any idea of the size of his estate?"

  Jack sipped his pint of Courage and shook his head. "Not a clue."

  "I got a peek at his finances last summer when I helped him add a codicil to his will."

  Jack pushed away a sudden vision of Tom fixing the terms so that it all went to him.

  "What did he change?"

  "Don't worry. You're still in it."

  Jack had already punched Tom. That remark deserved a head butt. But he sat quietly.

  Finally Tom said, "It was after Kate's death. A third of his estate had been slated for Kate. He'd never conceived of the possibility that she'd predecease him. He changed it so that Kate's third would be split evenly between Kevin and Lizzie—trusts and all that. He'd already set up an insurance trust to protect the benefits from the inheritance tax." He shook his head. "The old man knew finances and tax laws. Covered all his bases."

  Dad's will… talking about it made Jack queasy. He felt ghoulish. He wanted off the subject.

  "Well, he was an accountant after all."

  Tom looked Jack in the eye. "How many accountants do you know who're worth three million bucks?"

  Jack sat stiff and silent, stunned. "Three million? Dad? But how?"

  "A major reason was Microsoft. He wasn't in on the IPO, but he got in shortly after. You know how he was about computers—way ahead of the crowd. He saw the future and bought into it. He was also one of the first home-computer day traders." Tom tapped his fist twice on the table. "Wish to hell he'd clued me in."

  "Would you have listened?"

  Tom's drink arrived. "Probably not. Moot point, anyway. With kids and family and living high, who had spare cash?"

  "You must have a retirement account."

  He nodded. "Yeah, but I left that in the care of a reputed whiz kid who royally fucked it up. Shit, if I'd wanted it to crash and burn, I could have done that myself." Tom stared into his drink. "What're you going to do with your million?"

  A million… the number whacked him across the back of the head like a blackjack. Dad had left him a million bucks.

  "I… I'll have to think about that. How about you?"

  "By the time the estate's settled—and it'll be a while—I hope to be long gone." He gave a disgusted grunt. "Otherwise I'll be a rich jailbird. But even if I hung around I wouldn't see much of it. With two rasorial ex-wives—the Skanks from Hell are both well practiced at deficit financing—and a third who spends like the Hilton sisters, and three kids with college funds, what do you think?"

  Jack had a sudden idea. "Is there any way to split my share between your kids and Kate's?"

  Tom's drink stopped halfway to his lips. He stared wide eyed and open mouthed.

  "You're shitting me."

 
"Nope. Just made up my mind."

  "No, you're out of your fucking mind."

  He couldn't accept the money. Not that it wouldn't give Gia and him a nice, fat financial cushion, but a man who doesn't exist can't inherit money.

  "I have my reasons."

  "What? You don't seem the superstitious type. You think it's somehow tainted because Dad was murdered?"

  That had never occurred to Jack, but he decided to run with it.

  "Yeah. It's blood money. I don't want it."

  Tom shook his head. "Well, as much as I'd like to see the kids get an extra half a mil, it can't be done."

  "Why not? You're the executor, aren't you?"

  "Yeah, but I won't be around. And an executor can't change the terms of the will."

  "You could hang around long enough to find a way."

  "But it's not necessary. Once you claim the money you can divvy it up any way you please."

  That was just the point—he couldn't claim the money.

  Another idea: "Okay, have me declared dead."

  "What?"

  "Look, I disappeared more than seven years ago—twice that. Isn't that enough to have me declared dead?"

  "But you're not."

  "I am—at least as far as officialdom is concerned."

  There—he'd said it. Hadn't wanted to, but there was no other way. He didn't want his inheritance moldering in some account when the other people in Dad's will could use it.

  Tom grinned and slapped the tabletop. "Knew it! I knew it!"

  "Knew what?"

  "You're running around under a false identity. That's why you couldn't claim Dad's body. And—of course! You can't claim the inheritance for the same reason." He leaned forward. "What's the story? Who are you hiding from?"

  "You know all you need to know, Tom. Back to the subject at hand: Can you have me declared dead?"

  "But everybody at the wake and the funeral… they know you're alive."

  "Yeah, but do they have to know I've been declared dead? Nobody knows how much they were slated to inherit in the first place. If you don't tell and I don't complain, who's going to be the wiser?"