Scenes From the Secret History (The Secret History of the World)
Page 19
And were those tears in the corners of his eyes?
“The donations? Don’t tell me–”
But he was nodding and biting his upper lip.
“Aw, no.”
“Every last one.”
Alicia felt her throat tighten. Strangely enough – and she damned herself for it – this was hitting her harder than Leo Weinstein’s death.
A man she knew, a man with a wife and family was dead, and yet… and yet… this felt so much worse.
She’d met Weinstein only a couple of times. But these toys… she and Raymond – especially Raymond – had been collecting them for months, sending staff and volunteers to forage all through the city for donors – companies, stores, individuals, anybody. The response had been slow at first – who was thinking about Christmas gifts in October? But once Thanksgiving was past, the giving had picked up. Last night they’d had a storeroom full of dolls, trucks, rockets, coloring books, action figures… the works.
This morning…
“How?”
“Pried open the outer door and took them away through the alley. Must have had some sort of truck to hold everything.”
The ground floor of this building had been a business supply store before being converted to the Center for Children with AIDS. The former owners probably had loaded their delivery trucks the same way the thieves had stolen the gifts.
“Isn’t that door alarmed? Aren’t all the doors alarmed?”
Raymond nodded. “Supposed to be. But the alarm didn’t go off.”
Poor Raymond. He’d put his whole heart into this effort.
Alicia reached her office, tossed her bag onto her desk, and dropped into her chair. She was still shaken. And her feet were killing her. She closed her eyes. Only halfway through the morning and she felt exhausted. She looked up at Raymond.
“Did anything like this ever happen to Doctor Landis?”
He shook his head. “Never.”
“Great. They wait until she’s gone, then they strike.”
“I think that’s all for the best, don’t you think? I mean, considering her condition.”
Alicia had to agree. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
Dr. Rebecca Landis was the director of the Center – at least she had the title. But she was in her third trimester and developing pre-eclamptic symptoms. Her OB had ordered her to stay home in bed.
This only a week after the assistant director had left to take a position at Beth Israel, leaving the place to be “directed” by Alicia and the other pediatric infectious disease specialist, Ted Collings. Ted had begged off any directing duties, claiming a wife and a new baby. And so the burden of administrative duties had fallen on the Center’s newbie: Alicia Clayton, MD.
“Any chance it was an inside job?”
“The police are looking into it.”
“The police?”
“Yes. Been here and gone. I made out the report.”
“Thank you, Raymond.” Good old Raymond. She couldn’t imagine how he could be more efficient. “What do they think about our chances of getting those toys back?”
“They’re going to ‘work on it.’ But just to make sure they do, I want to call the papers. You okay with that?”
“Yeah, good idea. Make this a high-profile crime. Maybe that’ll put extra pressure on the cops.”
“Great. I’ve already spoken to the Post. The News and the Times will have people here later this morning.”
“Oh. Well…good. You’ll see them, okay?”
“If you wish.”
“I wish. Tell them it’s not just stealing, and it’s not just stealing from little kids – it’s stealing from kids who’ve already got less than nothing, who’re carrying a death sentence in their bloodstreams and may not even be here next Christmas.”
“That’s beautiful. Maybe you should–”
“No, please, Raymond. I can’t.”
Feeling utterly miserable, she tuned out for a moment.
“What else can happen today?” she muttered. “Bad news always comes in threes, doesn’t it?
Raymond still hovered beyond her desk. “Something with that ‘family matter’ you’ve been dealing with?” he said, then added – pointedly: “All by yourself?”
He knew she’d been seeing lawyers and been preoccupied lately, and he seemed to take it personally that she wouldn’t discuss it with him. She felt sorry for him. He freely discussed his personal life with her – more than a few times she’d wanted to block her ears and say Too much information! – but she couldn’t reciprocate. Her own personal life was pretty much a void, and the disaster area that posed as her family was not something Alicia wanted to share, even with someone as sympathetic and non-judgmental as Raymond.
“Yes. That ‘family matter.’ But that’s not as important as getting those toys back. We had a super Christmas set up for those kids and I don’t want it going down the tubes. I want those toys back, Raymond, and dammit – get me the Police Commissioner’s number. I’m going to call him myself. I’m going to call him every day until those toys are back.”
“I’ll look it up right now,” he said, and was gone, closing the door behind him.
Alicia folded her arms on the scarred top of her beat-up old desk and dropped her forehead onto them. Everything seemed to be spinning out of control. She felt so helpless, so damn impotent. Systems… always these huge, complex, lumbering systems to deal with.
The Center’s toys were gone. She’d have to depend on the police to get them back. But they had their own agenda, their own higher priorities, and so she’d have to wait until they got around to hers, if they ever did. She could call the Commissioner until she wore out the buttons on her phone, but he’d probably never take the call.
And the will had said the house was hers, but Thomas was using the system’s labyrinth to keep it from her. On her own, Alicia would have been swallowed up by his legal pit bulls, so she’d been forced to hire someone to fend them off.
Leo…oh, God, poor Leo. She could still hear the blast, see the flames. Nothing had been left of him after that explosion.
A cold sick dread seeped through her. When’s my turn? If I keep pushing Thomas and whoever’s backing him, will I be next?
She pounded her fist on the desk. Damn them!
She wanted one of those big samurai blades – a dai-katana – to cut right to the heart of–
“Excuse me.”
Alicia looked up. One of the volunteers, a pretty blonde in her early thirties, stood halfway through the doorway, looking at her.
“I knocked but I guess you didn’t hear me.”
Alicia straightened and shook back her hair. She put on her professional face.
“Sorry. I was a million miles away, dreaming about chasing down the rats who stole those presents.”
The woman slipped her svelte body the rest of the way through and shut the door behind her. Alicia wished she had a body like that.
She’d seen her around a lot. Sometimes she brought her daughter with her – cute little girl, maybe seven or eight. What were their names?
“You won’t have to go a million miles to find them,” the woman said. “One or two should cover it.”
“You’re probably right,” Alicia said.
Her name…her name… what was her name?
Got it. “Gia, isn’t it?”
She smiled. “Gia DiLauro.”
A dazzling smile. Alicia wished she had a smile like that. And Gia… what a great name. Alicia wished–
Enough.
“Yes, you and your daughter…”
“Vicky.”
“Right. Vicky. You donate a lot of time here.”
Gia shrugged. “Can’t think of a place that needs it more.”
“You’ve got that right.”
The Center was a black hole of need.
“Can I talk to you a minute?”
She looked at Gia more closely and saw that her eyes were red. Had she been crying?
“No,” she said, gliding into the chair. Her eyes got redder. “I’m so angry I could… I don’t like thinking about what I’d like to do to the scum that stole those toys.”
“It’s okay. The police are working on it.”
“But you’re not holding your breath, right?”
Alicia shrugged and sighed. “No. I guess not. But they’re all we’ve got.”
“Not necessarily.”
Alicia looked at her. “What do you mean?”
She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I know someone…”
And we know who that “someone” is… Legacies
April
Interlude at Duane’s
In January 2005, David Morrell and I were instructors at the Borderlands Bootcamp for Writers. David had helped start the International Thriller Writers organization the previous year and induced me to join. ITW in turn induced me to donate a Repairman Jack story to their anthology (Thriller) to raise funds for the organization.
Thus was "Interlude at Duane’s" born. The Thriller table of contents is a Who’s Who of thriller writers. All contributors were limited to a 5K word count. I could have used more. Toward the end I was on fire, burning up the keyboard. I wish I could write with that speed and intensity all the time.
As you’ll see, this one was fun.
Thriller went on to become one of the bestselling anthologies of all time. And I didn’t get a dime royalty. But I did gain a ton of new readers. Many of the zillion or so people who bought the anthology had never heard of Jack. Since then I regularly run into devoted Jack fans who say their first contact with the character was in Thriller. Doing well while doing good… nothing wrong with that.
Ed Gorman chose it for his anthology The Deadly Bride and Other Great Mystery and Crime Stories of 2005.
Here’s a tempting morsel…
Interlude at Duane’s
(sample)
“Lemme tell you, Jack,” Loretta said, blotting perspiration from her fudgecicle skin, “these changes gots me in a baaaad mood.”
They’d just finished playing some real-life Frogger jaywalking 57th and were now chugging west.
“Real bad. My feets killin me too. Nobody better hassle me afore I’m home and on the outside of a big ol glass of Jimmy.”
Jack nodded, paying just enough attention to be polite. He was more interested in the passersby and was thinking how a day without your carry was like a day without clothes.
He felt naked. Had to leave his trusty Glock and backup home today because of his annual trip to the Empire State Building. He’d designated April 19th King Kong Day. Every year he made a pilgrimage to the observation deck to leave a little wreath in memory of the Big Guy. The major drawback to the outing was the metal detector everyone had to pass through before heading upstairs. That meant no heat.
He didn’t think he was being paranoid. Okay, maybe a little, but he’d pissed off his share of people in this city and didn’t care to run into them naked.
After the wreath-laying ceremony, he ran into Loretta and walked her back toward Hell’s Kitchen. Oh, wait. It was Clinton now.
They went back a dozen or so years to when both waited tables at a now-extinct trattoria on West Fourth. She’d been fresh up from Mississippi then, and he only a few years out of Jersey. Agewise, Loretta had a good decade on Jack, maybe more – might even be knocking on the door to fifty. Had a good hundred pounds on him too. Her Rubenesque days were just a fond, slim memory, but she was solid – no jiggle. She’d dyed her Chia Pet hair orange and sheathed herself in some shapeless, green-and-yellow thing that made her look like a brown manatee in a muumuu.
She stopped and stared at a black cocktail dress in a boutique window.
“Ain’t that pretty. Course I’ll have to wait till I’m cremated afore I fits into it.”
They continued to Seventh Avenue. As they stopped on the corner and waited for the walking green, two Asian women came up to her.
The taller one said, “You know where Saks Fifth Avenue?”
Loretta scowled. “On Fifth Avenue, fool.” Then she took a breath and jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “That way.”
Jack looked at her. “You weren’t kidding about the bad mood.”
“You ever know me to kid, Jack?” She glanced around. “Sweet Jesus, I need me some comfort food. Like some chocolate-peanut-butter-swirl ice cream.” She pointed to the Duane Reade on the opposite corner. “There.”
“That’s a drugstore.”
“Honey, you know better’n that. Duane’s got everything. Shoot, if mine had a butcher section I wouldn’t have to shop nowheres else. Come on.”
Before he could opt out, she grabbed his arm and started hauling him across the street.
“I specially like their makeup. Some places just carry Cover Girl, y’know, which is fine if you a Wonder Bread blonde. Don’t know if you noticed, but white ain’t zackly a big color in these parts. Everybody darker. Cept you, a course. I know you don’t like attention, Jack, but if you had a smidge of coffee in your cream you’d be really invisible.”
Jack expended a lot of effort on being invisible. He’d inherited a good start with his average height, average build, average brown hair, and nondescript face. Today he’d accessorized with a Mets cap, flannel shirt, worn Levi’s, and battered work boots. Just another guy, maybe a construction worker, ambling along the streets of Zoo York.
Jack slowed as they approached the door.
“Think I’ll take a raincheck, Lo.”
She tightened her grip on his arm. “Hell you will. I need some company. I’ll even buy you a Dew. Caffeine still your drug of choice?”
“Guess…till it’s time for a beer.” He eased his arm free. “Okay, I’ll spring for five minutes, but after that, I’m gone. Things to do.”
“Five minutes ain’t nuthin, but okay.”
“You go ahead. I’ll be right with you.”
He slowed in her wake so he could check out the entrance. He spotted a camera just inside the door, trained on the comers and goers.
He tugged down the brim of his hat and lowered his head. He was catching up to Loretta when he heard a loud, heavily accented voice.
“Mira! Mira! Mira! Look at the fine ass on you!”
Jack hoped that wasn’t meant for him. He raised his head far enough to see a grinning, mustachioed Latino leaning against the wall next to the doorway. A maroon gym bag sat at his feet. He had glossy, slicked-back hair and prison tats on the backs of his hands.
Loretta stopped and stared at him. “You better not be talkin a me!”
His grin widened. “But señorita, in my country it is a privilege for a woman to be praised by someone like me.”
“And just where is this country of yours?”
“Ecuador.”
“Well, you in New York now, honey, and I’m a bitch from the Bronx. Talk to me like that again and I’m gonna Bruce Lee yo ass.”
“But I know you would like to sit on my face.”
“Why? Yo nose bigger’n yo dick?”
This cracked up a couple of teenage girls leaving the store. Mr. Ecuador’s face darkened. He didn’t seem to appreciate the joke.
Head down, Jack crowded close behind Loretta as she entered the store.
She said, “Told you I was in a bad mood.”
“That you did, that you did. Five minutes, Loretta, okay?”
“I hear you.”
He glanced over his shoulder and saw Mr. Ecuador pick up his gym bag and follow them inside.
Jack paused as Loretta veered off toward one of the cosmetic aisles. He watched to see if Ecuador was going to hassle her, but he kept on going, heading toward the rear.
Duane Reade drugstores are a staple of New York life. The city has hundreds of them. Only the hoity-toitiest Upper East Siders hadn’t visit
ed one. Their most consistent feature was their lack of consistency. No two were the same size or laid out alike. Okay, they all kept the cosmetics near the front, but after that it became anyone’s guess where something might be hiding. Jack could see the method to that madness: The more time people had to spend looking for what they had come for, the greater their chances of picking up things they hadn’t.
This one seemed fairly empty and Jack assigned himself the task of finding the ice cream to speed their departure. He set off through the aisles and quickly became disoriented. The overall space was L-shaped, but instead of running in parallel paths to the rear, the aisles zigged and zagged. Whoever laid out this place was either a devotee of chaos theory or a crop circle designer.
He was wandering among the six-foot-high shelves and passing the hemorrhoid treatments when he heard a harsh voice behind him.
“Keep movin, yo. Alla way to the back.”
Jack looked and saw a big, steroidal black guy in a red tank top. The overhead fluorescents gleamed off his shaven scalp. He had a fat scar running through his left eyebrow, glassy eyes, and held a snub-nose .38 caliber revolver – the classic Saturday night special.
Jack kept his cool and held his ground. “What’s up?”
The guy raised the gun, holding it sideways like in movies, the way no one who knew squat about pistols would be caught dead holding one.
“Ay yo, get yo ass in gear fore I bust one in yo face.”
Jack waited a couple more seconds to see if the guy would move closer and put the pistol within reach. But he didn’t.
Not good. On the way to the rear, the big question was whether this was personal or not. When he saw the gaggle of frightened-looking people – the white-coated ones obviously pharmacists – kneeling before the rear counter with their hands behind their necks, he figured it wasn’t.
A relief… sort of.
He spotted Mr. Ecuador standing over them with a gleaming nickel-plated .357 revolver.
Robbery.