"Who's in charge there? Who's behind this?"
"He's not here right now. But if you haven't seen her, can you help us, give us any hint of where she might be?"
"I'm not saying another word until I speak to whoever's behind this."
"I'm sorry, he's not available right now."
"Is his name Jerry? Tell—"
A long-fingered hand snatched the phone away and snapped it shut.
"Quite enough," Henry said. "I let you call for one reason: To make clear to you that your ex-lover is conducting a very organized hunt for you. Do you understand now?"
Ex-lover? If he only knew the rest of it.
"I understand."
Did she ever.
"Still fighting chopsticks, I see," Jack said.
The Isher Sports Shop was officially closed, its narrow, cluttered aisles dark except for the rearmost section where Abe perched on a stool behind the scarred counter. The air reeked of garlic from the take-out kimchi he was forking into his mouth.
He raised his free hand and waggled his stubby, chubby fingers.
"These look made for eating with sticks?"
"You could learn."
"Why for I should learn? For westerners, chopsticks are an affectation. I don't do affectations."
No argument there, Jack thought, taking in Abe's customary white half-sleeve shirt and black trousers, strained by his bulging belly and stained by the day's parade of edibles.
"Well, for one thing, they might slow down your eating."
"I should eat slow? Why?"
"Slow eaters tend to eat less."
"You're not going to start, are you?"
Jack shook his head. "Not tonight."
He knew his own eating habits—except when Gia cooked for him—were anything but healthy. One of these days he'd get his cholesterol checked. But at least he was active. Abe spent most of his time on that stool, eating. Jack didn't like to think of his closest friend as a cardiac arrest waiting to happen.
But he was getting tired of being a nag, especially since it hadn't changed anything. The guy was fatter than ever, and didn't seem to care. With his wife long dead, his daughter barely speaking to him… food and reading newspapers—usually simultaneously—were his joys in life.
Abe said, "And kimchi, I'll have you know, is diet food. Fermented cabbage. More low-cal is hard to find." He pushed the container toward Jack. "You want?"
Jack shook his head. The two burgers at the Ear would hold him the rest of the night.
"Thanks, no. I didn't think any of the Korean places around here delivered."
"I picked it up on my way back from the hospice."
Jack knew why Abe had gone there.
"How's the professor doing?"
Abe shook his head. "Not good. The chemo and radiation are slowing down the cancer, but his right side is still useless from the stroke."
"And the numbers?"
A sigh. "Still with the numbers."
Peter Buhmann, Ph.D., Abe's old professor from his university days, had suffered a stroke last month while paging through the Compendium of Srem. Turned out to be a hemorrhage into a metastatic brain tumor from kidney cancer. The weirdest part was that he'd stopped speaking words and begun speaking numbers. Exclusively. And not random numbers—only primes multiplied by seven. Strange and sad, because the cancer was all through his body.
"How long?"
Another shrug. "Could be weeks, could be months." He burped kimchi.
"And how long before that stuff hits your colon? I would like to be out of here before then."
Abe smiled. "Why do you think I stock those NBC masks?"
"You'll let me know if I need to run downstairs and grab one, won't you?"
"Of course. But my guess is you didn't come here at this hour to ask about the professor or tshepen me about what I eat and the way I eat it. Nu?"
Jack told him about his meeting with Naka Slater.
"So, a second-story man you're looking for."
"Seems like it. Used the name Eddie Cordero, which rings some sort of bell with me, but apparently it's an aka."
Abe frowned. "A bell for me too. Who, I wonder…?" He shrugged. "Maybe it will come. Meanwhile, we need to find a second-story ganef who was away for a while and has a tan maybe."
"And looking to unload a rotted-out katana."
Abe twirled his finger next to his head. "He's a little farblondjet, maybe?"
"Maybe." Damn, this was weird—but that made it interesting. "Anyway, you put out the word to your people, I'll talk to mine."
"You know who else you should talk to? Tom O'Day."
The name sounded familiar.
"The knife guy?"
"Yes, and a fence he'll be should the opportunity arise. Runs an East Side specialty shop called Bladeville. Sells anything and everything that cuts—from scimitars to steak knives."
"Good thought. I'll check with him tomorrow. Never met him, so could you give him a call to loosen him up?"
"Sure, but don't expect much looseness. A shmoozer he's not."
"Might be if I say I'm looking to buy it. If he knows of it, he can dip his beak as middleman."
"Good luck." Abe rubbed his belly and shifted in his seat. "Uh-oh. Fortz coming."
Jack spun and beat it toward the door.
"Bye."
"And you have no clue where she was calling from?"
Menck shook his head. "Tried to squeeze her—gentle, I swear—but suddenly she hung up."
Hank Thompson ground his teeth as he and Menck stood to the side of the phone bank he'd set up in the Lodge's basement. Ten phones manned by a rotating cadre of volunteers, collecting one false lead after another.
"And you didn't do anything to scare her off?"
"You've asked me that three times now and the answer's still no. Fuck no. Matter of fact, she already sounded scared when she got on the line."
"Scared how?"
Menck shrugged. "Dunno. Can't be sure but she sounded surprised. Like she'd just seen the flyer for the first time."
How could that be? They were all over the five boroughs.
Unless she'd been out of town for a couple of weeks.
"You're sure she asked for 'Jerry'?"
"Absolutely. Who's Jerry?"
Hank almost shouted, My brother, you asshole, but realized Menck had no way of knowing that. Only a handful of people knew he had a brother—half brother, actually—and they weren't talking.
The world knew that Jeremy Bolton was dead, but didn't know Hank's connection. It had been a big story last month when his body was found and identified by DNA. Dawn had known him as Jerry Bethlehem—still presumed alive—but the rest of the world knew him as Jeremy Bolton, the famous Atlanta Abortionist Killer from almost twenty years ago. Only the same handful of people who knew the brother relationship knew that Jeremy had been living as Jerry.
Hank was pretty sure he knew who was behind his death.
Mr. Everyman: mid-thirties, average height, average build, average-length brown hair, average nose, nothing-special brown eyes, dressed in nondescript clothing. He'd dogged Hank's trail, pretending to be a reporter, even mugged him in broad daylight.
Jeremy had described a guy just like him worming into the edges of his life.