“But I can’t—”
Hank jabbed a finger at him. “You can and you will. Don’t make this any harder than it already is.” His voice softened. “I . . .”
He looked like he really and truly hated what he was doing, and that made Darryl feel a little better, but not a whole hell of a lot. Not if he wasn’t going to change his mind.
“Maybe I could—”
“You’ll always be a Kicker, Darryl. Don’t you ever think otherwise. But you just can’t stay here.”
As Hank started for the door, he half reached out to Darryl’s shoulder but then dropped his hand.
He’s even afraid to pat me on the back.
He hoped Hank didn’t stop on his way out because Darryl didn’t know how long he could hold back the tears that had begun slamming against the backs of his eyelids.
“Remember,” Hank said as he closed the door behind him. “Gone tomorrow.”
When the door clicked shut, Darryl sank back onto the bed, buried his face in his hands, and bawled like a goddamn baby.
6
“You look tired,” Gia said as she sliced Vicky’s everything bagel. “Did you get any sleep last night?”
“Some.”
Jack had grabbed a few hours of shut-eye, showered, and shown up at Gia’s door with half a dozen bagels—including two everythings for Vicky.
He drained his mug of coffee and stepped to the counter for a refill. Gia’s super-strong Colombian was working its wake-up magic.
“Ran into two blasts from my past yesterday—Eddie and Weezy Connell from good old Johnson, NJ.”
Gia smiled her smile as she dropped the everything halves into the toaster slots. She was barefoot, wearing loose jeans and a tight pink sleeveless top. She had nice deltoids for someone who never worked out.
“Weezy? As in ‘movin’ on up’ Weezy?” She grinned. “Does she live on the East Side in a deluxe apartment in the sky?”
“She was Weezy before The Jeffersons.”
“How’d this happen?”
“Weezy’s got trouble. Stuck her nose into places where, apparently, people don’t want to see any unfamiliar noses, and now . . .”
The smile disappeared. “Is she in danger?”
As he reseated himself at the kitchen table, he glanced at the folded copy of the Post he’d picked up on his way over. The front page showed Weezy’s house engulfed in flames under the headline BACKFIRE! A brief, hastily written article inside told of three dead, unidentified gunshot victims found in the backyard, and how they’d been linked to a van containing firebomb materials parked out front.
“Oh, yeah.”
Odors of garlic and onion tinged the air as the bagel heated.
“Can’t she go to the police?”
“It’s complicated.”
“It usually is by the time they call you. Do I want to know any of the details?”
“Probably not. It sounds pretty wacky, and all her reasoning may be way off base, but she’s definitely stirred up a hornet’s nest.”
Gia pulled the bagel halves from the toaster and began buttering them with Jif Extra Crunchy. Jack shook his head. PB on an everything bagel . . . blech.
“Vicky!” she called. “Jack’s here and he brought bagels!” She glanced at Jack. “Weezy and Eddie . . . were you close as kids?”
“Yeah. As close to them as anyone. For years Weezy and I were best buds.”
“You’ve never mentioned them.”
“Do I mention anyone from those days? To tell the truth, I’ll bet I haven’t given them a single thought in the last ten or fifteen years.”
Pounding footsteps on the stairs, then Vicky charged in.
“Jack!”
“Hey, Vicks.”
She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek, then darted to the waiting bagel.
“Everything! Awesome!”
She dropped into her chair and tore into it.
“Human bites, Vicky,” Gia said as she placed a glass of milk before her. “You’re not a crocodile—human bites.”
Jack leaned back and looked around as he sipped his coffee. Sun streamed through the open door from the small backyard as Gia wiped the bagel crumbs from the table and Vicky chowed down in lip-smacking joy.
Hard to believe that relentless forces were at work to take all this away, to make a moment like this impossible.
He couldn’t allow that to happen, yet had no idea how to stop it.
But Weezy . . . maybe that unique brain of hers could help. Maybe if she added the contents of the Compendium to everything else in her head, she could come up with a solution, or at least point him toward one.
A long, long shot, but not trying was not an option.
7
“Nu?” Abe said as his surprisingly dexterous pudgy fingers examined Jack’s Glock 19 with practiced expertise. “A cleaning it needs, but otherwise looks all right to me.”
“It’s seen dead people.”
“Seen?”
“Okay. It made them dead.”
“All by itself?”
“It had help.”
“From you?”
Jack shrugged. “Yeah.”
“How many dead people has it seen?”
“Five.”
Abe rolled his eyes. “Oy. All at once? Such a thing would be in the papers. It’s not.”
“Two yesterday afternoon at Mount Sinai. Three more in Jackson Heights early this morning.”
Abe’s raised eyebrows caused furrows in his extended forehead. “Five in twelve hours?”
“Oh, and like you’ve never had a cranky day?”
“Cranky like you, I don’t get. No one gets.” He turned his free hand palm up and wiggled his fingers. “Spill. Details.”
Jack gave him a capsule version of Weezy’s troubles.
Abe shook his head. “With old friends like her, who needs enemies?”
“I hear that. But she’s good people.” He pointed to the Glock. “Anyway, that baby there can tie me to five corpses, so I need a replacement.”
“All right. Lock the—”
“Done.” He’d locked the front door on the way in. “Turned the OPEN sign too.”
“Then let’s go.”
He led Jack down to the basement.
“Hey,” Jack said, indicating the dead neon loops over the stairs. When lit they quoted a sign from The Weapon Shops of Isher. “What happened to the sign? It worked Monday.”
“Dead. And considering the times, I’d be meshugge to have it repaired.”
The Right to Buy Weapons Is the Right to Be Free . . . no, that would raise a host of warning flags in these political climes.
In the basement, Abe removed a box from a neatly stocked shelf and produced a new Glock 19. He swapped Jack’s old loaded magazine for the empty new one, and handed it over. Jack racked the slide to chamber a round.
“Nu, I thought you liked—”
“An empty chamber? Yeah, but with the way things are going these past few days, an extra millisecond could be the difference between . . . you know.”
“You want I should set up a test fire?”
“Nah. I’ll be fine. Hell, it’s a Glock.”
He’d owned at least a dozen over the years. Hadn’t failed him yet.
8
Jack strolled east toward Central Park. The plan was to meet Weezy there around one. He’d considered Julio’s but decided against it. Easier to spot a tail if they stayed out in the open. The Compendium rested in the backpack slung over his shoulder. If Weezy wanted, he’d lend it to her for as long as necessary. He couldn’t imagine her turning him down.
He realized he had time for a brew, so he stopped into Julio’s before heading for the park.
To his delight he found Glaeken—no, make that Mr. Veilleur—sitting at his table, a half-empty pint of Guinness before him. He looked eighty-something, maybe ninety, with blue eyes, white hair, wrinkled olive skin stretched over high cheekbones. Slightly stooped, but still a big man.
Jack held up two fingers as he passed the crowded bar—Julio spotted him and nodded. He knew what that meant.