“No-no. You must drink it. The wormwood will open your eyes to things that you cannot otherwise see.”
“What is it—like LSD?”
“Not at all, not at all. It has a unique property I discovered quite by accident.” He pointed toward the Orsa. “And it has something to do with our friend over there.”
“Darryl?”
“No. The Orsa itself. You will see it as you have never seen it before, as only a privileged few have seen it. It is a . . . revelation, one I promise you will cherish because it concerns the future of you and your Kickers, and even your father’s Plan.”
Hank stiffened with surprise. “What do you know about that?”
“Everything.”
“Can’t you just tell me?”
He shook his head. “No. You must see. Drink up and you will see—literally.” He took another sip from his glass. “Come, come.”
Hank looked at the glass, then at the Orsa. Nothing else was making much sense right now. Might as well go with this and see what Drexler was talking about.
But he’d be damned if he was going to sip it.
He grabbed the glass and tossed down the contents in one bitter, convulsive swallow.
“Oh, my,” Drexler said. “This is going to be quite entertaining.”
18
“How do you think they found him?” Weezy said as they tooled south on the turnpike.
Jack considered that as he drove.
Eddie wanted Weezy to stay with him and Jack thought it was a good idea. Weezy had argued against it, saying she didn’t want to be out of the city. What if she needed to consult with Veilleur about something in the Compendium? Jack thought she’d be safer in Jersey, and she could hop a train in to Penn Station any time she wanted to. She’d finally given in.
So he’d shot the Verrazano, crossed Staten Island, then taken the Goethals Bridge to the New Jersey Turnpike. The plan was to meet Eddie at the service area near exit twelve.
“They could have known where he lived all along, or could have followed him home from the hospital yesterday.”
Jack had thought he’d been a little too cocky about no one being able to tail him.
“Aren’t you worried? Isn’t it risky using your own car like this? I mean, what if someone took down your license plate numbers. They could trace you through the DMV.”
Jack smiled. “I hope they try. Good luck if they do.”
“Oh, I see,” she said, nodding. “Fake tags.”
“Well, yes and no. Ever hear of Vincent Donato?”
“Vinny Donuts? Sure. Who hasn’t?”
“This is his car.”
Her eyes widened. “You know Vinny Donuts? Well enough to borrow his car? Get out!”
“Okay, not his car itself, but exactly like it, right down to the plates and registration.”
“Now why on Earth—?” She stopped and grinned. “Oh, I get it. Anyone who tries to track you down through the car—”
“—will wind up dealing with a notoriously ill-tempered mobster.”
She clapped her hands. “I love it. It’s so sneakily brilliant.” She turned toward him and stared. “Just what are you, Jack? What do you do that makes it necessary to drive around in a clone of a Mafiosomobile?”
He shrugged, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. If it were anyone else, he’d give her the brush-off. But this was Weezy.
Besides, she’d seen him kill three men this morning. She already knew plenty.
“Remember my telling you about those stunts I used to pull as a kid—you know, Toliver’s locker and Canelli’s lawn? Well, I’m still at it, only I get paid for it.”
“I’m not following.”
“I hire out to fix things.”
“Things? What sort of things?”
“Situations.”
“And how do you fix them?”
“Depends. I do custom work.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re a hit man.”
He knew she was thinking about the recent gunplay. He forced a laugh.
“No. I’ve lost count of the number of times people have tried to hire me to kill someone, but no, I don’t do that.”
“But you have . . .” She seemed afraid of the word. “I’ve seen you.”
“I do what’s necessary, Weez—to protect myself, people I care about, or a customer.”
“But you never hesitated, even for a second, and you didn’t look the least bit shaken or upset afterward—not the slightest sign of remorse or regret.”
“I’ve had regrets.” He thought of Hideo back in May. “But those guys? How do I feel bad about stopping someone from killing us? No regret there.” He smiled. “Is this where I start to sing ‘My Way’?”
She didn’t smile back. “I just can’t help wonder what happened to the sweet boy from Johnson, New Jersey. The kid we all called Jackie when we were little.”
He stared through the windshield.
“Shit happened, Weez. A whole load of shit happened.”
“But—”
“Let’s find a topic other than me. Like, how about them Mets? Some slump, huh?”
Weezy said nothing for a while and Jack concentrated on the road. He had the cruise control set at sixty-five and kept to one of the middle lanes. His New Jersey driver’s license was the best money could buy, and was supposed to be able to pass muster against a DMV computer, but he’d rather not put it to the test. So he drove carefully, avoiding any moves that might draw attention.
Lack of an official identity made for safe driving. Everyone should try it.
Finally Weezy heaved a sigh and said, “Okay. New topic: I have a big favor to ask.”
“Ask.”
“Will you go to Los Angeles for me?”
Uh-oh.
“Why?”
“I need you to talk to someone out there.”
“We have phones for that. Give me his number.”
“He won’t want to talk about this on the phone, maybe not even in person. I’m pretty sure I could convince him if we were face-to-face, but I need to study the Compendium. So I was wondering if you could go for me.”
“Is it that important?”
“Very. Kevin and I . . .” Her voice choked off. “Poor Kevin.”
After a moment she took a breath and continued. “Kevin and I have been looking for this man for a year now. Kevin finally tracked him down in L.A. We really need to talk to him.”
“Why?”
“After nine/eleven—”
Jack fought an eye roll. He’d heard enough about that day lately to last a lifetime.
“Everything seems to keep coming back to that.”
“Yes, it does. Odd, don’t you think?”
“I think we should be more worried about R and what he might be up to.”
“I’ve told you I have this feeling that somehow some way, they might be connected. And this man—his name’s Ernest Goren—may be able to provide a missing link.” She pointed to a sign announcing the presence of the Thomas A. Edison Service Area two miles ahead. “There’s our stop.”
The plan was to meet Eddie there. Weezy would transfer to his car and go home with him.
Jack nodded and kept to his lane. “I see it.”
“Shouldn’t you be getting over to the right?”
That was Jack’s natural inclination too, but he resisted it.
“Let me do the driving, okay?”
“But—”
“Please? Tell me about this Goren.”
“He was a member of one of the crews sent into the bowels of the Trade Center to look for remains of victims. No one expected survivors. Their job was to bag up any human remains and bring them to the surface for identification.”
“Nice.”
“Somebody had to do it. He was with a crew of four and—Jack, you’re going to miss the rest stop.”
The entrance to the service area lay just ahead. At the last possible second, Jack jumped lanes and angled onto the ramp. He slowed after he was off the highway, watching in the rearview to see if anyone else made a similar move.
Nope.
“Never thought you’d turn out to be a backseat driver.”
“I’ve been told I have control issues.”
“Says who?”
“Most of my therapists through the years.”
“Imagine that. Okay, back to Goren.”