"Oh," he said. "And I had nothing to do with the baby, I suppose?"
"Well, sure you did, but—"
"No buts. The past is past, the baby is now. He wasn't planned—"
Gia couldn't help it. "She."
"Let me rephrase: The baby wasn't planned, right, but we haven't been pointing fingers because there's no one to point to. So don't go pointing a finger at yourself. Things are what they are. We deal with it. End of story."
Gia agreed in principle, but couldn't get past the enormity of jack's sacrifice.
He rose and took the seat next to her, then drew her onto his lap.
"Look." He slipped his arms around her. "Here's the way I see it. I've always known I couldn't keep up the Repairman Jack thing forever. It's not the kind of scene you can play indefinitely. I mean, can you see me wearing Depends while I'm meeting customers in Julio's?"
Gia laughed through her tears. "That's taking things to extremes, don't you think? Just a little?"
"Maybe, but the thing is, I've had a good run, and a lot of good luck. I've made a nice piece of change. At some time in the not-too-distant future I was going to have to call it quits anywray. So why not now? Why not quit wrhile I'm ahead… before I slip up and regret it? Opt to go out upright, under my own steam."
It made a lot of sense, but didn't ring quite true. Jack was giving up the cherished, under-the-radar lifestyle he'd worked at all his adult life. He might in time convince himself that it had been the smart thing to do, the best thing to do, but she knew it was costing him dearly.
Which reminded her of why she loved this strange, driven man.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed.
"I feel as if I'm robbing the world of something unique and precious."
"You're doing nothing of the sort. I'm a grown-up and this is my decision. I don't have to tell you I wish we had a different system—in a lot of ways—but this is the one we're stuck with. My approach has painted me into a corner that won't allow me to claim paternity. I can't change the system so, for the baby's sake, I've got to adapt."
She hugged him tighter.
"I wish there was an easier way- I hate the thought of you sneaking into a foreign country—Yugoslavia of all places."
"Yugoslavia is no more. It's Bosnia-Hurtstogoweewee now."
"Whatever it's called, I'm worried."
"You always worry about me."
"Yes, I know. But at least here in New York you're on your home turf—you own this city. It's your playground. You know all the rules. But a foreign country… where you don't even speak the language…" She tightened her grip. "I hate it. If anything happens to you…"
He gave her a squeeze. "Nothing's going to happen. In a week or so you're going to have a foreign houseguest with a funny name."
"What was that name again?"
"Mirko Abdic."
"That's got to go. We don't want to saddle our little girl with a name like Emma Abdic."
"You mean Jack Abdic. Or maybe we could go for Arnold Abdic."
"That's not even funny," she said, but laughed anyway.
It felt good to laugh. She just hoped they'd have something to laugh about when all this was over.
4
Instead of a cab, Jack took his own wheels to Brooklyn this time. And instead of the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, he decided to cross the East River on the Williamsburg Bridge.
Mistake… at least in a car as big as Jack's.
Checkpoints had tightened on bridges and tunnels since what had come to be known as the LaGuardia Massacre. Before that, the heavy scrutiny had been directed at vehicles entering the city. Appeared they'd expanded that to those leaving.
His big black Crown Vic's trunk—fittingly enough for a car that got negative miles per gallon—was huge, big enough to house a whole Al Qaeda cell and their favorite caprine squeezes. Apparently that made it something to look out for.
Jack's stomach turned sour as a cop at the entrance to the span signaled him to pull over.
The big, bored-looking white guy with five-o'clock shadow before noon strolled up to Jack's window. No hurrying for this guy.
"Good morning, sir. May I see your license and registration?"
This was bad. Very bad. Jack's IDs, though the best money could buy, were bogus. The registration would pass muster, but he didn't know if the John Tyleski license he'd been using would withstand a computer check. Ernie the ID guy was good, but no one was perfect.
With moist fingers, Jack dug the license out of his wallet, the registration out of the glove compartment, and handed them over.
The cop thanked him and turned away, studying them as he headed toward a kiosk by the curb. Halfway there he stopped and returned to Jack's window.
"These don't match."
Here we go.
"Yessir. I drive and run errands for Mr. Donato."
"We're talking Vinny Donuts here?"
"Yessir."
The cop looked around, then handed the cards back.
"Okay. You got anything in that trunk I shouldn't see?"
Nothing but some of Jack's burglary tools, and they were hidden in a canvas bag in the spare well.
"Not a thing, sir. Mr. Donato is a loyal American citizen."
"Yeah. Okay, pop it so I can take a look."
Jack did. The cop made a cursory examination—going through the motions—then slammed it shut.
He slapped the roof and said, "Have a nice day, sir."
"I will now," Jack muttered once his window had rolled up.
He crossed the bridge slowly, letting the adrenaline work its way out of his system as he blessed the day he'd come up with the idea of cloning Vincent Donato's car. Mr. Donato, sometimes called "Vinny Donuts" and sometimes called "Vinny the Donut," was built like Abe and ran certain ventures of dubious legality out of Brooklyn. Jack had bought a black Crown Vic identical to Vinny's and had Ernie make up an identical registration card and plate.
The inspiration had been mothered by necessity: Someone with no love for Jack had traced the plates on his previous car to Gia, putting her and Vicky in jeopardy. Now should anyone trace his plates they'll find themselves dealing with a hard guy notorious for a bad attitude.
He'd returned to his normal steady state by the time he reached the BQE and took it down to Red Hook. The big Vic sailed along the pocked pavement as if it were velvet.
Across the river, Lower Manhattan gleamed in the winter sunshine. The city looked so clean from over here. Almost pristine. He wondered when someone would discover the three anything-but-pristine corpses in that cellar.
He rolled into Red Hook, found Zeklos's apartment, and parked out front. Then he leaned back, watched the pedestrians, and waited.
After twenty-five minutes a middle-aged man carrying a grocery bag stepped up to the building door. As he fumbled for his key, Jack hopped out and came up behind him. When he unlocked the door, Jack reached past him and held it open.
"I got it," he said.
The guy looked at him, suspicion in his eyes.
AAAAAA A"You live here, bud?"
Jack held up his own shopping bag and loosed his most charming smile.
"Staying with Zeklos. Y'know, Two-B?"
"You mean the ghost?"
They stepped into a tiny vestibule, and then Jack followed the guy up the stairs.
"Why you call him that? He's a good guy."
"Maybe so. But nobody hardly ever sees him. You hear him go in and out, but it's like he's invisible. Like a ghost, y'know?"
Jack knew. He'd been living that way for the past decade and a half: slipping in and out unseen. A ghost in the machine.
A ghost soon to be exorcised.
Jack laughed. "Well, trust me, he looked pretty solid last night."