Despite all the shit coming down, Tom had to smile. Little Brother was soon going to be getting one mammoth MasterCard bill.
The smile faded. The last thing Little Brother wanted was him crashing for a week or two. If asked, Jack would turn him down—no question. So he'd have to get in through the back door. There had to be a way. After all, he had an eight-hour drive to figure it out.
Yeah, like it or not, Jack was going to have a houseguest. And once he got himself inside, there he'd stay until he'd unlocked the mysteries of the Lilitongue.
Tom smiled. Call me Sheridan Whiteside.
2
Jack breathed a sigh of relief as he and Tom pulled away from Ernie's Photo ID. Ernie had taken a few photos of Tom and promised to get to work on a new identity right away.
He'd brought Tom directly to Ernie's from the Lincoln Tunnel. Ernie could work miracles, but he needed time, and the sooner Tom got started, the better.
Because as soon as Tom became someone else, he and his Lilitongue would be on their way.
It was almost four thirty and the sun was hitting the horizon somewhere beyond the high-rises.
Jack was looking forward to getting home and crashing.
Long day. Up before dawn, cooped in a car with Tom for eight hours… he was fragged.
Had to admit, though, that Tom had been better company on the way back than the way down. Not because Jack was getting used to him or that they'd bonded. Hardly. The simple reason was that Tom hadn't talked as much. Of course, when he had it had been about Gia, but a generally non-toxic trip.
Tom had insisted on driving the first leg. They'd switched after lunch at a no-name diner somewhere on the DelMarVa Peninsula. Tom had insisted that diners were far superior to fast-food chains. Jack's burger was okay but he really could have gone for a Whopper with cheese. Tom's beef stew had looked and smelled like hot Alpo.
Jack had had the wheel from there on.
As Jack wound through the traffic on Tenth Avenue, Tom grabbed his arm.
"Stop the car!"
Jack tensed, his eyes doing a quick 360 scan via the mirrors and windshield: nothing.
"What's wrong?"
Tom was doubled over. "Pull over! Now!"
Jack swerved right and pulled in by a fireplug. Before the car had stopped, Tom was leaning out the door. Jack heard him retching.
When he finished, he levered himself upright and sat there panting.
"Oh, God. Must be that stew. Never should have—"
Then he was hanging out the door and retching again.
"You okay?" Jack said.
Tom nodded.
"Done?"
Another nod.
As Jack put the Vic back into gear he realized with a shock that Tom had no place to stay.
"We've got to find you a hotel."
Shit. A Saturday night in Manhattan the last weekend before Christmas… where the hell were they going to find a room?
Tom slumped against the door.
"Jesus, Jack, I don't think I can make it."
"What do you mean?"
Jack knew what Tom meant but his mind shied from acknowledging it.
"Searching for a room." Tom groaned. "I don't think I can make today. I'll find a place tomorrow. I just need a little time to get over this."
"How much time?"
"Food poisoning doesn't last long. One night will probably do it. By tomorrow it'll be like it never happened." He winced and doubled over, then looked at Jack. "How about your place?"
Jack felt like the driver of a jackknifed semitrailer in mid-skid on an icy road, painfully, hopelessly aware that no matter what pedal he tromped or which way he yanked the wheel, the ending was a foregone conclusion.
"Tom…"
His voice took on a whiny tone. "Come on, Jack. Would it kill you to let me crash one night? One lousy night?"
Bastard.
3
"He'll be bunking in the TV room," Jack said.
He'd called Gia as soon as he'd unloaded the car and parked it in its garage.
Tom had carried his backpack and the Lilitongue chest up to the apartment, then slumped on the couch, leaving Jack to unload and haul the rest up to the third floor by himself.
Gia said, "You… with a houseguest…" A suppressed laugh trickled through the phone. "The hermit of the Upper West Side with overnight company. I can't believe it."
"It's not funny and I'm not a hermit."
"Is he feeling better?"
"Seems to be. At least he's not throwing up anymore. Hasn't been sick since Tenth Avenue. Perked up right after he got here."
Which only deepened Jack's suspicions. Thinking back, he remembered only hearing Tom retch. Never saw any vomit. Of course, he hadn't been exactly itching for a look at regurgitated beef stew.
Still… with a guy a little less honest than a wharf rat, you never knew.
Gia tsked. "Poor man."
"That's what you get for eating Alpo."
"Pardon?"
"Nothing. Look, when am I going to see you?"
A whole week away. Jack had missed her.
"Well, why don't the three of us go somewhere after you drop off your brother? There's a German Expressionist exhibit at MOMA that might be fun."
The Museum of Modern Art… just the place he wanted to spend his first day home from the sea.
Gia must have sensed his lack of enthusiasm.
"Give it a chance, Jack. There's no way a man who likes The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari—which you insisted I see—won't find something to like there."
Oh, right. The crazy Caligari set design had been created by a couple of German expressionists.
"Okay. You're on."
He hung up feeling good about tomorrow, anticipating a much-needed Gia-Vicky fix.
The feeling did a quick fade when he walked into the second bedroom that served as his TV room. Tom had the convertible couch folded out into bed mode—no sheets, just a bare mattress—and he was unpacking his bag… hanging clothes in the closet.
"What are you doing?"
Tom looked up and smiled. "Just letting some of this stuff air. It's been at sea too long. Was that Gia on the phone?"
"Yeah. She says hi and hopes you're feeling better, which you seem to be."
"Yeah. Amazing, isn't it. One minute you think you're dying, and a little while later you're feeling fine."
"Amazing."
"Still feeling a little weak, though. Why don't you ask Gia over?"
Here we go: Tom and his thing for Gia.
"I would, but what you have might be contagious."
"I'm sure it was just food poisoning."
"You never know."
Tom looked disappointed. "All right, then. Got any vodka?"
Jack shook his head. "Only beer. Probably not a good thing to be pouring booze into such an unsettled stomach anyway."
"Actually a beer would go a long way toward settling my stomach, I think. Could you get me one?"
Jack jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Bottom shelf of the fridge."
Jack eyed Tom's neck as he passed. He resisted an urge to grab it with both hands and shake him like a rag doll.
He listened to the refrigerator door open and close, watched Tom return carrying two bottles of Yuengling lager. He twisted the top off one and handed it to Jack, then opened the other and held it up.
"To brotherhood."
He clinked his bottle against Jack's and drank. Jack felt like saying, This is brotherhood? but bit it back, choosing instead to say nothing.
For you, Dad, he thought as he took a long pull. Only for you.
He needed a beer. Had a feeling he was going to need many beers.
Tom gestured around Jack's cluttered front room. Gia once had called it "claustrophobic," and Abe proclaimed it "vertigogenic."