If only he'd been there yesterday with one of these…
"Sold. How much?"
"It's a gift."
"Abe—"
"Considering the circumstances surrounding the loss of its predecessor, I should charge you? Your money's no good today."
"It must have cost you at least a—"
"Never mind what it cost me. Allow me a mitzvah, already, will you?"
Jack wasn't in a gift-getting mood, but felt obliged to let Abe do his good deed.
"Thanks, Abe."
"May you never have to use it."
As they headed back upstairs, Abe said, "When are they releasing your father's, you know, remains?"
Remains… jeez.
"Not until tomorrow."
Earlier this morning he'd made another call to the one-fifteenth, and this time he was referred to some city office downtown. The woman there told him that half of the bodies were being released today and the rest tomorrow. What was the deceased's name?
Jack told her and was informed that his father's remains could be picked up at the city morgue after ten tomorrow morning.
"The schmucks."
"Yeah. Another day, damn it. Tom left a message that he'll be arriving on the Metroliner and I couldn't get hold of him to tell him to wait till tomorrow. Which means he's on his way."
They exited the closet and returned to the legal portion of Abe's shop.
"So? That's bad?"
"I was planning on meeting him, taking him over to the morgue to claim Dad's body, getting it shipped to Johnson—"
"Johnson?" Abe said as he reinstalled himself on his stool behind the counter. "Never heard of it. Jersey?"
Jack nodded. "Our home town. Burlington County. Our mother's buried there."
Mom… the man he was today could be traced back to her murder.
"Damn." Jack felt like hitting the counter again but didn't want to put another scare into Parabellum. "This means he'll have to stay over. Where am I going to put him?"
"Well, he could stay with you."
Jack gave him a look.
Abe waved his hands. "Never mind. Forget I said that. Oy, what was I thinking?"
Jack showed his sweetest smile. "How about your place, oF buddy, oF pal?"
"Never! Barely room for me."
"Which means I have to find him a hotel room."
"This week? One in Yonkers, maybe. Maybe not."
"And he'll probably expect me to entertain him—which is not going to happen."
"Why not?"
"Business."
"You can't let it slide?"
Jack shook his head. "I'd love to, but there's only a small window of opportunity. And even if there weren't, I want it off my plate before I start going to wakes and the funeral." And facing his nieces and nephews. "Besides, I made a promise."
"Better get calling. Such an earache you'll have."
"Yeah, thanks. Where's your phone book?"
3
Jack had to look twice and then a third time before he was sure this was his brother coming up the steps.
Entering the main floor of Penn Station had triggered an almost unnerving sense of deja vu. Yes, it was a train station instead of an airport, but the crowd of waiting travelers and expectant friends and family drew his thoughts kicking and screaming back to the baggage claim at La Guardia.
He was glad Tom had decided on Amtrak instead of a plane. Jack had never liked airports, and after yesterday's massacre…
Lots of people were steering clear of airports now. But flying from Philly to New York had never made much sense anyway. Not only was the train cheaper, but when you added up all the delays and wasted time in and around the airports, it was faster. Cheaper even than driving, considering what it cost to park in Manhattan.
He spotted a number of armed soldiers in black berets, camo suits, and combat boots patrolling the station.
Sure, he thought with a surge of anger. Now you're out in force. Where the hell were you yesterday?
He shook it off.
He'd finally found Tom a hotel room—managed to book him one right across the street from the station—but only because he'd once done a little fix-it for someone in the back office. He'd secured the room with a credit card under one of his aliases.
He'd arrived a little early, so he killed time wandering the marble floor of the main level. He browsed the Book Corner where he saw a new Stephen Hunter book; he made a note to pick it up for some future time when he could focus on something longer than a train schedule.
Speaking of which… he wandered toward the big arrival-departure board overhanging the main waiting area. A crowd clustered below, staring up at it like rapt worshippers before a shrine. He joined the congregation. Tom had taken the Metroliner and was due in at 1:59. The board said it was on time and ten minutes away.
He spent the remaining time people watching.
Folks in Penn Station looked tense, skittish. Jack figured he probably looked a little the same. What could happen at an airport could happen at a train station.
He wondered how many of them were armed. He had the new backup strapped around his ankle and his Glock in a nylon holster tucked in the small of his back under the waistband of his jeans)
Anyone started shooting around here was going to find someone shooting back.
Finally the Metroliner arrived. And here was this lardy, mid-forties guy in a dark gray suit, red faced and puffing as he lugged an overnight suitcase up the stairs.
Tom already had started putting on weight before Jack split to become nameless in Manhattan. But he'd really packed on the pounds in the fifteen years since Jack had last seen him. Looked like the "before" guy on an Overeaters Anonymous poster. But he had the same brown hair and eyes as the brother Tom he'd known, and the features in the puffy expanse ol his face looked vaguely familiar.
"Tom?"
The guy looked up, blinked, then frowned. "Jackie?"
"That's me." He extended his hand. "Even though I haven't been 'Jackie' for a long, long time."
Tom's palm was moist as they shook. His lips curved into a half smile.
"Yeah, I should've figured that." He shook his head and puffed out his cheeks. "Hell of a thing, isn't it? One fucking hell of a thing."
Jack couldn't argue with that.
Tom looked around. "I'm going to need a drink before we head for the morgue."
Jack explained about the delayed release of the body.
"Christ, why didn't you tell me?"
"I left you a message."
Tom shook his head. "I still need a drink. Anyplace around here we can grab one?"
Jack shrugged. "You kidding? This is New York. Bars everywhere. Or, if you're really thirsty and can't wait…" He turned toward the string of shops and eateries framing the main floor and pointed to the glowing yellow sign over Houlihan's entrance. "We can stop there."
"Looks as good as any. Let's go."
4
Tom guzzled Grey Goose on the rocks. Jack had watched him pound back two and order a third during their first ten minutes at the bar. He was still working on the first half of his Brooklyn Lager pint. The light was low but Jack thought he could make out a fine network of dilated capillaries on Tom's nose. Drinker's tats?
"You were always his favorite, you know."
Jack forced a laugh. "Are we going to start a Smothers Brothers routine? 'Mom always liked you best'? That sort of thing?"
"It's true." Tom stared morosely into his third vodka. He was nursing this one. "I don't think Dad particularly cared for me. I'm not saying he didn't love me—I'm sure he did in the paternal sense—but I never had the feeling he liked me."
Jack didn't want to go there.
"Tom…"
"Hey, don't get me wrong. I'm not feeling sorry for myself. I know I can be an egotistic jerk at times. Ask the Skanks from Hell."