Jack pushed the envelope back toward Edward. "Give me half of that. I'll keep an eye on him for three nights. If nothing happens—that is, if I don't have to step in and restrain him—we'll call it even. If there's any rough stuff, any at all, you owe me the other half."
"Fair enough," Edward said as he lowered the envelope into his lap and began counting the bills. "More than fair, actually."
"And speaking of rough stuff, it may come down to putting the hurt on him if he decides not to listen to reason."
"Hurt? How?"
"Disable him. Put him down hard enough so that he won't be able to get back up."
Edward sighed. "Do what you must. I'll trust in your judgment."
"Right," Jack said, leaning forward. "Now that that's settled, where is he and what does he look like?"
Edward jutted his chin at the manila envelope on the table. "You'll be finding it all in there."
Jack opened the flap and pulled out a slip of paper plus a candid photo of a balding man who appeared to be about sixty years old. Jack stared at the upper-body shot; the man's face was partially turned away.
"Doesn't look much like you."
"We had different mothers."
"So he's really your half-brother."
Edward shrugged and kept counting bills.
Jack said, "Don't you have a better photo?"
"I'm afraid not. Eli doesn't like to be photographed. He'd be upset if he knew I took that one. I wish I could be telling you more about him, but we weren't raised together, so I hardly know him."
"But he came to you and told you he was going to do something crazy?"
"Yes. It's the weirdest thing now, isn't it?"
"I don't know about the 'weirdest,' but it earns a spot in the 'odd' category."
Jack glanced at the sheet of paper. "Eli Bellitto" was printed in large letters.
"Bellitto?" Jack said. "That's not an Irish name."
"Who said it was?"
"Nobody, but, I mean, you've got this Irish accent and that's an Italian name."
"And because the 'O' is on the wrong end you're after saying that Eli can't be Irish? Would you believe that where I grew up in Dublin we had a Schwartz on our block? God's truth. His accent was thicker than mine, don't you know. My American uncle came to visit and couldn't understand a word he said. And then there was—"
Jack held up his hands surrender style. "Point made, point taken." He tapped his finger on the downtown address below the name. "What's this 'Shurio Coppe' mean?"
"That's the name of his shop. He sells—"
"Don't tell me. Curios, right?"
Edward nodded. "Antiques, odd stuff, rare books, and all sorts of grotesque thingies."
"Where's his home?"
"Right over the store."
Well now, Jack thought. Isn't that convenient. It meant he wouldn't have to trail this bozo all the way out to someplace like Massapequa for the next three nights.
"When's close-up time?"
"The store? Usually at nine, but he'll close early tonight because it's Sunday. You'll be wanting to get there before six."
He handed Jack the thinned envelope and stuffed the remaining bills into his pants pocket. Then he leaned back, closed his eyes, and placed a hand over his heart.
"You all right?" Jack said, thinking he might be having a heart attack.
Edward opened his eyes and smiled. "I am now. I've been worried sick about this since he told me. I felt I had to be doing something, and now I have. I'd never be forgiving meself if he hurt some poor innocent…" He stopped, glanced at his watch, then slapped his hands on the table. "Well, I've taken up enough of your time, Mister Repairman. I'll be letting you get on with your day."
Jack waved and watched him thread his way through the tables and disappear out the door. He thumbed through the bills in the envelope and stared at the photo of Eli Bellitto. Two days, two fix-it jobs. Not bad. Although this Bellitto deal wasn't exactly a fix-it. More like preventive maintenance.
He glanced at the clock over the bar's free beer tomorrow… sign. Time to get rolling. Had to get home and fix himself up for his date with Madame Pomerol.
4
"Your dad gave a def sermon this morning," Charlie Kenton said.
He stood next to Sharleen Sparks at the sink in the basement of the New Apostles Church. After the morning service he'd come down here with her and a few other volunteers to pitch in on the church's weekly Sunday dinner for the poor and homeless. The sink was old and rusted, the big gas oven battered and scarred, but both did their jobs. The linoleum floor curled up in the corners, the old tin ceiling flaked here and there, but a spirit of love and giving that Charlie sensed around him made it all feel new. He'd just peeled his way through the first half of a bushel bag of potatoes; his fingers ached but he didn't mind at all. It was for a good cause.
"Yes, praise God," she said. "He was in rare form today."
Charlie glanced up from the potato he was peeling to steal a peek at her, wondering what to say next. Had to say something. He'd been waiting for a chance to talk to her alone, now he had it and his mind was flatlined. Maybe it was her beauty, inside and out, or the fact that she didn't seem to know she was beautiful.
She had corn-rowed hair, huge brown eyes, and a smile that made his knees go gumby. She was wearing a white T-shirt under her loose denim overalls, the bib front doing a poor job of hiding her full breasts. He tried not to look at them.
He'd never been this tongue-tied before his conversion. Back in those days he'd been some kinda playa, ragged out in chains and silk, always stocking a little powder and some boo-yaa weed. The women he called bitches and bizzos back then painted on their clothes and faces, wore wigs and big jingly zirconium earrings. Not one thing real about them, but they was easy. He'd sidle up to one, offer a taste of this or that to get her loose, mack her up and down with a few sweet lines, and soon they'd be heading to his place or hers.
He shook his head. A life of sin. But he had the rest of his life to make up for it.
"Sharleen," said a deep voice, "do you mind if Charles and I have a few private words?"
Charlie Kenton looked up to see Reverend Josiah Sparks, a big man whose black face was made all the blacker by the mane of white hair and beard that wreathed it. He'd just arrived after trading the clerical suit and collar he'd worn at the service for a work shirt and bib-front overalls like his daughter's.
Sharleen gave Charlie a concerned look. "Oh, um, sure Daddy."
After she'd moved away to one of the stoves, the rev peered at him through the thick lenses of his rimless glasses. "Have you given more thought to the matter we've been discussing?"
"Yes, Rev. Every day."
The Reverend Sparks took up a knife and began quartering the peeled potatoes, then throwing the pieces into a pot. Eventually they'd be boiled and mashed.
"And what have you decided?"
Charlie hesitated. "Nothing definite yet."
"It's your soul that's at stake, son. Your immortal soul. How can there be even an instant of indecision?"
"There wouldn't be… if Lyle weren't my brother, know'm sayin'?"
"It matters not that he's your brother. He's leading you into sin, making you an accomplice in his evil. You must break off from him. Remember, 'If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, for it is better to enter into the kingdom of God with one eye, than have two eyes and be cast into hell fire.'"
"Word," Charlie replied.
"Yes, it is. The Word of God, spoken through Matthew and Mark."
Charlie glanced around. Sharleen was out of earshot and no one else was nearby at the moment. The rev was keeping his voice low. Good. Charlie didn't want the whole congregation to know his problems. Especially Sharleen.
Sometimes he wondered if he'd made a mistake in opening up to the rev about Lyle's spiritualist act. The man now saw Charlie as a member of his flock in danger of losing his salvation, and he was determined to save him.