Jack smiled reassuringly at the old lady, then turned to Kusum. "I'll see you out in the hall." He didn't want to talk in front of the private nurse.
As he stood outside the door, Jack glanced at the nurses' station and thought he saw a familiar face. He walked over for a closer look at the junoesque blonde—every man's fantasy nurse—writing on a chart. Yes—it was Marta. They had had a thing a few years back, in the days before Gia.
She greeted him with a friendly kiss and a hug, and they talked about old times for a while. Then Jack asked her about Mrs. Bahkti.
"Fading fast," Marta said. "She's gotten visibly worse since I came on. She'll probably last out this shift, but I'll be surprised if she's here tomorrow. You know her?"
"I'll be doing some work for her grandson." As with most people Jack knew socially—and there weren't many—Marta was under the impression that he was a "security consultant." He saw Kusum come out into the hall. "There he is now. See you later."
Jack led Kusum to a window at the end of the hall, where they were out of earshot of patients and hospital personnel.
"All right," he told him. "I'll give it a try. But I make no promises other than to do my best." Jack had decided he wanted to catch up with this creep.
Kusum exhaled and muttered what sounded like a small prayer. "No more can be asked of any man. But if you cannot find the necklace by tomorrow morning, it will be too late. After that, the necklace will be of secondary importance. But I still want you to keep looking for the assailant. And when you find him, I want you to kill him."
Jack tightened inside but smiled and shook his head. This guy thought he was some sort of hit man.
"I don't do that."
Kusum's eyes said he didn't believe him.
"Very well. Instead, you will bring him to me and I will—"
"I will work for you until tomorrow morning," Jack said. "I'll give you my best shot till then. After that, you're on your own."
Anger flitted across Kusum's face. Not used to having someone say no to you, are you? Jack thought.
"When will you start?"
"Tonight."
Kusum reached inside his tunic and brought out a thick envelope. "Here is half of the payment. I will wait here with the other half should you return with the necklace tonight."
Feeling more than a twinge of guilt at taking so much money on such a hopeless venture, Jack nevertheless folded the envelope and stuffed it into his left rear pocket.
"I will pay you ten thousand extra if you kill him," Kusum added.
Jack laughed to keep the mood light but shook his head again. "Uh-uh. But one more thing: Don't you think it would help if I knew what the necklace looked like?"
"Of course!" Kusum opened the collar of his tunic to reveal a heavy chain perhaps fifteen inches long. Its links were crescent-shaped, each embossed with strange-looking script. Centered side-by-side on the necklace were two elliptical, bright yellow, topaz-like stones with black centers.
Jack held his hand out but Kusum shook his head.
"Every member of my family wears a necklace like this—it is never removed. And so it is very important that my grandmother's be returned to her."
Jack studied the necklace. It disturbed him. He could not say why, but deep in his bowels and along the middle of his back a primitive sensation raised warning. The two stones looked like eyes. The metal was silvery, but not silver.
"What's it made of?"
"Iron."
Jack looked closer. Yes, there was a hint of rust along the edges of a couple of the links.
"Who'd want an iron necklace?"
"A fool who thought it was silver."
Jack nodded. For the first time since talking to Kusum this morning, he felt there might be a slim—very slim—chance of recovering the necklace. A piece of silver jewelry would be fenced by now and either hidden away or smelted down into a neat little ingot. But an heirloom like this, with no intrinsic value…
"Here is a picture," Kusum said, handing over a Polaroid of the necklace. "I have a few friends searching the pawnshops of your city looking for it."
"How long has she got?" he asked.
Kusum slowly closed his collar. His expression was grim.
"Twelve hours, the doctors say. Perhaps fifteen."
Great. Maybe I can find Judge Crater by then, too.
"Where can I reach you?"
"Here. You will look for it, won't you?" Kusum's dark brown eyes bored into his. He seemed to be staring at the rear wall of Jack's brain.
"I said I would."
"And I believe you. Bring the necklace to me as soon as you find it."
"Sure. As soon as I find it."
Sure. He walked away wondering why he had agreed to help a stranger when Gia's aunt needed him. Same old story—Jack the sucker.
Damn!
5
Once back in the darkened hospital room, Kusum returned immediately to the bedside and pulled up a chair. He grasped the withered hand that lay atop the covers and studied it. The skin was cool, dry, papery. There seemed to be no tissue other than bone under the skin. And no strength at all.
A great sadness filled him.
Kusum looked up and saw the plea in her eyes. And the fear. He did his best to hide his own fear.
"Kusum," she said in Bengali, her voice painfully weak. "I'm dying."
He knew that. And it was tearing him up inside.
"The American will get it back for you," he said softly. "I've been told he's very good."
Burkes had said he was "incredibly good." Kusum hated all Britishers on principle, but had to admit Burkes was no fool. But did it matter what Burkes had said? It was an impossible task. Jack had been honest enough to say so. But Kusum had to try something! Even with the foreknowledge of certain failure, he had to try!
He balled his only hand into a fist. Why did this have to happen? And now, of all times? How he despised this country and its empty people! Almost as much as the British. But this Jack was different. He was not a mass of jumbled fragments like his fellow Americans. Kusum had sensed a oneness within him. Repairman Jack did not come cheaply, but the money meant nothing. Only the knowledge that someone was out there searching gave him solace.
"He'll get it back for you," he said, patting the limp hand.
She seemed not to have heard.
"I'm dying," she said.
6
The money was a nagging pressure against his left buttock as Jack walked the half block west to Tenth Avenue and turned downtown. His hand kept straying back to the pocket; he repeatedly hooked a thumb in and out of it to make sure the envelope was still there. The problem now was what to do with the money. It was times like this that almost made him wish he had a bank account. But the bank folks insisted on a Social Security number from anyone who opened an account.
He sighed to himself. That was one of the major drawbacks of living between the lines. If you didn't have an SSN, you were barred from countless things. You couldn't hold a regular job, couldn't buy or sell stock, couldn't take out a loan, couldn't own a home, couldn't even complete a Blue Shield form. The list went on and on.
His thumb casually hooked in his left rear pocket, Jack stopped in front of a rundown office building. He rented a ten-by-twelve cubicle here—the smallest he could find. He had never met the agent, nor anyone else connected with the office. He intended to keep it that way.
He took the creaking Otis with the penny-studded floor up to "4" and stepped off. The hall was empty. Jack's office was 412. He walked past the door twice before pulling out the key and quickly letting himself in.
It always smelled the same: dry and dusty. The floor and windowsills were layered with dust. Dust bunnies clogged the corners. An upper corner of the only window was spanned by an abandoned spider web—out of business.