She scanned Seventh Avenue outside, half expecting to see it roll by. Across the street and slightly downtown, she checked the curb in front of the O’Toole Building, squatting at the corner of Twelfth. Its white-tiled, windowless, monolithic facade did not fit here in Greenwich Village. It looked as if a clumsy giant had accidentally dropped the modernistic monstrosity on his way to someplace like Minneapolis.
No gray car, though. But with all the gray cars in Manhattan, how could she be sure?
Her nerves were getting to her. She was becoming paranoid.
But who could blame her after what had been happening?
She headed back to her office. Raymond picked her up in the hall.
“Now can we talk?”
“Sorry I snapped at you.”
“Don’t be silly, honey. Nobody snaps at me. Nobody dares.”
Alicia managed a smile.
Raymond—never “Ray,” always “Raymond”—Denson, NP, had been one of the original caregivers at the Center for Children with AIDS. The Center had MD’s who were called “director” and “assistant director,” but it was this particular nurse practitioner who ran the place. Alicia doubted the Center would survive if he left. Raymond knew all the ins and outs of the day-to-day functions, all the soft touches for requisitions, knew where all the bodies were buried, so to speak. He clocked in at around fifty, she was sure—God help you if you asked his age—but he kept himself young looking: close cropped air, neat mustache, trim, athletic body.
“And about my beeper,” she said, “I turned it off. Doctor Collings was covering for me. You knew that.”
He paced her down the narrow hallway to her office. All the walls in the Center had been hurriedly erected, and the haste showed. Slapdash taping and spackling, and a quick coat of bright yellow paint that was already wearing though in places. Well, the decor was the least important thing here.
“I know, but this wasn’t medical. This wasn’t even administrative. This was fucking criminal.”
Something in Raymond’s voice . . . his eyes. He was furious. But not at her. But then what?
A premonition chilled her. Were her personal troubles going to spill over into the Center now?
As she continued walking she noted knots of staff—nurses, secretaries, volunteers—all with their heads together, all talking animatedly.
All furious.
An icy gale blew through her.
“All right, Raymond. Lay it on me.”
“The toys. Some rat bastard motherfucker stole the toys.”
Astonished, disbelieving, Alicia stopped and stared at him. No way. This had to be some cruel, nasty joke. But Raymond was anything but cruel.
And were those tears in the corners of his eyes?
“The donations? Don’t tell me–”
But he was nodding and biting his upper lip.
“Aw, no.”
“Every last one.”
Alicia felt her throat tighten. The toys . . . she and Raymond—especially Raymond—had been collecting them for months, sending staff and volunteers to forage all through the city for donors—companies, stores, individuals, anybody. The response had been slow at first—who was thinking about Christmas gifts in October? But once Thanksgiving was past, the giving had picked up. Last night they’d had a storeroom full of dolls, trucks, rockets, coloring books, action figures . . . the works.
“How?”
“Pried open the outer door and took them away through the alley. Must have had some sort of truck to hold everything.”
The ground floor of this building had been a business supply store before being converted to the Center for Children with AIDS. The former owners probably had loaded their delivery trucks the same way the thieves had stolen the gifts.
“Isn’t that door alarmed? Aren’t all the doors alarmed?”
Raymond nodded. “Supposed to be. But the alarm didn’t go off.”
Poor Raymond. He’d put his whole heart into this effort.
Alicia reached her office, tossed her bag onto her desk, and dropped into her chair. Her feet were killing her. She closed her eyes. The day had hardly begun and she felt exhausted. She looked up at Raymond.
“Did anything like this ever happen to Doctor Landis?”
He shook his head. “Never.”
“Great. They wait until she’s gone, then they strike.”
“I think that’s all for the best, don’t you think? I mean, considering her condition.”
Alicia had to agree. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
Dr. Rebecca Landis was the director of the Center—at least she had the title. But she was in her third trimester and developing pre-eclamptic symptoms. Her OB had ordered her to stay home in bed.
This only a week after the assistant director had left to take a position at Beth Israel, leaving the place to be “directed” by Alicia and the other pediatric infectious disease specialist, Ted Collings. Ted had begged off any directing duties, claiming a wife and a new baby. And so the burden of administrative duties had fallen on the Center’s newbie: Alicia Clayton, MD.
“Any chance it was an inside job?”
“The police are looking into it.”
“The police?”
“Yes. Been here and gone. I made out the report.”
“Thank you, Raymond.” Good old Raymond. She couldn’t imagine how he could be more efficient. “What do they think about our chances of getting those toys back?”
“They’re going to ‘work on it.’ But just to make sure they do, I want to call the papers. You okay with that?”
“Yeah, good idea. Make this a high-profile crime. Maybe that’ll put extra pressure on the cops.”
“Great. I’ve already spoken to the Post. The News and the Times will have people here later this morning.”
“Oh. Well . . . good. You’ll see them, okay?”
“If you wish.”
“I wish. Tell them it’s not just stealing, and it’s not just stealing from little kids—it’s stealing from kids who’ve already got less than nothing, who’re carrying a death sentence in their bloodstreams and may not even be here next Christmas.”
“That’s beautiful. Maybe you should–”
“No, please, Raymond. I can’t.”
Feeling utterly miserable, she tuned out for a moment.
“What else can happen today?” she muttered. “Bad news always comes in threes, doesn’t it?
Raymond still hovered beyond her desk. “Something with that ‘family matter’ you’ve been dealing with?” he said, then added—pointedly: “All by yourself?”
He knew she’d been seeing lawyers and been preoccupied lately, and he seemed to take it personally that she wouldn’t discuss it with him. She felt sorry for him. He freely discussed his personal life with her—more than a few times she’d wanted to block her ears and say “Too much information!”—but she couldn’t reciprocate. Her own personal life was pretty much a void, and the disaster area that posed as her family was not something Alicia wanted to share, even with someone as sympathetic and non-judgmental as Raymond.
“Yes. That ‘family matter.’ But that’s not as important as getting those toys back. We had a super Christmas set up for these kids and I don’t want it going down the tubes. I want those toys back, Raymond, and dammit—get me the Police Commissioner’s number. I’m going to call him myself. I’m going to call him every day until those toys are back.”
“I’ll look it up right now,” he said, and was gone, closing the door behind him.
Alicia folded her arms on the scarred top of her beat-up old desk and dropped her forehead onto them. Everything seemed to be spinning out of control. She felt so helpless, so damn impotent. Systems . . . always these huge, complex, lumbering systems to deal with.
The Center’s toys were gone. She’d have to depend on the police to get them back. But they had their own agenda, their own higher priorities, and so she’d have to wait until they got around to hers, if they ever did. She
could call the Commissioner until she wore out the buttons on her phone, but he’d probably never take the call.
She pounded her fist on the desk. Damn it!
“Excuse me.”
Alicia looked up. One of the volunteers, a pretty blonde in her early thirties, stood halfway through the doorway, looking at her.
“I knocked but I guess you didn’t hear me.”
Alicia straightened and shook back her hair. She put on her professional face.
“Sorry. I was a million miles away, dreaming about chasing down the rats who stole those presents.”
The woman slipped her svelte body the rest of the way through and shut the door behind her. Alicia wished she had a body like that.
She’d seen her around a lot. Sometimes she brought her daughter with her—cute little girl, maybe seven or eight. What were their names?
“You won’t have to go a million miles to find them,” the woman said. “One or two should cover it.”
“You’re probably right,” Alicia said.
Her name . . . her name . . . what was her name?
Got it. “Gia, isn’t it?”
She smiled. “Gia DiLauro.”
A dazzling smile. Alicia wished she had a smile like that. And Gia . . . what a great name. Alicia wished–
Enough.
“Yes, you and your daughter . . . ”
“Vicky.”
“Right. Vicky. You donate a lot of time here.”
Gia shrugged. “Can’t think of a place that needs it more.”
“You’ve got that right.”
The Center was a black hole of need.
“Can I talk to you a minute?”
She looked at Gia more closely and saw that her eyes were red. Had she been crying?
“Sure.” She had no time, but this woman donated so much of hers to the Center, the least Alicia could do was give her a few minutes. “Sit down. Are you okay?”
“No,” she said, gliding into the chair. Her eyes got redder. “I’m so angry I could . . . I don’t like thinking about what I’d like to do to the scum that stole those toys.”
“It’s okay. The police are working on it.”
“But you’re not holding your breath, right?”
Alicia shrugged and sighed. “No. I guess not. But they’re all we’ve got.”
“Not necessarily.”
Alicia looked at her. “What do you mean?”
She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I know someone . . . ”
2
As Jack scrolled through the messages left on the Repairman Jack web site, he kept an eye on the TV screen, looking for Dwight Frye.
He was celebrating his discovery of the 1931 version of the Maltese Falcon with a Dwight Frye film festival. He had the film running in the front room of his apartment now. Frye played the roll of Wilmer Cook in this one, and for Jack’s money, he out-psychoed Elisha Cook’s portrayal in the later John Huston version. But Ricardo Cortez was onscreen now, and he wasn’t such a hot Sam Spade.
Back to the World Wide Web.
Most of the questions on Jack’s home page were about refrigerators and microwaves, which he didn’t mind. Surfers who stumbled onto his page thought he was some sort of appliance answer man. Fine. After no replies to their questions, they’d delete his URL from their bookmarks.
But this one . . . from a guy named “Jorge.”
I BEEN RIPPED OFF. CAN’T GET MONEY OWED TO ME FOR WORK I DO. CAN’T GO ANYWHERE ELSE. CAN YOU FIX?
Yeah. That sounded like business.
Jack typed in a reply to Jorge’s email address:
Send me your phone #. I’ll be in touch—RJ
He’d call the guy and see what this was about. If he was having trouble with his bookie, tough. But he’d said it was money he’d “earned.” So maybe Jorge was a potential customer.
The phone rang but Jack let the machine pick up. He heard his outgoing message . . . “Pinocchio Productions—I’m out at the moment. Leave a message after the beep” . . . then:
“Jack, this is Dad. Are you there?”
A pause as he waited for Jack to pick up. Jack closed his eyes and didn’t move. He felt bad about leaving his father hanging, but he wasn’t up to another conversation with him right now.
“All right . . . when you get in, give me a call. I came across another great opportunity for you down here.”
Jack exhaled when he heard the click of the connection breaking.
“Dad,” he said softly, “you’re making me crazy.”
His father had moved down to Florida a few months ago and Jack had thought it was a good idea at the time. Better to be a retired widower down there than in Burlington County, New Jersey.
But as soon as Dad had settled in, he began seeing all sorts of opportunities for Jack. His older brother and sister were both professionals, pillars of their respective communities. They were set. But Jack . . . Dad still saw his younger son as unfinished business.
His brother and sister had given up on him long ago. The annual Christmas card was the extent of their contact. But not Dad. He never gave up. He didn’t want to go to his grave thinking his prodigal dropout son was living hand to mouth in New York as an appliance repairman.
I’ve probably got more socked away than you do, Dad.
He winced as he remembered their last conversation.
You’ve got to see this place, Jack. It’s growing like crazy—a gold mine for someone like you. You establish yourself here as a reliable repair service and in no time you’ll have a fleet of trucks all over the county...
Be still my heart, he thought. A fleet of trucks, and maybe, if I play my cards right, the cover of Entrepreneur magazine.
Jack had been begging off, hoping Dad would get the message, but obviously he hadn’t. When Jack called back, he was going to have to tell his father point blank: No way was he leaving New York. The Jets would be wearing Super Bowl rings before he moved to Florida.
Then again, if work didn’t pick up, maybe he’d have to rethink that.
He’d just checked the answering machine in the drop on Tenth Avenue. Nothing there. Business had been kind of slow lately. He was getting bored.
And when he got bored, he bought things. He’d picked up his latest treasure from his Post Office box just this morning.
He stood and rubbed his eyes. The computer screen tended to bother them. He removed the clock from its packing to admire it again.
A genuine Shmoo pendulette alarm clock. In beautiful condition. He ran his fingers over its smooth, white, unmarred ceramic surface, touching the eyes and whiskers on the creature’s smiling face. It had come in its original box and looked brand new. The eBay seller hadn’t exaggerated.
Now seemed as good a time as any to hang it on the wall. But where? They were already crowded with framed official membership certificates in The Shadow and Doc Savage fan clubs, Captain America’s Sentinels of Liberty, The Junior Justice Society of America, the David Harding Counter-Spy Junior Agents Club, and the Don Winslow Creed.
What can I say? he thought. I’m a joiner.
His apartment was crowded with wavy-grained Victorian golden oak furniture. The wall shelves sagged under the weight of the neat stuff he’d accumulated over the years, and every horizontal surface on the hutch, the secretary, the claw-and-ball-footed end tables was cluttered as well.
And then he saw where the clock could go: right above the pink Shmoo planter . . . which still didn’t have anything planted in it.
He was just about to look for his hammer when the phone rang again.
Dad, give me a break, will you?
But it wasn’t his father.
“Jack? It’s Gia. You there?”
Something in her voice . . . Jack snatched up the handset.
“Always here for you. What’s up?”
“I’m waiting for a cab. Just wanted to make sure you were in.”
“Something wrong?”
“I’ll tell you when I get the
re.”
And then a click.
Slowly, Jack replaced the handset. Definitely upset. He wondered what was wrong. Nothing with Vicky, he hoped. But she would have told him that.
Well, he’d find out soon enough. The West Village to the Upper West Side wasn’t too bad a trip this time of day. No matter what the circumstance, an unexpected visit from Gia was a treat.
He thought back on their stormy, off-again, on-again relationship. He’d been crushed and thought it was off forever when she’d found out how he earned his living—or thought she had. She’d concluded that he was some sort of hit man, which was as wrong as could be, but even after she’d learned what he really did, even after he’d used those skills to save Vicky’s life, she still didn’t approve.
But at least she’d come back to him. Jack didn’t know where he’d be without Gia and Vicky.
A short while later, he heard her footsteps on the stairs leading to his third-floor apartment. He turned the knob that retracted the four-way bolt system, and opened the door.
The sight of Gia standing on the landing started that warm funny twitch he got deep inside every time he saw her. Her short blond hair, her perfect skin, her blue eyes—Jack felt he could stand and stare at her face for hours.
But right now her features were strained, her usual tight composure seemed to be slipping, her normally flawless complexion looked blotchy.
“Gia,” Jack said, wincing at the pain in her eyes as he pulled her inside. “What is it?”
And then she was clinging to him, loosing a torrent about Christmas toys being stolen from the AIDS kids. She was sobbing by the time she finished.
“Hey, hey.” Jack tightened his arms around her. “It’ll be all right.”
He knew Gia wasn’t much for emotional displays. Yeah, she was Italian, but Northern Italian—the blood running in her veins was probably more Swiss than anything else. For her to be sobbing like this . . . she had to be hurting something fierce.
“It’s just the heartlessness of it,” she said, sniffing. “How could somebody do such a thing? And how can you be so damn calm about it!”
Uh-oh.
“I hear anger looking for a target. I know this has really cut you deep, Gia, but I’m not the bad guy here.”