“Oh, I know, I know. It’s just—you’ve never been down there. Never seen these kids. Never held them. Jack, they’ve got nothing. Not even a parent who cares, let alone a future. We were collecting those toys so they’d have a nice Christmas, a great Christmas—the last Christmas for a lot of them. And now–”
Another sob.
Jeez, this was awful. He had to say something, do something, anything so she wouldn’t feel like this.
“Do you know what the presents were? I mean do you have some sort of a list. Because if you do, just give it to me and I’ll replace–”
She pushed back and stared at him. “They were donations, Jack. Most of them all wrapped up and ready for giving. Replacing them’s not important. Getting them back is. Understand?”
“Yes . . . and no.”
“Somebody’s got to find these guys—the ones who did this—and teach them a lesson . . . make an example of them . . . a very public example. Know what I mean?”
Jack fought to suppress a grin. “I think so. You mean, make it so that the next creep who gets the same idea will think twice, maybe three times before he decides to go through with it.”
“Exactly. Exactly.”
With exaggerated innocence—and still fighting a smile—he said, “And um, just who could we be thinking of to make such an example?”
“You know damn well who,” she said, fixing him with those eyes.
“Moi?” And now he had to grin. “But I thought you didn’t approve of that sort of thing.”
“I don’t. And I never will. But just this once . . . ”
“ . . . you could live with it.”
“Yes.” She began wandering around his living room, aimlessly tracing her fingers across the golden oak hutch, the rolltop desk where he kept his computer. “But just this once.”
“But Gia–”
“Please,” she said, raising her hand. “I know what you’re going to say. Please don’t start pressing me for some sort of moral and philosophical consistency between not marrying you because of what you do and then coming to you when there’s a problem that looks like it can only be solved by your kind of tactics. I’ve been battling that all morning—I mean, trying to decide whether I should even mention it to you. Even in the cab, I was ready to tell him to turn onto Fifty-ninth and forget the whole thing–”
“Oh, great. That hurts. Since when is it that you can’t come to me for anything?”
She stopped and looked at him. “You know what I mean. How many times have I mouthed off about this ‘Repairman Jack’ thing?”
“About a million.” More like three million, he thought, but what’s a couple of million between friends? “But the ‘Repairman’ thing was Abe’s coin.”
“Right. Whatever. I know I’ve gone off on how it’s stupid and dangerous and violent and dangerous and how if you don’t end up dead you’re going wind up in jail for the rest of your life. And I haven’t changed my opinion one bit. So you can imagine how this thing must have got to me if I’m asking you to fix it.”
“All right. I won’t say another word about it.”
“Maybe not now, but I know you will later.”
Jack raised two fingers. “I won’t. Scout’s honor.”
“I think that takes three fingers, Jack.”
“Whatever. I promise I won’t.” He reached for her hand. “Come on over here.”
She took his hand and he pulled her onto his lap. She settled on his thighs, light as a feather, and they kissed—not a long one, but long enough to warm him up.
“There. That’s better. Now . . . let’s get down to practicalities. Who’s hiring me?”
“I spoke to Doctor Clayton—she’s the acting director.”
Jack felt his insides tighten. “You told her you know me?”
He’d warned Gia about that. Never let on you know me—to anyone. Even your best friend. He’d made too many enemies over the years. And if one of them thought he could get back at him through Gia . . . or Vicky . . .
He shuddered.
“No. I said I knew of someone who might be able to help get the toys back. Didn’t mention any names. Just said I’d try to contact him and see if he was available.”
Jack relaxed. “I guess that’s okay.”
Still, if he got involved in this, it would leave a link—at least in this Dr. Clayton’s mind—between Gia and a guy named Jack who “fixed” something. Probably be okay, but he didn’t like it.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Are you available?”
“I don’t know.”
“How can you not know?”
“Well, there’s a problem. I mean, the Center can’t hire me, because I can’t work for a legit business. They’ve got to account for their expenses and I don’t exactly take checks.”
He didn’t even have a Social Security number.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll pay you.”
“Oh, right. Like I’ll take money from you.”
“No, I mean it, Jack. This is my idea. I want this. What’s your usual and customary fee?”
“Forget it.”
“No, I’m serious. Tell me.”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Please?”
“Oh, all right.” He told her.
She gaped at him. “You charge that much?”
“Well, as you said, ‘it’s stupid and dangerous and violent and dangerous’ and if I don’t end up dead I’m going wind up in jail for the rest of my life. So yeah, that’s what I charge.” He kissed her. “And I’m worth every penny.”
“I’m sure you are. Okay. It’s a deal.”
“No, it’s not. Told you: I’m not taking money from you.”
“But you’ve told me you never do freebies. It’s against your religion or something.”
“It’s just a policy. But let’s forget about money for now. Let’s first see if this is something I can deliver on.”
“Fair enough.” She was staring at the TV screen. “Why do I know that actor?”
“He’s Dwight Frye. You’ve seen him before.”
“Didn’t he play that guy in ‘Dracula’ who was always eating flies?”
“Until he graduated to ‘big, juicy spiders.’ Yeah. He played Renfield.”
Gia buried her face in his shoulder. “I can’t believe I know that. I’ve been hanging around you much too long.”
“And getting educated in the process. Now . . . where can I meet this Doctor Clayton?”
“In her office.”
“When?”
“This afternoon at four.”
“How do you know she’ll be there?”
She smiled that smile. “Because you have an appointment with her then.”
Jack laughed. “You were that sure?”
“Of course. And I’ll be there with Vicky to introduce you.”
He frowned. “Do you think that’s wise?”
“Introducing you?”
“No. Taking Vicky down there.”
“Are you kidding? She loves helping with those kids.”
“Yeah, but they’ve got . . . AIDS.”
“No, they’ve got HIV. There’s a big difference. And you can’t catch HIV by holding a baby in your arms. How many times have I told you that?”
“Lots. But I still . . . ”
“When you see, you’ll understand. And you’ll see at four o’clock, right?”
“Right.”
They kissed, but Jack felt a chill. His list of things that scared him was a short one, but the HIV virus was top on the list.
3
Jack took a walk over to Amsterdam Avenue.
Gentrification continued its relentless progression on the Upper West Side. New brownstone renovations, new condos, and of course, new eateries. In a few hours the streets and the host of new restaurants, trattorias, and bistros would be crowded with yuppies and dinks out for their Friday night fling to initiate the weekend’s respite from
buying and selling.
As individuals, Jack didn’t have anything against them. Yeah, they could be empty-headed when it came to one-upsmanship in the conspicuous consumption arena and the endless panting after trends, and as a group they tended to suck the color out the neighborhoods they invaded. But they weren’t evil. At least most of them weren’t.
Jack checked his watch. Getting near three. Abe would be ready for a mid-afternoon snack just about now. He stopped in at Nick’s Nook, a mom-and-pop grocery—a vanishing breed in these parts—and picked up a little treat.
Next stop was the Isher Sports Shop. The iron grate was pulled back, exposing the blurry windows. Beyond them, an array of faded cardboard placards, dusty footballs, tennis balls, racquets, basketball hoops, backboards, Rollerblades, and other good-time sundries basked in the sunny display space.
Inside was not much better organized. Bikes hanging from the ceiling, weight benches over here, SCUBA gear over there, narrow aisles winding past sagging shelves. ESPN meets Twister.
As Jack entered, Abe Grossman was just finishing with a customer—or rather, a customer was finishing with him.
Abe’s age was on the far side of fifty and his weight was in calling distance of an eighth-of-a-ton, which wouldn’t have been bad if he were on the right side of five-eight. He was dressed in his uniform—black pants and a white half-sleeved shirt. A frown marred his usually jovial round face, a face made all the rounder by the relentless retreat of his gray hair toward the top of his head.
“Hooks?” Abe was saying. “Why should you want hooks? Can you imagine how that must hurt a fish when it bites into it? And those barbs. Oy! You’ve got to rip them out! Such damage to the tender mouth tissues. Stick a fish hook in your own tongue sometime and see how you like it.”
The customer, a sandy-haired thirty-something in a faded Izod stared at Abe in wonder. He made one false start at a reply, then tried again.
“You’re kidding, right?”
Abe leaned over the counter—at least as far as his considerable gut would allow—and spoke in a fatherly fashion.
“It’s an ethical position. Baiting a hook, or using those flashing little spinners to catch fish, it’s deceitful. Think about it. You’re dressing up a nasty little hook to look like food, like sustenance. A fish comes along, thinks it’s found lunch, and wham! It’s hooked and pulled out of the water. Is that fair? You’re proud of such a thing?” He straightened and fixed the guy with his dark brown eyes. “I should be a party to such a so-called sport based on treachery and deceit? No. I cannot.”
“You’re serious!” the guy said, backing away. “You’re really serious!”
“I should be a comedian? This place looks like the Improv to you maybe? No. I sell sporting goods. Sporting. That means something to me. A net is sporting. You wait for the fish to come along and then scoop it up with a net. The fastest one wins. That’s a sport. A net, I’ll sell you. But hooks? Uh-Uh. You’ll get no hooks from me.”
The guy turned away and headed for the door. “Get out while you can,” he said as he hurried past Jack. “This fucker is nuts!”
“Really?” Jack said. “What makes you think so?”
As the door slammed, Jack stepped up to the counter. Abe had positioned himself, sitting like a toad on the high stool that was his perch for most of his workday. He sat with his hands on his spread thighs, a middle-aged Humpty Dumpty.
Jack placed his offering on the counter.
“Entenmann’s brownies?” Abe hopped off the stool with surprising agility. “Jack, you shouldn’t have.”
“I figured your stomach would be rumbling about now.”
“No, but really you shouldn’t have. My diet, you know.”
“Yeah, but they’re fat free.”
Abe touched the yellow sticker that said just that. “So they are.” He grinned. “Well, in that case, maybe just a bisel.”
His short chubby fingers were surprisingly nimble as they zipped open the box. A knife appeared and carved out a huge section which went directly into his mouth.
“Mmmm,” he said, closing his eyes and swallowing. “Who could believe this is fat free? Too bad it’s not calorie free.” He pointed the knife at Jack. “You’re having?”
“Nah. Had a late lunch.”
“You should try. All this food you bring me and I never see you eat.”
“That because I bring it for you. Enjoy.”
Abe promptly did just that with another piece.
“Where’s Parabellum?”
Abe spoke around a mouthful. “Sleeping.’
For some reason Jack could not fathom, Abe had bought a little blue parakeet and become paternally attached to it.
“He doesn’t like chocolate anyway.” He wiped his hands on his shirt. Brown smears joined similar yellow smudges that looked like mustard. “Hey. You want to see will power? Watch.”
He closed the top and pushed the box to the side.
“I’m impressed. First time I ever saw you do that.”
“I’ll be thin as you before you know it.” He found a crumb on the counter and popped it into his mouth, then looked longingly at the brownie box. “Yessir. Before you know it.”
In what Jack knew was a prodigious act of will, Abe pushed away from the counter and shrugged. “Nu?”
“Need a few things.”
“Let’s go.”
Abe locked the front door, turned a “Closed For Lunch” sign toward the street and, navigating aisles just wide enough to allow his bulk to pass, led the way toward the back, into a rear closet, and down to the cellar. The neon sign that overhung the stone steps flickered but never quite came to life.
“Got a sick sign there, Abe.”
“I know, but it’s too much trouble to get fixed.”
He hit the switch that illuminated the cellar’s miniature armory. Abe moved among his stock, adjusting the pistols and rifles in their racks, straightening the boxes of ammo on their shelves. Everything neatly arranged down here, in sharp contrast to the floor just above them.
“Restocking or something new?”
“New,” Jack said. “Need a pair of weighted gloves.”
“You lost the last pair you bought?”
“No, but I need a white pair.”
Abe’s eyebrows lifted. “White? I never heard of such a thing. Black, of course. Brown, maybe. But white?”
“See if you can find me any.”
“I should go asking for white leather gloves with half a pound of fine steel shot packed into the knuckles? You want this in a lady’s size perhaps?”
“No, it’s for me. To go with formal wear.”
Abe sighed. “And I should have it for you when?”
“Tonight if you can, but by early tomorrow at the latest. And listen for any noise about someone with a whole bunch of kids’ Christmas gifts to sell . . . cheap . . . already wrapped, most likely. I told Julio to put his ears on too. You hear about someone like that, get word to the guy that you know a buyer. Someone who’ll take his whole stock.”
Abe’s curiosity surged to the fore. “Just what is it you’re getting into this time?”
“Something I probably shouldn’t be involved with. But to do it right, it looks like I’m going to have to do something stupid.”
Abe stared and Jack knew he wanted to know just how stupid. But Abe wouldn’t ask, knowing Jack would tell him about it afterward.
He looked around and spotted something hanging on a rack in the corner. And that gave him an idea.
“You know what? Maybe I could use one more thing . . .”
4
Jack took the D train downtown and emerged into the bustling Third World bazaar that was 14th Street. He threaded his way among deadlocked Dominicans, turbaned Sikhs, saried Indians, suited Koreans, Pakistanis, Puerto Ricans, Jamaicans, and an occasional European mixing in the chill air on sidewalks flanked with signs in half a dozen languages.
He arrived early at the Seventh Avenue address Gia had given
him. A little placard on the door was the only indication that this nondescript storefront had anything to do with AIDS.
He probably could have started hunting the stolen Christmas gifts without coming down here, but he figured a quick look at the scene wouldn’t hurt. Might even give him a handle on the thieves.
“I have a four o’clock with Doctor Clayton, I believe?” he told the slim, attractive black woman at the reception desk. The nameplate read simply, Tiffany.
“Name, sir?”
“Jack.”
“Jack what?”
He wanted to tell her, Just Jack, but that inevitably led to more questions, and further refusal tended to brand his identity in a person’s mind. He preferred to slide off people’s memories without a trace.
He smiled and fished for a name beginning with “N.” He’d used Meyers last time he’d been asked, and since he liked to proceed in alphabetical order . . .
“Niedermeyer. Jack Niedermeyer.”
“Fine, Mr. Niedermeyer. Doctor Clayton is still in another meeting right now. A reporter. We had a robbery here last night, you know.”
“Really? What did they take?”
“All the donated Christmas toys.”
“Get out!”
“It’s true. The police are on it right now. I think they should—oh, there’s Doctor Clayton now. Looks like she’s finishing up.”
Jack saw a slim brunette in a white coat walking his way with a guy who looked more like a delivery man than a reporter. She escorted him to the door, then scanned the street outside as if looking for something. Whatever it was, when she turned back Jack’s way, she didn’t look as if she’d found it. Or maybe she had. Either way, she didn’t seem happy.
“Doctor Clayton, this is your four o’clock: Mr. Niedermeyer.
Dr. Alicia Clayton was better looking close up, but still kind of . . . plain. She had fine, angular features—a thin, sharp nose, sharply etched lips—neither too fine nor too full—and blue-gray eyes. Her hair was fine too, bobbed to chin length, and a deep, deep black—not black-dye black like a Goth, but a genuine, rich, glossy black.
And no make-up. Someone who took such good care of their hair, you’d think they’d want to enhance their other assets. But not, apparently, Dr. Clayton.