chapter eight
manhattan
monday, august 6
1
Gia watched Jack and Vicky playing with their breakfasts. Vicky had been up at dawn and delighted to find Jack asleep in the library. Before long she had her mother up and making breakfast for them.
As soon as they were all seated Vicky had begun a chant: “We want Moony! We want Moony!” So Jack had dutifully borrowed Gia’s lipstick and a felt-tipped pen and drawn a face Senor Wences-style on his left hand. The hand then became a very rude, boisterous entity known as Moony. Jack was presently screeching in a falsetto voice as Vicky stuffed Cheerios into Moony’s mouth. She was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. Vicky had such a good laugh, an unselfconscious belly-laugh from the very heart of her being. Gia loved to hear it and was in turn laughing at Vicky.
When was the last time she and Vicky had laughed at breakfast?
“Okay. That’s enough for now,” Jack said at last. “Moony’s got to rest and I’ve got to eat.” He went to the sink to wash Moony away.
“Isn’t Jack funny, Mom?” Vicky said, her eyes bright. “Isn’t he the funniest?”
As Gia replied, Jack turned around at the sink and mouthed her words in perfect synchronization: “He’s a riot, Vicky.” Gia threw her napkin at him. “Sit down and eat.”
Gia watched Jack finish off the eggs she had fried for him. There was happiness at this table, even after Vicky’s nightmare and Nellie’s disappearance—Vicky hadn’t been told yet. She had a warm, contented feeling inside. Last night had been so good. She didn’t understand what had come over her, but was glad she had given in to it. She didn’t know what it meant… maybe a new beginning… maybe nothing. If only she could go on feeling this way. If only…
“Jack,” she said slowly, not knowing how she was going to phrase this, “have you ever thought of switching jobs?”
“All the time. And I will—or at least get out of this one.”
A small spark of hope ignited in her. “When?”
“Don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “I know I can’t do it forever, but… “He shrugged again, obviously uncomfortable with the subject.
“But what?”
“It’s what I do. I don’t know how to say it any better than that. It’s what I do and I do it well. So I want to keep on doing it.”
“You like it.”
“Yeah,” he said, concentrating on the last of his eggs. “I like it.”
The growing spark winked out as the old resentment returned with an icy blast. For want of something to do with her hands, Gia got up and began clearing the table. Why bother? she thought. The man’s a hopeless case.
And so, breakfast ended on a tense note.
Afterwards, Jack caught her alone in the hallway.
“I think you ought to get out of here and back to your own place.”
Gia would have liked nothing better. “I can’t. What about Nellie? I don’t want her to come back to an empty house.”
“Eunice will be here.”
“I don’t know that and neither do you. With Nellie and Grace gone, she’s officially unemployed. She may not want to stay here alone, and I can’t say I’d blame her.”
Jack scratched his head. “I guess you’re right. But I don’t like the idea of you and Vicks here alone, either.”
“We can take care of ourselves,” she said, refusing to acknowledge his concern. “You do your part and we’ll do ours.”
Jack’s mouth tightened. “Fine. Just fine. What was last night, then? Just a roll in the hay?”
“Maybe. It could have meant something, but I guess nothing’s changed, not you, not me. You’re the same Jack I left, and I still can’t accept what you do. And you are what you do.”
He walked out, and she found herself alone. The house suddenly seemed enormous and ominous. She hoped Eunice would show up soon.
2
A day in the life of Kusum Bahkti…
Jack had buried the hurt of his most recent parting with Gia and attacked the task of learning all he could about how Kusum spent his days. It had come down to a choice between trailing Kusum or Kolabati, but Kolabati was just a visitor from Washington, so Kusum won.
His first stop after leaving Sutton Square had been his apartment, where Jack had called Kusum’s number. Kolabati had answered and they’d had a brief conversation during which he learned that Kusum could probably be found either at the consulate or the U.N. Jack had also managed to wrangle the apartment address out of her. He might need that later. He called the Indian Consulate and learned that Mr. Bahkti was expected to be at the U.N. all day.
So now he stood in line in the General Assembly building of the United Nations and waited for the tour to start. The morning sun stung the sunburned nose and forearms he had acquired yesterday on the tennis courts in Jersey. He knew nothing about the U.N. Most people he knew in Manhattan had never been here unless it was to show a visiting friend or relative.
He was wearing dark glasses, a dark blue banlon buttoned up to the neck, an “I Love NY” button pinned to his breast pocket, light blue bermudas, knee-high black socks, and sandals. A Kodak disk camera and a pair of binoculars were slung around his neck. He had decided his best bet was to look like a tourist. He blended perfectly.
The tombstone-like Secretariat building was off-limits to the public. An iron fence surrounded it and guards checked IDs at all the gates. In the General Assembly building there were airport-style metal detectors. Jack had reluctantly resigned himself to being an unarmed tourist for the day.
The tour began. As they moved through the halls, the guide gave them a brief history and a glowing description of the accomplishments and the future goals of the United Nations. Jack only half listened. He kept remembering a remark he had once heard that if all the diplomats were kicked out, the U.N. could be turned into the finest bordello in the world and do just as much, if not more, for international harmony.
The tour served to give him an idea of how the building was laid out. There were public areas and restricted areas. Jack decided his best bet was to sit in the public gallery of the General Assembly, which was in session all day due to some new international crisis somewhere. Soon after seating himself, Jack learned that the Indians were directly involved in the matter under discussion: escalating hostile incidents along the Sino-Indian border. India was charging Red China with aggression.
He suffered through endless discussion that he was sure he had heard a thousand times. Every dinky little country, most unknown to him, had to have its say and usually it said the same thing as the dinky little country before it. Jack finally turned his headphones off. But he kept his binoculars trained on the area around the Indian delegation’s table. So far he had seen no sign of Kusum. He found a public phone and called the Indian Consulate again: No, Mr. Bahkti was with the delegation at the U.N. and was not expected back for hours.
He was just about to nod off when Kusum finally appeared. He walked in with a dignified, businesslike stride and handed a sheaf of papers to the chief delegate, then seated himself in one of the chairs to the rear.
Jack was immediately alert, watching him closely through the glasses. Kusum was easy to keep track of: He was the only member of the delegation wearing a turban. He exchanged a few words with the other diplomats seated near him, but for the most part kept to himself. He seemed aloof, preoccupied, almost as if he were under some sort of strain, fidgeting in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs, tapping his toes, glancing repeatedly at the clock, twisting a ring on his finger: the picture of a man with something on his mind, a man who wanted to be somewhere else.
Jack wanted to know where that somewhere else was.
He left Kusum sitting in the General Assembly and went out to the U.N. Plaza. A brief reconnaissance revealed the location of the diplomats’ private parking lot in front of the Secretariat. Jack fixed the image of the Indian flag in his mind, then found a shady spot across the street that afforded a cl
ear view of the exit ramp.
3
It took most of the afternoon. Jack’s eyes burned after hours of being trained on the exit ramp from the diplomats’ parking lot. If he hadn’t happened to glance across the Plaza toward the General Assembly building at a quarter to four, he might have spent half the night waiting for Kusum. For there he was, looking like a mirage as he walked through the shimmering heat rising from the sun-baked concrete. For some reason, perhaps because he was leaving before the session was through, Kusum had bypassed an official car and was walking to the curb. He hailed a cab and got in.
Fearful he might lose him, Jack ran to the street and flagged down a cab of his own.
“I hate to say this,” he said to the driver as he jumped into the rear seat, “but follow that cab.”
The driver didn’t even look back. “Which one?”
“It’s just pulling away over there—the one with the Times ad on the back.”
“Got it.”
As they moved into the uptown flow of traffic on First Avenue, Jack leaned back and studied the driver’s ID photo taped to the other side of the plastic partition that separated him from the passenger area. It showed a beefy black face sitting on a bull neck. Arnold Green was the name under it. A hand-lettered sign saying “The Green Machine” was taped to the dashboard. The Green Machine was one of the extra-roomy Checker Cabs. A vanishing breed. They weren’t making them any more. Compact cabs were taking over. Jack would be sad to see the big ones go.
“You get many ’Follow that cab’ fares?” Jack asked.
“Almost never.”
“You didn’t act surprised.”
“As long as you’re paying, I’ll follow. Drive you around and around the block till the gas runs out if you want. As long as the meter’s running.”
Kusum’s cab turned west on Sixty-sixth, one of the few streets that broke the “evens-run-east” rule of Manhattan, and Green’s Machine followed. Together they crawled west to Fifth Avenue. Kusum’s apartment was in the upper Sixties on Fifth. He was going home. But the cab ahead turned downtown on Fifth. Kusum emerged at the corner of Sixty-fourth and began to walk east. Jack followed in his cab. He saw Kusum enter a doorway next to a brass plaque that read:
NEW
INDIA HOUSE
He checked the address of the Indian Consulate he had jotted down that morning. It matched. He had expected something looking like a Hindu temple. Instead, this was an ordinary building of white stone and iron-barred windows with a large Indian flag—orange, white, and green stripes with a wheel-like mandala in the center—hanging over double oak doors.
“Pull over,” he told the cabbie. “We’re going to wait a while.”
The Green Machine pulled into a loading zone across the street from the building. “How long?”
“As long as it takes.”
“That could run into money.”
“That’s okay. I’ll pay you every fifteen minutes so the meter doesn’t get too far ahead. How’s that sound?”
He stuck a huge brown hand through the slot in the plastic partition. “How about the first installment?”
Jack gave him a five dollar bill. Arnold turned off the engine and slouched down in the seat.
“You from around here?” he asked without turning around.
“Sort of.”
“You look like you’re from Cleveland.”
“I’m in disguise.”
“You a detective?”
That seemed like a reasonable explanation for following cabs around Manhattan, so Jack said, “Sort of.”
“You on an expense account?”
“Sort of.” Not true: He was on his own time and using his own money, but it sounded better to agree.
“Well, sort of let me know when you sort of want to get moving again.”
Jack laughed and got himself comfortable. His only worry was that there might be a back way out of the building.
People began drifting out of the building at 5:00. Kusum wasn’t among them. Jack waited another hour and still no sign of Kusum. By 6:30 Arnold was sound asleep in the front seat and Jack feared that Kusum had somehow slipped out of the building unseen. He decided to give it another half hour. If Kusum didn’t show by then, Jack would either go inside or find a phone and call the Consulate.
It was nearly seven o’clock when two Indians in business suits stepped through the door and onto the sidewalk. Jack nudged Arnold.
“Start your engine. We may be rolling soon.”
Arnold grunted and reached for the ignition. The Green Machine grumbled to life.
Another pair of Indians came out. Neither was Kusum. Jack was edgy. There was still plenty of light, no chance for Kusum to slip past him, yet he had a feeling that Kusum could be a pretty slippery character if he wanted to be.
Come out, come out, wherever you are.
He watched the two Indians walk up toward Fifth Avenue. They were walking west! With a flash of dismay, Jack realized that he was parked on a one-way street going east. If Kusum followed the same path as these last two, Jack would have to leave this cab and find another on Fifth Avenue. And the next cabbie might not be so easy-going as Arnold.
“We’ve got to get onto Fifth!” he told Arnold.
“Okay.”
Arnold put his cab in forward and started to pull out into the crosstown traffic.
“No, wait! It’ll take too long to go around the block. I’ll miss him.”
Arnold gave him a baleful stare through the partition. “You’re not telling me to go the wrong way on a one-way street, are you?”
“Of course not,” Jack said. Something in the cabbie’s voice told him to play along. “That would be against the law.”
Arnold smiled. “Just wanted to make sure you wasn’t telling.”
Without warning he threw the Green Machine into reverse and floored it. The tires screeched, terrified pedestrians leaped for the curb, cars coming out of the Central Park traverse swerved and honked angrily while Jack hung on to the passenger straps as the car lunged the hundred feet or so back to the corner, skewed to a halt across the mouth of the street, then nosed along the curb on Fifth Avenue.
“This okay?” Arnold said.
Jack peered through the rear window. He had a clear view of the doorway in question.
“It’ll do. Thanks.”
“Welcome.”
And suddenly Kusum was there, pushing through the door and walking up toward Fifth Avenue. He crossed Sixty-fourth and walked Jack’s way. Jack pressed himself into a corner of the seat so he could see without being seen. Kusum came closer. With a start Jack realized that Kusum was angling across the sidewalk directly toward the Green Machine.
Jack slapped his hand against the partition. “Take off! He thinks you’re looking for a fare!”
The Green Machine slipped away from the curb just as Kusum was reaching for the door handle. Jack peeked through the rear window. Kusum didn’t seem the least bit disturbed. He merely held his hand up for another cab. He seemed far more intent on getting where he was going than on what was going on around him.
Without being told to, Arnold slowed to a halt half a block down and waited until Kusum got in his cab. When the cab went by, he pulled into traffic behind it.
“On the road again, Momma,” he said to no one in particular.
Jack leaned forward intently and fixed his eyes on Kusum’s cab. He was almost afraid to blink for fear of losing sight of it. Kusum’s apartment was only a few blocks uptown from the Indian Consulate—walking distance. But he was taking a cab downtown. This could be what Jack had been waiting for. They chased it down to Fifty-seventh, where it turned right and headed west along what used to be known as Art Gallery Row.
They followed Kusum farther and farther west. They were nearing the Hudson River docks. With a start, Jack realized that this was the area where Kusum’s grandmother had been mugged. The cab went as far west as it could and stopped at Twelfth Avenue and Fifty-seventh. Kusum got ou
t and began to walk.
Jack had Arnold pull into the curb. He stuck his head out the window and squinted against the glare of the sinking sun as Kusum crossed Twelfth Avenue and disappeared into the shadows under the partially repaired West Side Highway.
“Be back in a second,” he told Arnold.
He walked to the corner and saw Kusum hurry along the crumbling waterside pavement to a rotting pier where a rust-bucket freighter was moored. As Jack watched, a gangplank lowered itself as if by magic. Kusum climbed aboard and disappeared from view. The gangplank hoisted itself back to the raised position after he was gone.
A ship. What the hell could Kusum be doing on a floating heap like that? It had been a long, boring day, but now things were getting interesting.
Jack went back to the Green Machine.
“Looks like this is it,” he said to Arnold. He glanced at the meter, calculated what he still owed of the total, added twenty dollars for good will, and handed it to Arnold. “Thanks. You’ve been a big help. “
“This ain’t such a good neighborhood during the day,” Arnold said, glancing around. “And after dark it really gets rough, especially for someone dressed like you.”
“I’ll be okay,” he said, grateful for the concern of a man he had known for only a few hours. He slapped the roof of the car. “Thanks again.”
Jack watched the Green Machine until it disappeared into the traffic, then he studied his surroundings. There was a vacant lot on the corner across the street, and an old, boarded-up brick warehouse next to him.
He felt exposed standing there in an outfit that shouted “Mug me” to anyone so inclined. And since he hadn’t dared to bring a weapon to the U.N., he was unarmed. Officially, unarmed. He could permanently disable a man with a ballpoint pen and knew half a dozen ways to kill with a key ring, but didn’t like to work that close unless he had to. He would have been much more comfortable knowing the Semmerling was strapped against his leg.
The Complete Adversary Cycle: The Keep, the Tomb, the Touch, Reborn, Reprisal, Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack) Page 66