The Last Christmas: A Repairman Jack Novel

by F. Paul Wilson

  Well, he had promised. Sort of.

  Jack released her and stepped to the piano where he held up the used Balvenie bottle.

  “This belonged to Tom. It sat between us during our last moments together.”

  Last because Tom had dosed it with a roofie and fed Jack a couple of snorts to put him to sleep. Later on, it hadn’t felt right to toss out the bottle, so he’d used Krazy Glue on the cork to make sure no one could sample it by mistake.

  Jack lowered Tom’s bottle and raised the fresh one.

  “Even if you don’t like Scotch—and you should know this is an especially tasty single malt—I think you can tolerate a wee dram for a toast.”

  He passed the jiggers around, then uncorked the bottle and poured everyone a shot while Gia handed Vicky a jigger of apple juice.

  Jack raised his glass. “To Brother Tom. Wherever you may be.”

  Restless, Jack wandered the first floor.

  Julio and Weezy stood in a corner in animated conversation as they munched the sandwiches Gia had made. And Eddie was…where was Eddie? Furthermore, where was Vicky?

  He ran into Gia in the hall and asked.

  “With Abe, of course. He brought cookies.”

  Jack laughed. “Of course he did. Let’s go see.”

  “Look, Mom!” Vicky said, holding up a crescent pastry as Jack and Gia entered the antiquated kitchen. “Rugalah!”

  She and Abe sat at the round oak table with a tray of chocolatey cookies between them. Abe’s ample belly pressed against the rim of the table. Crumbs speckled his perpetual half-sleeve white shirt.

  “Rugelach,” Abe said. “End it like you’ve got a sesame seed from a bagel in your throat and you’re clearing it.”

  “Rugelach!” she said, in perfect imitation, then took another bite. “Mmmmm, so good. I’m gonna learn to make these. Abe, you gotta give me the recipe.”

  Maybe she didn’t realize Abe’s expertise with food preparation was limited to ordering take-out. He’d undoubtedly bought these at a bakery on his way over.

  Abe looked up at Gia. “For a mother, this little one’s got a Midwestern Italian Catholic; for a father, a British WASP. So, how’d she wind up such a yentaleh?”

  “She’s a changeling, what else?” Gia said, not missing a beat as she dropped into Abe’s accent. “Nu? Cookies you bring to my house? What, my dessert’s not good enough for you?”

  “Ah hah!” Abe said. “You’ve just answered my yenta question. And not to worry. Whatever dessert you have planned, I’ll eat as well.”

  No doubt about that, Jack thought as he stepped over to where Eddie leaned against the wall under the old Regulator clock. He held a beer in one hand, a turkey sandwich in the other. A trim, athletic-looking guy with longish sandy hair, wearing a herringbone sport coat. He’d been fairly chunky as a kid when he and Jack had spent hours playing Pole Position on his Atari 5200 back in Johnson, NJ.

  “Thanks again for coming, Eddie.”

  He swallowed and said, “Wouldn’t miss it. Sorry about Tom. I don’t remember him that well.”

  No memories of Tom. Jack understood. Tom had been ten years older, already in law school when they were entering high school, with nothing but disdain for Jack and his “little friends.”

  “I remember your father, though. Great guy.”

  “Yeah, he was.”

  “Did he introduce you to that Scotch? I want to take a picture of the label and find me a bottle.”

  “No, that was Uncle Stu. Say, um, are you and Weezy still on the outs?”

  “I’m fine. She’s on the outs with me. Kind of afraid to be in the same room with her. Afraid she’ll go off on me again.”

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  Mediating wasn’t exactly Jack’s thing, but he’d known these two so long…

  Julio entered the kitchen then, saying he had to get back to the bar. He said his good-byes and Jack walked him to the door. Then he approached Weezy, still in the living room.

  His best friend during his pre-teen and early teen years, Weezy Connell had disappeared from his life for decades, only to reappear last summer. She’d gained weight in the interim, going from the skinny Goth kid from the Jersey Pinelands to a chubby nerd in baggy sweat suits. She’d slimmed down again in the ensuing months, now all Christmasy in a white sweater and red-and-green kilt, wearing her dark hair longer than he’d ever seen it. No makeup. She’d long ago ditched the heavy eyeliner that had been her trademark as a teen.

  “You still ticked at Eddie?”

  “He joined the Septimus Order. Of course I’m still ticked at him. I’ll be ticked at him forever.”

  “You’ve got to get over this, Weez. He had no idea what they’re up to. He thought it was like the Elks or Linked-In, or the Royal Order of Raccoons.”

  He saw a smile struggle to break through and fail.

  “Don’t make light of it, Jack. They were out to kill me.”

  “But Eddie wasn’t.”

  “He let them brand him!”

  Jack could see he wasn’t getting anywhere on this tack. He spotted his father’s picture on the piano.

  “See that guy there,” he said, pointing. “I spent years and years avoiding him as much as I could.” Jack had been sure his father would never understand or accept his lifestyle—“urban mercenary” was how someone had put it. How do you explain that to a straight-laced accountant? “And then we reconnected and I found out we could have an adult relationship—you know, as equals, something beyond the father-son dynamic. We bonded in Florida, and I enjoyed being with him down there. So last December I invited him up for the Christmas season.”

  Jack paused and swallowed.

  “You okay?” Weezy said.

  He’d been playing the if-only game ever since it happened: If only he hadn’t invited Dad, he wouldn’t have been in the line of fire at the airport… still be alive. He put the thought aside. His life already had a long-enough string of if-only moments.

  He cleared his throat. “Yeah, fine. Anyway, I was looking forward to spending more time with him. And then”—he snapped his fingers—“gone. And now my greatest regret is all the time I wasted avoiding him.”

  She looked away. “I hear you. I know what you’re saying and I appreciate it. But I’m still just too… pissed.”

  “You found out this summer. It’ll be winter in a couple of days. When—?”

  She held up a hand. “Don’t push, Jack. Okay? You ought to know I don’t let things go very easily.”

  He had to smile. “If at all.”

  Part of her bipolar thing, he guessed. She’d always been like that.

  “I’ll get past this. I’m just not there yet. Just like you’re not there yet with your own brother.”

  Ouch. Was it so obvious?

  “Touché.”

  “Gotta go.”

  Jack followed her into the foyer where she grabbed her coat off its hook and shrugged into it.

  “Weez…”

  “Tell Gia I’m sorry but I had to leave suddenly.”

  And then she was out the door.

  Jeez, could that have gone worse? His future as a mediator was not looking bright.

  4

  Tier Hill stood in a closet and observed the confrontation through a crack in the door. His client, Roland Apfel, had stipulated this when he called him over: You will see and not be seen. Observe and nothing more.

  Tier understood. The woman was his quarry and it would complicate his job if she knew what he looked like.

  Had to concentrate…usually no problem, but after that episode in Central Park on his way over…that sound. Though it no longer rang in his ears, it continued to boom in his mind. What did it mean? Some sort of PTSD from Afghanistan? A brain tumor? A—

  Stop. You’re on the job. Do it.

  He focused through the door crack.

  The woman he was to follow—for he earned his living following people—stood slim and straight before Roland, almost haughty in her demeanor
. Her hair was as black as that of Tier’s Mohawk kin, yet her eyes were pale amber. She seemed about his age—mid-thirties, he guessed—and he found her quite attractive. Attractive and yet…untouchable. He couldn’t explain that last, but something within warned that he’d be wise to keep this woman at arm’s length.

  Roland cleared his throat, a rough, phlegmy sound, and spoke in a gravelly voice. “Madame de Medici…” Another throat clearing, brief this time; he tended to do it after every sentence. “We meet again.”

  “Bonham’s, wasn’t it?” She, on the other hand, spoke in a clear, calm, oddly accented voice. “You outbid me, I believe.”

  A throat clearing. “But not until after you’d bid up the price to an extraordinary level.”

  She shrugged. “I wanted it as a companion to another piece in my collection, but not that badly. C’est la guerre. But let’s get to the point, shall we? I agreed to this meeting only because I wish personally to impress upon you that I do not have the Bagaq and to implore you to stop harassing me about it.”

  Tier weighed her words. The content was a plea, but her tone was defiant. Almost a warning. And he had not the slightest doubt she was lying. An excellent liar, no question there, but he could tell.

  His interest stirred.

  Nine years now as a private investigator and he’d found himself more than ready to hang it up and try something else. Tracking was his specialty, and he was sick of exposing tawdry trysts between people who, first off, should know better, and who, even worse, were unbearably clumsy at hiding their movements. Challenges had all but disappeared. He was running on empty and operating by rote.

  He regretted sleeping through high school, he regretted joining the Army and his tours in Afghanistan. But his life experiences had gained him entry to John Jay and he was starting there in the spring semester, aiming for a criminal justice degree. No more sneaking around with a camera. No more hiding in closets and… wait: No more being immured in closets.

  Got it!

  Back to the matter at hand: At least this client was proving different from most. Roland Apfel wanted a woman tracked, yes, but not to reveal an infidelity. Instead, he wanted to learn where she’d hidden an ancient artifact he coveted and claimed she’d stolen. Something known as the Bagaq, whatever that was.

  Judging from Roland’s living room, he’d spent most of his life coveting artifacts—and acquiring them. The space was packed floor to ceiling with a dizzying array of antiquities from all over the world. “Diverse” might describe it, if one were in a generous mood. Tier thought “fucking mess” fit it better. He had little doubt the rest of the mansion was crammed to the same degree.

  Yes, mansion. Tier didn’t know how else to describe the five-story limestone monstrosity with a green copper top floor just a stone’s throw east of Fifth Avenue and Central Park.

  He didn’t know how Roland planned to take possession of this Bagaq after Tier located it. Better not to know, better not to concern himself with those things. He’d agreed only to find it. His buck stopped there.

  Tier could see that Roland was not a well man. He didn’t know what ailed him, but he was totally bald and emaciated. He slumped with his skinny ass perched on a thronelike chair while an IV ran into his left arm. The nurses who usually hovered about like moths around a flame had been dismissed for this tête-à-tête.

  The fourth person in the room—“person” being loosely applied but Tier was feeling generous—was Roland’s right-hand gopher, a vicious little thug named Albert Poncia standing off to the side in a shadowed corner. Tier had met him once before and had disliked him on sight; then Poncia had opened his mouth and dislike had graduated to despise.

  Roland cleared his throat at length again. “Madame de Medici, why must we do this dance? I know you have it. You know that I know that you stole it. But I’ll let that pass. All I want to do is borrow it. I’ve made that quite clear, haven’t I? I don’t want to steal it back from you. I simply want to borrow it for one day, and then you can have it. After that, it’s yours for as long as you want it. That’s all I ask. Why can’t you understand that?”

  Wait…what was this? One day? What was he going to do with whatever it was for one day?

  Interesting. Tier had known Roland was rich and eccentric, but this made no sense.

  “I understand you perfectly, Mister Apfel. Why do you not understand me? I. Do. Not. Have. The. Bagaq.”

  “Let me handle the lying bitch,” Poncia said through a snarl.

  He stood about five-ten and had a penguin body. His plaid suit only emphasized the peculiarity of his shape.

  Roland held up a hand. “Be calm, Albert. Madame is here at our invitation. We must be polite.”

  Spoken like a parent to an unruly child. Tier still hadn’t determined Poncia’s place in the household. Gopher, yes. Perhaps pit bull too?

  Roland leaned toward Madame de Medici. “And you, Madame, should not take me for a fool. I purchased the Bagaq in a lot in Teheran. I know it arrived by freighter from Iran last Tuesday. I know exactly what container and what warehouse it landed in. Security footage shows a turbaned man entering and leaving that warehouse on the night the shipment arrived. He carried something to a car and drove off. In the morning the crate was opened and the Bagaq was gone. Closer inspection revealed tampering.”

  She appeared unfazed. “I am sorry for your loss, Mister Apfel, but I assure you that whomever you saw on this footage has no connection to me.”

  “The man on the video wore a Sikh turban, exactly like your driver. The car he drove was a black Maybach S-650, with a curtained rear compartment. Exactly like the one you own.”

  Damning evidence, even if circumstantial. But the lady appeared unperturbed.

  “Certainly, in this city of so many millionaires and billionaires, there is another such car.”

  “Not belonging to one possessed of such a ravenous appetite for antiquities as you.”

  She lifted her chin. “I must say I am insulted at your implication that I would be involved in the theft of a rare antiquity.”

  Hardly an implication, lady, Tier thought. Sounded more like a flat-out accusation.

  And what was up with arriving at a robbery in a Maybach and sending a Sikh in to do the deed? She had to know the area was monitored—the whole damn city was under surveillance. Had she been taunting Roland? Purposely getting in his face? Sure looked that way.

  “And further insulted,” she added, looking Tier’s way, “by the fact that you have someone spying on me from that closet.”

  Tier quickly stepped back from the crack in the door. How could she know? He’d hidden himself in here well before her arrival.

  “Your paranoia is unwarranted,” Roland said, his voice slowly rising toward a hoarse scream. “And as for the Bagaq, it is not merely rare, Madame, it is one of a kind and priceless! Especially to someone such as I with pancreatic cancer! But you know all that!”

  So, that was his problem.

  Tier made a mental note to get paid in advance.

  “I do know all that,” she said. “I even know the meaning of the word bagaq. Do you?”

  “No, I do not. But not for not trying. The meaning seems lost in the mists of time. Would you care to enlighten me?”

  “Not under these circumstances. But I will say it’s from the Old Tongue. Pray you do not have the misfortune of learning the meaning first hand.”

  Roland’s laugh degenerated into a cough. “You must take me for an idiot. The Old Tongue is a myth. And as for any ‘misfortune’ attached to the Bagaq, I’ll take that risk. But first I must acquire it.”

  “I am afraid I can’t help you there, since I do not know where it is. I—” Her attention seemed drawn to her left. “What have we here?”

  She approached a six-inch metal tumbler on a pedestal and examined it closely, her face only inches from its rim.

  “Bronze,” Roland said. “From—”

  “The valley of Gohar Rud. I recognize it. How much to part w
ith it?”

  “Why do you want it?”

  “Sentimental value.” She pointed to the rim. “See that dent there? That’s because of me.”

  Roland’s voice rose an octave. “What?”

  “It belonged to a local chieftain with delusions of grandeur. He declared me his ‘queen,’ which meant he could rape me any time he pleased. When the opportunity presented itself, I poisoned him. When he realized it he threw the cup at me. He missed, and thus the dent.” She smiled. “He died horribly.”

  After a long pause, Roland said, “You realize, don’t you, that that cup is three thousand years old.”

  Three thousand? She had to be putting him on. Yet she spoke so off-handedly.

  “Seems like yesterday. How much?”

  “It’s not for sale.”

  A sly look. “Would you trade it for the Bagaq?”

  Roland raised a fist. “I knew you had it! The cup for the Bagaq? Done!”

  “Except I don’t have the Bagaq.”

  “Then why—?”

  “Well, if you’re willing to trade, that means the cup is for sale. Now we can start negotiating.”

  His voice rose to a scream. “You try my patience, Madame! I’ve tried reason. Must I resort to extreme methods?”

  “So, you’re threatening me?”

  “Take that any way you wish. But rest assured that I will have the Bagaq.”

  “I can only take that as a threat.” She started to turn away. “So, on that note—”

  Poncia leaped forward and grabbed her arm. “No, you don’t, bitch!”

  She reacted quickly and—more importantly—decisively, grabbing Poncia’s little finger and using it to lever his hand off her arm.

  Tier reflexively reached for the doorknob to go out there and pull Poncia off her but she glanced his way again—this time with a quick, hard look that stopped him cold. He wasn’t sure if it said Don’t even think about it or I’ve got this or a combo of both. Whatever. He held back.

  All this occurred in the heartbeat before she gave Poncia’s finger a vicious twist. He cried out and dropped to a knee as the tendons and ligaments popped. When he tried to rise, she gave it another twist. He stayed on his knees and whimpered.