Infernal rj-9

by F. Paul Wilson

  The man responsible, Jack's best and oldest friend, sat in his usual spot behind the scarred wooden counter near the rear. A few years shy of sixty, Abe Grossman had a Humpty-Dumpty shape and a balding crown. He was dressed in the Abe uniform of white—except for the food stains—half-sleeve shirt and black pants. And as usual, the morning editions of every daily newspaper in the city lay spread out on his counter.

  He looked up, saw Jack coming, and quickly began shuffling the papers into a pile. He was shoving them under the counter when Jack arrived.

  "It's okay, Abe. I've seen them—the front pages at least."

  How could he have missed them? Every newsstand he'd passed on the walk over from his apartment had the screaming headlines on display. The radio and TV weren't talking about anything else. He'd listened briefly this morning for new developments, but heard only the same old speculations. If the cops and FBI had learned anything new, they weren't sharing it.

  Abe stashed them out of sight anyway.

  "A terrible, terrible thing, Jack. I feel so bad for you. I feel worse for your father, of course, but you… how are you doing?"

  "Still in shock… in rage. But no grief. Kind of worries me. Think there's something wrong with me?"

  "With you? Something wrong? Not a chance."

  He knew Abe was trying to lighten his mood, but Jack wasn't looking for that. And he hadn't been kidding about being worried. He'd broken down and cried when Kate died. Why hadn't he cried for Dad?

  "I'm serious, Abe. I don't feel like moping or crying, I just want to break things. Or people."

  "Grief will come in its time. We all have our own way of living through something like this." He shook his head. "Listen to me. Like a living, breathing cliche."

  Jack reached across the counter and patted Abe's beefy arm.

  "It's okay. At least you didn't say he's in a better place. I swear I'll do some damage if someone tells me that."

  "That's not an 'if,' it's a 'when.' You know it is."

  "The thing is, we'd just found each other. After all these years, we'd made real contact and discovered we liked each other. And then…"

  There—a lump in his throat, cutting off his voice. It felt… good.

  Parabellum, Abe's little blue parakeet, hopped over and stopped between Jack and Abe. He cocked his head and looked up at Jack as if to say, Where's my food? He usually served as the cleanup crew, policing the countertop for spilled bits of whatever Jack had brought. With the way his master ate, crumbs were never in short supply. But today he'd have to settle for birdseed.

  "At least you reconnected. Think how you should feel if you hadn't."

  Jack opened his mouth to speak, then closed it as a realization hit him like a runaway train.

  "Oh, hell…"

  "What?"

  "I'd be feeling fine right now—because he'd still be alive."

  Abe rubbed his partially denuded scalp. "This you'll have to explain."

  "He was coming to visit me, Abe. If we were still on the outs he'd have stayed in Florida, or would have been flying into Philly to see his grandkids for Christmas. Either way, he wouldn't have been at La Guardia yesterday. My dad's dead because we connected."

  "You're holding yourself responsible? This is not my Jack."

  "The ones I'm holding responsible are the two shits with the guns. But goddamn!" He slammed his fist on the counter, sending Parabellum fluttering toward the ceiling. "If only he'd taken another flight…"

  "You can if-only yourself into a straitjacket."

  "Yeah, I know. I'm halfway there."

  "More like three quarters. How much sleep did you get last night?"

  "Zilch."

  Hadn't even tried. After he'd crapped out in the park, he'd wandered around until predawn. When he'd finally put himself to bed he just lay there, staring at the ceiling in the growing light. Finally he'd given up.

  He was running on caffeine and adrenaline.

  "Can I get you something to eat?" Abe said. "Some leftover Entenmann's, I'm sure."

  Jack had to smile. Food was Abe's answer to everything. He shook his head.

  "Thanks, but my appetite hasn't come back yet."

  "You've got to eat."

  "I've got to get a new backup is what I've got to do."

  "Something's wrong with the AMT?"

  "Yeah. It's scattered in pieces around one of the airport parking lots."

  "You want another?"

  Jack had been thinking about that. His Glock was a 9mm model, but the little AMT had been a .380. Dealing with two kinds of ammo wasn't a major chore, but he liked to keep things as simple as possible. And he hadn't been crazy about the AMT's trigger.

  "Got anything in a nine?"

  Abe thought a moment, then held up a pudgy finger.

  "Just the thing. Lock the door and I'll show you."

  2

  After hanging up the BACK IN A FEW MINUTES sign, Jack joined Abe in a rear closet. He closed the door behind him as Abe pushed on the closet wall. It swung open. Abe hit a light switch, revealing the worn stone stairway down to the basement. Ahead a neon sign buzzed to life.

  Fine Weapons

  The Right to Buy eapons is the

  Right to Be Free

  "You lost a W," Jack said.

  "I know, but I'm not having it fixed."

  Abe hit another switch at the bottom, lighting up the basement to reveal the lethal stock of his true trade: bludgeons, knives, pistols, rifles, and sundry weapons of every size and configuration. Even a bazooka. In contrast to the mess upstairs, everything here was neatly arranged and arrayed in rows of display racks.

  "Got a Tavor-two?" Jack said.

  Abe looked at him. "The model that kill—that was used at the airport? Why for?"

  Jack wasn't sure he had an answer to that.

  "Just want to see one."

  Abe shook his head. "Never carried them."

  "What? You carry everything."

  "It only seems that way. The Micro Uzi, Tec-nine, and Mac-eleven are much more popular. Not that the Tavor is any bohmer in firepower—spits five-fifty-six NATOs at something like nine hundred per minute—but no one's ever even asked about one. I should stock something no one wants?"

  "Somebody wanted them."

  "For reasons other than firepower, I suspect."

  "The Israel connection."

  "So it seems."

  Silence hung between them.

  Finally Jack said, "What about that backup?"

  Abe stepped over to a rack and returned holding a small, sleek-looking semiautomatic with a dull gray finish.

  "You want a small nine? Smaller and lighter you don't get than this Kel-Tec P-eleven. Double-action only with a ten-round double-column magazine."

  Jack took it and hefted it. Light—a little under a pound; lighter even than his AMT. That would change when the magazine was in place—ten would double the number of rounds the AMT held—but still…

  "It looks a little longer…"

  "Only half an inch more than the AMT. This one's used, but that's good. You need to go through about fifty rounds to smooth out the action. For you that's been done already. And note the parkerized finish. What's not to like?"

  Jack couldn't think of a thing. Ten backup rounds… his primary-carry Glock 19 with the extended magazine held seventeen. Keep a round in the breech of each and he'd have almost thirty shots.

  He retracted the slide, checked to make sure the breech was empty, then pulled the trigger. He guesstimated the pull at somewhere in the neighborhood of ten pounds, maybe a tad less. Just the way he liked it.

  If only he'd been there yesterday with one of these…

  "Sold. How much?"

  "It's a gift."

  "Abe—"

  "Considering the circumstances surrounding the loss of its predecessor, I should charge you? Your money's no good today."

  "It must have cost you at least a—"

  "Never mind what it cost me. Allow me a mitzvah, already, wi
ll you?"

  Jack wasn't in a gift-getting mood, but felt obliged to let Abe do his good deed.

  "Thanks, Abe."

  "May you never have to use it."

  As they headed back upstairs, Abe said, "When are they releasing your father's, you know, remains?"

  Remains… jeez.

  "Not until tomorrow."

  Earlier this morning he'd made another call to the one-fifteenth, and this time he was referred to some city office downtown. The woman there told him that half of the bodies were being released today and the rest tomorrow. What was the deceased's name?

  Jack told her and was informed that his father's remains could be picked up at the city morgue after ten tomorrow morning.

  "The schmucks."

  "Yeah. Another day, damn it. Tom left a message that he'll be arriving on the Metroliner and I couldn't get hold of him to tell him to wait till tomorrow. Which means he's on his way."

  They exited the closet and returned to the legal portion of Abe's shop.

  "So? That's bad?"

  "I was planning on meeting him, taking him over to the morgue to claim Dad's body, getting it shipped to Johnson—"

  "Johnson?" Abe said as he reinstalled himself on his stool behind the counter. "Never heard of it. Jersey?"

  Jack nodded. "Our home town. Burlington County. Our mother's buried there."

  Mom… the man he was today could be traced back to her murder.

  "Damn." Jack felt like hitting the counter again but didn't want to put another scare into Parabellum. "This means he'll have to stay over. Where am I going to put him?"

  "Well, he could stay with you."

  Jack gave him a look.

  Abe waved his hands. "Never mind. Forget I said that. Oy, what was I thinking?"

  Jack showed his sweetest smile. "How about your place, oF buddy, oF pal?"

  "Never! Barely room for me."

  "Which means I have to find him a hotel room."

  "This week? One in Yonkers, maybe. Maybe not."

  "And he'll probably expect me to entertain him—which is not going to happen."

  "Why not?"

  "Business."

  "You can't let it slide?"

  Jack shook his head. "I'd love to, but there's only a small window of opportunity. And even if there weren't, I want it off my plate before I start going to wakes and the funeral." And facing his nieces and nephews. "Besides, I made a promise."

  "Better get calling. Such an earache you'll have."

  "Yeah, thanks. Where's your phone book?"

  3

  Jack had to look twice and then a third time before he was sure this was his brother coming up the steps.

  Entering the main floor of Penn Station had triggered an almost unnerving sense of deja vu. Yes, it was a train station instead of an airport, but the crowd of waiting travelers and expectant friends and family drew his thoughts kicking and screaming back to the baggage claim at La Guardia.

  He was glad Tom had decided on Amtrak instead of a plane. Jack had never liked airports, and after yesterday's massacre…

  Lots of people were steering clear of airports now. But flying from Philly to New York had never made much sense anyway. Not only was the train cheaper, but when you added up all the delays and wasted time in and around the airports, it was faster. Cheaper even than driving, considering what it cost to park in Manhattan.

  He spotted a number of armed soldiers in black berets, camo suits, and combat boots patrolling the station.

  Sure, he thought with a surge of anger. Now you're out in force. Where the hell were you yesterday?

  He shook it off.

  He'd finally found Tom a hotel room—managed to book him one right across the street from the station—but only because he'd once done a little fix-it for someone in the back office. He'd secured the room with a credit card under one of his aliases.

  He'd arrived a little early, so he killed time wandering the marble floor of the main level. He browsed the Book Corner where he saw a new Stephen Hunter book; he made a note to pick it up for some future time when he could focus on something longer than a train schedule.

  Speaking of which… he wandered toward the big arrival-departure board overhanging the main waiting area. A crowd clustered below, staring up at it like rapt worshippers before a shrine. He joined the congregation. Tom had taken the Metroliner and was due in at 1:59. The board said it was on time and ten minutes away.

  He spent the remaining time people watching.

  Folks in Penn Station looked tense, skittish. Jack figured he probably looked a little the same. What could happen at an airport could happen at a train station.

  He wondered how many of them were armed. He had the new backup strapped around his ankle and his Glock in a nylon holster tucked in the small of his back under the waistband of his jeans)

  Anyone started shooting around here was going to find someone shooting back.

  Finally the Metroliner arrived. And here was this lardy, mid-forties guy in a dark gray suit, red faced and puffing as he lugged an overnight suitcase up the stairs.

  Tom already had started putting on weight before Jack split to become nameless in Manhattan. But he'd really packed on the pounds in the fifteen years since Jack had last seen him. Looked like the "before" guy on an Overeaters Anonymous poster. But he had the same brown hair and eyes as the brother Tom he'd known, and the features in the puffy expanse ol his face looked vaguely familiar.

  "Tom?"

  The guy looked up, blinked, then frowned. "Jackie?"

  "That's me." He extended his hand. "Even though I haven't been 'Jackie' for a long, long time."

  Tom's palm was moist as they shook. His lips curved into a half smile.

  "Yeah, I should've figured that." He shook his head and puffed out his cheeks. "Hell of a thing, isn't it? One fucking hell of a thing."

  Jack couldn't argue with that.

  Tom looked around. "I'm going to need a drink before we head for the morgue."

  Jack explained about the delayed release of the body.

  "Christ, why didn't you tell me?"

  "I left you a message."

  Tom shook his head. "I still need a drink. Anyplace around here we can grab one?"

  Jack shrugged. "You kidding? This is New York. Bars everywhere. Or, if you're really thirsty and can't wait…" He turned toward the string of shops and eateries framing the main floor and pointed to the glowing yellow sign over Houlihan's entrance. "We can stop there."

  "Looks as good as any. Let's go."

  4

  Tom guzzled Grey Goose on the rocks. Jack had watched him pound back two and order a third during their first ten minutes at the bar. He was still working on the first half of his Brooklyn Lager pint. The light was low but Jack thought he could make out a fine network of dilated capillaries on Tom's nose. Drinker's tats?

  "You were always his favorite, you know."

  Jack forced a laugh. "Are we going to start a Smothers Brothers routine? 'Mom always liked you best'? That sort of thing?"

  "It's true." Tom stared morosely into his third vodka. He was nursing this one. "I don't think Dad particularly cared for me. I'm not saying he didn't love me—I'm sure he did in the paternal sense—but I never had the feeling he liked me."

  Jack didn't want to go there.

  "Tom…"

  "Hey, don't get me wrong. I'm not feeling sorry for myself. I know I can be an egotistic jerk at times. Ask the Skanks from Hell."

  "Who?"

  "My exes."

  "How many are there?" Jack asked, though he knew the answer.

  "Two. And number three's not so crazy about me at the moment. Anyway, they're not important. It's Dad who's dead."

  Jack didn't respond. He was trying to get a grip on this virtual stranger who was his brother. He sensed a deep melancholy. He seemed almost… dispirited.

  Tom sighed. "Maybe I should have done what you did."

  "Meaning?"

  "Disappear. All Dad did wa
s talk about you and how he was going to track you down and bring you back. I was there but all he cared about was you."

  "Cut me a break," Jack said. "He had Kate and Kevin and Lizzie, and… and your kids."

  Tom looked at him. "You don't even know their names, do you. They're your nieces and nephews and you don't know a thing about them."

  True. He didn't. Hadn't met any of his family's next generation.

  "Yeah, well, maybe it's time for me to start remedying that."

  "Don't do us any favors."

  Jack fought a flare of anger.

  "Christ, Tom, you're here, what, fifteen minutes, and listen to you. That why you came? To start a fight? That's not what this is about."

  Tom sighed again. "Yeah, you're right. It's not." He drained his drink. "Sorry."

  Jack did the same with his ale.

  "Let's get you to your hotel room."

  His head snapped toward Jack. "Hotel? I sort of figured I'd be staying with you."

  "Nobody stays with me, Tom."

  "Really?" He took on a pugnacious look. "How about Dad? Where was he going to stay?"

  "Not with me."

  Tom shook his head. "You're a weird one, Jackie—"

  "Jack."

  "Okay: Jack. I talked to Dad last week about the Philly leg of his trip—during which he was going to stay at my place, by the way—and he said some strange things about you."

  Uh-oh.

  "Like what?"

  "Well, I mean besides all the hagiographic blather about how you'd turned out and how good it was to get to know you again and all, he said something like, 'If you ever need someone to watch your back, call Jack.' Now what did he mean by that?"

  "Couldn't say."

  "What went on down in Florida that made the two of you so buddy-buddy?"