Infernal rj-9

by F. Paul Wilson

  "It's not funny and I'm not a hermit."

  "Is he feeling better?"

  "Seems to be. At least he's not throwing up anymore. Hasn't been sick since Tenth Avenue. Perked up right after he got here."

  Which only deepened Jack's suspicions. Thinking back, he remembered only hearing Tom retch. Never saw any vomit. Of course, he hadn't been exactly itching for a look at regurgitated beef stew.

  Still… with a guy a little less honest than a wharf rat, you never knew.

  Gia tsked. "Poor man."

  "That's what you get for eating Alpo."

  "Pardon?"

  "Nothing. Look, when am I going to see you?"

  A whole week away. Jack had missed her.

  "Well, why don't the three of us go somewhere after you drop off your brother? There's a German Expressionist exhibit at MOMA that might be fun."

  The Museum of Modern Art… just the place he wanted to spend his first day home from the sea.

  Gia must have sensed his lack of enthusiasm.

  "Give it a chance, Jack. There's no way a man who likes The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari—which you insisted I see—won't find something to like there."

  Oh, right. The crazy Caligari set design had been created by a couple of German expressionists.

  "Okay. You're on."

  He hung up feeling good about tomorrow, anticipating a much-needed Gia-Vicky fix.

  The feeling did a quick fade when he walked into the second bedroom that served as his TV room. Tom had the convertible couch folded out into bed mode—no sheets, just a bare mattress—and he was unpacking his bag… hanging clothes in the closet.

  "What are you doing?"

  Tom looked up and smiled. "Just letting some of this stuff air. It's been at sea too long. Was that Gia on the phone?"

  "Yeah. She says hi and hopes you're feeling better, which you seem to be."

  "Yeah. Amazing, isn't it. One minute you think you're dying, and a little while later you're feeling fine."

  "Amazing."

  "Still feeling a little weak, though. Why don't you ask Gia over?"

  Here we go: Tom and his thing for Gia.

  "I would, but what you have might be contagious."

  "I'm sure it was just food poisoning."

  "You never know."

  Tom looked disappointed. "All right, then. Got any vodka?"

  Jack shook his head. "Only beer. Probably not a good thing to be pouring booze into such an unsettled stomach anyway."

  "Actually a beer would go a long way toward settling my stomach, I think. Could you get me one?"

  Jack jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Bottom shelf of the fridge."

  Jack eyed Tom's neck as he passed. He resisted an urge to grab it with both hands and shake him like a rag doll.

  He listened to the refrigerator door open and close, watched Tom return carrying two bottles of Yuengling lager. He twisted the top off one and handed it to Jack, then opened the other and held it up.

  "To brotherhood."

  He clinked his bottle against Jack's and drank. Jack felt like saying, This is brotherhood? but bit it back, choosing instead to say nothing.

  For you, Dad, he thought as he took a long pull. Only for you.

  He needed a beer. Had a feeling he was going to need many beers.

  Tom gestured around Jack's cluttered front room. Gia once had called it "claustrophobic," and Abe proclaimed it "vertigogenic."

  "I've just got to ask you about this. I mean, who's your decorator? Joe Franklin?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "The furniture for one thing."

  Jack turned and took in his Victorian wavy-grained golden oak furniture—the gingerbread-laden secretary, the hutch, the paw-footed round oak table, the crystal-ball-and-claw-footed end tables.

  "What about it?"

  "Looks like stuff people used when they were listening to Little Orphan Annie on the radio. And speaking of Annie, is that a Daddy Warbucks lamp?"

  "It is. He was a cool guy."

  Tom stepped over to the inner wall and stared at the array of clocks and framed certificates.

  "You're living in Gew-gawville. And look at all this: The Shadow Fan Club, the Doc Savage fan club, and Jesus, a Shmoo clock!" He turned to Jack and laughed. "What are you? Ninety years old?"

  Jack felt no obligation to explain.

  Tom stepped back into the TV room where he dropped onto the mattress and lay on his side, his head propped against his hand. He pointed to the big screen.

  "Nice set. Got any movies we can watch?"

  Jack was too bushed to start searching for a hotel room now. But first thing tomorrow… first damn thing.

  SUNDAY

  1

  After a restless night during which his bed seemed to be rocking with the swells of an unseen ocean, Jack got up and walked into the empty front room.

  He stood there for a moment and tried to convince himself that last night had been a dream—that none of last week had happened.

  Then he heard the snoring from the TV room and knew he wasn't going to be that lucky.

  He looked in and saw Tom sprawled on his back like a beached whale. His right arm hung over the edge of the mattress, the fingers just brushing the top of the Lilitongue chest.

  Jack had been on the phone for an hour. His first call had been to Joey who hadn't answered. Jack left a message and then got to work on the hotels. But no luck. Not one place he'd called—and he'd tried uptown and down—had a room. There had to be one somewhere in this damn city.

  He needed a break. He went to the kitchen and spooned some Brown Gold into his Mr. Coffee and got a pot perking. The odor of coffee soon filled the apartment.

  Jack was pouring his first cup when Tom appeared, rubbing his eyes.

  "Christ, what time is it?"

  Jack took one look at the wrinkled T-shirt stretched across a belly that overhung a pair of pee-stained Jockey shorts and pointed back to the TV room.

  "Out, damn spot!"

  Tom blinked. "What?"

  "Get something on—at least on the lower half of that body."

  "You're kidding, right?"

  "No coffee for eyesores."

  Tom stared at him a moment, then shook his head and retraced his steps to the TV room. He reemerged a moment later wearing a pair of plaid Bermudas.

  "Happy now?"

  "Happiness is relative. Less aesthetically offended is more like it."

  Tom grabbed an empty cup, filled it, and took a long sip. No milk, no sugar.

  He held up the cup. "Damn good coffee." He winked. "Give me a reference."

  Jack did not want to reference that or anything else, didn't want to get started with games. But he couldn't resist.

  "If you'd just toasted me with the cup and given a grin, I'd say Winston Wolf in Pulp Fiction. But the 'damn' means you're probably thinking of Agent Cooper in Twin Peaks."

  "Excellent! I'm impressed. Now how about—?"

  Jack was about to cut him off when the intercom buzzer beat him to it.

  Baffled as to who'd be buzzing him at this hour on a Sunday—or at any hour on any day, for that matter—Jack stepped to the wall box and pressed the button.

  "Yeah?"

  "Hi, Jack." Gia's voice. "Buzz us in. We've got a surprise for you."

  Jack was momentarily baffled. Gia had a key. Then he realized that because he had company she didn't want to barge in unannounced.

  He said, "Urn, okay, sure," and hit the unlock button.

  A surprise?

  "Gia?" Tom looked panicked. "I've got to clean up!"

  2

  "Well?" Gia said, waving a hand over the laden round oak table. "What do you think?"

  She wore jeans and a loose, light blue top that heightened the color of her eyes.

  She and Vicky had brought bagels and cream cheese, two quiches—one bacon and shallots, the other zucchini and onion—plus a coffee ring, and even the Sunday Times.

  Jack forced a smile. "Looks super, b
ut you shouldn't have."

  No lie. Gia's intentions were the best, but she really shouldn't have. This was only going to delay finding Tom a room. But then, Gia didn't know Jack was hunting a place for Tom to stay.

  "I picked out the coffee cake," Vicky said. She wore denim coveralls and had her hair pulled back into her signature French braid. "It's got sugar-coated pecans on it."

  She picked one off and popped it into her mouth.

  "It won't have anything on it if you keep that up," Gia said.

  Vicky grinned. "I love sugar-coated pecans."

  Tom stepped out of the TV room just then, shaved, showered, wearing slacks and a loose shirt that partially obscured his gut. He crossed the room with outstretched arms. Add a silk dressing gown and he'd be ready for a full-fledged Noel Coward vamp.

  "Gia!" he said, making a beeline for her. "What a wonderful surprise! Please excuse my appearance, but I've spent the last week at sea."

  She accepted a hug, then said, "You remember Vicky."

  "Of course." Tom shook her hand. "A pleasure to see you again, Miss Vicky."

  "Hello, Mister—"

  "Oh. Don't call me 'mister.' I suppose you could call me Almost-Uncle Tom, but I'm not crazy about the sound of that." He grinned and winked at Gia. "So why don't you just call me Tom."

  Vicky stared at him as if he was speaking Swahili.

  "Vicky and I figured you wouldn't have any food in the house."

  Tom patted Vicky on the head. "Isn't that sweet!"

  Vicky said, "I picked out the coffee cake, even though I'm not allowed to drink coffee."

  Tom bent toward her and spoke in a gooey voice. "Isn't that wonderful of you!"

  Jack repressed a gag.

  Gia said, "I never got around to asking last night: How did Jack and Tom's Big Adventure go?"

  Tom let loose a deep ha-ha-ha! "Are you a movie buff too?"

  "Only by osmosis." She hooked an arm around Jack's waist and leaned against him. "Can't hang around with your brother too long without picking up something."

  Tom said, "Well, speaking of something, that's just what we found. We're just not sure what that something is."

  "Really?" Gia's brow furrowed as she glanced at Jack. "Animal, vegetable, or mineral?"

  Tom laughed. "We don't know!"

  "Can I see it?"

  A buzz of alarm surged through Jack.

  "That may not be such a good idea."

  Gia looked at him. "Why not?"

  What was he going to say? He had no rational explanation.

  "Because of what Tom said: We don't know what it is."

  "Oh, come on," Tom said with a patronizing laugh. "It's a basketball-sized lump that's been underwater for four hundred years. How harmful could it possibly be?"

  Jack wished he had an answer.

  Tom waved everyone toward the TV room. "Come on, let's have a look," he said, then led the way.

  Jack reluctantly followed, bringing up the rear behind Gia and Vicky. Tom seemed to have taken over.

  In the TV room Tom lifted the chest off the floor and onto the bed. He opened the lid and made a grandiose gesture.

  "Voila!"

  Gia and Vicky were suitably unimpressed.

  "Can I ask a question?" Gia said.

  Tom grinned. "But of course, my dear."

  "Why would you bother to bring this home? It looks like some ugly, oversized melon."

  "It does, indeed, but I want to find out what it is. The quest for knowledge—what human urge is more noble?"

  How about the urge to retch? Jack thought.

  "Look, Mom!" Vicky was laughing and pointing at the dimple in the Lilitongue's surface. "It's got a belly button!"

  "What a marvelous observation!" Tom said. "You really have an eye for detail!"

  Gia said, "So now that you have it, what do you do with it?"

  Jack started to say that was going to be Tom's problem, but his brother jumped in.

  "Research! I'm sure we can find someone in this city who can shed some light on its identity."

  It took a few seconds for the import of "in this city" to penetrate, but when it did…

  "Whoa-whoa-whoa! What happened to Philadelphia—the Franklin Institute, the U of P…?"

  Tom put on a sheepish, aw-shucks grin. "I was going to discuss this with you this morning, bro, but didn't get a chance before our lovely guests arrived. I've been thinking that maybe New York has more resources with the potential of shedding light on our objet myste'rieux here, and was going to ask if I might stay over a few days to pursue an answer."

  Gia frowned. "But what about Terry? You've been away for almost a week."

  "I spoke to her yesterday morning and she's perfectly fine with it. She knows how much it means to me." He looked at Jack with puppy-dog eyes. "So whatta ya say, bro? Put up with me for a few more days?"

  Jack caught a look from Gia that said, You're not going to kick out your own brother, are you?

  No question why Tom brought this up in front of her.

  Gia and Vicky's presence, plus the certain knowledge that Dad would have wanted Jack to cut him some slack, kept him from grabbing Tom by the throat and tossing him through a window.

  Bastard.

  3

  Jack helped Gia and Vicky clear the dishes while Tom read the paper.

  "I can see it now," Jack whispered while they were in the kitchen. "I'll never get rid of him. He'll be the man who came to dinner. I've got to find him a hotel."

  She said, "You and he are the only ones left in your family. You should find a way to get along."

  Jack nodded—not because he agreed, but because he didn't want to get into a discussion about this. At least not now.

  Gia was right in theory, but he saw no way the two of them would ever have much in common.

  "Hey!" Tom called from the table. "The Merry Widow is at the Met tonight!"

  "Really?" Gia gravitated toward the front room. "That's one of my favorites."

  "And Noelle Roberts is playing Hanna."

  "I saw her as Mimi in La Boheme last year. She's wonderful."

  Jack followed her in, snapping his fingers. "La Boheme… La Boheme … is that the one where somebody dies at the end?"

  Gia laughed. "Someone almost always dies at the end of an opera. And you know that."

  Tom slammed his hand on the table. "Let's go! Let's all go tonight!"

  Listen to him, Jack thought. The feds are after him and he wants to go to the opera.

  Of course, that was probably the last place they'd look for him.

  "I'd love to," Gia said, "but I can't get a sitter on such short notice."

  "Bring Vicky along. My treat."

  Listen to Mr. Big Spender.

  Gia shook her head. "No, she wouldn't like it. She's fine at the ballet where it's all music and movement, but at an opera… she'd be asking me every two minutes what they're saying. That wouldn't be fair to the people around us."

  Jack looked at Gia. "You really want to go?"

  "I'd love to see Noelle Roberts again."

  "Then go. I'll take care of Vicky."

  She smiled that smile. "Would you really? You don't mind?"

  He knew Tom had the hots for her, but this was Gia. She wasn't a tease, didn't play games. It would be a friendly date. And she'd get to see her Noelle Roberts.

  Jack put a finger to his chin and struck a pose of deep concentration.

  "Hmmm… let's see… comes down to a choice between hanging out with Vicky or going through the auditory equivalent of a root canal without anesthesia… I'd say that's a no-brainer."

  "Great!" Tom cried. "Then it's settled. I'll reserve the tickets and find a place to rent a tuxedo."

  "Oh, you don't have to—"

  "Oh, but I do. With such a beautiful woman on my arm, attiring myself in anything less would be not only a breach of manners, but an affront to all of nature."

  Jack closed his eyes. He had to get him out of here.

  4

>   When Jack returned from hailing Gia and Vicky a cab, he found Tom back at the table, reading the Times.

  "Tom?" It took an effort, but he managed to keep from shouting. "The deal was you'd stay one night. What are you pulling here?"

  Tom put down the paper. "Self-preservation."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "I've been found out. Terry says federal marshals have been at the house looking for me. They know I'm gone."

  Jack couldn't rein in a burst of fury.

  "You've got feds on your trail? That means when they find you they find me! And if they charge me with harboring a fugitive…"

  Jack could see his world going down in flames. The web of secrets that cocooned his identity, his work, his whole damn life would fall apart under federal scrutiny.

  "What do you mean, 'when' they find me? They won't. They won't know where to look. Terry thinks I'm on my way to Bermuda right now, not already back. They'll be chasing their tails. And as for tracking me here, they don't even know I've got a brother, let alone what city he lives in."

  "But Terry knows."

  He nodded. "Yeah, Terry knows a few things, but nothing of any use. If she rats me out—which she might—she'll tell them I've got a brother named Jack who lives in New York. But unless I've misread things, you're not listed anywhere under your own name, are you."

  Correct.

  Jack nodded.

  "Thought so. That means in order to find me they've got to find you, and since you aren't findable, ipso facto, neither am I."

  Jack stared at his clueless, bastard brother a long time before responding.

  "You know, Tom, I've got a great idea. Let's play a game. It's called Cain and Abel. You'll be Abel…"

  Tom laughed. "You worry too much. We're safe."

  "I want you out of here. Today."

  "And what? Feed me to the wolves? If I register anywhere I'll be found. Look, as soon as your pal Ernie has my new identity I'll be gone, out of your life for good. But until then, I need a hiding place. So you've got to let me stay, bro."

  "Cool it with the 'bro' bit, okay? It suits you like a Kangol cap."

  Tom frowned. "Kangol?"

  "There—you've made my point."

  "I don't know what the hell you're talking about. Just put me up till Ernie delivers. Is that asking so much?"