Repairman Jack [02]-Legacies

name. Alicia wished—

Enough.

'Yes, you and your daughter…'

'Vicky.'

'Right. Vicky. You donate a lot of time here.'

Gia shrugged. 'Can't think of a place that needs it more.'

'You've got that right.'

The Center was a black hole of need.

'Can I talk to you a minute?'

She looked at Gia more closely and saw that her eyes were red. Had she been crying?

'Sure.' She had no time, but this woman donated so much of hers to the Center, the least Alicia could do was give her a few minutes. 'Sit down. Are you okay?'

'No,' she said, gliding into the chair. Her eyes got redder. 'I'm so angry I could… I don't like thinking about what I'd like to do to the scum that stole those toys.'

'It's okay,' Alicia said. 'The police are working on it.'

'But you're not holding your breath, right?'

Alicia shrugged and sighed. 'No. I guess not. But they're all we've got.'

'Not necessarily,' Gia said.

'What do you mean?'

She leaned forward and lowered her voice. 'I know someone…'

3.

Jack kept an eye out for Dwight Frye on the TV screen as he scrolled through the messages left on the Repairman Jack Web site.

He was celebrating his discovery of the 1931 version of the Maltese Falcon with a Dwight Frye film festival. He had the Maltese Falcon running in the front room of his apartment. Frye played the role of Wilmer Cook in this one, and for Jack's money, he out-psychoed Elisha Cook's portrayal in the later John Huston version. But Ricardo Cortez was on the screen now, and he wasn't such a hot Sam Spade.

Back to the World Wide Web.

Most of the questions on Jack's home page were about refrigerators and microwaves, which he didn't mind. Web wanderers who stumbled onto his page thought he was some sort of appliance answer man. Fine. After no replies to their questions, they'd delete his URL from their bookmarks.

But this one… from a guy named 'Jorge.'

I BEEN RIPPED OFF. CAN'T GET MONEY OWED TO ME FOR WORK I DO. CAN'T GO ANYWHERE ELSE. CAN YOU FIX?

Yeah. That sounded like business.

Jack typed in a reply to Jorge's E-mail address:

SEND ME YOUR PHONE #. I'LL BE IN TOUCH.

RJ

He'd call the guy and see what this was about. If he was having trouble with his bookie, tough. But he'd said it was money for 'work.' So maybe Jorge was a potential customer.

The phone rang but Jack let the machine pick up. He heard his outgoing message… 'Pinocchio Productions—I'm out at the moment. Leave a message after the beep' … then:

'Jack, this is Dad. Are you there?' A pause as he waited for Jack to pick up. Jack closed his eyes and didn't move. He felt bad about leaving his father hanging, but he wasn't up to another conversation with him right now. 'All right… when you get in, give me a call. I came across another great opportunity for you down here.'

Jack exhaled when he heard the click of the connection breaking.

'Dad,' he said softly, 'you're making me crazy.'

His father had moved down to Florida a few months ago and Jack had thought it was a good idea at the time. Better to be a retired widower down there than in Burlington County, New Jersey.

But as soon as Dad had settled in, he began seeing all sorts of opportunities for Jack. His older brother and sister were both professionals, pillars of their respective communities. They were set. But Jack… Dad still saw his younger son as unfinished business.

His brother and sister had given up on him long ago. The annual Christmas card was the extent of their contact. But not Dad. He never gave up. He didn't want to go to his grave thinking his prodigal dropout son was living hand to mouth in New York as an appliance repairman.

I've probably got more socked away than you do, Dad.

He winced as he remembered their last conversation.

You've got to see this place, Jack. It's growing like crazy—a gold mine for someone like you. You establish yourself here as a reliable repair service, and in no time you'll have a fleet of trucks all over the county…

Be still my heart, he thought. A fleet of trucks, and maybe, if I play my cards right, the cover of Entrepreneur magazine.

Jack had been begging off, hoping Dad would get the message, but obviously he hadn't. When Jack called back, he was going to have to tell his father point-blank: No way was he leaving New York. The Jets would be wearing new Super Bowl rings before he moved to Florida.

Then again, if things didn't pick up, maybe he'd have to rethink that.

He'd just checked the answering machine in the drop on Tenth Avenue. Nothing there. Business had been kind of slow lately. He was getting bored.

And when he got bored, he bought things. He'd picked up his latest treasure from the post office just this morning.

He rose and rubbed his eyes. The computer screen tended to bother them. He stood about five-eleven, maybe six foot if he stretched. He had a tight wiry build, dark brown hair, lips on the thin side, and mild brown eyes. Jack worked very hard at looking average.

He removed the clock from its packing to admire it again.

A genuine Shmoo pendulette alarm clock. In beautiful condition. He ran his fingers over its smooth, white, un-marred ceramic surface, touching the eyes and whiskers on the creature's smiling face. It had come in its original box and looked brand-new.

Now was as good a time as any to hang it on the wall. But where? His walls were already crowded with framed official membership certificates in the Shadow and Doc Savage fan clubs, Captain America's Sentinels of Liberty, the Junior Justice Society of America, the David Harding CounterSpy Junior Agents Club, and the Don Winslow Creed.

What can I say? he thought I'm a joiner.

His apartment was crowded with wavy-grained Victorian golden oak furniture. The wall shelves sagged under the weight of the neat stuff he'd accumulated over the years, and every horizontal surface on the hutch, the secretary, the claw-and-ball-footed end tables were cluttered as well.

And then he saw where the clock could go: right above the pink Shmoo planter… which still didn't have anything planted in it.

He was just about to look for his hammer when the phone rang again. Dad, give me a break, will you?

But it wasn't his father.

'Jack? It's Gia. You there?'

Something in her voice… Jack snatched up the handset.

'Always here for you. What's up?'

'I'm waiting for a cab. Just wanted to make sure you were in.'