Repairman Jack [02]-Legacies

His short chubby fingers were surprisingly nimble as they zipped open the box. A knife appeared and carved out a huge section which went directly into Abe's mouth.

'Mmmm,' he said, closing his eyes and swallowing. 'Who could believe this is fat free? Too bad it's not calorie free.' He pointed the knife at Jack. 'You're having?'

'Nah. Had a late lunch.'

'You should try. All this food you bring me and I never see you eat.'

'That is because I bring it for you. Enjoy.'

Abe promptly did just that with another piece.

'Where's Parabellum?' Jack asked.

Abe spoke around a mouthful. 'Sleeping.'

For some reason Jack could not fathom, Abe had bought a little blue parakeet and become paternally attached to it.

'He doesn't like chocolate anyway,' he said, wiping his hands on his shirt. Brown smears joined similar yellow smudges that looked like mustard. 'Hey. You want to see willpower? Watch.'

He closed the top and pushed the box to the side.

'I'm impressed,' Jack said. 'First time I ever saw you do that.'

'I'll be thin as you before you know it.' He found a crumb on the counter and popped it into his mouth, then looked longingly at the brownie box. 'Yessir. Before you know it.'

In what Jack knew was an prodigious act of will, Abe pushed away from the counter and shrugged. 'Nu?'

'Need a few things.'

'Let's go.'

Abe locked the front door, turned a closed for lunch sign toward the street and, navigating aisles just wide enough to allow his bulk to pass, led the way toward the back. He followed Abe into the rear closet and down to the cellar. The neon sign that overhung the stone steps flickered but never quite came to life.

'Got a sick sign there, Abe.'

'I know, but it's too much trouble to get fixed.'

He hit the switch that illuminated the cellar's miniature armory. Abe moved among his stock, adjusting the pistols and rifles in their racks, straightening the boxes of ammo on their shelves. Everything neatly arranged down here, in sharp contrast to the floor just above them.

'Restocking or something new?'

'New,' Jack said. 'Need a pair of weighted gloves.'

'You lost the last pair you bought?'

'No, but I need a white pair.'

Abe's eyebrows lifted. 'White? I never heard of such a thing. Black, of course. Brown, maybe. But white?'

'See if you can find me any.'

'I should go asking for white leather gloves with half a pound of fine steel shot packed into the knuckles? You want this in a lady's size perhaps?'

'No, it's for me. To go with formal wear.'

Abe sighed. 'And I should have it for you when?'

'Tonight if you can, but by early tomorrow at the latest. And listen for any noise about someone with a whole bunch of kids' Christmas gifts to sell… cheap… already wrapped, most likely. I told Julio to put his ears on too. You hear about someone like that, get word to the guy that you know a buyer. Someone who'll take his whole stock.'

Abe's curiosity got the best of him. 'Just what is it you're getting into this time, Jack?'

'Something I probably shouldn't be involved with. But to do it right, it looks like I'm going to have to do something stupid.'

Abe stared and Jack knew he wanted to know just how stupid. But Abe wouldn't ask, knowing Jack would tell him about it afterward.

Jack looked around and spotted something hanging on a rack in the corner. And that gave him an idea.

'You know what? Maybe I could use one more thing…'

5.

Jack took the A train downtown and emerged into the bustling Third World bazaar that was Fourteenth Street. He threaded his way among dreadlocked Dominicans, turbaned Sikhs, sailed Indians, suited Koreans, Pakistanis, Puerto Ricans, Jamaicans, and an occasional European mixing in the chill air on sidewalks flanked with signs in half a dozen languages.

He arrived early at the Seventh Avenue address Gia had given him. A little placard on the door was the only indication that this nondescript storefront had anything to do with AIDS.

He probably could have started hunting the stolen Christmas gifts without coming down here, but he figured a quick look at the scene wouldn't hurt. Might even give him a handle on the thieves.

'I have a four o'clock with Dr. Clayton, I believe?' he told the slim, attractive black woman at the reception desk. The nameplate read simply, Tiffany.

'Name, sir?'

'Jack.'

'Jack what?'

He wanted to tell her, Just Jack, but that inevitably led to more questions, and further refusal tended to brand his identity in a person's mind. He preferred to slide off the memory without a trace.

He smiled and fished for a name beginning with 'N.' He'd used Meyers last time he'd been asked, and since he liked to proceed in alphabetical order…

'Niedermeyer. Jack Niedermeyer.'

'Fine, Mr. Niedermeyer. Dr. Clayton is still in another meeting right now. A reporter. We had a robbery here last night, you know.'

'Really? What did they take?'

'All the donated Christmas toys.'

'Get out!'

'It's true. The police are on it right now. I think they should—oh, there's Dr. Clayton now. Looks like she's finishing up.'

Jack saw a slim brunette in a white coat walking his way with a guy who looked more like a deliveryman than a reporter. She escorted him to the door, then scanned the street outside as if looking for something. Whatever it was, when she turned back Jack's way, she didn't look as if she'd found it. Or maybe she had. Either way, she didn't seem happy.

'Dr. Clayton, this is your four o'clock: Mr. Niedermeyer.'

Dr. Alicia Clayton was better-looking close up, but still kind of… plain. She had fine, angular features—a thin, sharp nose, sharply etched lips—neither too fine nor too full—and blue-gray eyes. Her hair was fine too, bobbed to chin length, and a deep, deep black—not black-dye black like the Goth kids did their hair, but a genuine, rich, glossy black.

And no makeup. Someone who took such good care of their hair, you'd think they'd want to enhance their other assets. But not, apparently, Dr. Clayton.

Well, if nothing else, the lack of makeup gave her a clean, scrubbed look, which Jack supposed was a good thing for a doctor.

But her eyes… something hiding there. Fear? Anger? A little of both, maybe?

She thrust out her hand. 'Welcome, Mr. Niedermeyer.'

She had a good grip.

'Just call me Jack.'

'You'll want to see the scene of the crime, I imagine.'

'I was going to suggest that.'