Repairman Jack [09]-Infernal (7 page)

“We took care of a problem together.”

“What sort of problem?”

“Not important.”

“Shit. You’re as oblique as he was.”

Jack shrugged. He was glad Dad hadn’t discussed it with Tom. Jack didn’t want to.

Since Tom was making no move to pay for the drinks, Jack reached for his wallet.

“I’ve got it,” Tom said. He pulled out a roll of bills, peeled off a twenty, and passed it to Jack. “How’s that look to you?”

Jack recognized the workmanship—the same crew that had made the C-notes he’d passed to a pair of psychics last summer.

“Queer.”

“Damn it! You can tell?”

“Stuff’s been all over town. Question is, what’s a judge, an officer of the court, doing with bogus bills?”

Tom shrugged. “Evidence in a case. They looked fairly genuine so I pocketed a sample.”

“Why? You haven’t been passing them, have you?”

Another shrug. “It’s kind of a hobby. You know, to see if I can get away with it.”

“Jesus, if you get caught—”

“Hey, I’m a judge. I had no idea. Someone passed it to me and I innocently passed it on.” He smiled and put a hand over his heart. “I shall adopt the plaint of victimhood.”

That might work for Tom, but Jack couldn’t risk being pulled in as an accomplice. Someone might ask him questions he couldn’t answer.

“Well, don’t try it here.” Jack pointed to a twenty and a C-note taped to the mirror next to the cash register. “Everybody’s on the lookout for them.”

Tom’s smile held. “No problem. I’ll bet I can work out a way around that.”

This time he took out his wallet and removed a fifty. He waved to the barmaid and handed it to her along with the tab. Seconds later she was back with the change.

As she turned away, Jack watched Tom pocket the real twenty and hold up the queer.

“Oh, excuse me, miss. Can I have two tens for this?”

She said, “Sure,” and went to the cash register and pushed in the twenty without checking it. Why would she? She thought it was the same bill she’d just given him. She returned and handed Tom the tens.

When she was out of earshot, he grinned at Jack. “How about that for slick?”

It took Jack about half a minute to recover. He’d seen a lot—a
lot
—of off-the-wall things, but his brother the judge pulling a two-bit bill switch…

“You’ve gotta be kidding me, Tom. Are you crazy?”

“Maybe. So what?”

“Get that bill back.”

“Relax. It’s a game. And it’s only twenty bucks.”

“It’s not ‘only’ to her, and she’ll get docked for accepting it.”

Tom shook his head and stared at him. “No need to get all touchy-feely on me, Jack. I got the impression from Dad that you were some sort of tough guy. I guess I got it wrong.”

“If I’m tough, it’s not with working stiffs trying to earn a living.”

My brother the judge, Jack thought.

Wasn’t that about as high as you could go in the legal profession? The arbiter of right and wrong, of admissible and inadmissible, the guy in charge of the blind lady’s scales… and he was acting like a lowlife. A bottom-feeding lowlife.

Jack knew loads of people on the wrong side of the law, and could think of a few who’d be only too happy to knock over Houlihan’s and clean the cash registers of every last dime. But none of those guys would stoop to stiffing the barmaid. Okay, maybe he knew one or two who’d shortchange their blind, deaf, crippled mother, but they left a telltale trail of slime wherever they went and topped Jack’s AVOID list.

“Well?” he said, giving Tom a hard stare. “You gonna get it back?”

Tom looked at him as if he’d just told him Dad was a space alien.

“Hell no.”

Jack resisted the impulse to punch his brother’s doughy face. Instead he took out his wallet, found a ten and two fives, and flagged down the barmaid.

“Could you give me a twenty for these?”

She glanced at Jack, then at Tom, then back again.

“Is this some kind of game?”

“No. I just need a twenty.”

She shrugged and retrieved the bogus bill. Jack took it, then snatched a five from Tom’s change and handed it to her.

“For your troubles.”

She smiled. “Thanks.”

Tom shot him a venomous look.

Screw him.

Jack started toward the elevators up to street level.

“Let’s get you set up in your room.”

5

“The Pennsylvania Hotel?” Tom said as he followed Jack across Seventh Avenue. “Never heard of it.”

He was feeling the vodka percolating through his bloodstream now, dulling the pervasive shock of being the son of a man murdered by terrorists. He and Dad had never been close—hell, who have I ever been close to?—but still… he was his father and he’d been scheduled for a stayover next week. Tom didn’t kid himself—Dad’s primary reason for coming had been to see his grandkids.

But still…

Vodka usually made the world look a little friendlier, a little easier to handle. Not today.

This city was partly to blame. He’d never liked New York. Always struck him as more toxic landfill than city. Too big, too coarse, completely lacking the élan of Philadelphia. Philly… now
there
was a city.

But here…

He eyed the passing parade of New York’s
lumpenproletariat
: the glaborous, the rugose, the nodose, the labrose. An endless procession of elves, spriggins, goblins, trolls, fakirs, shellycoats, gorgons, Quasimodos, and Merricks.

He watched his brother walking ahead of him. The Jackie—oops, he wants to be called Jack now—Tom remembered used to be a klutzy younker. A skinny little pain in the ass who was always underfoot.

He was still a pain in the ass—an
uptight
pain in the ass. Look at how he’d reacted to switching that twenty. Like some sort of Miss Priss. Where’d he pick up his holier-than-thou?

Yeah, still a pain in the ass, but no longer skinny. His shoulders filled out his sweatshirt; he’d pushed his sleeves up to his elbows revealing forearms that rippled with sleek muscles just below the skin. Not much fat on Little Brother.

But that’s okay, Tom thought. I’ve got enough for two.

“Used to be the Statler,” Jack said. “Look, you’re right across the street from Madison Square Garden, and just crosstown from the morgue.”

Tom shook his head. “Yeah. The morgue.” He looked up at the tall ionic columns of the entrance. “
This
could be a morgue.”

“It’s old, but it’s been completely renovated.”

Tom had a feeling Jack didn’t give a good goddamn if he liked it or not.

Too bad they’d got off on the wrong foot, but that was Jack’s fault, not his. And anyway, who cared what a college dropout loser thought of him?

Jack led him across the wide, retro lobby toward the registration desk.

Blast. He’d been sort of counting on staying with Jack. He didn’t feel like ponying up for a hotel, especially on a completely unnecessary trip like this. Why Jack couldn’t have simply signed for the body and shipped it back to Johnson was beyond him.

Well, at least it had got him out of Philly. That counted for something. As much as he revered the place, he wished he could find a way to be a former Philadelphian for good.

“I reserved it in your name,” Jack said, pulling out his cell phone. “Go ahead. I’ve got a call to make.”

Tom gave his name to the check-in clerk, an attractive twenty-something with curly black hair, pretty despite the fact she looked like a mix of every race on earth, and waited while she checked her computer.

“Ah, here it is,” she said with a dazzling smile. “You’re staying only one night, correct?”

She put down the card and began tapping on her keyboard. Tom noticed his own name on the form; a credit card slip with a handwritten name and number was attached. He edged forward for a closer look.

John L. Tyleski.
… who was that? Jack would have had to give a credit card number to hold the room, but this obviously wasn’t his. The hotel must have screwed it up.

Tom hid a smile. This presented an interesting opportunity. Could he pull it off?

Well, never look a gift horse…

The clerk looked up and smiled at him. “Which credit card will you be using, sir?”

“Mr. Tyleski is covering the room.”

“Really?” She studied the reservation card. “It doesn’t say so here.”

Tom gave a perturbed sniff. “Well, he is. He
always
covers my accommodations when I’m in town. Whoever took the reservation must have forgotten to write it down.”

She was shaking her head. “I don’t know…”

Tom sighed. “This
never
happens at the Plaza. He
always
puts me up at the Plaza, but this consultation was a last-minute thing and they’re full. More the pity.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but—”

“On the other hand, the Plaza is used to our arrangement. I suppose John simply could have forgotten to mention it.” He waved his hand in bored annoyance. “Call him if you must.”

He watched her hesitate, then pick up the phone.

Oh, shit. His bluff hadn’t worked.

Well, it had been fun while it lasted.

He glanced over at his brother the wet blanket, still talking on the phone. Tom would have to come up with an explanation for the clerk as to why John Tyleski had never heard of him, and bring it off without Jack knowing. He didn’t need another of those appalled looks. What a ninny.

“Mr. Tyleski, this is the Pennsylvania Hotel calling. We’d like to confirm the payment arrangement on the room you reserved today. Please call us back at…”

She was leaving voice mail! Tom almost let out a whoop.

Now, if this Tyleski character didn’t check his messages until tomorrow…

The clerk hung up and turned to him.

“We’ll leave it on Mr. Tyleski’s card for now. If you speak to him, please ask him to confirm with us.”

“Of course. I’m scheduled for a dinner meeting with him tonight at the Plaza.”

She gave him a card to fill out with his address and telephone number, both of which he fabricated out of thin air. The less the Pennsylvania Hotel knew, the better.

Jack finished his call and walked over just as she handed him the key.

“All set?”

Tom nodded. “Room six-twenty-seven. Is there a restaurant here?”

“Joe O’s. Never been but it’s supposed to be pretty good.”

“Great. What time do you want to meet for dinner?”

“Sorry. Can’t.”

“Come on. We’ll eat at this Joe O’s—my treat.”

Actually, John Tyleski’s treat. Tom would charge it to the room.

Jack shook his head. “Got some loose ends I’ve got to tie up tonight.”

“Okay.” He feigned a sad look. “I guess I’ll have to eat alone.”

Jack appeared unmoved.

Tom gave him a wink. “I suppose I could always rent some company.”

“Jesus, Tom. Don’t get rolled. I need you in one piece tomorrow.”

The implication was not lost on him: no concern for Tom himself, just his presence to claim Dad’s body. Talk about getting off on the wrong foot…

He’d been kidding about the rented company. He’d seen plenty of hookers during his years at the bar and on the bench. Some were knockouts and some were harridans, and some weren’t even women. Trouble was, you never knew who their last John was or what you might catch.

Not that he’d ever needed them—plenty of legal secretaries around the courthouse happy to give it up for a judge.

“Don’t worry, Jack. I’ll be here, intact and ready to roll. And maybe on the way over to the morgue you can explain why you couldn’t take care of this yourself.”

“Maybe,” Jack said. “And maybe not. Pick you up at nine thirty tomorrow morning.”

He watched Jack exit through the glass doors. Just as well. The thought of spending a couple of hours over dinner with that guy, trying to make conversation… Jesus, what could they talk about besides Dad? Not as if they had a store of fond memories to revisit.

Nope. Looked like dinner for one tonight.

At least that would give him time to gather his thoughts as to what he should do with the money he’d inherit. Tom had helped Dad change his will after Kate’s death and in the process had got a peek into the old guy’s finances. Still couldn’t believe it—seven figures and growing. Dad had practically invented day trading and was damn good at it.

A third to Tom, a third to Jack, and a third to Kate’s kids. His share would help loosen
some
of his financial straits, but not all. Especially if he couldn’t keep it.