Cold City (Repairman Jack - the Early Years Trilogy) (36 page)

He was glad now that Black had made him wear it.

“You know that, and we know that, but
they
don’t.  They may think we planted you.  So watch your back is all I’m saying.  We’re not talking a few grand here.  We’re talking millions.  They’ll be turning over every rock looking for you.”

“Swell.”

“And they’ll be using your pal Reggie to help them.  He’s probably given them a detailed description.  One day real soon you might see your likeness posted on a telephone pole with a reward offered.”  His smile was grim as he shook his head.  “You went and let a subhuman live.  Told you you’d regret it.”

Jack guessed the brothers had been right, because right now he
was
regretting it.  But he still didn’t see how he could have crushed an unconscious man’s skull.  He’d had a hard enough time cracking his kneecaps.

5

Julio wasn’t much help on the subject of tapas.  He said it was a Spanish thing – Spanish as in
Spain
– and he was Puerto Rican.  He said they were like
bocas
, as if that explained it.  What Jack came away with was snacks – tapas were snacks.

Cristin had asked him to meet her at a Spanish snack bar.  Well, okay.  A lot of days he lived on what could be considered snacks – Pringles, Doritos, Cheetos, Sour Patch Kids, and the like.  And if it was a bar, it must have beer.  Jack didn’t see how he could go wrong.

Then he remembered that ruthless people were looking for a guy named Lonnie.  Looking in North Carolina, most likely, but still… not a comforting thought.

He found a Brooks Brothers and bought khaki slacks, a long-sleeve button-down white shirt, and a blue blazer.  After a shower at home he dressed and checked himself in his only mirror.  He didn’t recognize the guy in the reflection.

But the blazer would hide the pistol holstered at the small of his back.

Cool.

He took a roundabout way over to Second Avenue, going so far as to double back a couple of times.  No one was following him.  Or if someone were, he was a ninja.

Rioja turned out to be anything but a snack bar.  A real restaurant with lots of dark wood and glass, and many small tables.  Jack arrived early and found the place already half full.  He learned that a table had been reserved by a certain Cristin Ott.  The hostess seemed to know the name.  He asked for a corner table against the rear wall.  He took the seat that put his back to the wall and gave him a view of the entire place.

He saw Cristin step through the door a fashionable five minutes late.  She wore tight jeans and a denim jacket over a white blouse.  With her short dark hair and her high heels she looked very East Side.  Jack had never understood high heels with jeans, but then that could be added to the very long list of things he didn’t understand about fashion.  The hostess pointed him out but Cristin stared without recognition until he stood and waved to her.

“I didn’t recognize you,” she said, grinning as she reached the table. “I mean, look at you: all dressed up and nowhere to go.”

“I guess this is nowhere.”

A quick air kiss-hug combo and they sat.

“Seriously,” she said, “I chose this place because you can dress down here.  Look at me and look at you.  I didn’t think you owned clothes like that.”

Jack shrugged and looked down at himself.  “What?  These old things?  I’ve had them forever.”

Her blue eyes sparkled as she reached across the table and plucked a tag from his sleeve.  “Really?  All those years and you never removed this?”

They had a laugh over that.

“Truth is, I’ve owned this outfit a couple of hours.”

“Who picked it out, Joe Prep?”

“I told him to check out what I was wearing, and dress me exactly the opposite.”

No lie there.

“You want
real
opposite?” she said, laughing.  “I’d have put you in a dress.”

“I think he wanted to.”

A waitress arrived then. 

“Hi, Cristin.  The usual?”

“I think I’ll be adventurous tonight.  House rioja.”

Jack ordered a Spanish beer, whichever the waitress preferred.  He knew nothing of Spanish beers. 

“I gather you come here often.”

She smiled.  “It’s around the corner.  Great place to stop for something light when I don’t feel like cooking – which is pretty often.”

The waitress returned with a glass of red wine for Cristin and something called San Miguel for Jack.  Cristin seemed to like her wine; Jack’s San Miguel was awful.  But he kept working on it.  Better than no beer.

She guided him through the menu which was pretty much a list of appetizers.  They ordered a bunch to share.  Lots of seafood –
gambas salsa negra, bacalao, chopitos, calamares
– plus various veggies –
papas arrugadas, pimientos a padron, bandarillas
– and a couple of meats in the form of sausage and skewers.

They got through the obligatory chatter about how her party planning was going – very well, thank you – and she asked how his delivery job was going – he’d forgotten he’d told her about that, so he said he was looking into “other opportunities.” 

As the dishes came in successive waves, they sampled and talked about everything but politics and religion.  Cristin had been to a lot of plays – so far this year she’d liked
Six Degrees of Separation
best.  Jack couldn’t add much on the subject, because he wasn’t a theater fan.  His mother had filled his youthful ears with Broadway soundtracks, but he preferred movies.

Cristin proved no slouch on that front either.  And she liked the same kind of genre movies as Jack.  She thought
Total Recall
cool and
Dick Tracy
crap.  Jack agreed.  They both liked a couple of sequels:
Robocop 2
and
Predator 2
.  She declared
Pretty Woman
“totally clueless but soooo romantic.”  They disagreed on
Flatliners
– she liked anything with Kevin Bacon, Jack was disappointed with the ending – but both loved
Miller’s Crossing
.

New music-wise they couldn’t have been more different.  They both still dug the music of their youth – Def Leppard and the Police and
Thriller
– and Cristin almost choked on a baby squid when Jack mentioned how he was beginning to have doubts that Dexy’s Midnight Runners would ever make a comeback.  Nowadays she liked Michael Bolton and Wilson Phillips.  Jack found Wilson Phillips tolerable in small doses, but Michael Bolton was fingernails on a blackboard.

“I’ve gone retro and roots,” he said, rolling a shrimp in some spicy sauce.  “Reggae and blues, although as new stuff goes, I really like
Goodbye Jumbo
.”

“Which is pretty retro itself.”

Jack smiled.  She’d nailed that one.  Pretty sharp.

He found himself relaxing.  Concerns about Reggie and Arabs and stolen money receded, allowing him to enjoy the moment.   Beer certainly contributed.  After that one San Miguel he’d switched to Heineken, but alcohol wasn’t the only reason.  Cristin was good company, easy to be with.  They went way back and had nothing to prove to each other.  They laughed a lot, and best of all, the subject of Karina didn’t come up once.

The waitress appeared.  “Dessert?”

Jack patted his belly.  He was tapased out.  “I don’t think so.”

“You can’t leave here without tasting their flan,” Cristin said.

“You can still eat?”

“Always save room for dessert.”  She added an impish grin.  “Which was easy with you here.”

“Uh-oh.  Did I pig out?”  Had he hogged all the food?  He hadn’t noticed.  He’d been hungry and it had tasted so good.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t realize–”

She reached across the table and touched his hand.  “Just busting you.” 

Her hand lingered there, lightly, just for a second or two, but long enough to send a warm tingle up his arm.

And then it darted away as she glanced up at the waitress. “One flan, two spoons.”  

Cristin rose as the waitress moved away.  “Off to the facilities.  Back in a flash.”  She put on a stern expression and pointed at him.  “And leave me some flan.”

Jack laughed and waved her off. 

He watched the gentle sway of her hips as she strolled away.  He’d always thought Cristin kind of plain, but she was looking pretty good these days.  Beer goggles?  Maybe, but he didn’t think so.  This was the third time he’d seen her in a week – a glimpse last Monday when she’d been meeting clients just before the shooting, at lunch the next day, and now tonight.  She’d been more dressed up Monday, but she’d been working then; more casual at lunch and tonight, but whatever she wore, she wore with a certain flair. 

But more than that, she seemed comfortable in her skin… like she knew who she was.  Jack envied that.  He was still treading water in that regard.

But the biggest revelation was Cristin herself.  Lunch last Tuesday had been his first one-on-one with her, tonight the second.  Back in high school she’d been overshadowed by Karina.  If the three of them were hanging out, it was all Karina.  Not that she was pushy or anything, she simply had all these offbeat interests she couldn’t stop talking about.  Cristin tended to be obscured in her shadow.

He watched her stop by the hostess’s station before heading for the ladies room.  They seemed to know each other.  He tried to come up with a word that best described her now that she could shine on her own.

Vivacious.

Yeah.  That nailed it.  She radiated a field, a glow of vitality that had magnetic qualities.  It made Jack want to edge closer so he could siphon off some of that energy and make it his own.

Cristin had definitely come into her own.

The waitress brought the flan and two spoons.  Even though he wasn’t big on desserts – as much as he loved junk food, he’d been born without a sweet tooth – he’d had flan before and liked it. 

Cristin appeared again at the far end of the room and he watched her stop for another brief exchange with the hostess.  Then she strolled his way, waving to the bartender as she passed.

When she arrived he rose, and pointed to the flan.  “Only through supreme effort of will did I resist slurping that down.”

“Look at those manners,” she said.  “Rising when a lady arrives.  Your mother taught you well.”

“Actually, it was my father.”

“He must have been old school.”

“And how.”

“Well, he did a good job.”

“All by example.”

His dad had been very old school about that – rising when a woman at the table rose and not sitting until she was seated.  It became almost comical at a large, crowded table.

She sat and immediately dug into the flan, closing her eyes and moaning with her first bite.

“I so love this stuff.”

Jack took a bite.  A little too sweet for him.  He took tiny bits, letting Cristin finish the bulk of it.

They talked a while longer, then he said, “Where do we go from here?”

“For a nightcap.  I know a good place.”

Well, this was her turf. 

“Sounds good to me.” 

He signaled the waitress and waggled a finger against his palm in the universal
check, please
sign. 

She came over and said, “All settled.”

Jack looked at Cristin.  “Oh, no you don’t–”

She raised her hands.  “Don’t get your macho nachos in an uproar.  It’s on the house.”

“Do I look like a dummy?  I saw you talking to the hostess.”

“And she told me the owner said my money’s no good here tonight.” 

Jack had expected a minor struggle for the check but had assumed he’d prevail.  “On the house” hadn’t even been on the radar.

“This was supposed to be my treat.”

She shook her head.  “No-no, Jacko, this was never going to be your treat.  We agreed on Dutch, remember?”

“You don’t expect me to believe–”

“I’ve arranged a few parties here where my clients have rented the whole place.  They loooove me here.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“What about the tip?”

“Taken care of.”

Not knowing what else to do, he pulled out a twenty and dropped it on the table.  “Gotta leave something.”

She tilted her head toward the waitress.  “Estella will love you.  Let’s go.”

6

Outside, a chill wind blew down Second Avenue.  Cristin wrapped her arms across her chest.

“Should have worn something a liiiittle warmer.”

Jack resisted an impulse to throw an arm across her shoulders and snuggle her against him.  Nice as that might have been, he opted instead for giving up his jacket.  He had it halfway off before he remembered the revolver in the small of his back.

Crap.

He let her pull half a step ahead, then shrugged off the jacket and draped it over her shoulders. 

“Here.”

Before she could look around, he untucked his shirt to hide the weapon.

She smiled up at him.  “And I thought chivalry was dead.”

“Find a puddle and I’ll lay it across it.”

She held up the blazer’s sleeve.  “You really hate it that much?”

“Loathe it.”

He couldn’t imagine ever wearing it again – unless he wanted to look like someone else.

“But now
you’re
cold.”

“Yes, but I’m a man, and real men don’t feel cold.”

“Or at least don’t admit it.”

He had to admit – to himself – that he
was
cold.  That breeze was cutting through his shirt like it was fishnet. 

“Um, where are we going?  Is this nightcap place far?”

“Right around the corner,” she said as she led him in a westward turn onto 73
Street.  He followed her to the front of an apartment building halfway down the block.

“But–”

“My place,” she said, smiling as she handed back his blazer.  “Best nightcaps in town.”

Jack couldn’t help a tingle of anticipation.  Was this really going where it seemed to be?  And if so, what did he do?  How did he handle it?  Getting involved with someone from home was the worst possible move at this point in his new life.  But the flip side… would backing off shut her off?  Make her cut off contact?  That might be for the best – Abe’s warnings echoed in his head – but the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her in any way.  But even beyond that, he’d enjoyed the hell out of tonight.  He delighted in her company.  He didn’t want to lose that.