Repairman Jack [05]-Hosts (12 page)

"I'm so sorry," she said, backing up a step and wiping her eyes on her sleeve. She was still all in black, dressed in the clothes she'd worn last night. "I didn't mean to do that, it's just that I'm such a wreck. I mean, I can't sleep, I can't eat, I wanted to go back to Atlanta last night but there were no flights that late and besides no one's home because my folks are touring Scandinavia and are somewhere in fucking
Oslo
right now and I tried to talk to my boyfriend about it and I thought he understood but after a while he let it slip that he thought it was awesome. Can you
believe
that? He thinks it would have been so
awesome
to have been there! So I just walked out and I need to talk to someone who understands what it was like, someone who was there too."

"That's me," he said. "But how did you find me?"

"I saw your picture in the paper and remembered you saying you'd graduated from Columbia so I called the alumni office as soon as it opened and they gave me your last address. I hope you don't mind."

"Mind? Are you kidding? I was trying to figure out how to get in touch with you but I never got your last name."

"And I realized I never really thanked you for what you did."

"What I did?"

"Stop being modest. You shielded me with your own body. I'll never forget that."

"Oh, that," he said as guilt spiked him. "Let's not make too much of that."

"How can you be so calm?" she said, staring at him. "How come you're handling this and I'm not?"

He'd been asking himself that same question. "Maybe because I was able to write about it. I had to confront my terrors; maybe focusing and putting them down on paper was some sort of exorcism."

Not to mention how my being there is going to make my career.

"There's another way to look at it," he added—this had just occurred to him and it was pretty good. "You have to figure, with all the millions of people in this city and all the subway lines and trains that run every hour, what are the chances of being caught on a subway car with a gun-toting madman? A zillion to one, right?"

Beth nodded. "I guess so."

"So what are the chances of getting caught twice? Think about that. The odds of either of us ever having a gun pointed our way again has got to be
eighty
zillion to one. So the way I look at it, I just survived the worst moment of my whole life. Everything from here on is a cake-walk."

"I never thought of it that way." She took a deep breath. "I can't believe this, but I think I feel better already. Just seeing you so together after going through the same thing I did makes it easier to handle."

Did that mean she was going to leave? Hello, have a good cry, feel better, then back to the boyfriend? No way.

"Want some coffee? Tea? I've got some good green tea."

"You know," she said with a twist of her lips which, on a day like today, had to suffice for a full-fledged smile, "all of a sudden that sounds good."

He started toward the kitchenette. "How about something to eat? I don't have much but—"

"No. I still can't think of eating. Just some tea would be great."

Good, he thought, because unless you're into chunky peanut butter and stale Ritz crackers, I'm afraid you're out of luck. The cupboard is bare, babe.

"Have a seat on the couch there and I'll start the water boiling."

What do I do now? he asked himself as he filled the kettle.

He'd been planning to start canvassing the Upper West Side with his printout. He'd called in sick at work, telling them he was still too shaken up to make it in. They'd all been understanding, even going so far as to offer him stress counseling, which left him feeling guilty.

But what he needed far more than stress counseling was a big follow-up story.

Then George Meschke himself got on the line and went on about how sales of this week's issue were going through the roof. Lots of the outlets had squawked at first at the double shipments they received, but now they were calling to say thanks—they'd sold out.

So Sandy was the man of the moment down at
The Light
, but that wasn't going to help him here at home. As much as he needed to find the Savior, he so wanted to make the most of this chance with Beth too. She'd come looking for
him
, damn it, so he'd be a real jerk to blow her off. Turn her away now and he might never see her again.

Shit. Why couldn't anything be easy?

"Do you take yours with sugar?" he called as he checked the bowl.

He usually snagged a packet or two from the coffee shops and delis when he remembered to, but it looked like he hadn't remembered in too long. Just a few white granules speckling the bottom.

Beth hadn't answered him so he headed back toward the front room.

"I hope you don't need—"

And as he moved, for a second, just a second, he had a vision of her lying on the couch, stripped of her clothing, her white skin stark against the dark fabric, open arms reaching for him as she offered herself in grateful repayment for what she considered an act of unparalleled bravery. After all, if he'd been willing to sacrifice his life for her safety, the least she could do was…

And there she was, lying on the couch…

… limbs akimbo…

… fully dressed…

… sound asleep.

Got to hand it to you, Palmer, he thought. You sure do have a way with women. A real knack for riveting their interest.

And then it hit him that this was perfect. She could sleep here while he started canvassing.

Yes! Like having his cake and eating it too.

He tiptoed into his bedroom and grabbed a pillow and blanket, then returned to the couch where he slipped the former under her head and tucked the latter around her body.

He found a pad and scratched out a note.

Beth
—

Had to go down to the paper. If you wake up before I'm back, please don't leave. We have LOTS to talk about! Sandy

He placed the pad where she had to see it, then leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

"You're safe here," he whispered.

He grabbed the envelope with the printouts, tucked them into his knapsack along with his note pad, pens, and tape recorder—be prepared, as the Boy Scouts say—then eased himself out.

Life hadn't been great before, but it was definitely getting better. Not a bowl of cherries yet, but on its way.

4

"All right already!" Abe said when he finally opened the door in response to Jack's insistent knocking. "My hundred-yard sprint days are long past."

"It's known as the hundred-yard
dash
, Abe."

"Dash, sprint, whatever—I can't do it anymore."

Jack doubted that Abe Grossman, the balding proprietor of the Isher Sports Shop, whose belt length probably equaled his height, had ever sprinted or dashed a hundred consecutive yards in his life. He strode by him and headed down one of the narrow, canyonesque aisles teetering with hockey sticks and basketballs and safety helmets, heading for the counter in the rear. His nose started to itch from the dust that layered everything. Abe didn't do high volume in sporting goods. His real business was in the basement.

"Got the morning papers?"

Silly question, Jack knew. Abe read every issue of every local English language paper—morning, evening, weekly.

Behind him he heard Abe's mocking tone, " 'Good morning, Abe, my good and dear friend.' And a very good morning to you, Jack. My, but it's early, even for you. 'Yes, Abe, so sorry to barge in on you like this—'"

"Abe," Jack said. "I'm feeling just a bit frazzled this morning and I could use your help."

He hadn't slept well. The combination of the subway mess and running into Kate on the same night had kept him turning and pounding his pillow until dawn.

"'Frazzled,' says he; cranky, says I. But I should be one to quibble? He wants help but he asks for the morning papers."

"Yeah. I need another pair of eyes to help me go through every article on last night's subway killings word by word and—"

"For why? To see if the police got an accurate description of you?"

Jack stopped and turned so fast he almost lost his balance. He felt his blood congealing as he stared at Abe.

"You know?"

"What's not to know?" Abe said, slipping his considerable bulk past Jack—no easy feat in these confines. He waddled on and led Jack back to the scarred counter where the morning papers lay scattered. "A gun-toting crazy gets blown away by this nondescript
mensch
with a .45 the size of a
kreplach
and I should think it's Senator Schumer? Or Bernie Goetz back on the job?" He grinned. "So where's your halo, Mr. Savior?"

"But… but how?"

This was bad, very bad. If the connection was that obvious to Abe, how many other people had made it?

"The Semmerling, of course. You forget already who sold it to you?"

"Could've been another make. An AMT Backup or—"

"Could've, shmoud've. Who else but my dear friend Jack would go up against two autoloaders with a five-shot double-action piece?"

"Not like I had much choice."

"And you did have five shots, didn't you?" Abe's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized Jack. "A round in the chamber and four in the clip, right?"

Jack shrugged and glanced away. "Well… not exactly."

"Please don't tell me you started off with an empty chamber."

"I know it's safe but a loaded chamber bothers me."

"What if four hadn't been enough, Jack? What if you'd needed that fifth round? Where would you be now?"

Jack noticed a shift in Abe's tone. He glanced at his old friend's face and saw real concern there.

"Point taken."

"So tell me: how close did he come to killing you?"

"What makes you think he came close at all?"

"You were outgunned and you had to work that
farkuckt
slide for every shot." Abe visibly shuddered. "You could have wound up in a body bag like the rest."

"To tell the truth. I think he was so shocked to see someone else with a gun that he didn't know what to do. Never occurred to him that he might have to defend himself."

"So you didn't need a fifth?"

"Didn't even need the fourth." Jack dropped the spent casings from last night on the counter. "Here's the brass."

"Very considerate of you. I'll recycle these and—wait: there's four here. I thought you said—"

"Used it to kill his boom box."

Abe winced. "Don't tell me: playing rap. Dr. Schnooky Ice or somebody."

"Nah. An old song I used to like, but I don't think I'll want to hear it again for a long while. Can we go through the papers now?"

"
Newsday
and the
Times
I've been through already. No detailed description in either."

That was a relief. "All right, you take the
News
and I'll take the
Post
." As Abe settled on his stool behind the counter, Jack scanned everything pertinent in the
Post
and found nothing.

"So far, so good."

"Nothing in the
News
either," Abe said.

Jack felt the tension coiled in his shoulders and along the back of his neck begin to ease. He spotted the
Village Voice
in the pile. No need to bother with that—a weekly wouldn't have a fast-breaking story like the massacre—but he couldn't resist a dig at Abe.

He tapped its logo. "I'm surprised, Abe. I didn't think you stooped to freebies."

"For the
Voice
I make an exception—but only because of Nat Hentoff. Even when it wasn't free, I bought the
Voice
for Nat. Such a
mensch
."

"Right. Like I used to buy
Playboy
for the articles. 'Fess up. You read the
Voice
for the personals."

"You mean those ads that show pictures of beautiful woman but feel the need to have a banner reading FEMALE plastered across her
tuchis
to assure me that what I'm looking at is what I'm looking at? That I don't need."

The logo of
The Light
was visible at the bottom of the pile but Jack gave no sign that he'd seen it.

"Got any scandal sheets?"

"Feh! Never!"