Scenes from the Secret History (The Secret History of the World) (29 page)

“I wish.  Tell them it’s not just stealing, and it’s not just stealing from little kids – it’s stealing from kids who’ve already got less than nothing, who’re carrying a death sentence in their bloodstreams and may not even
be
here next Christmas.”

“That’s beautiful.  Maybe you should–”

“No, please, Raymond.  I can’t.”

Feeling utterly miserable, she tuned out for a moment. 

“What else can happen today?” she muttered.  “Bad news always comes in threes, doesn’t it?

Raymond still hovered beyond her desk.  “Something with that ‘family matter’ you’ve been dealing with?” he said, then added – pointedly:  “All by yourself?”

He knew she’d been seeing lawyers and been preoccupied lately, and he seemed to take it personally that she wouldn’t discuss it with him.  She felt sorry for him.  He freely discussed his personal life with her – more than a few times she’d wanted to block her ears and say
Too much information!
– but she couldn’t reciprocate.  Her own personal life was pretty much a void, and the disaster area that posed as her family was not something Alicia wanted to share, even with someone as sympathetic and non-judgmental as Raymond.

“Yes.  That ‘family matter.’  But that’s not as important as getting those toys back.  We had a super Christmas set up for those kids and I don’t want it going down the tubes.  I want those toys back, Raymond, and dammit – get me the Police Commissioner’s number.  I’m going to call him myself.  I’m going to call him every day until those toys are back.”

“I’ll look it up right now,” he said, and was gone, closing the door behind him.

Alicia folded her arms on the scarred top of her beat-up old desk and dropped her forehead onto them.  Everything seemed to be spinning out of control.  She felt so helpless, so damn
impotent
.  Systems… always these huge, complex, lumbering systems to deal with. 

The Center’s toys were gone.  She’d have to depend on the police to get them back.  But they had their own agenda, their own higher priorities, and so she’d have to wait until they got around to hers, if they ever did.  She could call the Commissioner until she wore out the buttons on her phone, but he’d probably never take the call.

And the will had said the house was hers, but Thomas was using the system’s labyrinth to keep it from her.  On her own, Alicia would have been swallowed up by his legal pit bulls, so she’d been forced to hire someone to fend them off.

Leo…oh, God, poor Leo.  She could still hear the blast, see the flames.  Nothing had been left of him after that explosion. 

A cold sick dread seeped through her.  When’s my turn?  If I keep pushing Thomas and whoever’s backing him, will I be next?

She pounded her fist on the desk. 
Damn
them! 

She wanted one of those big samurai blades – a dai-katana – to cut right to the heart of–

“Excuse me.”

Alicia looked up.  One of the volunteers, a pretty blonde in her early thirties, stood halfway through the doorway, looking at her.

“I knocked but I guess you didn’t hear me.”

Alicia straightened and shook back her hair.  She put on her professional face.

“Sorry.  I was a million miles away, dreaming about chasing down the rats who stole those presents.”

The woman slipped her svelte body the rest of the way through and shut the door behind her.  Alicia wished she had a body like that.

She’d seen her around a lot.  Sometimes she brought her daughter with her – cute little girl, maybe seven or eight.  What were their names?

“You won’t have to go a million miles to find them,” the woman said.  “One or two should cover it.”

“You’re probably right,” Alicia said. 

Her name…her name… what was her name?

Got it
.  “Gia, isn’t it?”

She smiled.  “Gia DiLauro.”

A dazzling smile.  Alicia wished she had a smile like that.  And
Gia
… what a great 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.  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.”

Alicia looked at her.  “What do you mean?”

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

And we know who that “someone” is…
Legacies

April

Interlu
de at Duane’s

In January 2005, David Morrell and I were instructors at the Borderlands Bootcamp for Writers.  David had helped start the International Thriller Writers organization the previous year and induced me to join. ITW in turn induced me to donate a Repairman Jack story to their anthology (
Thriller
) to raise funds for the organization. 

Thus was
"Interlude at Duane’s" born.  The
Thriller
table of contents is a Who’s Who of thriller writers.  All contributors were limited to a 5K word count. I could have used more. Toward the end I was on fire, burning up the keyboard.  I wish I could write with that speed and intensity all the time.

As you’ll see, this one was
fun
.

Thriller
went on to become one of the bestselling anthologies of all time.  And I didn’t get a dime royalty.  But I did gain a ton of new readers.  Many of the zillion or so people who bought the anthology had never heard of Jack.  Since then I regularly run into devoted Jack fans who say their first contact with the character was in
Thriller
.  Doing well while doing good… nothing wrong with that.

Ed Gorman chose it for his anthology
The Deadly Bride and Other Great Mystery and Crime Stories of 2005
.

Here’s a tempting morsel…

Interlude at Duane’s

(sample)

“Lemme tell you, Jack,” Loretta said, blotting perspiration from her fudgecicle skin, “these changes gots me in a baaaad mood.”

They’d just finished playing some real-life Frogger jaywalking 57
th
and were now chugging west.

“Real bad.  My feets killin me too.  Nobody better hassle me afore I’m home and on the outside of a big ol glass of Jimmy.”

Jack nodded, paying just enough attention to be polite.  He was more interested in the passersby and was thinking how a day without your carry was like a day without clothes.

He felt naked.  Had to leave his trusty Glock and backup home today because of his annual trip to the
Empire State Building.  He’d designated April 19
th
King Kong Day.  Every year he made a pilgrimage to the observation deck to leave a little wreath in memory of the Big Guy.  The major drawback to the outing was the metal detector everyone had to pass through before heading upstairs.  That meant no heat.

He didn’t think he was being paranoid.  Okay, maybe a little, but he’d pissed off his share of people in this city and didn’t care to run into them naked.

After the wreath-laying ceremony, he ran into Loretta and walked her back toward Hell’s Kitchen.  Oh, wait.  It was Clinton now. 

They went back a dozen or so years to when both waited tables at a now-extinct trattoria on West Fourth.  She’d been fresh up from
Mississippi then, and he only a few years out of Jersey.  Agewise, Loretta had a good decade on Jack, maybe more – might even be knocking on the door to fifty.  Had a good hundred pounds on him too.  Her Rubenesque days were just a fond, slim memory, but she was solid – no jiggle.  She’d dyed her Chia Pet hair orange and sheathed herself in some shapeless, green-and-yellow thing that made her look like a brown manatee in a muumuu.

She stopped and stared at a black cocktail dress in a boutique window.

“Ain’t that pretty.  Course I’ll have to wait till I’m cremated afore I fits into it.”

They continued to
Seventh Avenue.  As they stopped on the corner and waited for the walking green, two Asian women came up to her.

The taller one said, “You know where
Saks Fifth Avenue?”

Loretta scowled.  “On
Fifth Avenue, fool.”  Then she took a breath and jerked a thumb over her shoulder.  “That way.”

Jack looked at her.  “You weren’t kidding about the bad mood.”

“You ever know me to kid, Jack?”  She glanced around.  “Sweet Jesus, I need me some comfort food.  Like some chocolate-peanut-butter-swirl ice cream.”  She pointed to the Duane Reade on the opposite corner.  “There.”

“That’s a drugstore.”

“Honey, you know better’n that.  Duane’s got everything.  Shoot, if mine had a butcher section I wouldn’t have to shop nowheres else.  Come on.”

Before he could opt out, she grabbed his arm and started hauling him across the street.

“I specially like their makeup.  Some places just carry Cover Girl, y’know, which is fine if you a Wonder Bread blonde.  Don’t know if you noticed, but white ain’t zackly a big color in these parts.  Everybody darker.  Cept you, a course.  I know you don’t like attention, Jack, but if you had a smidge of coffee in your cream you’d be
really
invisible.”

Jack expended a lot of effort on being invisible.  He’d inherited a good start with his average height, average build, average brown hair, and nondescript face.  Today he’d accessorized with a Mets cap, flannel shirt, worn Levi’s, and battered work boots.  Just another guy, maybe a construction worker, ambling along the streets of Zoo York.

Jack slowed as they approached the door.

“Think I’ll take a raincheck, Lo.”

She tightened her grip on his arm.  “Hell you will.  I need some company.  I’ll even buy you a Dew.  Caffeine still your drug of choice?”

“Guess…till it’s time for a beer.”  He eased his arm free.  “Okay, I’ll spring for five minutes, but after that, I’m gone.  Things to do.”

“Five minutes ain’t nuthin, but okay.”

“You go ahead.  I’ll be right with you.”

He slowed in her wake so he could check out the entrance.  He spotted a camera just inside the door, trained on the comers and goers.

He tugged down the brim of his hat and lowered his head.  He was catching up to Loretta when he heard a loud, heavily accented voice.

“
Mira!  Mira!  Mira!
  Look at the fine ass on you!”

Jack hoped that wasn’t meant for him.  He raised his head far enough to see a grinning, mustachioed Latino leaning against the wall next to the doorway.  A maroon gym bag sat at his feet.  He had glossy, slicked-back hair and prison tats on the backs of his hands.

Loretta stopped and stared at him.  “You better not be talkin a me!”

His grin widened.  “But señorita, in my country it is a privilege for a woman to be praised by someone like me.”