She winced, then said, "Don't you say 'Excuse me'?"
They both swung on her.
Tall got in her face and said, "Shut the fuck up, bitch, 'cause I got my balls in your mouth!"
Shock flattened her features. "You've got what?"
Short said, "Aww, bitch, you better shut the fuck up because he's got his balls in your mouth!"
Jack felt a switch close inside. He knew that on another day, in different company, he might have laughed at how pathetic they were. But they'd picked the wrong moment and the wrong lady.
He laid the book on the seat beside him. "1 think you owe her an apology."
They turned as one and stared at him.
Short shot him a hard look. "The fuck you say?"
Tall held out his right hand. Looked like he'd used a black Sharpie to decorate his palm with a crude version of the same stick figure as on the door.
"Don't even think about fuckin with us, man! We're dissimilated!"
"I'm sure you are—whatever that means—but why don't you be good boys and say you're sorry to the nice lady."
"Or what?"
"Or I'll have to unfriend you on MySpace."
Short jabbed a finger at him. "My balls in your mouth!"
Jack gripped the pole at the left end of his seat, then cupped a hand around his right ear as he leaned forward.
"Sorry? What did you say?"
An old, old trick. He wondered if the jerk would fall for it.
He did. He bent and leaned toward Jack. Got within two feet.
"You fuckin deaf? I said, my balls—"
Jack's hand was already raised, its blade edge angled toward Short. All he had to do was snap his arm straight to deliver a sharp chop to the chain-layered throat.
Which he did.
Not a larynx crusher, but hard enough to crack some cartilage and send the kid tumbling backward onto the floor, kicking and gagging as he clutched his throat.
Someone screamed—the pregnant girl. She had a hand over her mouth, her wide eyes bulging.
Jack was already up and pivoting to ram his right heel into the shocked Tail's knee. He felt it give and bend the wrong way—just a little, but enough to guarantee a payment or two on an orthopedist's Porsche. Tall screamed as he fell toward the floor, and Jack took that opportunity to land a second kick, this one square into his family jewels. Another turn, another good shot to the presumed location of Short's berries. The hoarse wails climbed to tenor. Bull's-eye.
"Now, gentlemen, your balls are in your mouths."
The pregnant girl's gaze was shifting between Jack and the writhing not-so toughies.
"W-w-what did you just do?"
"Hurt them."
And loved every second of it.
How many seconds? Four? Five, tops. That was all it had taken.
Amazing how much better a few seconds could make you feel.
He noticed movement to his right and saw the old man pulling a cell phone from his pocket. He pointed at him.
"And you think you're doing what with that?"
"Calling nine-one-one."
"On me?"
"No, of course not. On them."
"You will put that away. Now." He looked around at the two passengers at the rear end of the car. "I don't want to see anyone with a phone. No calls until Elvis has left the building. Got it?"
They nodded. The man at the front end tucked his phone away.
Jack looked back at the pregnant gal. "Got it?"
She nodded.
"By the way," he said, jerking a thumb at the pair of writhing, groaning losers. "They're sorry."
The train began to slow then. When it stopped at the Forest Hills station Jack stepped out and quick-walked toward the exit. When he looked back, the rest of the able-bodied passengers were leaving the car as well.
No one was talking on a phone.
3
The R line terminated in Forest Hills. When Jack trotted up to street level he looked around for Christy Pickering.
That name… he still couldn't nail down why it struck such a familiar chord… something from way back in his past.
He heard a toot and saw her waving from a big black Mercedes. As he slipped into the passenger seat, she stuck a twenty-ounce bottle of Diet Pepsi into a cup holder and offered her hand.
"Well, Mister Jack, should we drive or just sit here?"
She wore dark blue slacks, a red-and-white-checked blouse, and looked nervous. Her palm was damp when Jack shook her hand.
"Lets drive."
He didn't want to hang around the station. Sooner or later someone would find those two and call an ambulance. Cops would tag along.
"Okay." She put the car in gear. "Where?"
Jack could have taken her on a tour of all the gardens he helped plant a dozen years ago when he'd worked for a landscaper. Giovanni had been based in Brooklyn but he'd built up quite a following in the patrician enclaves out here. Hot, hard work, but Jack had always enjoyed it. He'd done it as a summer job in college so he didn't come to Giovanni as a complete newbie. The major benefit was getting paid off the books. The major drawback was finding something else to do in the winter. He'd been the only American in Giovanni's crew and had learned along the way to swear fluently in Spanish.
"How about past the tennis club, then you can take me to the station on Sixty-third. I've got to get back on the train pretty soon and that'll put me two stops closer to the city."
And two stops away from this one.
"You into tennis?"
Jack had done some landscaping at the famous West Side Tennis Club, but that wasn't the reason.
"When I was a kid my dad used to sit me down in front of the TV and we'd watch the US Open when it was played here." A mantle of melancholy settled over him. "He really loved tennis."
She pulled into the traffic.
"He's gone?"
"Yeah."
"Sorry."
"So am I."
All those years spent ducking his calls, and now he'd never call again.
Christy sighed and ran a quick hand through her ash blond hair. "Never knew my father."
Jack glanced into the back seat and saw a stack of sheet music.
"You're into musicals?"
"Literally—but strictly community-theater level."
"And Promises! Promises! is the latest?"
She smiled and nodded. "I landed the part of Jill."
"Ever dream of Broadway?"
"When I was young." Her eyes shone. "And who knows? After Dawn's off in college I might give it a try. But right now I'm delighted to get the lead in this little show. I love the music, but the musicians are having trouble with the shifting time signatures."
"Espeeiall} llie Lille song, I'll bet."
She was staring at him. "You know musical theater?"
"Some."
"More than some. Not many people remember that kind of detail from Promises! Promises/"
Jack shrugged. "I don't know if it's much of a detail, but I do know I never liked the late, great Jerry Orbach's voice."
She smiled. "Do you mind my asking if you're gay—not that it matters."
He laughed. "No. Why?"
"Just wondering." She gave him a sidelong glance. "Let's talk about another Jerry. What have you got for me?"
"Let's wait till we're at the other station."
She gave him a strange look but he said nothing. He had a reason: He didn't think it was a good idea for her foot to be on the gas pedal when she heard what he had to tell her.
They passed the huge Tudor-style tennis club, set on the edge of one of the nicest neighborhoods in all of Queens.
"You live in one of these?" he asked as they cruised Exeter Street.
"I wish. But I've got a nice place on the other side of the boulevard in the upper Sixties near Peartree."