The man responsible, Jack's best and oldest friend, sat in his usual spot behind the scarred wooden counter near the rear. A few years shy of sixty, Abe Grossman had a Humpty-Dumpty shape and a balding crown. He was dressed in the Abe uniform of white—except for the food stains—half-sleeve shirt and black pants. And as usual, the morning editions of every daily newspaper in the city lay spread out on his counter.
He looked up, saw Jack coming, and quickly began shuffling the papers into a pile. He was shoving them under the counter when Jack arrived.
"It's okay, Abe. I've seen them—the front pages at least."
How could he have missed them? Every newsstand he'd passed on the walk over from his apartment had the screaming headlines on display. The radio and TV weren't talking about anything else. He'd listened briefly this morning for new developments, but heard only the same old speculations. If the cops and FBI had learned anything new, they weren't sharing it.
Abe stashed them out of sight anyway.
"A terrible, terrible thing, Jack. I feel so bad for you. I feel worse for your father, of course, but you… how are you doing?"
"Still in shock… in rage. But no grief. Kind of worries me. Think there's something wrong with me?"
"With you? Something wrong? Not a chance."
He knew Abe was trying to lighten his mood, but Jack wasn't looking for that. And he hadn't been kidding about being worried. He'd broken down and cried when Kate died. Why hadn't he cried for Dad?
"I'm serious, Abe. I don't feel like moping or crying, I just want to break things. Or people."
"Grief will come in its time. We all have our own way of living through something like this." He shook his head. "Listen to me. Like a living, breathing cliche."
Jack reached across the counter and patted Abe's beefy arm.
"It's okay. At least you didn't say he's in a better place. I swear I'll do some damage if someone tells me that."
"That's not an 'if,' it's a 'when.' You know it is."
"The thing is, we'd just found each other. After all these years, we'd made real contact and discovered we liked each other. And then…"
There—a lump in his throat, cutting off his voice. It felt… good.
Parabellum, Abe's little blue parakeet, hopped over and stopped between Jack and Abe. He cocked his head and looked up at Jack as if to say, Where's my food? He usually served as the cleanup crew, policing the countertop for spilled bits of whatever Jack had brought. With the way his master ate, crumbs were never in short supply. But today he'd have to settle for birdseed.
"At least you reconnected. Think how you should feel if you hadn't."
Jack opened his mouth to speak, then closed it as a realization hit him like a runaway train.
"Oh, hell…"
"What?"
"I'd be feeling fine right now—because he'd still be alive."
Abe rubbed his partially denuded scalp. "This you'll have to explain."
"He was coming to visit me, Abe. If we were still on the outs he'd have stayed in Florida, or would have been flying into Philly to see his grandkids for Christmas. Either way, he wouldn't have been at La Guardia yesterday. My dad's dead because we connected."
"You're holding yourself responsible? This is not my Jack."
"The ones I'm holding responsible are the two shits with the guns. But goddamn!" He slammed his fist on the counter, sending Parabellum fluttering toward the ceiling. "If only he'd taken another flight…"
"You can if-only yourself into a straitjacket."
"Yeah, I know. I'm halfway there."
"More like three quarters. How much sleep did you get last night?"
"Zilch."
Hadn't even tried. After he'd crapped out in the park, he'd wandered around until predawn. When he'd finally put himself to bed he just lay there, staring at the ceiling in the growing light. Finally he'd given up.
He was running on caffeine and adrenaline.
"Can I get you something to eat?" Abe said. "Some leftover Entenmann's, I'm sure."
Jack had to smile. Food was Abe's answer to everything. He shook his head.
"Thanks, but my appetite hasn't come back yet."
"You've got to eat."
"I've got to get a new backup is what I've got to do."
"Something's wrong with the AMT?"
"Yeah. It's scattered in pieces around one of the airport parking lots."
"You want another?"
Jack had been thinking about that. His Glock was a 9mm model, but the little AMT had been a .380. Dealing with two kinds of ammo wasn't a major chore, but he liked to keep things as simple as possible. And he hadn't been crazy about the AMT's trigger.
"Got anything in a nine?"
Abe thought a moment, then held up a pudgy finger.
"Just the thing. Lock the door and I'll show you."
2
After hanging up the BACK IN A FEW MINUTES sign, Jack joined Abe in a rear closet. He closed the door behind him as Abe pushed on the closet wall. It swung open. Abe hit a light switch, revealing the worn stone stairway down to the basement. Ahead a neon sign buzzed to life.
Fine Weapons
The Right to Buy eapons is the
Right to Be Free
"You lost a W," Jack said.
"I know, but I'm not having it fixed."
Abe hit another switch at the bottom, lighting up the basement to reveal the lethal stock of his true trade: bludgeons, knives, pistols, rifles, and sundry weapons of every size and configuration. Even a bazooka. In contrast to the mess upstairs, everything here was neatly arranged and arrayed in rows of display racks.
"Got a Tavor-two?" Jack said.
Abe looked at him. "The model that kill—that was used at the airport? Why for?"
Jack wasn't sure he had an answer to that.
"Just want to see one."
Abe shook his head. "Never carried them."
"What? You carry everything."
"It only seems that way. The Micro Uzi, Tec-nine, and Mac-eleven are much more popular. Not that the Tavor is any bohmer in firepower—spits five-fifty-six NATOs at something like nine hundred per minute—but no one's ever even asked about one. I should stock something no one wants?"
"Somebody wanted them."
"For reasons other than firepower, I suspect."
"The Israel connection."
"So it seems."
Silence hung between them.
Finally Jack said, "What about that backup?"
Abe stepped over to a rack and returned holding a small, sleek-looking semiautomatic with a dull gray finish.
"You want a small nine? Smaller and lighter you don't get than this Kel-Tec P-eleven. Double-action only with a ten-round double-column magazine."
Jack took it and hefted it. Light—a little under a pound; lighter even than his AMT. That would change when the magazine was in place—ten would double the number of rounds the AMT held—but still…
"It looks a little longer…"
"Only half an inch more than the AMT. This one's used, but that's good. You need to go through about fifty rounds to smooth out the action. For you that's been done already. And note the parkerized finish. What's not to like?"
Jack couldn't think of a thing. Ten backup rounds… his primary-carry Glock 19 with the extended magazine held seventeen. Keep a round in the breech of each and he'd have almost thirty shots.
He retracted the slide, checked to make sure the breech was empty, then pulled the trigger. He guesstimated the pull at somewhere in the neighborhood of ten pounds, maybe a tad less. Just the way he liked it.