"You're going to tell me you want a can of tennis balls, are you?"
Jack shook his head and said, "Naw. I wouldn't get you up early on a Sunday morning for tennis balls."
"Glad to hear it." He unlocked the grille and pushed it back far enough to expose the door. "Did you see the business section of the Times this morning? All that talk about the economy picking up? Don't believe it. We're on the Titanic and the iceberg's straight ahead."
"It's too nice a day for an economic holocaust, Abe."
"All right," he said, unlocking the door and pushing it open. "Go ahead, close your eyes to it. But it's coming and the weather has nothing to do with it."
After disarming the alarm system, Abe headed for the back of the store. Jack didn't follow. He went directly to the tennis racquets and stood before a display of the oversized Prince models. After a moment's consideration, he rejected them. Jack figured he'd need all the help he could get today, but he still had his pride. He'd play with a normal size racquet. He picked out a Wilson Triumph—the one with little weights on each side of the head that were supposed to enlarge the sweet spot. The grip felt good in his hand, and it was already strung.
He was about to call out that he'd take this one when he noticed Abe glaring at him from the end of the aisle.
"For this you took me away from my breakfast? A tennis racquet?"
"And balls, too. I'll need some balls."
"Balls you've got! Too much balls to do such a thing to me! You said it was an emergency!"
Jack had been expecting this reaction. Sunday was the only morning Abe allowed himself the forbidden foods: lox and bagels. The first was verboten because of his blood pressure, the second because of his weight.
"It is an emergency. I'm supposed to be playing with my father in a couple of hours."
Abe's eyebrows rose and wrinkled his forehead all the way up to where his hairline had once been.
"Your father? First Gia, now your father. What is this— National Masochism Week?"
"I like my dad."
"Then why are you in such a black mood every time you return from one of these jaunts into Jersey?"
"Because he's a good guy who happens to be a pain in the ass."
They both knew that wasn't the whole story but by tacit agreement neither said any more. Jack paid for the racquet and a couple of cans of Penn balls. "I'll bring you back some tomatoes," he said as the grille was locked across the storefront again.
Abe brightened. "That's right! Beefsteaks are in season. Get me some."
Next stop was Julio's, where Jack picked up Ralph, the car Julio kept for him. It was a '63 Corvair, white with a black convertible top and a rebuilt engine. An unremarkable, everyday kind of car. Not at all Julio's style, but Julio hadn't paid for it. Jack had seen it in the window of a "classic" car store; he had given Julio the cash to go make the best deal he could and have it registered in his name. Legally it was Julio's car, but Jack paid the insurance and the garage fee and reserved pre-emptive right of use for the rare occasions when he needed it.
Today was such an occasion. Julio had it gassed up and waiting for him. He had also decorated it a bit since the last time Jack had taken it out: There was a "Hi!" hand waving from the left rear window, fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror, and in the rear window a little dog whose head wobbled and whose eyes blinked red in unison with the tail lights.
"You expect me to ride around with those?" Jack said, giving Julio what he hoped was a withering stare.
Julio did his elaborate shrug. "What can I say, Jack? It's in the blood."
Jack didn't have time to remove the cultural paraphernalia, so he took the car as it was. Armed with the finest New York State driver's license money could buy—in the name of Jack Howard—he slipped the Semmerling and its holster into the special compartment under the front seat and began a leisurely drive crosstown.
Sunday morning is a unique time in midtown Manhattan. The streets are deserted. No buses, no cabs, no trucks being unloaded, no Con Ed crews tearing up the streets, and only a rare pedestrian or two here and there. Quiet. It would all change as noon approached, but at the moment Jack found it almost spooky.
He followed Fifty-eighth Street all the way to its eastern end and pulled in to the curb before 8 Sutton Square.
2
Gia answered the doorbell. It was Eunice's day off and Nellie was still asleep, so the job was left to her. She wrapped her robe more tightly around her and walked slowly and carefully from the kitchen to the front of the house. The inside of her head felt too big for her skull; her tongue was thick, her stomach slightly turned. Champagne… Why should something that made you feel so good at night leave you feeling so awful the next day?
A look through the peephole showed Jack standing there in white shorts and a dark blue shirt.
"Tennis anyone?" he said with a lopsided grin as she opened the door.
He looked good. Gia had always liked a lean, wiry build on a man. She liked the linear cords of muscle in his forearms, and the curly hair on his legs. Why did he look so healthy when she felt so sick?
"Well? Can I come in?"
Gia realized she had been staring at him. She had seen him three times in the past four days. She was getting used to having him around again. That wasn't good. But there would be no defense against it until Grace was found—one way or another.
"Sure." When the door was closed behind him, she said, "Who're you playing? Your Indian lady?" She regretted that immediately, remembering his crack last night about jealousy. She wasn't jealous… just curious.
"No. My father."
"Oh." Gia knew from the past how painful it was for Jack to spend time with his father.
"But the reason I'm here…" He paused uncertainly and rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm not sure how to say this, but here goes: Don't drink anything strange."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"No tonics or laxatives or anything new you find around the house."
Gia was not in the mood for games. "I may have had a little too much champagne last night, but I don't go around swigging from bottles."
"I'm serious, Gia."
She could see that, and it made her uneasy. His gaze was steady and concerned.
"I don't understand."
"Neither do I. But there was something bad about that laxative of Grace's. Just stay away from anything like it. If you find any more of it, lock it away and save it for me."
"Do you think it has anything to do—?"
"I don't know. But I want to play it safe."
Gia could sense a certain amount of evasiveness in Jack. He wasn't telling her everything. Her unease mounted.
"What do you know?"
"That's just it—I don't know anything. Just a gut feeling. So play it safe and stay away from anything strange." He gave her a slip of paper with a telephone number on it. It had a 609 area code. "Here's my father's number. Call me there if you need me or there's any word from Grace." He glanced up the stairs and toward the rear of the house. "Where's Vicks?"
"Still in bed. She had a hard time falling asleep last night, according to Eunice." Gia opened the front door. "Have a good game."
Jack's expression turned sour. "Sure."
She watched him drive back to the corner and turn downtown on Sutton Place. She wondered what was going on in his mind; why the odd warning against drinking "anything strange." Something about Grace's laxative bothered him but he hadn't said what. Just to be sure, Gia went up to the second floor and checked through all the bottles on Grace's vanity and in her bathroom closet. Everything had a brand name. There was nothing like the unlabeled bottle Jack had found on Thursday.
She took two Tylenol Extra Strength capsules and a long hot shower. The combination worked to ease her headache. By the time she had dried off and dressed in plaid shorts and a blouse, Vicky was up and looking for breakfast.
"What do you feel like eating?" she asked as they passed the parlor on their way to the kitchen. She looked cute in her pink nighty and her fuzzy pink Dearfoams.