After that, he would have to find a way to maneuver himself into a trip back to England as soon as possible. Once home, it would not be too long before he would just happen to find a large cache of uncut gems behind some stonework in the basement level of Westphalen Hall.
Already he was blotting the memory of the events of the morning from his mind. It would do no good to dwell on them. Better to let the curse, the demons, and the dead float away with the black smoke rising from the burning temple that was now a pyre and a tomb for that nameless sect. He had done what he had to do and that was that. He felt good as he rode away from the temple. He did not look back. Not once.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Manhattan
Sunday, August 5, 198.
1
Tennis!
Jack rolled out of bed with a groan. He'd almost forgotten. He had been lying there dreaming of a big brunch at the Perkins Pancakes down on Seventh Avenue when he remembered the father-son tennis match he'd promised to play in today.
And he had no racquet. He'd lent it to someone in April and couldn't remember who. Only one thing to do: Call Abe and tell him it was an emergency.
Abe said he would meet him at the store right away. Jack showered, shaved, pulled on white tennis shorts, a dark blue jersey, sneakers, and socks, and hurried down to the street. The morning sky had lost the humid haze it had carried for most of the week. Looked like it was going to be a nice day.
As he neared the Isher Sports Shop he saw Abe waddling up from the other direction. Abe looked him up and down as they met before the folding iron grille that protected the store during off-hours.
"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."