F. Paul Wilson - Infernal

Just one of those teenage things.

"Oh, yeah. I forgot. Saint Jack. Daddy's boy. He never had to worry about you going for a joyride."

"No, he didn't."

Tom had been out of the house by then, but it irked him to think that his kid brother had spent his high school years as some kind of namby-pamby geek. A teenager, especially a boy, was supposed to shake things up, give his parents a few gray hairs. All part of the rite of passage.

"Didn't think so."

Jack grinned. "Even though I went for at least a dozen."

"Bullshit."

He raised his hand, palm out. "Truth."

"Dad never mentioned—"

"That's because he never knew. Nobody knew. After I learned to hotwire a car—a lot easier in those days than now—I set a challenge for myself. The game was to borrow the ride, take it for a spin, then return it to the exact same spot with no one the wiser."

"And no one ever spotted you, no one ever looked out their window and noticed their car missing?"

Jack shrugged. "I did my homework."

Tom had to admit he was impressed. Maybe Jack hadn't been such a sissy boy after all.

4

As much as Jack liked to walk and enjoyed cooler weather, it felt good to step into the hotel lobby.

"When's check-out?"

Tom hesitated, a look of uncertainty flitting over his face.

"Wait here while I find out."

Jack didn't see why he shouldn't accompany him to the registration desk, but didn't argue. As he stood alone in the virtually deserted lobby, a wave of sadness swept over him.

Had things gone as planned, had the fucking Wrath of Allah stayed home, he and Dad would have been roaming the town, knee-deep in Jack's cool-building tour. They'd have seen the old Pythian Club and the Masons-built Level Club on West 70th by now, and would be heading toward 57th where he could show him the Hearst Magazine Building. Jack had a whole list of Manhattan buildings he loved. He'd looked forward to sharing them with his father. Now…

He felt his throat constrict.

Shit. Shit-shit- shit!

Tom's voice drew him back to the here and now.

"I'm going to stay another night."

"What?"

"I just checked to see if I could extend my stay and they said no problem. Seems the hotel's practically deserted. New York, it appears, has suddenly lost its cachet as a destination city."

"But why are you staying?"

Tom shrugged. "I don't know. Just feel I should. Then I can drive down to Johnson with you tomorrow."

Oh, hell.

"Why do you assume I have a car?"

Tom looked surprised. "The Phantom Joyrider doesn't own a set of wheels? I don't believe it."

"Lots of New Yorkers are wheelless. A car is more of a hassle—an expensive one—than a convenience in a city like this."

"But that doesn't answer the question: Do you own a car?"

"Yes."

Abe was going to drive him out to La Guardia this afternoon. They'd switch tickets and then drive out. As a recent arrival—he'd say he'd just dropped someone off—he'd be under less scrutiny.

"Are you driving down to make arrangements for the wake tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Can I hitch a ride?"

How could he say no?

"Of course you can."

Tom gave him a tight smile. "There. Wasn't that easy?"

"But what about your wife—wives—and kids? Aren't they coming?"

"Sure. I'll hook up with them at the wake."

Jack couldn't see any way out of this. Even if Tom was his only living relative, an hour and a half cooped up with him in a car…

And then he had an awful thought. Gia and Vicky were planning on going—Gia was adamant about this—and that meant they'd be exposed to Tom.

"You should know that I'll have a couple of other people along."

Tom's eyebrows rose. "Is that so? Who, pray tell?"

"A woman I know and her daughter."

He grinned. "So, there's a woman in Jack's life. I can't wait to meet her." He snapped his fingers. "Hey! I've got an idea. Why don't I buy you two dinner tonight?"

"We've already got plans."

"Well, if they include dinner, I'm buying." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the hotel restaurant. "Right here."

He'd planned on it being just Gia and Jack tonight, but couldn't see a way out of this.

"Okay. But not here."

"Why not? It's excellent. I ate there last night and—"

"Sorry. We've got reservations at Lucille's tonight."

"So? Break them."

"Can't."

Jack didn't understand Tom's wistful look as he glanced toward the entrance of Joe O's.

"It'll be so easy. I'll just charge it to my room and—"

"Yeah, but the problem is I know the guy who's playing Lucille's tonight. He asked me to come down and listen, fill a couple of seats for him."

Actually the singer, Jesse Roy Bighead DuBois, had told Jack he'd have a surprise for him if he showed. Wouldn't say what, but he'd piqued Jack's curiosity.

But with all that had happened, Jack had forgotten about Jesse and his gig. When Gia had reminded him this morning, telling him she'd call and cancel their reservation if he wanted, his first impulse had been to say yes. But when he considered his other options, sitting with Gia and listening to some blues while having dinner didn't seem like a bad thing. After all, it was the blues.

Tom frowned. "Playing what?"

"He fronts a blues band. Of course if you don't like blues—"

Hope-hope-hope.

"I'm a blues aficionado. Count me in."

Jack repressed a sigh.

But then, maybe it wasn't right to leave his only sib alone two nights in a row.

Or was it?

5

Jack sat at his computer in his apartment's cluttered front room. The blank eyes of his Daddy Warbucks lamp watched as he scanned through the newyorktimes.com story about the call from Wrath of Allah. It included an audio file of the call. He clicked it and heard an accented voice.

" We are the Wrath of Allah, fedayeen in the war against the Crusader-Jewish alliance. We have struck and we will strike again, until all the enemies of God and helpers of Satan are cleansed from the face of Allah's earth. This is but the beginning ."

He slumped in the chair. The gloating, cold-blooded, matter-of-fact threats, the hatred in the tone stayed with him after the clip. How do people get to that point? Didn't they listen to themselves? If their god was so offended by western culture he could cleanse it from the face of the earth with a thought. Any self-respecting god would take offense at the notion that he needed a bunch of bearded crazies to defend him.

Jack listened twice more, then downloaded the file. He burned it onto a CD. He wasn't sure why. Maybe he simply needed to listen to it now and then to confirm that it was real. Maybe he'd need it as fuel should the fire of his simmering rage ever burn too low.

6

Gia leaned against him. "I can't believe I'm finally going to meet a member of your family."

"He's the only one left. And for all I know, he might not show."

Jack and Gia comprised two of half a dozen people at the bar in Lucille's Bar and Grill. Jack sipped a pint of Bass, Gia a club soda with a wedge of lime. He scanned the room. Beyond the barrier separating the bar from the rest of the space sat the stage and the front dining area. Beyond that lay a larger dining area two steps down toward the rear. Ceiling high and black, walls paneled in some sort of rich brown wood, carpet a half-abstract, half-surreal pattern of guitar shapes that had melted like Dali clocks.

The place looked deserted. It was early, of course, but Jack couldn't help thinking that the La Guardia massacre had something to do with the low population density.

Lucille's was a casual place and they were dressed accordingly: Gia in black slacks and a loose, sapphire blue velour turtleneck that picked up her eyes and hid what little tummy she had; Jack in khakis, a plaid shirt, and a dark brown leather flight jacket. A nondescript couple out for a drink and a meal.