F. Paul Wilson: Legacies

But this one… from a guy named "Jorge."

I BEEN RIPPED OFF. CAN'T GET MONEY OWED TO ME FOR WORK I DO. CAN'T GO ANYWHERE ELSE. CAN YOU FIX?

Yeah. That sounded like business.

Jack typed in a reply to Jorge's E-mail address:

SEND ME YOUR PHONE #. I'LL BE IN TOUCH.

RJ

He'd call the guy and see what this was about. If he was having trouble with his bookie, tough. But he'd said it was money for "work." So maybe Jorge was a potential customer.

The phone rang but Jack let the machine pick up. He heard his outgoing message… " Pinocchio Productions — I'm out at the moment. Leave a message after the beep" … then:

" Jack, this is Dad. Are you there ?" A pause as he waited for Jack to pick up. Jack closed his eyes and didn't move. He felt bad about leaving his father hanging, but he wasn't up to another conversation with him right now. " All right… when you get in, give me a call. I came across another great opportunity for you down here ."

Jack exhaled when he heard the click of the connection breaking.

"Dad," he said softly, "you're making me crazy."

His father had moved down to Florida a few months ago and Jack had thought it was a good idea at the time. Better to be a retired widower down there than in Burlington County, New Jersey.

But as soon as Dad had settled in, he began seeing all sorts of opportunities for Jack. His older brother and sister were both professionals, pillars of their respective communities. They were set. But Jack… Dad still saw his younger son as unfinished business.

His brother and sister had given up on him long ago. The annual Christmas card was the extent of their contact. But not Dad. He never gave up. He didn't want to go to his grave thinking his prodigal dropout son was living hand to mouth in New York as an appliance repairman.

I've probably got more socked away than you do, Dad.

He winced as he remembered their last conversation.

You've got to see this place, Jack. It's growing like crazy — a gold mine for someone like you. You establish yourself here as a reliable repair service, and in no time you'll have a fleet of trucks all over the county …

Be still my heart, he thought. A fleet of trucks, and maybe, if I play my cards right, the cover of Entrepreneur magazine.

Jack had been begging off, hoping Dad would get the message, but obviously he hadn't. When Jack called back, he was going to have to tell his father point-blank: No way was he leaving New York. The Jets would be wearing new Super Bowl rings before he moved to Florida.

Then again, if things didn't pick up, maybe he'd have to rethink that.

He'd just checked the answering machine in the drop on Tenth Avenue. Nothing there. Business had been kind of slow lately. He was getting bored.

And when he got bored, he bought things. He'd picked up his latest treasure from the post office just this morning.

He rose and rubbed his eyes. The computer screen tended to bother them. He stood about five-eleven, maybe six foot if he stretched. He had a tight wiry build, dark brown hair, lips on the thin side, and mild brown eyes. Jack worked very hard at looking average.

He removed the clock from its packing to admire it again.

A genuine Shmoo pendulette alarm clock. In beautiful condition. He ran his fingers over its smooth, white, un-marred ceramic surface, touching the eyes and whiskers on the creature's smiling face. It had come in its original box and looked brand-new.

Now was as good a time as any to hang it on the wall. But where? His walls were already crowded with framed official membership certificates in the Shadow and Doc Savage fan clubs, Captain America's Sentinels of Liberty, the Junior Justice Society of America, the David Harding CounterSpy Junior Agents Club, and the Don Winslow Creed.

What can I say? he thought I'm a joiner.

His apartment was crowded with wavy-grained Victorian golden oak furniture. The wall shelves sagged under the weight of the neat stuff he'd accumulated over the years, and every horizontal surface on the hutch, the secretary, the claw-and-ball-footed end tables were cluttered as well.

And then he saw where the clock could go: right above the pink Shmoo planter… which still didn't have anything planted in it.

He was just about to look for his hammer when the phone rang again. Dad, give me a break, will you?

But it wasn't his father.

"Jack? It's Gia. You there?"

Something in her voice… Jack snatched up the handset.

"Always here for you. What's up?"

"I'm waiting for a cab. Just wanted to make sure you were in."

"Something wrong?"

"I'll tell you when I get there."

And then a click.

Slowly, Jack replaced the handset. Definitely upset. He wondered what was wrong. Nothing with Vicky, he hoped. But she would have told him that.

Well, he'd find out soon enough. The West Village to the Upper West Side wasn't too bad a trip this time of day. No matter what the circumstance, an unexpected visit from Gia was a treat.

He thought back on their stormy, off-again, on-again relationship. He'd been crushed and thought it was off forever when she'd found out how he earned his living—or thought she had. She'd concluded that he was some sort of hit man, which was as wrong as could be, but even after she'd learned what he really did, even after he'd used those skills to save her daughter Vicky's life, she still didn't approve.

But at least she'd come back to him. Jack didn't know where he'd be without Gia and Vicky.

A short while later he heard her footsteps on the stairs leading to his third-floor apartment. Jack turned the knob that retracted the four-way bolt system, and opened the door.

The sight of Gia standing on the landing started that warm funny twitch he got deep inside every time he saw her. Her short blond hair, her perfect skin, her blue eyes—Jack felt he could stand and stare at her face for hours.

But right now her features were strained, her usual tight composure seemed to be slipping, her normally flawless complexion looked blotchy.

"Gia," Jack said, wincing at the pain in her eyes as he pulled her inside. "What is it?"

And then she was clinging to him, loosing a torrent about Christmas toys being stolen from the AIDS kids. She was sobbing by the time she finished.

"Hey, hey," Jack said, tightening his arms around her. "It'll be all right."

He knew Gia wasn't much for emotional displays. Yeah, she was Italian, but northern Italian—the blood running in her veins was probably more Swiss than anything else. For her to be sobbing like this… she had to be hurting something fierce.

"It's just the heartlessness of it," she said, sniffing. "How could somebody do such a thing? And how can you be so damn calm about it!"

Uh-oh.

"I hear anger looking for a target. I know this has really cut you deep, Gia, but I'm not the bad guy here."

"Oh, I know, I know. It's just—you've never been down there. Never seen these kids. Never held them. Jack, they've got nothing. Not even a parent who cares, let alone a future. We were collecting those toys so they'd have a nice Christmas, a great Christmas—the last Christmas for a lot of them. And now—"

Another sob.

Jeez, this was awful. He had to say something, do something, anything so she wouldn't feel like this.

"Do you know what the presents were? I mean, do you have some sort of a list. Because if you do, just give it to me and I'll replace—"

She pushed back and stared at him. "They were donations, Jack. Most of them all wrapped up and ready for giving. Replacing them's not important. Getting them back is. Understand?"

"Yes… and no."