2

Jack rode the R out to Forest Hills. He did not want what he had to tell Christy floating along over a phone—land line or cell, no telling who was listening these days. Christy had begged him to meet her outside the city. He'd agreed. She'd hired a block of his time, so why not?

He'd opted for the subway over his car. Rush hour had passed, and even if it hadn't, he was headed against the morning flow. It was a local but he had time.

He plowed further into Kick. According to Thompson, his stint at Creighton didn't put him on the straight and narrow so much as make him more choosy about his activities, opting for the dubiously legal over the blatantly illegal. He worked various scams and cons that Jack found uncomfortably familiar.

Been there, done that.

He closed the book and glanced down at the rumpled copy of this morning's Post on the seat next to him. He'd already been through the paper looking for news of Gerhard's death. Strange that it hadn't been announced.

Maybe he should try another call…

He looked around. Less than a dozen other people on the car in various states of age, quality of clothing, and consciousness, either dozing, walled off behind headphones, staring at the ads or at the floor. His gaze came to rest on one of the sliding doors. He hadn't noticed it when he came in, but someone had spray-painted an all-too-familiar figure on its lower half…

Couldn't get away from the Kicker Man, it seemed.

Okay. Nobody within earshot. He pulled out his officialdom phone, powered it up, and gave 911 another try.

"Emergency Services." said a woman's voice.

"Yes, I called the night before last about a problem with a house in my neighborhood and nothing's been done about it."

"What house was that, sir?"

Jack gave Gerhard's address. "There was water running out the door and I was afraid maybe someone had left the water on or, God forbid, died while running the sink."

"Let me look that up for you, sir." After a pause, she said, "We sent someone out there this morning and—"

Jack put a huff into his tone. "This morning? What took you so long? I called you two days ago."

"Yessir, but things have been extremely hectic lately, and we must prioritize. I'm sure you can understand that when we have to choose between, say, a missing child or someone found unconscious in an alley, and a water leak, we put off the water leak. I assure you, we got there as soon as our schedule allowed."

Jack couldn't argue with that.

"So you were there this morning. What did you find? Was everybody okay inside?"

"Well, they went in and… let's see… it says here they found extensive water damage—apparently an upstairs tub had overflowed—but the house was empty."

Empty! How…?

"Mister Gerhard wasn't home?"

"It says no one was home."

Jack sat in silent shock. What the hell? He wasn't crazy. He'd seen Gerhard's bungeed-up body.

"Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?"

"No… thank you very much."

He hung up and turned off the phone. Someone had gone in and removed Gerhard's body. Who? Bethlehem? Someone had left him there with the water running. Why go back?

None of this made sense.

His other phone rang: Susan Abrams of Vector Publications calling. It just so happened that Hank Thompson was going to be visiting their offices this afternoon. If Jack could be there at two thirty, he could interview Hank in their conference room.

Jack said he'd be there and she gave him the address.

He reopened Kick and began skimming so he'd be up to speed when he faced Thompson. But images of Gerhard's corpse kept Hashing between him and the pages.

The car pretty much emptied out at Woodhaven Boulevard—everyone going to Queens Center Mall, he guessed. He watched a pregnant woman, a brunette six months or better along, get on and take a seat. She carried a bebe shopping bag. She glanced around, flashed him a quick, shy smile, then pulled a magazine from the bag.

Gia had been just about that far into her pregnancy before…

Before it was ended.

He felt his mood darken. The lights seemed to darken too. He'd been in a decent mood, hadn't thought about Emma for a whole couple of hours, and then this lady had to show up and ruin it.

Not her fault, of course.

He tried not to look at her as the train moved on.

As the train was pulling out of the 67th Avenue station, the car's forward door opened and a couple of hip-hop zoolanders swaggered in. Could have been sixteen, could have been eighteen. Hard to tell. Ghetto manque white kids—headed for Forest Hills, no less—regurgitating the cliches of the sideways Amahzan baseball cap, the way-too-big basketball jersey, and the baggy, falling-off jeans. These guys had added some gang accessories, like blue stubby do-rags under the caps and blue-and-white bead necklaces along with the gold.

Crip never-bes.

The shorter one snatched the paper from the old dude near the front and tossed it across the car.

"What you readin that fuckin shit for, asshole? It's all lies!"

His buddy laughed as they moved on, leaving the old guy scrabbling to reassemble his paper. They passed Jack, giving him a don't-mess-with-us look. Jack looked back down at his book.

Trouble today? No thanks.

After they'd passed he glanced up in time to see the taller one stomp on one of the pregnant girl's feet as he went by. The kid was wearing sneakers, but Jack bet it hurt.

She winced, then said, "Don't you say 'Excuse me'?"

They both swung on her.

Tall got in her face and said, "Shut the fuck up, bitch, 'cause I got my balls in your mouth!"

Shock flattened her features. "You've got what?"

Short said, "Aww, bitch, you better shut the fuck up because he's got his balls in your mouth!"

Jack felt a switch close inside. He knew that on another day, in different company, he might have laughed at how pathetic they were. But they'd picked the wrong moment and the wrong lady.

He laid the book on the seat beside him. "1 think you owe her an apology."

They turned as one and stared at him.

Short shot him a hard look. "The fuck you say?"

Tall held out his right hand. Looked like he'd used a black Sharpie to decorate his palm with a crude version of the same stick figure as on the door.

"Don't even think about fuckin with us, man! We're dissimilated!"

"I'm sure you are—whatever that means—but why don't you be good boys and say you're sorry to the nice lady."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll have to unfriend you on MySpace."

Short jabbed a finger at him. "My balls in your mouth!"

Jack gripped the pole at the left end of his seat, then cupped a hand around his right ear as he leaned forward.

"Sorry? What did you say?"

An old, old trick. He wondered if the jerk would fall for it.

He did. He bent and leaned toward Jack. Got within two feet.

"You fuckin deaf? I said, my balls—"

Jack's hand was already raised, its blade edge angled toward Short. All he had to do was snap his arm straight to deliver a sharp chop to the chain-layered throat.

Which he did.

Not a larynx crusher, but hard enough to crack some cartilage and send the kid tumbling backward onto the floor, kicking and gagging as he clutched his throat.

Someone screamed—the pregnant girl. She had a hand over her mouth, her wide eyes bulging.

Jack was already up and pivoting to ram his right heel into the shocked Tail's knee. He felt it give and bend the wrong way—just a little, but enough to guarantee a payment or two on an orthopedist's Porsche. Tall screamed as he fell toward the floor, and Jack took that opportunity to land a second kick, this one square into his family jewels. Another turn, another good shot to the presumed location of Short's berries. The hoarse wails climbed to tenor. Bull's-eye.