4

Jack stepped into his apartment and sniffed. The air carried a musty tang. Not all that unusual after being closed up for a while. The old wood and old varnish on his Victorian wavy oak furniture gave off subtle but pleasant odors. The must came from the other junk arrayed on the walls—treasure in his eyes, though most other people would consider it junk. Or maybe junque.

He jammed his finger into the soil in the pink Shmoo planter as he passed. Nothing stuck. The little ivy plant was thirsty. Had to remember to add water before he left. He glanced at the framed official membership certificates in The Shadow and Doc Savage fan clubs and straightened the Don Winslow Creed on his way to the oak secretary.

Once there, he angled it out from the wall and removed its rear panel. An array of pistols adorned the top, side, and rear walls of the hidden space within. A rolled-up ten-by-twelve-inch flap of skin lay to the left, next to the Compendium of Srem. A Ruger SuperRedhawk chambered for .454 Casulls rested atop that.

Jack slipped the book free. Big and heavy, its covers and spine made of some sort of stamped metal.

With the secretary closed and returned to its original position, he placed the Compendium on the paw-foot oak table but did not open it. Something about the way the characters blurred and swam for an instant whenever he peeked inside made him queasy.

Instead he pulled his Tracfone from a pocket along with a slip of paper. He dialed the number Christy P. had left. She picked up on the third ring.

"Yes?"

"Christy? This is Jack. You left this number on my Web site."

A pause, then, "Oh, yes. Repairman Jack." Her tone was hesitant. "Interesting name. Did your mother pick it?"

"No, and neither did I. But it gets the job done. You mentioned something about your daughter and a mistake?"

"1 think I'm having second thoughts about hiring someone for this via the Internet."

Smart lady.

"Consider having third and fourth thoughts while you're at it. But my site isn't the sort people find by accident. Someone must have sent you. Who?"

"Jeff Levinson. You know the name?"

"I do."

Jack had hired on a few years ago to take care of a recurrent swastika problem at Jeffs delicatessen.

"He speaks very highly of you. But still…"

"Your call, lady."

"I don't know…"

He could almost hear her chewing her lip.

"Maybe I can help you make up your mind if you tell me what you need done."

"How's that going to work?"

"Because maybe I'm not interested."

A brief pause. "Interesting tactic, playing hard to get."

"Not a tactic. I am hard to get."

Especially these days.

"I like that. I suppose we should meet then. I want someplace public because—"

"You haven't told me yet what you need done."

"So you're really serious about that."

"Some fixes I can do, some I can't. No sense in both of us wasting our time."

Even this phone call was beginning to sound like a waste of time.

She sighed. "Okay. She's involved with an older man."

Hoo-boy. Jack glanced at his watch. How much time had he just wasted?

"So?"

"He's old enough to be her father."

"So?"

"Can you say something else?"

"I'm waiting to hear something I can do something about. Affairs of the heart do not fall into that category."

"Dawn's eighteen and he's in his mid-thirties. Twice her age."

Jack's age.

He tried to imagine a relationship with an eighteen-year-old. What the hell would they talk about? What could he have in common with someone who hadn't finished her second decade, who was basically a high school kid? Sure, fantasy cheerleader sex and all that, but you needed something more to fill the down time.

Or did you?

He guessed coming so close to being a father—of a daughter, no less—could be affecting his perspective.

"I don't see how hiring me is going to help, Christy. What are you looking for? Someone to break his legs? Shoot him? That's not the way I work."

At least not unless someone really had it coming.

"No, nothing like that! I want to get something on him. Something that'll let my little girl see him for what he really is."

"You already know what he really is?"

"Well… no. But there's got to be something. There's always something, right? Besides, I get a bad vibe from this guy."

Time to end this.

"I suppose. But what you need is a private investigator. Someone who can—"

"I've already been that route."

"And?"

"Long story. Look, Jeff said you were tops—pricey, but tops—and just the guy I need. Can't we just sit down and talk over the details? I probably shouldn't say this, but money isn't an object. I've got money. It's results I want."

"I don't think I'm your man."

"If nothing else, maybe you can get my retainer back from the investigator I hired." Out of the blue she sobbed. Once. The sound took Jack by surprise. He hadn't seen it coming. "Please? I'm really, really worried about my little girl."

Her little girl… she might be eighteen, but he guessed your little girl was your little girl forever.

Like Emma would have been.

"Okay. We'll meet. I'll listen. But I'm not promising anything."

A sniff. "Thank you. Where? No offense, but I'll feel safer if it's a public place."

Jack laughed. "So will I. Where are you located?"

"Queens. Forest Hills."

Fairly ritzy neighborhood.

"That means it's no big deal to get into the city."

"I'm in all the time."

He doubted he could help her, but he could hear her out and maybe point her in the right direction.

"Can you make it in this afternoon?"

He was testing. If she wouldn't meet this afternoon, he'd know it wasn't as important as she'd made it seem.

"Sure. Tell me when and where."

Well, that settled that.

"There's this bar I know in the West Eighties…"

5

Jack stepped into the open door and knocked on the frame.

"Doctor Buhmann?"

He'd called ahead to make sure the professor would be in. The man glanced up from his desk.

"Oh, yes. Mister… I must confess I've forgotten your surname."

Wrong. Jack had never told him.

"Just Jack'll do fine. How're you doing?"

Not well, if his appearance meant anything. He looked even thinner and sallower than on Jack's December visit. And his office seemed even more cramped and claustrophobic. What courses had Abe taken from him in his Columbia days? How to Cram Amazing Amounts of Junk onto Shelves 101?

The old man waggled his hand. "So-so. No use complaining." His wrinkle-caged gaze was fixed on the plastic shopping bag dangling from Jack's hand. "You said you had something to show me?"

"Remember that mythical book you told me about?"

He licked his lips. "The Compendium ofSrem. Don't tell me…"

"Before we go any further, we need to agree on some ground rules."

"Conditions? Yes-yes. Anything, anything." He reached toward the bag. "Just let me—"

"First condition: Not a word of this to anyone."

"You want to keep your ownership a secret? Yes, of course. I can understand that. The means by which antiquities change hands can at times be—how shall I say it?—controversial. I assure you, your name—which I don't even know—will not be connected with it."

He thinks I stole it, Jack thought.

Well, in a way he had.

"No. When I say not a word, I mean just that: You speak to no one about this. No one is to know the book exists. It remains a myth."

The professor looked shocked. "That is much to ask. I cannot even speak of what I've seen?"

"I'm doing this as a favor to Abe because of his high regard for you, and as payback for your giving me a little guidance when I needed it."