He shook his head. Too risky. He didn't know what was in the weird book, and someone might find something they could put to use in a bad way.

A couple of hours… he'd give the old man a couple of hours, but that was it.

6

Like Abe's shop, Julio's bar was another constant star in the chaotic firmament of Jack's life. The dead potted ferns and such still hung in the window; Lou and Barney still stood at the short curved bar, keeping it from tipping over; the dim interior carried the familiar tang of tobacco smoke and spilled beer; and the FRKK BKER TOMORROW… sign still hung over the stacked liquor bottles.

Lou looked up, ready to stamp out his cigarette if he saw a stranger.

"It's okay," he announced to the other smokers. "Just Jack."

Julio let the regulars smoke when only other regulars were around. The anti-smoking laws pissed him off: If people didn't like a smoky atmosphere they could go to one of the bars down the street. But he wasn't stupid—all it took for a big fine and maybe license problems was one phone call from a stranger who'd stopped in for a taste and encountered fog.

"'Just Jack'? That's a helluva welcome."

Lou wore dusty work pants and a denim jacket. He flashed a gap-toothed smile and raised a pinky.

"For a second there I mistook you for some panty-wearing yuppie dropping by for a glahss of shah-doe-nay."

Jack raised a menacing fist. "You're cruisin', Louie."

Lou laughed and turned back to the bar. Jack continued on to his usual table against the rear wall. From behind the bar Julio raised his hands: a coffeepot in one, a green bottle in the other. Jack pointed to the Yuengling lager. Used to be Julio would hold up a Rolling Rock but Jack had abandoned the brand after Anheuser-Busch bought it and closed the old Latrobe brewery. The American beer wars: If a smaller competitor is making a better beer, don't try to outdo them, just buy them and shut them down.

Up yours, Budweiser.

As Jack was settling himself with his back against the wall, Julio arrived with the Yuengling. A short man whose bulging muscles filled out his white Flying Spaghetti Monster T-shirt, Julio sported a pencil-line mustache and another of his awful colognes.

Jack sniffed and made a face. "What is it this time? Perfume de Muerte?"

"It's called Aztec God. Great, huh?"

"Swell. Look, I'm expecting a customer in about ten—"

"Really?" Julio broke into a grin. "You getting back into business? Tha's great, meng!"

Jack realized he shouldn't have said "customer." He was pretty sure she wasn't going to be one.

"We're just going to talk."

"Yeah, but tha's how it always starts. Pretty soon you gonna be fixin' stuff again."

Maybe, maybe not.

Impending fatherhood had placed Jack in a position where he couldn't see much choice but to ascend from underground and put himself on the world's radar. Abe had set up a new identity for him and Jack had gone as far as taking the first step toward becoming a citizen when the hit-and-run changed everything.

With Emma's death the need for a new identity had lost its urgency and he saw little use in pursuing it. Easier to stay where he was… out of sight and out of his mind.

"We'll see."

As Julio headed back to the bar, a well-dressed blonde stepped through the door and froze, wrinkling her nose. Jack saw Lou stub out his butt and hide the ashtray under the bar. Julio spotted her and veered in her direction. A few whispered words and then he was leading her back toward Jack.

"Someone here to see you," he said as they stopped before the table.

Jack rose and offered his hand.

"Christy? Jack."

She took his hand gingerly and gave it a squeeze.

Julio said, "You want beer? Wine? Coffee?"

She looked the cosmo type, and like she wanted one, but she shook her head.

"No, thank you."

Jack indicated the opposite chair. "Have a seat."

She sat—gingerly. She rested her handbag on the table—gingerly. She touched the tabletop—gingerly.

Jack hid a smile. The furniture did tend to be a little sticky and Miss Priss had probably never been in a workingman's bar.

He gave her a quick once-over. He didn't know much about women's clothes, but her light blue skirt and jacket looked pricey. So did the semi-sheer white blouse beneath. No question about the diamond rings and bracelets: the real thing. She wasn't dressing for success; this was the way success dressed.

She wore her bobbed, ash-blond hair—not the real thing, like Gia's—parted in the middle, and had eyes almost as blue as Gia's. Maybe she had a nice smile, but Jack couldn't tell. Right now she looked tired and grim.

"Usually places on the Upper West Side are…" She seemed to be searching for a word.

"Nicer? Julio's is a holdover from the times when you came to this neighborhood to save on rent." He sipped from his Yuengling. "Sure you wouldn't like a drink?"

Her expression stayed tight. "I'd love one—I'm a Diet Pepsi addict—but I'm not sure my immunizations are up to date."

Oooh, a regular Margaret Cho.

"Okay. You wanted to talk. The floor is yours."

She leaned back, looking even more tired.

"Where to begin? Dawn's a good kid. Turned eighteen in March, graduates Benedictine Academy next month with honors."

"B-A, huh? Must be smart."

"Great academic smarts—though you'd never guess it by the way she speaks—but no common sense, apparently. She's been accepted to Colgate. She's got a wonderful future ahead of her, and then this son of a bitch comes along and…" She shook her head. "Sorry."

Jack shrugged. "Don't be. Tell me about him. When did he come along?"

"Right after the first of the year. Started showing up at the Tower Diner where Dawn works."

"The Tower Diner?" Jack knew a lot of diners but not the Tower. "Where's that?"

"Queens Boulevard in Rego Park. Close to home."

"No offense, but you don't look the diner type."

She leaned forward and tapped her index finger on the tabletop.

"I grew up waitressing in diners and Waffle Houses and IHOPs and God knows where else. Nothing wrong with the Tower, and nothing wrong with waiting tables there. It's good for a kid to have a job. Teaches them what the real world's like. Lets them see what kind of hole their government leaves in their check every week. And waiting tables sharpens your people skills."

Jack remembered a now-extinct Little Italy trattoria where he waited tables when he first came to town. Made some friends on the staff, but didn't think he'd added to his already abundant charm.

"You're telling me you don't come from money, I take it."

Her laugh was bitter. "I come from nothing. Never went to college, at least not formally. Took courses here and there along the way, though. But most of what I know I learned on my own, and all of what I own I've earned on my own."

"How?"

Here was something Jack wanted to know.

"Day trading."

"Really." Hadn't expected that. "I heard most folks had dropped out of that."

"Because they lost their shirts, most likely. But I seem to have a knack for it. I started with a little money back in the nineties when you couldn't lose. I made it grow, and kept it growing even after the bubble burst in 2000—learned you could make money even in a down market if you knew what you were doing."

"Good for you."

"And you know what? It's the perfect job for a mother. You do it from home. I'd finish my trades and be logged off before Dawnie walked in the door. I was there for her every day, ready to take her anywhere she needed to go. No having to go through what I did growing up. I gave her every opportunity to maximize her potential—and she has a lot—and now this."

Okay. Now to the heart of it.