Never Fear (70 page)

“
Fair enough.” She was
staring at the TV screen. “Why do I know that actor?”

“
He’s Dwight Frye. You’ve
seen him before.”

“
Didn’t he play that guy
in ‘Dracula’ who was always eating flies?”

“
Until he graduated to
‘big, juicy spiders.’ Yeah. He played Renfield.”

Gia buried her face in his shoulder.
“I can’t believe I know that. I’ve been hanging around you much too
long.”

“
And getting educated in
the process. Now… where can I meet this Doctor Clayton?”

“
In her
office.”

“
When?”

“
This afternoon at
four.”

“
How do you know she’ll be
there?”

She smiled that smile. “Because you
have an appointment with her then.”

Jack laughed. “You were that
sure?”

“
Of course. And I’ll be
there with Vicky to introduce you.”

He frowned. “Do you think that’s
wise?”

“
Introducing
you?”

“
No. Taking Vicky down
there.”

“
Are you kidding? She
loves helping with those kids.”

“
Yeah, but they’ve
got…AIDS.”

“
No, they’ve got HIV.
There’s a big difference. And you can’t catch HIV by holding a baby
in your arms. How many times have I told you that?”

“
Lots. But I
still…”

“
When you see, you’ll
understand. And you’ll see at four o’clock, right?”

“
Right.”

They kissed, but Jack felt a chill.
His list of things that scared him was a short one, but the HIV
virus was top on the list.

Chapter 3

Jack took a walk over to Amsterdam
Avenue.

Gentrification continued its
relentless progression on the Upper West Side. New brownstone
renovations, new condos, and of course, new eateries. In a few
hours the streets and the host of new restaurants, trattorias, and
bistros would be crowded with yuppies and dinks out for their
Friday night fling to initiate the weekend’s respite from buying
and selling.

As individuals, Jack didn’t have
anything against them. Yeah, they could be empty-headed when it
came to one-upsmanship in the conspicuous consumption arena and the
endless panting after trends, and as a group they tended to suck
the color out the neighborhoods they invaded. But they weren’t
evil. At least most of them weren’t.

Jack checked his watch. Getting near
three. Abe would be ready for a mid-afternoon snack just about now.
He stopped in at Nick’s Nook, a mom-and-pop grocery—a vanishing
breed in these parts—and picked up a little treat.

Next stop was the Isher Sports Shop.
The iron grate was pulled back, exposing the blurry windows. Beyond
them, an array of faded cardboard placards, dusty footballs, tennis
balls, racquets, basketball hoops, backboards, Rollerblades, and
other good-time sundries basked in the sunny display
space.

Inside was not much better
organized. Bikes hanging from the ceiling, weight benches over
here, SCUBA gear over there, narrow aisles winding past sagging
shelves. ESPN meets
Twister
.

As Jack entered, Abe Grossman was just
finishing with a customer—or rather, a customer was finishing with
him.

Abe’s age was on the far side of fifty
and his weight was in calling distance of an eighth-of-a-ton, which
wouldn’t have been bad if he were on the right side of five-eight.
He was dressed in his uniform—black pants and a white half-sleeved
shirt. A frown marred his usually jovial round face, a face made
all the rounder by the relentless retreat of his gray hair toward
the top of his head.

“
Hooks?” Abe was saying.
“Why should you want hooks? Can you imagine how that must hurt a
fish when it bites into it? And those barbs. Oy! You’ve got to rip
them out! Such damage to the tender mouth tissues. Stick a fish
hook in your own tongue sometime and see how you like
it.”

The customer, a sandy-haired
thirty-something in a faded Izod stared at Abe in wonder. He made
one false start at a reply, then tried again.

“
You’re kidding,
right?”

Abe leaned over the counter—at least
as far as his considerable gut would allow—and spoke in a fatherly
fashion.

“
It’s an ethical position.
Baiting a hook, or using those flashing little spinners to catch
fish, it’s deceitful. Think about it. You’re dressing up a nasty
little hook to look like food, like sustenance. A fish comes along,
thinks it’s found lunch, and
wham!
It’s hooked and pulled out of the water. Is that
fair? You’re proud of such a thing?” He straightened and fixed the
guy with his dark brown eyes. “I should be a party to such a
so-called sport based on treachery and deceit? No. I
cannot.”

“
You’re serious!” the guy
said, backing away. “You’re really serious!”

“
I should be a comedian?
This place looks like the Improv to you maybe? No. I sell sporting
goods.
Sporting
.
That means something to me. A net is sporting. You wait for the
fish to come along and then scoop it up with a net. The fastest one
wins.
That’s
a
sport. A net, I’ll sell you. But hooks? Uh-Uh. You’ll get no hooks
from me.”

The guy turned away and headed for the
door. “Get out while you can,” he said as he hurried past Jack.
“This fucker is nuts!”

“
Really?” Jack said. “What
makes you think so?”

As the door slammed, Jack stepped up
to the counter. Abe had positioned himself, sitting like a toad on
the high stool that was his perch for most of his workday. He sat
with his hands on his spread thighs, a middle-aged Humpty
Dumpty.

Jack placed his offering on the
counter.

“
Entenmann’s brownies?”
Abe hopped off the stool with surprising agility. “Jack, you
shouldn’t have.”

“
I figured your stomach
would be rumbling about now.”

“
No, but really you
shouldn’t have. My diet, you know.”

“
Yeah, but they’re fat
free.”

Abe touched the yellow sticker that
said just that. “So they are.” He grinned. “Well, in that case,
maybe just a bisel.”

His short chubby fingers were
surprisingly nimble as they zipped open the box. A knife appeared
and carved out a huge section which went directly into his
mouth.

“
Mmmm,” he said, closing
his eyes and swallowing. “Who could believe this is fat free? Too
bad it’s not calorie free.” He pointed the knife at Jack. “You’re
having?”

“
Nah. Had a late
lunch.”

“
You should try. All this
food you bring me and I never see you eat.”

“
That because I bring it
for you. Enjoy.”

Abe promptly did just that with
another piece.

“
Where’s
Parabellum?”

Abe spoke around a mouthful.
“Sleeping.’

For some reason Jack could not fathom,
Abe had bought a little blue parakeet and become paternally
attached to it.

“
He doesn’t like chocolate
anyway.” He wiped his hands on his shirt. Brown smears joined
similar yellow smudges that looked like mustard. “Hey. You want to
see will power? Watch.”

He closed the top and pushed the box
to the side.

“
I’m impressed. First time
I ever saw you do that.”

“
I’ll be thin as you
before you know it.” He found a crumb on the counter and popped it
into his mouth, then looked longingly at the brownie box. “Yessir.
Before you know it.”

In what Jack knew was a prodigious act
of will, Abe pushed away from the counter and shrugged.
“Nu?”

“
Need a few
things.”

“
Let’s go.”

Abe locked the front door, turned a
“Closed For Lunch” sign toward the street and, navigating aisles
just wide enough to allow his bulk to pass, led the way toward the
back, into a rear closet, and down to the cellar. The neon sign
that overhung the stone steps flickered but never quite came to
life.

“
Got a sick sign there,
Abe.”

“
I know, but it’s too much
trouble to get fixed.”

He hit the switch that illuminated the
cellar’s miniature armory. Abe moved among his stock, adjusting the
pistols and rifles in their racks, straightening the boxes of ammo
on their shelves. Everything neatly arranged down here, in sharp
contrast to the floor just above them.

“
Restocking or something
new?”

“
New,” Jack said. “Need a
pair of weighted gloves.”

“
You lost the last pair
you bought?”

“
No, but I need a white
pair.”

Abe’s eyebrows lifted. “White? I never
heard of such a thing. Black, of course. Brown, maybe. But
white?”

“
See if you can find me
any.”

“
I should go asking for
white leather gloves with half a pound of fine steel shot packed
into the knuckles? You want this in a lady’s size
perhaps?”

“
No, it’s for me. To go
with formal wear.”

Abe sighed. “And I should have it for
you when?”

“
Tonight if you can, but
by early tomorrow at the latest. And listen for any noise about
someone with a whole bunch of kids’ Christmas gifts to sell… cheap…
already wrapped, most likely. I told Julio to put his ears on too.
You hear about someone like that, get word to the guy that you know
a buyer. Someone who’ll take his whole stock.”

Abe’s curiosity surged to the fore.
“Just what is it you’re getting into this time?”

“
Something I probably
shouldn’t be involved with. But to do it right, it looks like I’m
going to have to do something stupid.”

Abe stared and Jack knew he wanted to
know just how stupid. But Abe wouldn’t ask, knowing Jack would tell
him about it afterward.

He looked around and spotted something
hanging on a rack in the corner. And that gave him an
idea.

“
You know what? Maybe I
could use one more thing…”

Chapter 4

Jack took the D train
downtown and emerged into the bustling Third World bazaar that was
14
^th
Street. He threaded his way among deadlocked Dominicans,
turbaned Sikhs, saried Indians, suited Koreans, Pakistanis, Puerto
Ricans, Jamaicans, and an occasional European mixing in the chill
air on sidewalks flanked with signs in half a dozen
languages.

He arrived early at the Seventh Avenue
address Gia had given him. A little placard on the door was the
only indication that this nondescript storefront had anything to do
with AIDS.

He probably could have started hunting
the stolen Christmas gifts without coming down here, but he figured
a quick look at the scene wouldn’t hurt. Might even give him a
handle on the thieves.

“
I have a four o’clock
with Doctor Clayton, I believe?” he told the slim, attractive black
woman at the reception desk. The nameplate read simply,
Tiffany
.

“
Name, sir?”

“
Jack.”

“
Jack what?”

He wanted to tell
her,
Just Jack
,
but that inevitably led to more questions, and further refusal
tended to brand his identity in a person’s mind. He preferred to
slide off people’s memories without a trace.

He smiled and fished for a name
beginning with “N.” He’d used Meyers last time he’d been asked, and
since he liked to proceed in alphabetical order…

“
Niedermeyer. Jack
Niedermeyer.”

“
Fine, Mr. Niedermeyer.
Doctor Clayton is still in another meeting right now. A reporter.
We had a robbery here last night, you know.”

“
Really? What did they
take?”

“
All the donated Christmas
toys.”

“
Get out!”

“
It’s true. The police are
on it right now. I think they should—oh, there’s Doctor Clayton
now. Looks like she’s finishing up.”

Jack saw a slim brunette in a white
coat walking his way with a guy who looked more like a delivery man
than a reporter. She escorted him to the door, then scanned the
street outside as if looking for something. Whatever it was, when
she turned back Jack’s way, she didn’t look as if she’d found it.
Or maybe she had. Either way, she didn’t seem happy.

“
Doctor Clayton, this is
your four o’clock: Mr. Niedermeyer.

Dr. Alicia Clayton was better looking
close up, but still kind of… plain. She had fine, angular
features—a thin, sharp nose, sharply etched lips—neither too fine
nor too full—and blue-gray eyes. Her hair was fine too, bobbed to
chin length, and a deep, deep black—not black-dye black like a
Goth, but a genuine, rich, glossy black.

And no make-up. Someone who took such
good care of their hair, you’d think they’d want to enhance their
other assets. But not, apparently, Dr. Clayton.