The Tomb Read online

  You're a rat, Gia. Ten years ago this never would have crossed your mind. And if it had you'd have been horrified.

  But she was not that same girl from Ottumwa who had arrived in the Big City fresh out of art school and looking for work. Since then she had been married to a crumb and in love with a killer.

  She began sketching desserts.

  After an hour of work, she took a break. Now that she was rolling on the Burger-Meister job, she didn't feel too bad about paying the rent. She pulled the checkbook out of her purse but could not find the bill. It had been on the dresser this morning and now it was gone.

  Gia went to the top of the stairs and called down.

  "Eunice! Did you see an envelope on my dresser this morning?"

  "No, mum," came the faint reply.

  That left only one possibility.

  13

  Nellie overheard the exchange between Gia and Eunice. Here it comes, she thought, knowing that Gia would explode when she learned what Nellie had done with the rent bill. A lovely girl, that Gia, but so hot-tempered. And so proud, unwilling to accept any financial aid, no matter how often it was offered. A most impractical attitude. And yet… if Gia had welcomed hand-outs, Nellie knew she would not be so anxious to offer them. Gia's resistance to charity was like a red flag waving in Nellie's face—it only made her more determined to find ways of helping her.

  Preparing herself for the storm, Nellie stepped out onto the landing below Gia.

  "I saw it."

  "What happened to it?"

  "I paid it."

  Gia's jaw dropped. "You what!"

  Nellie twisted her hands in a show of anxiety. "Don't think I was snooping, dearie. I simply went in to make sure that Eunice was taking proper care of you, and I saw it sitting on the bureau. I was paying a few of my own bills this morning and so I just paid yours, too."

  Gia hurried down the stairs, pounding her hand on the banister as she approached.

  "Nellie, you had no right!"

  Nellie stood her ground. "Rubbish! I can spend my money any way I please."

  "The least you could have done was ask me first!"

  "True," Nellie said, trying her best to look contrite, "but as you know, I'm an old woman and frightfully forgetful."

  The statement had the desired effect: Gia's frown wavered, fighting against a smile, then she broke into a laugh. "You're about as forgetful as a computer! "

  "Ah, dearie," Nellie said, drawing to Gia's side and putting an arm around her waist, "I know I've taken you away from your work by asking you to stay with me, and that puts a strain on your finances. But I so love having you and Victoria here."

  And I need you here, she thought. I couldn't bear to stay alone with only Eunice for company. I would surely go mad with grief and worry.

  "Especially Victoria—I daresay she's the only decent thing that nephew of mine has ever done in his entire life. She's such a dear. I can't quite believe Richard had anything to do with her."

  "Well, he doesn't have much to do with her anymore. And if I have my way, he'll never have anything to do with her again."

  Too much talk of her nephew Richard made Nellie uncomfortable. The man was a lout, a blot on the Westphalen name.

  "Just as well. By the way, I never told you, but last year I had my will changed to leave Victoria most of my holdings when I go."

  "Nellie—!"

  Nellie had expected objections and was ready for them: "She's a Westphalen—the last of the Westphalens unless Richard remarries and fathers another child, which I gravely doubt—and I want her to have a part of the Westphalen fortune, curse and all."

  "Curse?"

  How did that slip out? She hadn't wanted to mention that. "Only joking, love."

  Gia seemed to have a sudden weak spell. She leaned against Nellie.

  "Nellie, I don't know what to say except I hope it's a long, long time before we see any of it."

  "So do I! But until then, please don't begrudge me the pleasure of helping out once in a while. I have so much money and so few pleasures left in life. You and Victoria are two of them. Anything I can do to lighten your load—"

  "I'm not a charity case, Nellie."

  "I heartily agree. You're family"—she directed a stern expression at Gia—"even if you did go back to your maiden name. And as your aunt by marriage I claim the right to help out once in a while. Now that's the last I want to hear of it!"

  So saying, she kissed Gia on the cheek and marched back into her bedroom. As soon as the door closed behind her, however, she felt her brave front crack. She stumbled across the room and sank onto the bed. She found it so much easier to bear the pain of Grace's disappearance in the company of others—pretending to be composed and in control actually made her feel so. But when there was no one around to playact for, she fell apart.

  Oh, Grace, Grace, Grace. Where can you be? And how long can I live without you?

  Her sister had been Nellie's best friend ever since they had fled to America during the war. Her purse-lipped smile, her tittering laugh, the pleasure she took in their daily sherry before dinner, even her infuriating obsession with the regularity of her bowels, Nellie missed them all.

  Despite all her foibles and uppity ways, she's a dear soul and I need her back.

  The thought of living on without Grace suddenly overwhelmed Nellie and she began to cry. Quiet sobs that no one else would hear. She couldn't let any of them—especially dear little Victoria—see her cry.

  14

  Jack didn't feel like walking back across town, so he took a cab. The driver made a couple of tries at small talk about the Mets but the terse, grunted replies from the back seat soon shut him up. Jack could not remember another time in his life when he had felt so low—not even after his mother's death. He needed to talk to someone, and it wasn't a cabbie.

  He had the hack drop him off at a little Mom-and-Pop on the corner west of his apartment: Nick's Nook. An unappetizing place with New York City grime permanently imbedded in the plate glass windows. Some of that grime seemed to have filtered through the glass and onto the grocery display items behind it. Faded dummy boxes of Tide, Cheerios, Gainsburgers, and such had been there for years and would probably remain there for many more. Both Nick and his store needed a good scrubbing. His prices would shame an Exxon executive, but the Nook was handy, and baked goods were delivered fresh daily—at least he said they were.

  Jack picked up an Entenmann's crumb cake that didn't look too dusty, checked the fresh date on the side and found it was good till next week.

  "Going over to Abe's, eh?" Nick said. He had three chins, one little one supported by two big ones, all in need of a shave.

  "Yeah. Thought I'd bring the junky his fix."

  "Tell him I said 'lo."

  "Right."

  He walked over to Amsterdam Avenue and then down to the Isher Sports Shop. Here he knew he'd find Abe Grossman, friend and confidant for almost as long as he had been Repairman Jack. In fact, Abe was one of the reasons Jack had moved into this neighborhood. Abe was the ultimate pessimist. No matter how dark things looked, Abe's outlook was darker. He could make a drowning man feel lucky.

  Jack glanced through the window. A fiftyish man was alone inside, sitting on a stool behind the cash register, reading a paperback.

  The store was too small for its stock. Bicycles hung from the ceiling; fishing rods, tennis racquets, and basketball hoops littered the walls while narrow aisles wound between pressing benches, hockey nets, scuba masks, soccer balls, and countless other weekend-making items hidden under or behind each other. Inventory was an annual nightmare.

  "No customers?" Jack asked to the accompaniment of the bell that chimed when the door opened.

  Abe peered over the halfmoons of his reading glasses. "None. And the census won't be changed by your arrival, I'm sure."

  "Au contraire. I come with goodies in hand, and money in pocket."

  "Did you—?" Abe peered over the counter at the white box with the blue
lettering. "You did! Crumb? Bring it over here."

  Just then a big burly fellow in a dirty sleeveless undershirt stuck his head in the door. "I need a box of twelve gauge double-O. Y'got any?"

  Abe removed his glasses and gave the man a withering stare.

  "You will note, sir, that the sign outside says 'Sporting Goods.' Killing is not a sport!"

  The man looked at Abe as if he had just turned green, and went away.

  For a big man, Abe Grossman showed he could move quickly when he wanted to. He carried an easy two hundred pounds packed into a five-eight frame. His graying hair had receded back to the top of his head. His clothes never varied: black pants, short-sleeved white shirt, shiny black tie. The tie and shirt were a sort of scratch-and-sniff catalog of the food he had eaten that day. As Abe rounded the end of the counter, Jack spotted scrambled egg, mustard, and what could be either catsup or spaghetti sauce.

  "You really know how to hurt a guy," he said, breaking off a piece of cake and biting heartily. "You know I'm on a diet." Powdered sugar speckled his tie as he spoke.

  "Yeah. I noticed."

  "S'true. It's my own special diet. Absolutely no carbohydrates—except for Entenmann's cake. That's a free food. All other portions have to be measured, but Entenmann's is ad lib." He took another big bite and spoke around it. Crumb cake always made him manic. "Did I tell you I added a codicil to my will? I've decided that after I'm cremated I want my ashes buried in an Entenmann's box. Or if I'm not cremated, it should be a white, glass-topped coffin with blue lettering on the side." He held up the cake box. "Just like this. Either way, I want to be interred on a grassy slope overlooking the Entenmann's plant in Bay Shore."

  Jack tried to smile but it must have been a poor attempt. Abe stopped in mid-chew.

  "What's eating up your quderim?"

  "Saw Gia today."

  "Nu?"

  "It's over. Really over."

  "You didn't know that?"

  "I knew it but I didn't believe it." Jack forced himself to ask a question he wasn't sure he wanted answered. "Am I crazy, Abe? Is there something wrong in my head for wanting to live this way? Is my pilot light flickering and I don't know it?"

  Without taking his eyes from Jack's face, Abe put down his piece of cake and made a half-hearted attempt to brush off his front. He succeeded only in smearing the sugar specks on his tie into large white blotches.

  "What did she do to you?"

  "Opened my eyes, maybe. Sometimes it takes an outsider to make you see yourself as you really are."

  "And you see what?"

  Jack took a deep breath. "A crazy man. A violent crazy man."

  "That's what her eyes see. But what does she know? Does she know about Mr. Canelli? Does she know about your mother? Does she know how you got to be Repairman Jack?"

  "Nope. Didn't wait to hear."

  "There! You see? She knows nothing! She understands nothing! And she's closed her mind to you, so who wants someone like that?"

  "Me!"

  "Well," Abe said, rubbing a hand across his forehead and leaving a white smear, "that I can't argue with." He glared at Jack. "How old are you?"

  Jack had to think a second. He always felt stupid when he had to remember his age.

  "Uhh… thirty-four."

  "Thirty-four. Surely you've been ditched before?"

  "Abe… I can't remember ever feeling about anyone the way I feel about Gia. And she's afraid of me!"

  "Fear of the unknown. She doesn't know you, so she's afraid of you. I know all about you. Am I afraid?"

  "Aren't you? Ever?"

  "Never!" He trotted back behind the counter and picked up a copy of the New York Post. Rifling through the pages, he said, "Look—a five-year-old beaten to death by his mother's boyfriend! A guy with a straight razor slashes eight people in Times Square last night and then disappears into a subway! A headless, handless torso is found in a West Side hotel room! As a hit-and-run victim lays bleeding in the street, people run up to him, rob him, and then leave him there. I should be afraid of you?"

  Jack shrugged, unconvinced. None of this would bring Gia back; it was what he was that had driven her away. He decided he wanted to do his business here and go home.

  "I need something."

  "What?"

  "A slapper. Lead and leather."

  Abe nodded. "Ten ounces do?"

  "Sure."

  Abe locked the front door and hung the "Back In A Few Minutes" sign facing out through the glass. He passed Jack and led him toward the back, where they stepped into a closet and closed the door after them. A push swung the rear wall of the closet away from them. Abe hit a light switch and they started down a worn stone stairway. As they moved, a neon sign flickered to life:

  FINE WEAPONS

  THE RIGHT TO BUY WEAPONS IS THE

  RIGHT TO BE FREE

  Jack had often asked Abe why he had placed a neon sign where advertising would do no good; Abe unfailingly replied that every good weapons shop should have such a sign.

  "When you get right down to it, Jack," Abe was saying, "what I think of you or what Gia thinks of you isn't going to matter much in the long run. Because there isn't going to be a long run. Everything's falling apart. You know that. There's not much time left before civilization collapses completely. It's going to start soon. The banks'll start to go any day now. These people who think their savings are insured by the FDIC? Have they got a rude awakening coming! Just wait till the first couple of banks go under and they find out the FDIC only has enough to cover a pupik's worth of the deposits it's supposed to be insuring. Then you'll see panic, my boy. That's when the government will crank up the printing presses to full speed to cover those deposits and we'll have runaway inflation on our hands. I tell you…"

  Jack cut him off. He knew the routine by heart.

  "You've been telling me for ten years, Abe! Economic ruin has been around the corner for a decade now. Where is it?"

  "Coming, Jack. Coming. I'm glad my daughter's fully grown and disinclined toward marriage and a family. I shudder at the thought of a child or a grandchild growing up in the coming time."

  Jack thought of Vicky. "Full of good cheer as usual, aren't you? You're the only man I know who lights up a room when he leaves."

  "Very funny. I'm only trying to open your eyes so you can take steps to protect yourself."

  "And what about you? You've got a bomb shelter somewhere in the sticks full of freeze-dried food?"

  Abe shook his head. "Nah. I'll take my chances here. I'm not built for a post-holocaust lifestyle. And I'm too old to learn."

  He flipped another wall switch at the bottom of the steps, bringing the ceiling lights to life.

  The basement was as crowded as the upstairs, only there was no sporting equipment down here. The walls and floors were covered with every one-man weapon imaginable. There were switchblades, clubs, swords, brass knuckles, and a full array of firearms from derringers to bazookas.

  Abe went over to a cardboard box and rummaged through it.

  "You want a slapper or the braided kind."

  "Braided."

  Abe tossed him something in a Zip-lok bag. Jack removed it and hefted it in his hand. The sap, sometimes called a blackjack, was made of thin strips of leather woven around a lead weight; the weave tightened and tapered down to a firm handle that ended in a looped thong for the wrist. Jack fitted it on and tried a few short swings. The flexibility allowed him to get his wrist into the motion, a feature that might come in handy at close quarters.

  He stood looking at the sap.

  This was the sort of thing that had frightened Gia off. He swung it once more, harder, striking the edge of a wooden shipping crate. There was a loud crack; splinters flew.

  "This'll do fine. How much?"

  "Ten."

  Jack reached into his pocket. "Used to be eight."

  "That was years ago. One of these should last you a lifetime."

  "I lose things." He handed over a ten-dollar bill
and put the sap into his pocket.

  "Need anything else while we're down here?"

  Jack ran a mental inventory of his weapons and ammunition. "No. I'm pretty well set."

  "Good. Then let's go upstairs and we'll have some cake and talk. You look like you need some talk."

  "Thanks, Abe," Jack said, leading the way upstairs, "but I've got some errands to run before dark, so I'll take a rain-check."

  "You hold things in too much. I've told you that before. We're supposed to be friends. So talk it out. You don't trust me anymore?"

  "I trust you like crazy. It's just…"

  "What?"

  "I'll see you, Abe."

  15

  It was after six when Jack got back to the apartment. With all the shades pulled, the front room was dark. It matched his mood.

  He had checked in with his office; there had been no calls of any importance waiting for him. The answerphone here had no messages waiting.

  He had a two-wheel, wire shopping cart with him, and in it a paper bag full of old clothing—woman's clothing. He leaned the cart in a corner, then went to his bedroom. His wallet, loose cash, and the new sap went on top of his dresser, then he stripped down and got into a T-shirt and shorts. Time for his work-out. He didn't want to—he felt emotionally and physically spent—but this was the only thing in his daily routine he had promised himself he would never let slide. His life depended on it.

  He locked his apartment and jogged up the stairs.

  The sun had done its worst and was on its way down the sky, but the roof remained an inferno. Its black surface would hold the day's heat long into the night. Jack looked west into the haze that was reddening the lowering sun. On a clear day you could see New Jersey over there. If you wanted to. Someone had once told him that if you died in sin your soul went to New Jersey.

  The roof was crowded. Not with people, with things. There was Appleton's tomato patch in the southeast corner; he had carried the topsoil up bag by fifty-pound bag. Harry Bok had a huge CB antenna in the northeast corner. Centrally located was the diesel generator everybody had pitched in to buy after the July '77 blackout; clustered against its north side like suckling piglets against their mama were a dozen two-gallon cans of number-one oil. And above it all, waving proudly from its slim two-inch pole, was Neil the Anarchist's black flag.