Infernal

5

"The Pennsylvania Hotel?" Tom said as he followed Jack across Seventh Avenue. "Never heard of it."

He was feeling the vodka percolating through his bloodstream now, dulling the pervasive shock of being the son of a man murdered by terrorists. He and Dad had never been close—hell, who have I ever been close to?—but still… he was his father and he'd been scheduled for a stayover next week. Tom didn't kid himself—Dad's primary reason for coming had been to see his grandkids.

But still…

Vodka usually made the world look a little friendlier, a little easier to handle. Not today.

This city was partly to blame. He'd never liked New York. Always struck him as more toxic landfill than city. Too big, too coarse, completely lacking the elan of Philadelphia. Philly… now there was a city.

But here…

He eyed the passing parade of New York's lumpenproletariat: the glaborous, the rugose, the nodose, the labrose. An endless procession of elves, spriggins, goblins, trolls, fakirs, shellycoats, gorgons, Quasimodos, and Merricks.

He watched his brother walking ahead of him. The Jackie—oops, he wants to be called Jack now—Tom remembered used to be a klutzy younker. A skinny little pain in the ass who was always underfoot.

He was still a pain in the ass—an uptight pain in the ass. Look at how he'd reacted to switching that twenty. Like some sort of Miss Priss. Where'd he pick up his holier-than-thou?

Yeah, still a pain in the ass, but no longer skinny. His shoulders filled out his sweatshirt; he'd pushed his sleeves up to his elbows revealing forearms that rippled with sleek muscles just below the skin. Not much fat on Little Brother.

But that's okay, Tom thought. I've got enough for two.

"Used to be the Statler," Jack said. "Look, you're right across the street from Madison Square Garden, and just crosstown from the morgue."

Tom shook his head. "Yeah. The morgue." He looked up at the tall ionic columns of the entrance. "This could be a morgue."

"It's old, but it's been completely renovated."

Tom had a feeling Jack didn't give a good goddamn if he liked it or not.

Too bad they'd got off on the wrong foot, but that was Jack's fault, not his. And anyway, who cared what a college dropout loser thought of him?

Jack led him across the wide, retro lobby toward the registration desk.

Blast. He'd been sort of counting on staying with Jack. He didn't feel like ponying up for a hotel, especially on a completely unnecessary trip like this. Why Jack couldn't have simply signed for the body and shipped it back to Johnson was beyond him.

Well, at least it had got him out of Philly. That counted for something. As much as he revered the place, he wished he could find a way to be a former Philadelphian for good.

"I reserved it in your name," Jack said, pulling out his cell phone. "Go ahead. I've got a call to make."

Tom gave his name to the check-in clerk, an attractive twenty-something with curly black hair, pretty despite the fact she looked like a mix of every race on earth, and waited while she checked her computer.

"Ah, here it is," she said with a dazzling smile. "You're staying only one night, correct?"

She put down the card and began tapping on her keyboard. Tom noticed his own name on the form; a credit card slip with a handwritten name and number was attached. He edged forward for a closer look.

John L. Tyleski . . . who was that? Jack would have had to give a credit card number to hold the room, but this obviously wasn't his. The hotel must have screwed it up.

Tom hid a smile. This presented an interesting opportunity. Could he pull it off?

Well, never look a gift horse…

The clerk looked up and smiled at him. "Which credit card will you be using, sir?"

"Mr. Tyleski is covering the room."

"Really?" She studied the reservation card. "It doesn't say so here."

Tom gave a perturbed sniff. "Well, he is. He always covers my accommodations when I'm in town. Whoever took the reservation must have forgotten to write it down."

She was shaking her head. "I don't know…"

Tom sighed. "This never happens at the Plaza. He always puts me up at the Plaza, but this consultation was a last-minute thing and they're full. More the pity."

"I'm sorry, sir, but—"

"On the other hand, the Plaza is used to our arrangement. I suppose John simply could have forgotten to mention it." He waved his hand in bored annoyance. "Call him if you must."

He watched her hesitate, then pick up the phone.

Oh, shit. His bluff hadn't worked.

Well, it had been fun while it lasted.

He glanced over at his brother the wet blanket, still talking on the phone. Tom would have to come up with an explanation for the clerk as to why John Tyleski had never heard of him, and bring it off without Jack knowing. He didn't need another of those appalled looks. What a ninny.

"Mr. Tyleski, this is the Pennsylvania Hotel calling. We'd like to confirm the payment arrangement on the room you reserved today. Please call us back at…"

She was leaving voice mail! Tom almost let out a whoop.

Now, if this Tyleski character didn't check his messages until tomorrow…

The clerk hung up and turned to him.

"We'll leave it on Mr. Tyleski's card for now. If you speak to him, please ask him to confirm with us."

"Of course. I'm scheduled for a dinner meeting with him tonight at the Plaza."

She gave him a card to fill out with his address and telephone number, both of which he fabricated out of thin air. The less the Pennsylvania Hotel knew, the better.

Jack finished his call and walked over just as she handed him the key.

"All set?"

Tom nodded. "Room six-twenty-seven. Is there a restaurant here?"

"Joe O's. Never been but it's supposed to be pretty good."

"Great. What time do you want to meet for dinner?"

"Sorry. Can't."

"Come on. We'll eat at this Joe O's—my treat."

Actually, John Tyleski's treat. Tom would charge it to the room.

Jack shook his head. "Got some loose ends I've got to tie up tonight."

"Okay." He feigned a sad look. "I guess I'll have to eat alone."

Jack appeared unmoved.

Tom gave him a wink. "I suppose I could always rent some company."

"Jesus, Tom. Don't get rolled. I need you in one piece tomorrow."

The implication was not lost on him: no concern for Tom himself, just his presence to claim Dad's body. Talk about getting off on the wrong foot…

He'd been kidding about the rented company. He'd seen plenty of hookers during his years at the bar and on the bench. Some were knockouts and some were harridans, and some weren't even women. Trouble was, you never knew who their last John was or what you might catch.

Not that he'd ever needed them—plenty of legal secretaries around the courthouse happy to give it up for a judge.

"Don't worry, Jack. I'll be here, intact and ready to roll. And maybe on the way over to the morgue you can explain why you couldn't take care of this yourself."

"Maybe," Jack said. "And maybe not. Pick you up at nine thirty tomorrow morning."

He watched Jack exit through the glass doors. Just as well. The thought of spending a couple of hours over dinner with that guy, trying to make conversation… Jesus, what could they talk about besides Dad? Not as if they had a store of fond memories to revisit.

Nope. Looked like dinner for one tonight.

At least that would give him time to gather his thoughts as to what he should do with the money he'd inherit. Tom had helped Dad change his will after Kate's death and in the process had got a peek into the old guy's finances. Still couldn't believe it—seven figures and growing. Dad had practically invented day trading and was damn good at it.

A third to Tom, a third to Jack, and a third to Kate's kids. His share would help loosen some of his financial straits, but not all. Especially if he couldn't keep it.

Had to find a way to hide it. He was executor, after all. He was sure he could find a way.

What a fucking mess he'd got himself into.

But no point in more self-excoriation. He'd done plenty already, and it hadn't changed a thing.

Here you are, Jack thought.

He crouched in a tiny, dark, stuffy Bronx apartment. The neighbor directly above was playing one of Polio's thrashing aural assaults at subway-train volume. The pounding bass sounded ready to peel the paint from the walls. If it was that loud down here, what was it like up there?

In Jack's hand sat a baseball—pardon, an "Official National League" baseball—encased in a clear plastic sphere on a round, gold-plated base. For something more than fifty years old, it appeared to be in damn good shape. Then again, why not? It had never been in a game.

He flashed his penlight on it again to double-check the inscription, directly below the Spalding logo: