Infernal

3

"He'll be bunking in the TV room," Jack said.

He'd called Gia as soon as he'd unloaded the car and parked it in its garage.

Tom had carried his backpack and the Lilitongue chest up to the apartment, then slumped on the couch, leaving Jack to unload and haul the rest up to the third floor by himself.

Gia said, "You… with a houseguest…" A suppressed laugh trickled through the phone. "The hermit of the Upper West Side with overnight company. I can't believe it."

"It's not funny and I'm not a hermit."

"Is he feeling better?"

"Seems to be. At least he's not throwing up anymore. Hasn't been sick since Tenth Avenue. Perked up right after he got here."

Which only deepened Jack's suspicions. Thinking back, he remembered only hearing Tom retch. Never saw any vomit. Of course, he hadn't been exactly itching for a look at regurgitated beef stew.

Still… with a guy a little less honest than a wharf rat, you never knew.

Gia tsked. "Poor man."

"That's what you get for eating Alpo."

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. Look, when am I going to see you?"

A whole week away. Jack had missed her.

"Well, why don't the three of us go somewhere after you drop off your brother? There's a German Expressionist exhibit at MOMA that might be fun."

The Museum of Modern Art… just the place he wanted to spend his first day home from the sea.

Gia must have sensed his lack of enthusiasm.

"Give it a chance, Jack. There's no way a man who likes The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari—which you insisted I see—won't find something to like there."

Oh, right. The crazy Caligari set design had been created by a couple of German expressionists.

"Okay. You're on."

He hung up feeling good about tomorrow, anticipating a much-needed Gia-Vicky fix.

The feeling did a quick fade when he walked into the second bedroom that served as his TV room. Tom had the convertible couch folded out into bed mode—no sheets, just a bare mattress—and he was unpacking his bag… hanging clothes in the closet.

"What are you doing?"

Tom looked up and smiled. "Just letting some of this stuff air. It's been at sea too long. Was that Gia on the phone?"

"Yeah. She says hi and hopes you're feeling better, which you seem to be."

"Yeah. Amazing, isn't it. One minute you think you're dying, and a little while later you're feeling fine."

"Amazing."

"Still feeling a little weak, though. Why don't you ask Gia over?"

Here we go: Tom and his thing for Gia.

"I would, but what you have might be contagious."

"I'm sure it was just food poisoning."

"You never know."

Tom looked disappointed. "All right, then. Got any vodka?"

Jack shook his head. "Only beer. Probably not a good thing to be pouring booze into such an unsettled stomach anyway."

"Actually a beer would go a long way toward settling my stomach, I think. Could you get me one?"

Jack jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Bottom shelf of the fridge."

Jack eyed Tom's neck as he passed. He resisted an urge to grab it with both hands and shake him like a rag doll.

He listened to the refrigerator door open and close, watched Tom return carrying two bottles of Yuengling lager. He twisted the top off one and handed it to Jack, then opened the other and held it up.

"To brotherhood."

He clinked his bottle against Jack's and drank. Jack felt like saying, This is brotherhood? but bit it back, choosing instead to say nothing.

For you, Dad, he thought as he took a long pull. Only for you.

He needed a beer. Had a feeling he was going to need many beers.

Tom gestured around Jack's cluttered front room. Gia once had called it "claustrophobic," and Abe proclaimed it "vertigogenic."

"I've just got to ask you about this. I mean, who's your decorator? Joe Franklin?"

"What do you mean?"

"The furniture for one thing."

Jack turned and took in his Victorian wavy-grained golden oak furniture—the gingerbread-laden secretary, the hutch, the paw-footed round oak table, the crystal-ball-and-claw-footed end tables.

"What about it?"

"Looks like stuff people used when they were listening to Little Orphan Annie on the radio. And speaking of Annie, is that a Daddy Warbucks lamp?"

"It is. He was a cool guy."

Tom stepped over to the inner wall and stared at the array of clocks and framed certificates.

"You're living in Gew-gawville. And look at all this: The Shadow Fan Club, the Doc Savage fan club, and Jesus, a Shmoo clock!" He turned to Jack and laughed. "What are you? Ninety years old?"

Jack felt no obligation to explain.

Tom stepped back into the TV room where he dropped onto the mattress and lay on his side, his head propped against his hand. He pointed to the big screen.

"Nice set. Got any movies we can watch?"

Jack was too bushed to start searching for a hotel room now. But first thing tomorrow… first damn thing.