Legacies

4.

"Oh, my God!" Gia said. "What's that?"

"Just a little bruise."

Jack looked down at the large purple area on his left chest wall. Damn. He'd hoped she wouldn't notice, but here in the warm afterglow of their lovemaking, he'd forgot all about it.

They'd dropped Vicky off at her art class after lunch. She spent most of every Sunday afternoon learning the basics of drawing, painting, and sculpture. Her teacher said she showed a real flair for drawing. Jack figured it had to be genetic, what with her mother an artist and all. Vicky loved the classes, and Jack loved the chance to be alone with Gia on Sunday afternoons.

Their routine was to dash here to Jack's apartment immediately after dropping Vicky off. Often they didn't travel ten feet inside the door before they were tearing at each other's clothes. From there they usually wound up on the nearest horizontal surface. Today, however, they'd made it all the way to the bed.

Jack pulled the sheet up to his neck, but she pushed it down.

"I'd hardly call that 'little.' " He watched Gia's fingers trace over it. "Does it hurt?"

"Nah."

She pressed and he winced.

"Right," she said. "Doesn't hurt a bit. How long have you had it?"

"Since last night." Since a little before midnight, to be exact.

He told her about the creep taking a shot at him, and how the Kevlar vest had saved him.

"Thank God you were wearing it!" she said. She couldn't seem to take her eyes off it or stop touching it. "But if the vest is bulletproof, how come you're hurt?"

"Well, it did keep the bullet from going through me, but the slug's still got all that velocity behind it. Something had to absorb it, and that something was me."

Jack still wasn't sure why he'd given in to the impulse to wear the Santa suit. Usually if he dressed up it was either as a lure or to allay suspicion. Last night's flamboyant performance with the ho-ho-ho's and the beard and red suit was not his style.

But somehow… this time, this job… he'd felt compelled to make a point.

And he'd known that was stupid. Experience had taught him, when you try to make a point instead of simply getting the job done, you up the chances of things going wrong, which ups your chances of getting hurt.

So Jack had taken precautions. He never wore body armor, but had made an exception last night. Normally he would have opened a can of mace and lobbed it into the truck, then taken down the guy or guys with a sap when they tumbled out the door. But doing the Santa thing required more exposure, and he knew sure as hell someone would have a gun.

He'd been right. The guy got off a lucky shot that felt like a four-by-four slamming end-on into Jack's chest. Knocked him off the truck and the wind out of his lungs, but the ten-ply vest had stopped the slug.

Good thing he'd had those weighted gloves. Abe hadn't been able to find white ones, but he'd provided Jack a pair of white cotton gloves to wear over the more traditional black leather. The lead inserts doubled the impact of every punch and allowed him to make short work of the creep.

And then Jack had lost it. Maybe it was the pain, maybe it was thinking how he'd be dead if he hadn't worn the vest, and maybe it was remembering the victims of the slimeball's rip-off. Whatever, the darkness within slipped out of its hole and took over for a little while.

Gia slipped an arm around him and pulled him closer.

One of her breasts rested on the bruise. She nuzzled against his neck.

"When are you going to quit this?" she said.

Jack took a deep breath and felt a sharp stab of pain. He figured the bullet impact had caused a minor separation in his rib cartilage. Not the first time for him, probably not the last.

"Oh, we're not going to get into that now, are we?" he said softly, smoothing her soft blond hair.

"It's just that I get so scared when I think about people shooting at you."

"It's not an everyday occurrence. Most of my fix-ups are strictly hands-off affairs."

"But there's always the potential for things to go wrong. I mean, you're not exactly dealing with upstanding citizens in your line of work."

"You've got a point there."

Maybe if he kept agreeing, she'd let it drop.

"I know I owe Repairman Jack, but—"

"You don't owe him anything."

"Yes, I do. Vicky is alive because of him. That crazy Indian killed Grace and Nellie, and if you had been anybody else, he would have fed Vicky to those things …"

She shuddered and pressed against him.

Jack closed his eyes and remembered the nightmare… Kusum Bahkti had traveled from Bengal to honor a vow of vengeance against the Westphalen family stemming from an atrocity during the Raj. With her aunts Grace and Nellie gone, Vicky was the last of the Westphalen line.

Kusum had come this close to fulfilling his vow.

"I think ol' RJ owes Gia an equal debt. If you hadn't come back here that night…"

Jack had been cut up pretty bad saving Vicky. He'd lost a lot of blood, and was too weak to cross the room to the phone. If Gia hadn't come looking for him and taken him over to Doc Hargus…

"I'd say we're even," he said.

He felt Gia shake her head against his shoulder.

"No. Anybody off the street could have found you and got you to a hospital. But saving Vicky… if you had been a carpenter or a copywriter, or even a cop, anyone but who you are… she'd be gone. And that's why I feel like such a hypocrite when I tell you to hang up your Repairman Jack suit—"

"Hey, now. You make me sound like Batman."

"Okay, you're not into spandex, but deep down inside, that's who you are, aren't you."

"A crime fighter? Gia, you're one of the few people I know who's not some sort of criminal. I run a business, Gia. A business. I charge for my services."

"You didn't charge for last night."

"And see what I get for it! One freebie, and suddenly I'm Batman. Or that do-gooder who used to be on TV—"The Equalizer." That's why I never do freebies. Once the word got out, everybody would expect me to put my butt on the line simply because they need me."

Gia raised her head and grinned at him. "Oh, yeah. You're so tough."

Jack shrugged. "Money talks, bullshit walks."

"And you're only in it for the money."

"If they've got the dime, I've got the time."

Her grin broadened. "And you don't get emotionally involved."

Jack fought a responding smile. "If you don't stay cool, you act like a fool."

Gia placed her palm over the bruise on his chest. "One more rhyme and I push the purple button—hard."

He tried to roll away but she had him. "Okay. If you stop, I'll stop."

"Deal. But admit it: You do get emotionally involved."

"I try not to. It's dangerous."

"That's my point. You identify with everybody you take on as a client."

"'Customer,' please. Lawyers and accountants have clients. I have customers."

"All right. Customers. My point is, you don't hire out to just anyone who happens to have the necessary cash."

"I go case by case." Jack was growing uncomfortable.

He wanted off the subject. "I mean, I've got to feel I can do the job, otherwise we're both wasting time. I'm just a small businessman, Gia."

She groaned and flopped onto her back. "A small businessman who has no social security number, dozens of last names, and never pays taxes."

"I pay sales tax… sometimes."

"Face it, Jack, this Repairman Jack stuff gives you a rush, and you're hooked on it."

Jack didn't like to think of himself as hooked on adrenaline, but maybe it was true. He had to admit he'd had a bodacious buzz after leaving the creep and the stolen toys in front of the Center last night. He'd been completely unaware of how much he was hurting until he got home.

"Maybe I am, and maybe I'm not. But let's just say I retire—hang up the 'Repairman Jack suit,' as you so eloquently put it—what then?"

"Then we begin a real life together."

Jack sighed. A life together with Gia and Vicky… now that was tempting.

And so damn strange. Back in his twenties he'd never imagined himself married or living in any traditional arrangement. And being a father? Him? No way.

But becoming involved with Gia and falling for Vicky had changed all that. He wanted them around, and wanted to be around them, all the time.

If only it were that simple.

"You mean, get married?"

"Yes, I mean get married. Is that so awful?"

"Not the ceremony. And certainly not the commitment. But going to a municipal building and registering my name somewhere…" He faked a minor seizure. "Aaaaargh!"

"You'll use one of your fake identities—we'll pick one with a name that sounds nice following Gia and Vicky—and that'll be it. Easy."

"Couldn't we just live together?" Jack said, though he already knew the answer. But at least they were off the subject of his work.

"Sure. Soon as Vicky's grown up and moved out and married and on her own. Until then, Vicky's mom doesn't shack up with anyone—not even that man Jack who Vicky and her mom love so much."

Gia had been a Manhattanite and an artist for many years now, and seemed every bit as urbane as the next, but every so often the Iowa farm girl nestling deep within her surfaced to call the shots.

Which was okay with Jack. That Iowa farm girl was part of her appeal, part of what made her Gia.

But marriage wasn't the problem. Repairman Jack was the real barrier to going public with the relationship. For as soon as Jack moved in with Gia and Vicky—or vice versa—he became vulnerable. He tended to make enemies in his line of work. He tried to keep his face out of his fixes, but a certain amount of exposure was unavoidable. A fair number of people with a grudge knew what he looked like. Every so often one of them found out where he lived. What followed was usually unpleasant. But because Jack lived alone, because he was very circumspect about appearing in public with anyone he cared about, the grudge guys had to deal directly with him. Fine. He could handle that. And he did. Most of them were never seen again.

But if Gia and Vicky were linked to him, they'd become targets.

And Jack had no idea how he'd handle that.

If one of them ever suffered because of him…

"Okay," he said. "I retire and we get married. Then what?"

"Life."

"Easy for you to say. You go on designing book covers and doing your paintings, but what about me? What do I do in the straight world? I don't know anything else."

Gia rose up on one elbow and gave him one of her intent looks.

"That's because you've never tried anything else. Jack, you're a bright, inventive, intelligent man with an agile body. You can do anything you want."

But I want to do what I'm doing now, he thought.

"But what about the toy theft?" he said. "If I were retired and we were married, what would you have done?" He poked her playfully. "Huh? Huh? What would you have done?"

"I'd have asked you to go get them back."

He stared at her. Not a hint of guile, no sign that she was joking. She meant it.

"Am I the only one in this room who detects just a tiny bit of inconsistency here?"

"Nope," she said. "I'm a hypocrite and I freely admit it. The only time I want you to be Repairman Jack is for me."

Jack was speechless. What did he say to that?

During the silence, a low, guttural laugh filtered in from the front room. Jack felt the gooseflesh rise on Gia's arm.

"My, God, Jack. Did you hear that?"

"Just the TV. That's our old friend Dwight."

Dracula was running in the ongoing Dwight Frye Festival. Jack could picture the scene playing now, one of his all-time favorites: The ship transporting the count to England has washed ashore, and the only man alive is Renfield, looking up from the bottom of the hold, his eyes alive with madness, his insane laugh echoing through the ship.

"It's creepy."

"You got that right. Ol' Dwight did such a great job as Renfield that he was typecast for the rest of his career. Whenever they needed a character whose belt didn't go through all the loops they called Dwight Frye."

Gia glanced at the clock. "God, look at the time. I want to get some Christmas shopping in before we have to pick up Vicky."

"I don't think we have time to go to Westchester," he said.

"Very true. So we're going to FAO Schwartz."

Jack groaned.

"Stop complaining." She kissed him, then rolled out of bed and headed toward the bathroom. "I'm going to take a quick shower, then we're off."

He watched her walk across the room. He loved the sight of her naked—her small, firm breasts, her long legs, the pale pubic patch that proved she was a natural blonde.

Jack wondered what she'd look like pregnant. Probably fabulous.

Strangely enough, he'd been thinking about babies lately. Ever since he'd seen Gia holding that AIDS infant at the Center on Friday. The light in her eyes… that nurturing look. Gia was a natural nurturer. Jack knew that from seeing her with Vicky. Physically, Gia was a single parent, but she gave more to Vicky than any half dozen other parents put together.

He heard the bathroom door close and listened to the shoosh of the water in the pipes as she turned on the shower.

He closed his eyes and pictured Gia holding another child… their child. He thought of growing old with Gia and Vicky and a new little person, the fusion of Gia and himself, and the vision lit a little sun inside him.

But to get to that place he'd have to change his life.

Jack got out of bed and went to the bottom drawer of the old oak dresser. He dug through the various wigs, mustaches, eyeglasses, nostril dilators, and other paraphernalia until he found the full beard. He pulled it from its Ziploc and checked it out. Getting kind of ratty-looking. He'd have to get another soon.

He held it up to his face and looked in the mirror.

Not great, but along with a change in the way he combed his hair—moving the part more to the center—it gave his normally rectangular face an oval shape, and hid enough of his features so that no one would recognize him.

Look at you, he thought. You have to wear a beard to go Christmas shopping in midtown. Always looking over your shoulder. What kind of life is that?

If he retired, he could grow his own beard and go wherever he wanted—Gia on one arm and Vicky on the other—and not give a damn who saw them.

Retire…

Well, why not? Maybe it was time. He'd had enough close calls for a dozen lifetimes, but never anything permanently damaging. He liked to credit that to his attention to detail, but maybe it was just luck. What was he going to do—wait until he wound up dead or crippled? What was the point of pushing the odds?

Don't be a jerk, a voice said. Quit while you're ahead.

As usual, the voice was right.

As usual, Jack wasn't going to take its advice.

Not yet, anyway.