1

As Jack pushed through the front door of the Isher Sports Shop he realized he was arriving empty-handed. He always brought something to eat. Today he’d forgotten.

So be it. Abe would survive.

He walked toward the rear.

If Set, the Egyptian God of Chaos, had been a sports nut, his temples would have resembled Abe’s shop. Every size and shape ball imaginable plus the various instruments used to strike them, every wheeled contraption that could be sat or stood upon, plus a wide array of cocooning safety gear necessary to protect the users from grievous bodily harm during their pursuit of “fun,” all tossed with utter disregard for coherence or continuity onto rows of eight-foot shelves teetering over narrow winding aisles laid out in a pattern to rival the Wiltshire hedge maze.

The man responsible, Jack’s best and oldest friend, sat in his usual spot behind the scarred wooden counter near the rear. A few years shy of sixty, Abe Grossman had a Humpty-Dumpty shape and a balding crown. He was dressed in the Abe uniform of white—except for the food stains—half-sleeve shirt and black pants. And as usual, the morning editions of every daily newspaper in the city lay spread out on his counter.

He looked up, saw Jack coming, and quickly began shuffling the papers into a pile. He was shoving them under the counter when Jack arrived.

“It’s okay, Abe. I’ve seen them—the front pages at least.”

How could he have missed them? Every newsstand he’d passed on the walk over from his apartment had the screaming headlines on display. The radio and TV weren’t talking about anything else. He’d listened briefly this morning for new developments, but heard only the same old speculations. If the cops and FBI had learned anything new, they weren’t sharing it.

Abe stashed them out of sight anyway.

“A terrible, terrible thing, Jack. I feel so bad for you. I feel worse for your father, of course, but you… how are you doing?”

“Still in shock… in rage. But no grief. Kind of worries me. Think there’s something wrong with me?”

“With you? Something wrong? Not a chance.”

He knew Abe was trying to lighten his mood, but Jack wasn’t looking for that. And he hadn’t been kidding about being worried. He’d broken down and cried when Kate died. Why hadn’t he cried for Dad?

“I’m serious, Abe. I don’t feel like moping or crying, I just want to break things. Or people.”

“Grief will come in its time. We all have our own way of living through something like this.” He shook his head. “Listen to me. Like a living, breathing cliché.”

Jack reached across the counter and patted Abe’s beefy arm.

“It’s okay. At least you didn’t say he’s in a better place. I swear I’ll do some damage if someone tells me that.”

“That’s not an ‘if,’ it’s a ‘when.’ You know it is.”

“The thing is, we’d just found each other. After all these years, we’d made real contact and discovered we liked each other. And then…”

There—a lump in his throat, cutting off his voice. It felt… good.

Parabellum, Abe’s little blue parakeet, hopped over and stopped between Jack and Abe. He cocked his head and looked up at Jack as if to say, Where’s my food? He usually served as the cleanup crew, policing the countertop for spilled bits of whatever Jack had brought. With the way his master ate, crumbs were never in short supply. But today he’d have to settle for birdseed.

“At least you reconnected. Think how you should feel if you hadn’t.”

Jack opened his mouth to speak, then closed it as a realization hit him like a runaway train.

“Oh, hell…”

“What?”

“I’d be feeling fine right now—because he’d still be alive.”

Abe rubbed his partially denuded scalp. “This you’ll have to explain.”

“He was coming to visit me, Abe. If we were still on the outs he’d have stayed in Florida, or would have been flying into Philly to see his grandkids for Christmas. Either way, he wouldn’t have been at La Guardia yesterday. My dad’s dead because we connected.”

“You’re holding yourself responsible? This is not my Jack.”

“The ones I’m holding responsible are the two shits with the guns. But goddamn!” He slammed his fist on the counter, sending Parabellum fluttering toward the ceiling. “If only he’d taken another flight…”

“You can if-only yourself into a straitjacket.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m halfway there.”

“More like three quarters. How much sleep did you get last night?”

“Zilch.”

Hadn’t even tried. After he’d crapped out in the park, he’d wandered around until predawn. When he’d finally put himself to bed he just lay there, staring at the ceiling in the growing light. Finally he’d given up.

He was running on caffeine and adrenaline.

“Can I get you something to eat?” Abe said. “Some leftover Entenmann’s, I’m sure.”

Jack had to smile. Food was Abe’s answer to everything. He shook his head.

“Thanks, but my appetite hasn’t come back yet.”

“You’ve got to eat.”

“I’ve got to get a new backup is what I’ve got to do.”

“Something’s wrong with the AMT?”

“Yeah. It’s scattered in pieces around one of the airport parking lots.”

“You want another?”

Jack had been thinking about that. His Glock was a 9mm model, but the little AMT had been a .380. Dealing with two kinds of ammo wasn’t a major chore, but he liked to keep things as simple as possible. And he hadn’t been crazy about the AMT’s trigger.

“Got anything in a nine?”

Abe thought a moment, then held up a pudgy finger.

“Just the thing. Lock the door and I’ll show you.”