Part 56 (1/2)

Break time.

Jack glanced at the clock above the Kentons' kitchen sink: 10:15. Was that all? Seemed as if they'd been working a lot longer than two hours. He sipped his Gatorade and considered the progress they'd made.

When he'd arrived, Lyle and Charlie had already started chipping away at the concrete along the edges of the crack. If there'd been a gap in the earth below after the quake, it was gone. Just a groove in the dirt now. Jack had brought along some blues CDs as a compromise between his kind of music and the Kentons'. He heard no objections when he put on a Jimmy Reed disk, so he picked up a pickax and joined in, swinging in time to the beat, chain-gang style.

He started off stiff and achy. Yesterday he'd worked muscles he rarely used and they awoke today tight and cranky; but ten minutes of swinging the pick loosened them up.

Two hours later they'd widened the gap to maybe four feet. Slow, hard work. And hot. The cellar had started out cool but the heat thrown off by the exertions of three bodies soon raised the temperature. Like a sauna down there now. Jack could see he was going to need lots of Gatorade before the day was through, and lots of lager after.

He and Lyle sat and sipped at the kitchen table in their damp T-s.h.i.+rts. The faint breeze through the windows and open back door carried little cooling power. Charlie had grabbed a paper and a donut and retreated to the shade of the backyard with the morning paper. He'd said little all morning.

”Something wrong with Charlie?”

Lyle's eyes gave away nothing. ”Why do you ask?”

”Pretty quiet.”

”He's just going through a phase. Not your worry.”

Right. Not Jack's business why the brothers Kenton weren't getting along. But he liked these two, and it bothered him.

He dropped the subject. He lifted the front of his T-s.h.i.+rt and wiped his face. ”Ever hear of air-conditioning?”

”Not much use when the windows and doors won't stay closed.”

”Still?”

Lyle nodded. ”Still. If I close them they don't reopen as fast as they used to, but eventually they do.”

”Tara, you think?”

Another nod. ”I get the feeling she's trapped here. She wants to get out-maybe she keeps trying-but can't.”

Just then Charlie burst through the door, waving the morning paper. ”Yo, Jack! Peep this!” He had the Post Post folded back and then in half, commuter style. He dropped it on the table and pointed to a headline. ”Is this you, dawg? This yo' setup?” folded back and then in half, commuter style. He dropped it on the table and pointed to a headline. ”Is this you, dawg? This yo' setup?”

Jack picked up the paper. Lyle came around and peered over his shoulder.

SHE SHOULD'VE KNOWN BETTER Elizabeth Foster, better known as psychic advisor Madame Pomerol, has had her second brush with the NYPD in one week. Just last Sunday morning she and her husband Carl were found wandering the financial district unclothed; but the charges are more serious this time: the Federal government is involved. Foster and her husband Carl were picked up yesterday afternoon trying to pa.s.s phony hundred-dollar bills at La Belle Boutique on Madison Avenue. The Treasury Department is investigating.

But things get worse. A search of their Upper East Side apartment-also known as ”Madame Pomerol's Temple of Eternal Wisdom”-not only turned up thousands more of the funny money, but provided indisputable evidence that this particular psychic medium is little more than a scam artist.

Jack had to grin as the article went on to describe the eavesdropping devices found in her waiting room, the electronic ear pieces hidden in her hats, the monitors, the trapdoors, and most d.a.m.ning of all, the files on her clients, filled with xeroxes of driver licenses, Social Security cards, bank statements, and notes containing more than a few scathing comments about their weaknesses, predilections, and obsessions. As a result, the Manhattan DA was preparing to add charges of fraud and conspiracy to defraud to the federal counterfeiting rap.

”They're done!” Lyle cried. ”Gone! Fried! Fini! Madame Pomerol will be reading palms for cigarettes in either Rikers or a federal pen! Is this your fix?”

”I do believe it is.”

”The queer? How'd you manage that? You plant it on them?”

”Trade secret, I'm afraid.”

”You done it, G!” Charlie said, grinning for the first time all morning. ”You nailed her!”

Jack shrugged. ”Sometimes things go according to plan, sometimes they don't. This one did.”

He stared at the article, basking in the sunny sensation of a job well done. He'd set the Fosters up for a fall and had known they'd tumble sooner or later. He was glad it turned out to be sooner.

The big if if in this particular fix-it had been how they handled their cash. Did they deposit it and write checks, or spend it? Jack had banked on the latter. With a good cash flow-real cash, not checks and charges-that they probably didn't declare, they'd tend to pay for things in cash to leave less of a money trail should the IRS come sniffing. in this particular fix-it had been how they handled their cash. Did they deposit it and write checks, or spend it? Jack had banked on the latter. With a good cash flow-real cash, not checks and charges-that they probably didn't declare, they'd tend to pay for things in cash to leave less of a money trail should the IRS come sniffing.

Lyle clapped Jack on the shoulder. ”Remind me never to get on your wrong side, Jack. You are not not a man to mess with!” a man to mess with!”

If Jack had his way, Eli Bellitto would soon feel the same, only worse. Much, much worse.

As they all headed back down to the cellar, Jack sensed a better mood than when they'd started the break. They retrieved the pickaxes and renewed their combined attack on the concrete slab, tossing the broken chunks onto the pile of paneling.

By midday they'd broken up half the slab. After a quick lunch of juicy gyros at a Greek deli up on Ditmars, they returned to work.

”You know what?” Lyle said as he surveyed the rubble mat had once been a bas.e.m.e.nt. ”I think two of us should start digging in the dirt while the other keeps after the concrete.”

Jack kicked at the hard packed, red-brown soil. Not a h.e.l.l of a lot softer than the concrete.

”You mean, start looking for Tara.”

”Right. The sooner we find her, the sooner we can stop pretending to be day laborers and go back to being gentlemen of leisure.”

”How will we know it's her?”

Lyle stared at the dirt. ”You still think she's got company down there?”

”I'd bet on it.”

”Well, we'll cross that bridge whenever.” Lyle looked up at Jack. ”You game to dig a little dirt?”

”Not exactly my idea of a fun treasure hunt,” Jack said, ”but I'll give it a go.”

Lyle turned to his brother. ”How about you, Charlie? Dirt or 'crete?”

Charlie shrugged. ”I'll stick with the slab.”

”Okay. We'll rotate around if anybody wants to switch.” He leaned toward Jack and spoke in a stage whisper. ”And if you should happen to find the remains of the Missing Link while you're digging, don't let Charlie know. He doesn't believe in evolution and it would upset him.”

Charlie said, ”Step off, Lyle.”

My sentiments exactly, Jack thought.