Repairman Jack [09]-Infernal by F. Paul Wilson Page B

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:

    To Danny Finder
    Batter up!
    Duke Snider
    1955

    The scribbled “Duke” looked like “Dude” but, yeah, this was the one. And Danny Finder Jr. was paying Jack a pretty penny to get it back.
    Seems it belonged to his father who was way on in years and not thinking too clearly. His mind had regressed to childhood when he’d been a rabid Dodgers fan. His favorite had been the cleanup hitter, Duke Snider. Danny Sr. had been at Ebbet’s Field for one of the World Series games in 1955 when the Bums beat the Yanks, and he’d snagged a signature from his hero.
    That signed baseball loomed large in what was left of the old man’s mind, and when it disappeared from his nursing home room, he went into a tailspin. The man-child was inconsolable, refusing to leave his bed or even eat.
    His son had gone to the police but the NYPD had no time for a stolen baseball, even one worth a couple—three thousand because it was signed and dated by Duke Snider in a World Series year.
    And so he’d come to Jack.
    Money was no object—he seemed to have plenty—if he could get back that ball.
    Strange what ends a man will go to for a sick father. Fathers and sons…
    Here came that lump again.
    So Jack had put out feelers but got nary a nibble. For the hell of it he’d checked eBay and whattaya know—there it was. Jack had started bidding. The price topped out at $2,983. Jack simply could have bought it and ended the job then and there. But the thief would have walked off with nearly three grand. Yeah, he’d have retrieved the ball but he wouldn’t have worked a fix. And that was a big part of what it was all about. Jack liked to leave his stamp on his work.
    So he’d e-mailed the guy asking where to send the check and received the address of this rat hole.
    Tonight he’d come to collect.
    Leaving the ball in its display globe, Jack placed it in the flimsy plastic grocery bag he’d brought along, then looked around for a few other small items to take. He wanted this to look like a simple B and E—nothing personal.
    A lot of… merchandise littered the floor and tables: DVD decks, iPods and other MP3 players, X-Boxes and PlayStations, video games. This guy had to be a small-time fence.
    He opened the room’s only closet and let out a yelp as someone leaped toward him. He had his Glock in hand and snapping up