Read Online Repairman Jack [09]-Infernal by F. Paul Wilson - Free Book Online Page B

face, his dead eyes… all without a grace period to brace himself.
    Tom swallowed. “I’ll be okay. I’ve seen dead bodies before. It’s just that none of them was my father.”
    Just then Jack spotted a painfully thin guy with pale, shoulder-length hair and a goatee coming their way. He wore green scrubs.
    Oh, hell. Ron Clarkson. One of the attendants. Maybe he wouldn’t see—
    “Jack?” Ron smiled. “What’re you doing here, man? You’re getting to be a regular.”
    Jack kept walking. “Here to pick up somebody.”
    “One of our boarders?”
    “Yeah.”
    Ron fell into step with him. “Which one? Maybe I can—”
    “Thanks, Ron.” He pointed to the other attendant walking two steps ahead of him. “It’s all taken care of.”
    “Yeah, but—”
    “Ron… this is a private thing. I appreciate your concern, but everything is arranged, okay?”
    “Okay, man. But you need anything, you let me know, okay?”
    “Right.”
    If paid enough, Ron would do just about anything. And on those rare occasions when Jack needed a body part for a fix-it, Ron supplied it. For cash.
    Ron turned and continued on in his original direction.
    Tom glanced over his shoulder at the retreating figure. “You know people here?”
    “Just him.”
    “What was that crack about being a regular?”
    “I had to… identify someone last month.”
    “Really? Who?”
    “Just somebody.”
    “You were a bit rough on him, don’t you think?”
    “He’s a nosy busybody.”
    Jack hadn’t wanted Ron to know that the “boarder” he was picking up was his father. Ron would then know Jack’s real last name. That used to matter a lot—he hadn’t wanted anyone from his past to find his present, and no one in his present to know his past—not for his sake but for his family’s. Now, with his past encroaching on the present, he didn’t know if it mattered much. Still, better to keep things the way they were, especially where a weasel like Ron Clarkson was concerned.
    Up ahead the attendant pushed through a pair of swinging doors and held one open for them. Jack propelled his brother ahead of him. Tom had completed all the paperwork upstairs. All that remained now was the official identification of the body and a final signature—Tom’s.
    As he stepped into the room, Jack heard a voice to his left.
    “Jack? That you?”
    Who now?
    He turned and saw Joey Castles standing by a gurney as an attendant zipped up a black body bag. He was short, maybe five-five, Jack’s age, with black hair and dark eyes; the surname on his birth certificate had not been “Castles.” He wore a black sport coat, gray slacks, and a black polo shirt. His hair, usually blow-dry perfect and sprayed granite hard, was in disarray today. His eyes looked red and puffy.
    Jack stepped closer and extended his hand.
    “Joey. Jeez, what happened? Who—?”
    His Adam’s apple worked, his voice sounded choked. “Frankie… the La Guardia thing.”
    Jack gave his hand an extra squeeze.
    “Oh, no. Christ, I’m sorry.”
    Joey and his brother Frankie came from a long line of scammers, most prominent among them their father, Frank Castellano Sr.
    “He was coming back from visiting Dad—he’s got this big place in the Keys—and I was supposed to pick him up but I was late and…”
    The words choked off.
    “How’s your dad taking it?”
    Joey shook his head. “You ever hear a grown man cry? Especially your father. It’s…” He shook his head again. “A son shouldn’t have to hear that. And a father shouldn’t have to hear that his oldest son was shot down like a dog on his way home from visiting him. Merda ! You know what kind of guilt he’s going through?”
    “Yeah, I know,” Jack said.
    Joey looked at him. “You in the same boat? Who?”
    Jack hesitated, then decided he could trust Joey with the truth. Joey wasn’t a nosy sort? and didn’t know or care enough about Jack to check it out.
    “My dad.”
    “Oh, shit, Jack. Fucking shit. I’m