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"And every year you doze off during the first act."
He shrugged. "It's always the same story. I know how it ends."
Gia looked at Tom. "And to be honest, your brother's not too crazy about modern art either."
"I like lots of modern art. I just don't like linoleum patterns and drop cloths passing as art. Who's that guy who does all those big splatters?"
"You don't mean Jackson Pollock?" Tom said, trying to worm his way back in.
"That's the one. Pollock. Gia can paint rings around him."
Gia gave Jack an appraising look, then turned to Tom. "I take that back. He is a philistine."
And then the two of them leaned together and laughed. The sound was acid, etching the chambers of Tom's heart.
The way these two looked at each other, laughed with each other, and seemed to communicate on their own private wavelength filled Tom with a boundless longing. He'd never had that sort of easy intimacy with a woman—no, not just intimacy . . .friendship. He'd never thought it mattered, never cared enough to miss it. But seeing his brother so bonded to a woman like Gia, sharing something precious, timeless, and so uniquely theirs… it awakened strange feelings within him… strange because he'd never experienced them, never known they existed, wasn't even sure what they were.
One feeling he did recognize: envy.
He wanted that for himself. He couldn't remember any woman ever looking at him the way Gia looked at Jack. But he didn't want just any woman to look at him that way, he wanted Gia.
The waiter arrived then with the appetizers. Tom had ordered the craw-dad soup—crayfish in a thick brown broth he couldn't identify.
Delicious.
"A delightful decoction," he said. "Anyone wish to partake?"
Gia's eyebrows rose. "Decoction? Really?"
He'd used the term loosely and she'd caught him. Obviously she knew her way around a kitchen.
Before he could backtrack, the house lights went down and a voice a
The singer said, "Our first song is dedicated to a fellow in the audience. No, wait. Not just dedicated—about. I wrote it for him and about him. I won't point him out because his deal is slipping through the cracks. He's a ghost, my friends. You don't see him unless he wants you to. But he's out there now, among you. The song's called the 'R-J Blues.' The music comes from Elmore James, but the words are mine. This one's for you, Jack."
A piece of cajun shrimp stopped halfway to Tom's mouth.
Jack?
He looked across the table and knew immediately from his brother's tense posture and uncomfortable expression that he was the Jack Bighead was talking about.
Jack… a ghost who slips through the cracks? This was going to be interesting.
Bighead gave his band the count and then they ripped into an up-tempo blues. Tom immediately recognized the wailing slide riff of Elmore James's version of "Dust My Broom."
Then Bighead started to sing.
I wake up ev'ry mornin, feelin troubled all the time
You know I wake up ev'ry mornin, feelin troubled all the time
Gotta find me a repairman, who can fix my worried mind
Goin down the corner, find this guy I heard about
Go
Go
Well I give him all my money, every cent and that's all righ
Yeah, the repairman took my money, every cent but that's all right
He went and fixed that problem, and now I sleep so good at night
Don't go messin with this fella, or you'll find a world o' hurt
You mess with the repairman, you could find a world o' hurt
You may think you're havin' di
This guy might be an angel, but he could be the devil too
Yeah, Jack might be an angel, or he could be the devil too
Only thing I know is, you don't want him mad at you.
Tom sat mesmerized as the song closed with a slide guitar solo and the sparse audience gave up an appreciative round of applause. Was that about his kid brother?
And then he saw Gia lean close to Jack's ear. Tom caught her whisper.
"I don't know what you did for that man and I don't want to, but to have that kind of effect on a life, to make someone want to sing about you… that must be indescribable. I can see why you keep going back for more."
And then it all came together.
Dad's remark about calling on Jack if he needed someone to watch his back… then that character Joey this morning asking Tom if he could "hack" what Jack hacked… and now this blues singer talking about a ghost named Jack who slips through the cracks, and singing about a "repairman" named Jack…
Somewhere along the line Dad had come up with the idea that Jack was a repairman… an appliance repairman. But the "R-J Blues" was about someone who fixed other things.
R-J… Repairman Jack? Was that what it stood for?
Had to be. Little brother was some sort of urban mercenary.
Taking it further, Tom realized that might explain why Jack had needed him to claim Dad's body. It wasn't that he hadn't wanted to claim it—he couldn't. Because he was probably living under a false identity.
Ho-lee shit.
FRIDAY
1
"Well," Tom said as they walked away from the grave, "that's it then. Still hard to believe he's gone."
Jack only nodded. He felt drained, emotionally and physically spent.
He was now an orphan. That had struck him like a blow as he'd watched his father laid to rest beside his mother.
Gia clung to his arm, wiping away tears for a man she'd never met. Vicky held her mother's hand, cheery but bewildered.
Everyone else had left. Tom's current wife, Terry, a shapely brunette about ten years his junior, had fled the chill to wait in their car.
During the past twenty-four hours Jack had encountered a dizzying array of new names and faces. The parade of mourners telling him how sorry they were, what a terrible tragedy it was, how his dad would be missed. He'd met his sister's kids and had almost lost it when he saw how closely Lizzie resembled Kate when she was a teen. Like going back in time.
Tom's two ex-wives—the oft-referred-to Skanks from Hell—showed up. Their splits from Tom apparently hadn't lessened their affection for his father. Tom's two sons from his first marriage and the daughter from his second had come along. Jack still wasn't sure what name went with what face. Not that it mattered. Small chance he'd see any of them again.
As they reached the curb at the bottom of the slope, a white Lincoln Navigator raced up and screeched to a halt. Four young black men jumped out, all dressed in snappy-looking suits.
The tallest of the four, who'd emerged from the front passenger seat, looked at Jack and said, "Are we too late? Did we miss it?" His quick, dark eyes shifted between Jack and Tom. "You guys Tom's boys?"