TWENTY-FIVE

Abby never had the time or the money to travel. Practicing law by day and writing by night left little time for leisure pursuits or for seeing the world. It was the price every part-time writer paid.

She had never seen anything like Old San Juan: buildings that dated to the time of Columbus.

It was early afternoon, the day of their departure from Puerto Rico. Enrique’s boat was to pick them up at the docks that evening. Abby and Jack walked through a maze of narrow cobblestone streets and wound past shops whose owners gathered in doorways chatting in Spanish. The historic city was filled with romance and images of an older world. It was rich in color, and Abby considered ways of fitting it into the story for her sequel.

A cruise ship was moored at the docks. Its passengers ambled down the stairs of the terminal building. Like so many fleas they flitted about the streets of the old town, climbing on its monuments and cornering deals on T-shirts. Even Jack looked like a tourist. He wore a tight polo shirt and running shorts and sported a good-sized camera case on his hip.

As they ambled through the plaza, Abby felt strange, almost embarrassed, as Jack fell under the gaze of passing women. Old and young, it didn’t seem to matter, his looks were like an aphrodisiac. Even a few men stopped and stared. In a crowd, Jack stood out. Charisma and presence, he should have been a politician. He was taller and tanned with chiseled features. There was something about his thick, dark mane of hair and the way he swept it to the side periodically with one hand. And the flashing bright smile, like JFK. Most of the women tried to be cool, subtle glances until they were past. Then they would turn and take a full look, a few of them whispering into cupped ears. For Abby it was a bizarre sensation. She could feel the radiating envy of the passing women like the pings on sonar. It was as if she had somehow cornered the glamour market. The shallow values of the world, she thought. Still she couldn’t help enjoying the moment in the sun. Abby was no teenage fashion model, but she was not a bad-looking woman. In a world unpoisoned by the culture of youth, she might have stood out herself. She wondered what it would be like to be dressed to the nines, strutting on Jack’s arm through some flashy night spot, like the red-carpeted walk on Oscar night.

She put away her daydreams as they edged away from the tourists and climbed the steep sidewalks of the town until they found themselves standing on Calle Norzagaray. It flanked the edge of Old San Juan high on a bluff. Jack and Abby stood there looking out at the white-capped swells of the Atlantic.

“Over there,” said Jack. He pointed off to the northwest, a mile away. “That’s the fortress of El Morro. It guards the harbor entrance.”

Abby could see the ramparts of the ancient fort, turreted guard towers and parapets of massive stone, walls that ringed the old city.

“I’d like to see it,” she said.

“Later,” said Jack. “First let’s get something to eat. Do you like Mexican food?”

A block down was a small restaurant with a sign in black letters spanning the second story, “Amanda’s Cafe.” There were two rooms inside, a small triangular bar, and a dining area. Jack and Abby opted for the veranda out front over the street. They ordered margaritas and relaxed, watching the turquoise, white-capped combers blow in off the Atlantic.

The motif of Amanda’s was flamingo pink and teal green, the hot colors of the Caribbean. And the food, as Jack had promised, was delicious. They listened to Latin beats, and Jimmy Buffet from the jukebox inside, as they labored over sizzling iron skillets of chicken and beef. They built fajitas from flour tortillas the size of Mexican hats, and talked about Abby’s book.

Big-F had done a photo shoot for Jack’s picture on the back jacket and for publicity. They had also hired a large public relations firm to do screen testing, a kind of briefing for television. Owens and Bertoli wanted Jack well prepped for the talk show circuit. Abby was nervous about allowing him to go to New York alone. But she had work to do, and sooner or later she would have to trust him.

“What will you talk about in the interview?” she asked him.

“My book.” He gave her a sly grin. “And how I wrote it.”

“And how was that?”

“With great care. You see, it was a labor of love,” said Jack. “Every word and comma.”

“And how long did this labor of love take you to create?” she asked him. Questions she anticipated would be asked when they prepped him.

Jack thought for a moment. “Five months.”

Abby shook her head. “Longer.”

“Seven months.”

“More.”

“Did you chisel it on stone?” said Jack.

“A good book takes time,” said Abby. “Like fine wine.” After reading his manuscript, Abby guessed that Jack knocked out a novel a month.

“How long did it take?” he asked.

“Two years.”

He whistled low under his breath.

“It took that long to capture the right voice, to deal with characters and motivation. Even formula fiction takes time,” said Abby. “If it’s going to work.”

“How are you going to have the next one ready in a year?” he asked.

“By working my ass off. Feast or famine,” said Abby. “Either they don’t want you at all, or if you’re successful the publishers demand a book every twelve months. Sooner if they could get it.”

“The theory,” she told him, “is that they can addict the reading public like tobacco companies hook smokers.”

“Well, at least the readers don’t get cancer,” said Jack.

“I wouldn’t be so sure. There’s no CAT scan for the intellect,” said Abby.

“So you finished the book in two years,” said Jack.

“Actually I did the first draft in eight months. I spent the next sixteen revising and rewriting.” She could have said dumbing it down, but she didn’t.

“Anyone can write,” said Abby. “The question is, can you rewrite? And when you do, is it better or worse?”

“What do you mean?” said Jack.

“How can I put it? It’s like music, only you’re not listening for melodies. It’s more the cadence of speech and the pattern of prose. Credible writing requires an ear. If you’re tone deaf, forget it.”

Jack looked at her as if perhaps she were sending him a message.

“That’s a great line,” he said. He reached for a pen in his pocket and wrote it down on a napkin.

“Now what else are you going to tell the vast television audience?” she asked.

“You tell me.”

“You might talk about what you did for a living while you were writing. People are usually interested in that.”

“Ah. The starving author,” said Jack. “Well, unfortunately I didn’t have to work.”

“Independently wealthy, are you?”

“Wealth, no. Independent, you bet.”

“You were in the military.”

“True.”

“Tell ’em about that. What did you do? Remember, you’re an instant celebrity. Oprah loves you. The world wants to hear what you eat for breakfast.”

“What does anyone do in the military? Follow orders,” said Jack.

“What kind of a job did you have?”

“Job?” said Jack. “I was a Marine. Spit and polish, and shining sabers. I trained a lot of boys to become a few good men.”

“A drill sergeant,” said Abby.

“A training officer,” said Jack.

“Better title,” she told him. “You’ve got to sell yourself to sell the book. Remember that.”

He saluted with his mouth full of fajitas, like he was taking orders.

“Anything exciting and adventurous?” said Abby. “What did you do before you were a training officer?”

“What is this, twenty questions?” said Jack.

“No. It’s work. It’s what you signed on for. Now tell me. What did you do before you were a training officer?”

“I ran a river boat.”

“What, like on the Mississippi? Don’t be so mysterious. Inquiring minds want to know,” said Abby.

“Smaller,” said Jack. “Inflatable.”

“You were the captain of a rubber raft?”

“A twenty-foot Zodiac,” said Jack. “With a thirty-caliber mounted machine gun and a crew of five.”

“Now that sounds interesting.”

“We wore grease paint and black hoods and operated at night.”

“Tell me more.”

“We’d go ashore. Our job was laser painting.”

“What’s that?”

“We used a thing called a ‘mule.’ It looks like a shotgun on steroids,” said Jack. “There’s a short stock. You aim it just like a gun. It emits a nearly invisible laser beam that illuminates the target for the guys in the sky. You aim at a window or a doorway, sometimes an air duct or an elevator shaft.”

“Like that paint ball stuff?” said Abby. “For training in war games, right?”

“Like in Panama and Kuwait City,” said Jack. “We painted targets so that two thousand pound laser-guided bombs could find them.”

Jack stopped talking and looked at her over his tortilla, dripping juice onto his plate.

“But you never killed anybody, right?” Abby wanted confirmation of this. Why, she wasn’t sure herself.

“I would assume there were people inside those buildings. Besides, you could usually tell.”

She gave him a quizzical look. She didn’t want to ask but felt compelled.

“It’s the smell of burning flesh,” said Jack. “There’s a real distinctive odor.”

She suddenly lost her appetite, pushed her plate away, and sipped a little of her margarita.

“On second thought,” said Abby, “maybe mysterious is better.” She had visions of Jack opening his wallet to show pictures of burning babies on the morning shows.

“Hey, you asked, so I told you,” said Jack.

“Why is it so important for you to write?” Abby changed the subject.

“I enjoy it,” said Jack.

Maybe that was the problem, thought Abby, Every good writer she had ever known hated it. What was the line? There’s nothing at all to writing. Just sit down and open a vein. She guessed the reason it was so effortless for Jack was that he lacked self-criticism. If you’re tone deaf, every click of the keyboard, each scratch of the pen, sounds like Mozart.

“Tell me, does my stuff sound real?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I’m not a good judge of what happens in war.” Abby copped out. “But maybe you’re trying too hard.”

He gave her a look. He could tell bad news was coming. “Here we go,” said Jack. “Let him down easy. Tell him he has promise, but maybe he should consider another line of work. Ever thought of being an auto mechanic?”

“Did I say that?”

“No, but you’re thinking it.”

“Your friend Henry started to say something. That you’ve had this passion to write ever since, and then you cut him off. What did he mean? Ever since what?”

“Henry talks too much,” said Jack. “He missed his calling. He should have been a therapist.”

“He seems to think you’re obsessed.”

“See what I mean?” said Jack. “Do I have to have a reason?”

“No.”

“But a little talent would help. Is that it?” Jack finished the thought for her.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to,” said Jack. “I haven’t come all this way without some sense of my own limitations,” he told her. “Go ahead, say what you’re thinking.”

“Maybe you should consider Henry’s offer for a job,” she told him.

“Do I look like a charity case? Besides, I don’t need the money. Henry doesn’t need my help. He’s lonely. He wants to buy a friend.”

“So be his friend.”

“I’d rather be a writer.”

“Not everybody can pen a novel,” said Abby. “Your manuscript needs a lot of work.”

He put his fajita down on the plate and started to sip his margarita. “That’s why I thought we could work on it together.”

“And what gave you that idea?”

“The fact that we’re working together on yours.”

“Different definition of working,” said Abby.

“Ah. I see. Flashing a smile and flexing my pecs is not your idea of collaboration. So that I get this straight. You don’t want me for my mind, just my body?”

Abby started to laugh. But it was true. It was why she was using him. Men in the field of entertainment always made more money than women. And money was the ultimate measure of success. Of the box-office stars capable of opening a blockbuster film, only two or three were women and they were paid considerably less than their male counterparts. The same was true in the top realms of fiction writing, from legal thrillers to military fantasies. The only place for women was in the genre of romance with a little grudging acceptance in mysteries.

But the heavy guns, the first order, Grisham, Crichton, Clancy, and Stephen King, all were men. Nobody was Crichtonizing Judith Krantz or Danielle Steel. True, they quietly went about making millions. Still, even with blockbuster sales, they never entered the elite top rung in which every word written was scripted for feature film. The commercial literary coronations were all for men. Abby figured if she couldn’t beat them, she would join them—at least until it was time for her grand entrance, out of the shadows to claim what was hers.

“So tell me, in a nutshell, what’s the problem with my manuscript?” asked Jack. “Is the story flawed?”

“It’s not the story,” said Abby.

“So it’s the writing?”

She made a lot of faces, all of them adding up to yes. Jack was tone deaf.

“We could work on it.” He returned to his meal. “Like you said, rewriting is the key.”

“If you have a good ear,” she told him.

“We’ll use yours. I’m not proud,” said Jack. He had a hide like an alligator. He just smiled and filled his cheeks with food.

“I don’t have time,” said Abby.

He ignored her.

“How many of these things have you written?” she asked.

“Manuscripts?”

Applied to Jack’s work it was a generous term, but she nodded.

It took him a moment while he counted. The fingers of both hands. “Eight. So far,” said Jack.

“I would stop there.”

“Quit while I’m ahead?”

Abby waited a beat, smiled, and nodded as gently as she could.

“Actually there’s nine, but you don’t have to worry about that one.”

“Why not?”

“No reason,” said Jack.

“I don’t teach remedial writing, and I’m not a ghost writer,” said Abby. “I don’t do that.”

“Really?” He smiled.

“Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not ghosting my novel for you.”

“Of course not,” said Jack. But he continued to smile.

“Just because you have an unsatisfied obsession,” said Abby.

“And you don’t?” said Jack.

“No.”

“I see. You’re just a frustrated artist trying to sell her work.”

“That’s right.”

“Save it for the depositions if Bertoli sues you,” said Jack.

“I just wanted to improve the book’s chances for success,” said Abby.

“Oh, I see. And you aren’t interested in the money?”

“Only as a measure of success,” she told him.

“Oh, well. That elevates it to a lofty plane. So if you’re not doing all of this—pulling the wool over Bertoli’s eyes and the scam with Carla—for the money or for the fame, then what?” said Jack.

Abby looked him dead in the eye. “For revenge.”

By the time they finished their tour of El Morro, the sun was setting. They didn’t notice the two men milling near the gate, looking at tourist maps.

Abby and Jack walked at a brisk pace along the path, more than a quarter mile across the broad field of grass that separated the fort from Old San Juan.

Jack checked his watch. If they moved they could make it to the docks before Henry’s crew began to worry and wonder where they were.

Their luggage had been put on board the yacht that morning from Henry’s Balinese palace. The boat then sailed up the coast in the afternoon. Abby and Jack had watched it from the battlements of El Morro as it rounded the point into the harbor. There it would take on fuel and ready itself for the cruise to St. Croix.

As they cleared the plaza and began to thread their way through the maze of streets, it became clear to Abby that there was another side to San Juan: the old town after dark. By now the shops were all closed, and the tourists were gone, back to their hotels and cruise ships. In the distance, Abby could see the string of brilliant lights from the superstructure of one of the big boats as it left the harbor with its load of tourists hopping to the strains of mariachi music on their way to the next port of call.

Abby was having trouble keeping up with Jack, whose long legs seemed to devour whole blocks at a stride. He kept asking if she wanted to stop and rest, but Abby was stubborn. They never noticed the two men walking at a distance behind them.

“How far do we have to go?”

“About ten blocks,” said Jack.

They turned the corner into a street that was too narrow for vehicles. A few children’s toys littered the alley. Three figures moving at the far end stepped out of the shadows just as Abby and Jack reached the halfway point along the block. On first glance Abby thought they were just itinerants hanging in the doorways. Then Jack grabbed her elbow and pointed. One of the men, the one in the middle, was carrying something short and stout, like a club, in his right hand.

Quickly Jack surveyed the terrain. There were only second-story verandas and doors flush with the street. No doubt these were locked. Even the windows had bars over them. Jack started to pull her back, a tactical retreat.

They’d gone a half-dozen steps when they looked behind them and saw the two men who had been shadowing them ever since they’d left the fortress. The two men entered the alley at that end, sealing off any avenue of escape.

“What do they want?” said Abby.

“Our watches, our wallets, and anything else they feel like taking. Of course that’s only a guess,” said Jack.

“They can have them,” said Abby. She started to remove the watch from her wrist.

“Don’t be so quick to give away my watch,” he told her.

“You’re out of your mind. Give it to them.”

“I paid good money for this. Besides,” said Jack, “if we give in too easily it may only feed rising expectations. No telling what else they may want.”

The men closed in from the two ends of the alley.

Jack edged toward the shelter of a doorway, and put Abby behind him into the threshold where she was protected on three sides. He put his body in front of her, sealing it off. “No matter what happens, stay behind me,” he told her.

“Don’t be a fool. If we give them what they want, they won’t hurt us,” said Abby.

“That’s the theory,” said Jack. “But then I’m not the one they’ll probably rape.”

She looked at him, or more accurately at the back of his head, then strapped the watch back on her wrist.

The five men slowly moved in, closing the distance like a pack of jackals until they formed a semicircle ten feet out from their quarry. One of them said something in Spanish and the others all laughed.

Jack forced a smile. “Do you speak any Spanish?” he asked her.

“Un poco,” said Abby. “A little.”

“Now’s the time,” he told her.

“Cómo está usted?” Abby looked at the man with the pipe in his hand as she spoke. He was clearly the leader.

“O, muy bien,” said the man. “Muy bien.” He sported a smile like a broken picket fence, a lot of missing teeth.

“Y usted?” he asked her.

“Bien,” said Abby. She forced a smile as if perhaps she were sufficiently positive it would come true: They would be fine, even though her knees were knocking.

The guy turned to his colleagues. “Bien.” They all laughed.

“No. No. Usted no esta bien. Te voy a robar.”

“He says we’re not fine,” said Abby.

“Why not?” asked Jack.

“Because we’re being robbed.”

The man with the pipe motioned with a curling finger, a come-hither gesture. He wanted Abby to step out of the doorway.

Jack told her not to move. “Fuck you.” He looked the man with the pipe dead in the eye.

By the look on the man’s face Abby could tell that it was not the first time he had been told this.

“Oh no, señor. I intend to be fucked, but not by you.” He suddenly dispensed with the Spanish. “Give me your watch and your wallet and you can go.”

“Let’s give it to them and go,” said Abby.

“Who said anything about you?” The man with the pipe gave Abby an appraising look. “You stay with us for a while. Como se dice?” He struggled for the right words in English. “We have a party,” he finally said.

“Still want me to give him my watch and wallet?” said Jack.

“Maybe it’s not such a good idea,” Abby told him.

“You want it?” said Jack. He pointed to the watch still on his wrist.

The guy smiled, all toothless in front.

“It’s all yours. All you have to do is come and get it,” said Jack.

The smile left the guy’s face. He swung the pipe in a wide arc and came a step closer. The others fanned out, looking for an opening. One of them pulled a knife from under his shirt, pushed a button, and a four-inch blade snapped out.

They had Jack surrounded in a half circle that began and ended with the wall of the building. Abby huddled in the shadow of the doorway behind him, looking for something she could use as a weapon. Nothing.

Jack took a quick step forward and they all backed up. This left a small gap between Jack and Abby. She stood in the doorway like cheese in a trap.

One of the men on the edge near the wall saw his opening and made a move toward her. In a single fluid motion without even looking Jack lashed out with a foot. Like lightning he caught the man just below the kneecap. Abby heard the crunch of bone. The man shrieked in pain and reached down to grab his knee. As he did, Jack caught him full in the face with the second kick, sending the guy sprawling on his back to the ground. His head hit the cobblestones, blood spurted from his mouth. He lay there unconscious. One down.

This seemed to have a mixed effect on the others. One of them backed away. The one with the pipe took another swing but missed. He was now paying a lot of respect to Jack’s foot and losing face for it with his comrades.

The man who backed away was talking fast in Spanish, his hands moving quicker than his tongue, a bundle of anxiety. Abby couldn’t understand his words, but his body language was clear enough. He wanted to go. This turista was more than they bargained for.

The man with the pipe shouted something. Orders or encouragement, Abby couldn’t tell which. A grim look of resolve came over the others. Reluctantly they closed the circle once more and filled in for their fallen friend.

Suddenly the man with the pipe lunged. Jack caught his forearm on a downward thrust and brought it down over his knee hard.

Abby heard a snap like a branch and realized that Jack had just broken the man’s arm. There was a howl of pain and the pipe fell to the ground, sending the echo of metal on stone clanging through the alley.

Using pain for leverage, Jack gripped the broken arm and lifted the man to his full height. Then with a powerful kick he caught him squarely in the groin. With a muffled shriek, the guy crumpled to the ground and lay there motionless, his one good hand groping in his crotch to see what was missing.

One of the others turned tail and ran for the end of the alley.

The other two were of sterner stuff. One of them, the one with the knife, took the lead. He flipped the blade so the point was now between his finger and thumb: in throwing position.

In a reflex, Jack lowered his shoulder and charged. He nailed the man with the knife in the stomach, driving him onto his back in the middle of the street. They grappled and rolled, the knife dropping onto the cobblestones a few feet away. The Puerto Rican lunged for it. Jack’s hand closed around his wrist just as the man reached the knife handle and closed his grip. The man had the knife, but Jack had his wrist like a tiger by the tail. They did a deadly dance, rolling to their knees, struggling in a death lock.

All the while Abby and the other Puerto Rican watched. Then suddenly the other man realized there was no one to stop him. He eyed Abby alone in the doorway, then quickly moved on her.

Jack saw it out of the corner of his eye as he fought for his life.

In two steps the man was on her. He grabbed Abby by the throat with both hands and began to press hard.

She scratched at his eyes and got a thumb in one of them. The man merely turned his head and tightened his powerful grip.

Abby felt the pressure building in her head, consciousness waning. She groped in her purse that hung from a strap on her shoulder, frantically feeling in the bottom for the pepper spray she had just remembered.

By now Jack had wrestled the other man to his feet. They struggled for the knife, Jack twirling him, spinning his partner like a top across the alley toward Abby and the man who was choking the life from her body. Like a whirling dervish, Jack and the other man suddenly disappeared behind the human mass in front of her, just as her hand found the tiny canister. She raised it toward his face.

Then suddenly, before she could press the button, the man’s eyes went large and round, like two olives floating in mayonnaise. Every aspect of his expression lit up. He stared at Abby like some frozen comic mask. His grip eased, and for some inexplicable reason his hands went soft around her throat. He staggered back a step as if he was about to say something. His mouth moved but nothing came out, nothing but a small trickle of blood that ran down the corner of his lip.

His shoulders seemed locked in a raised position, his hands extended as if he might lunge at Abby one more time. She held the pepper spray toward his face just in case.

Instead, he turned, and as he did she saw it. Embedded in his back, near the center of the man’s spine, was the handle of the knife now seeping with blood like a spigot that ran through his shirt. He took two steps and collapsed in the street.

Abby’s hands went to her mouth and she began to shake. For a moment they all stood staring at the body lying in the street, and the growing puddle of blood.

Then suddenly the other Puerto Rican went wild. “Matò mi hermano.” He grabbed for Jack’s throat, scratching him on the neck. The man went ballistic, as if newly charged with adrenaline. He caught Jack by surprise. They rolled on the street a few feet from the bloody body. The man reached for the knife in his friend’s back, grabbed the handle jerking it out. Halfway to Jack with the blade, the man felt cold steel against his temple. When he looked, a sideways glance, he saw a matte-black semiautomatic pistol, its muzzle pressed hard against his temple.

“Enough,” said Jack as he cocked the pistol.

The man’s eyes went big, his hand opened, and the knife clattered to the street.

Jack lifted the man to his feet grabbing him by the collar, and pushed him down the alley.

“Go. Get outta here. Come back and I’ll kill you. Muerto.” Jack pointed the pistol so there would be no misunderstanding. Then he kicked the guy in the ass and the man started to run. The other two, the man with the broken arm and his friend, who now needed dental work, had already made it crawling and stumbling to the end of the alley. In less than a minute Jack had filled the street with carnage.

Abby was shaking in the doorway. For the moment, Jack ignored her. Instead he moved to the man lying in the street, placed a finger on the jugular, and searched for a pulse.

“We should call an ambulance,” said Abby.

Jack said nothing for the moment but continued to feel the man’s throat. “He won’t be needing one.” He moved away from the body, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and with it reached down and picked up the knife. “I don’t think I touched it,” he said. “Still, can’t be too careful.” He wiped the handle and the blade with the handkerchief, then stuffed the bloody cloth into the dead man’s pocket.

Then he grabbed Abby’s hand. “Let’s get out of here before his buddies find some more friends.”