"Yeah. Emma."
"You think she inherited some of this bad DNA?"
"How could she not? She was half me."
Another long silence, then, "Well, it's kind of scary, but it's moot, isn't it. Emma's gone and I don't want to—I can't go through that again. I'd get my tubes tied if it mattered."
"Why doesn't it matter? Because of those coma dreams?"
She nodded.
She'd come out of the coma this way, sure that the future was short—very short. Veilleur had mentioned something along those lines, and someone he knew who said he could see the future had told him next spring ended in darkness.
When Gia had been on death's threshold, had she peeked through and seen what was coming?
Did that mean Rasalom was going to win?
He shook it off.
"Look, if anyone's getting tubes tied it's going to be me."
She smiled. "That's sweet, but it doesn't matter."
"Please stop saying that."
"Well, it's true, but I'll stop saying it."
She rose from the bed. Jack stared at her. He loved Gia's body—the breasts that fit his hands so perfectly, the curve of her hips, the slight swell of her belly. He wanted to reach out and grab her and pull her back.
She'd taken it well. Seemed like he'd been worried about nothing. But a vasectomy… that was a thought. He didn't want his oDNA going any further.
He glanced at the clock. Time was moving.
"Hey, Gi? How should I dress for my day at the races?"
Gia had thought he should dress down, and suggested his construction worker look: worn jeans, flannel shirt, work boots, Mets cap, dollar-store sunglasses.
He drove the Long Island Expressway the entire length of Queens and crossed the border into Nassau County where Belmont Park occupies a large chunk of Elmont. He arrived a little past noon. Post time for the first race wasn't until one o'clock, so he had time to settle in. He decided against valet parking, and chose the preferred lots instead, in case he needed his car in a hurry.
His big problem—besides having nothing more than a blurry photo of his quarry—was not knowing where Gerrish was coming from, or how. The Long Island Railroad's Bellerose stop was only a short distance away. If Gerrish didn't have a car, that might be the way he'd come and go.
From the outside, the patriotic bunting—bedecked grandstand was pretty much like he remembered it from the old days, except the ivy had spread farther across the brick walls and around the big arched windows.
He bought a clubhouse admission and a program, and strolled the flagstone floors, checking out the Neiman manqué paintings on the walls as he refamiliarized himself with the place.
He took the escalator up to the second floor and found a Sbarro's. That hadn't been here before.
He ordered a slice of pepperoni pie and hung at the counter where he could keep watch on the traffic at the betting windows. Jack was betting on Gerrish being a clubhouse kind of guy—if he was as flush as he'd told folks, he wouldn't hang outside with the hoi polloi. That meant sooner or later he'd show up here.
Melancholy seeped into his mood as he watched the thin, drab, sadlooking crowd, mostly middle age or older, go through the motions. No zip, no vim or vigor. He seemed to remember a livelier crowd, Runyonesque flashy dressers with style and attitude. But memories are unreliable, tending to be colored by wishful thinking. Maybe it had never been like he thought he remembered. But either way, these folks had more in common with Willie Loman than Sky Masterson and Nathan Detroit.
Around 12:45, after doing flybys to check out a couple of guys who turned out to be almosts-but-not-quites, Jack spotted a likely candidate lining up at a window. He had a round, florid face and wore dark blue nylon warm-up pants with white stripes under a loud Hawaiian shirt acrawl with birds of paradise. Brown, wavy hair stuck out below the edge of his Rangers cap.
Could be.
Jack slipped the photo from his pocket and gave it a quick look.
Yeah. A definite possibility. Even had the big diamond stud earring. Trouble was, he wore wraparound shades and had his cap pulled down almost to his eyebrows. The Hugh Gerrish in the photo had a wicked widow's peak, but this guy's hat was obscuring his hairline. Jack needed a way to sneak a peek at the peak.
He hurried over and slipped behind him in the betting line.
"Rangers fan, huh?"
The guy turned and looked at him. "You got a problem with that? You gonna give me some Islander shit?"
The Islanders had just won the Stanley Cup and Ranger fans were not happy.
Jack smiled. "Hey, easy. I'm a Ranger guy too." Lie. Jack hated hockey. He hated high fives almost as much, but held up his hand for one. "Next year the cup is ours."
The guy smiled and gave Jack's raised palm a good-natured slap.
"From your lips to God's ear."
Jack made a point of staring at his cap. "That's a nice one. Where'd you get it? The Garden?"
He nodded. "Cost an arm and a leg but worth every penny."
"Yeah. Nice quality. Wonder who made it. Mind if I see the label?"
"Sure."
The guy took it off, revealing a huge widow's peak. Jack couldn't help staring at it.
Lily, call Herman—we've found Eddie.
"I thought you wanted to see it."
Jack shook himself and took the proffered hat, pretended to look at the label, then handed it back.
"Cool. Thanks. Gotta get me one. You live in the city?"
A suspicious light sparked in his eyes as he fit the cap back on his head. "Why you wanna know?"
Jack put on a flustered look. "No particular reason. Just wish I could get into the Garden more. Get me one of those hats."
The suspicious light faded. "I'm in Jamaica. The train takes me right into Penn."