"Oy. You're trying to start the next world war?"
"Call me the rovin' gambler."
Abe glanced up from the wish list Jack had handed him and offered a puzzled look. "Nu?"
"Were you ever a Dylan fan?"
Abe shook his head. "Neither Thomas nor Bob."
Jack waved him off. "Never mind then. Take too long to explain."
He took a bite of his cheesesteak. He'd brought two of them from Vinny's pizzeria off West Houston. Vinny was a Philly transplant and knew his way around the classic cheesesteak. Jack confessed to being a purist and a minimalist where cheesesteaks were concerned. Razor-thin slices of steak, provolone cheese, fried onions on a sub roll. No peppers, no gravy, and Vinny might do violence to anyone who added mustard or catsup. Jack would help him.
Jack and Abe had laid the torpedo-shaped packages on the scarred rear counter of the Isher Sports Shop, spreading the greasy wrapping paper to reveal the treasured contents, then chowed down. Parabellum, Abe's powder-blue parakeet, hopped around on the hunt for scraps. The seedless rolls made for slim pickings, so Jack tossed him a sliver of meat. He pounced on it.
Abe, already finished with his first half, had the second clutched in his pudgy fingers, which in turn were attached to pudgy arms connected to a pudgy body. He needed a cheesesteak like he needed herpes, but Jack had given up nannying Abe's health. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die. The last part was likely if Rasalom got his way.
Abe closed his eyes and groaned softly as he chewed.
"Why is traif so good?" he said around a mouthful.
"Because forbidden and flavor both start with F?"
"In her grave my mother would turn if she knew what I was eating."
"Could be worse."
"How?"
"She could find out about that Taylor pork roll and cheese with egg on a kaiser you had last week."
Abe rolled his eyes. "Oy. That might return her from the dead."
"I'll never tell." Jack nodded at the list. "What can you do for me?"
"All right already. What I've seen so far is not for everyday home protection. The first thing here, an MM-1 ... you really want an MM-1? You been watching - what's that film?"
"Dogs of War?"
"That's the one. With that meshuggeneh actor..."
"I prefer 'quirky' - Christopher Walken."
"Him, yes. You've been watching that movie?"
"No. Not lately."
But Jack remembered it well. The MM-1 had been the film's iconic weapon. It looked like a sawed-off shotgun with a huge rotating drum that held a dozen 40mm grenades.
"Then why an MM-1 already?"
"I may have a need for grenades and I want to be able to use them at a distance greater than I can throw."
"Fine. But this throws a dozen in rapid succession."
"I'm after a tough bastard."
"Well, I don't have one sitting downstairs. I'll have to call around."
"Fine, but please get on it ASAP."
"This is a rush job?"
Jack looked at him. "It's a long overdue job."
Abe understood. "That mamzer whose name, like God's, we shouldn't say?"
"It's 'Rasalom.' Say his name anytime you feel like it now. I want him to come looking."
"Not for me, thank you." He scratched his stubbled chin. "Like I said, the MM-1 itself I don't have, but rounds to feed it I do. You want HE, I assume?"
Jack nodded. High-explosive grenades, yes - the higher, the better.
"What's the kill zone?" Jack asked.
"Five meters."
"Perfect."
"But ... the HE rounds won't detonate within thirty meters of the launcher."
Well, he couldn't allow himself to get close to Rasalom anyway. But just in case it happened ...
"Understood. What've you got for close range? I've heard of Beehives - "
"With the flechettes?" Abe waved his hands. "Those you don't want."
Jack had thought shooting a round that held forty or fifty darts might come in handy.
"Why not?"
"Unless you're very close, the flechettes don't necessarily land point first. Skip the Beehive. You want the buckshot round. Filled with number-four pellets. Does a nice shredding job close in."
"Okay. I'll take four HE and eight shot."
Abe jotted that down on the list, then went to the next item. His head shot up.
"LX-14? You're going to trigger a nuclear bomb?"
"Nooo." Jack had heard it had been used in nuclear weapons but, although he'd have loved to be able to hit Rasalom with a tactical nuke, he didn't have one. And Abe wasn't going to find him one. "I just want max of everything - detonation velocity, brisance, everything. And I'm told this is powerful stuff."
"It is. But as far as I know, it's made only at Livermore in this country. I'll see what I can do." He gave Jack a sidelong look. "You're changing your last name to Kozlowski, maybe?"
Jack laughed. "Please, no."
The Kozlowski brothers, Stan and Joe, had been demolition experts, really got off on blowing things up. Damn near blew Jack to smithereens a couple of years ago. But Jack had learned a few things from them ... before he blew them up.
Abe squinted at the last item on the list. "If I didn't know better I'd say this says 'Stingers.'" He looked up and smiled. "But you couldn't want - "
Jack was nodding. "Yup. Two of them."
Abe threw his hands - and the list - in the air as he gestured to the leaning shelves and crowded aisles running toward the front of the store.
"Gevalt! This is a sport shop."
"What about the armory in the basement? Or did you forget?"
"Small arms I sell. Small. Stinger missiles are not small arms."
"I figure if one guy can carry it and fire it, it's a small arm."
"That's your definition. Others - like yours truly - would disagree." He picked up the list and read it again. "You're sure about this?"
"Absolutely."
Abe shook his head. "I should maybe not complain about you saving the world, but..."
"But what?"
He didn't correct him about the saving-the-world bit. If that happened, fine. But he was out to save Gia and Vicky and Abe and Weezy and Julio and Eddie and a few others.
"This isn't your style."
"Why? Because of all the firepower?"
"Yes. With you it's always up close and personal. This..." He shrugged again.
"I don't have a choice, Abe. Get too close to this guy and he can freeze you with a look, paralyze you so all you can do is watch. I'm not giving him that chance. I have to operate from a distance."
"But surface-to-air missiles?"
"Well..." Jack paused. He'd never told Abe this.
"Well, what?"
"He can fly."
Abe's eyebrows lifted halfway to his far-receded hairline. "Like a bird, you mean? Like Superman?"
"No ... but he can float. I've seen it. I don't intend to give him a chance to do that. But if he does ... he gets stung."
Abe sighed as he resettled himself on his stool. "I know the world is not what I once thought it to be. Seeing that thing that came out of the Hudson and cut up your chest - how long has it been?"
"Three years this coming summer."
If summer came. Word was it might not.
Abe shook his head. "Like a lifetime it seems. Anyway, seeing that happen made it abundantly clear that the world is keeping secrets. Not just the kind I thought it was - and is. Currencies and economies and governments are being manipulated, but that's gornisht compared to what's really going on, right?"
"'Fraid so. It's cosmic, dude."
"Since when you're a hippie?"
"But it is cosmic."
"And how do you find this Adversary, as you call him?"
"I hope to pick up his trail tonight."
"Where? In the cosmos?"
"Nope. New Jersey."