Repairman Jack [09]-Infernal by F. Paul Wilson

told me he was an only child and you’d sat down at the other end of the bar, I’d have thought you were his long-lost brother.”
    Okay. She wasn’t perfect. She obviously needed glasses. He and Jack looked nothing alike.
    Jack shook his head. “You know, that’s the second time today we’ve heard that. I don’t get it. We couldn’t be more different.”
    “When was the last time you saw yourselves side by side? Before the night’s over, go into the men’s room and look at yourselves in the mirror.”
    Tom figured he’d pass on that.

8

    They’d moved to their table, a half banquet in a rear corner with a good view of the stage. The backrests were done in alternating sections of black and white; their table sported pieces of blond and brown wood done up in an art deco-ish pattern.
    Tom looked around. Only half the tables were occupied. His brother’s reservation had been redundant.
    Canned music—nondescript blues—was playing too loud. Tom nursed his second vodka while they waited for their appetizers. He’d had a couple of pops at the hotel bar before coming over and so he could take it easy now. Didn’t want to get sloppy in front of this woman.
    “Where’s this band you came to see?” he said.
    Jack shrugged. “It’s blasphemy for a blues band to start on time.”
    Tom hoped they never came on. He wanted to talk to Gia, learn all about her. Something he couldn’t do if the band really cranked up.
    “Do you like blues?” Gia said.
    “I like all kinds of music.”
    Her eyebrows rose. “Really? How about opera?”
    “Love it. Tristan and Isolde is my favorite.”
    Not necessarily true. He used to hate opera, but part of the politics of his judgeship included attending an endless line of functions and fundraisers. Too many of them included nights at the opera, or the ballet, or at an art museum. Boring as all hell, but his wives, all three, had loved the affairs, loved mingling with Philadelphia’s haul monde . Those were the times they appreciated being the wife of a judge.
    Along the way, mostly through osmosis, Tom had managed to become an esthete manqué, absorbing enough culture to blow highbrow smoke when the situation called for it.
    As Gia’s eyes lit, he sensed this might be one of those situations.
    “I love that one too,” she said. “ The Merry Widow is another of my favorites. It’s at the Met now.” She cocked her head at Jack. “But try getting your brother to go. He hates opera.”
    “Don’t listen to her,” Jack said. “I like opera just fine… it’s just the singing and all the gesturing I don’t like. Lose those and do it in English and I could be a major fan.”
    Gia laughed and leaned against him. “Stop it.”
    Jack turned to him. “Gia’s an artist—she sees things in opera and ballet that I can’t.”
    “That’s because you don’t lend yourself to the experience,” Gia said.
    “Artist?” Tom said. “Have you had a show?”
    Still smiling, she shook her head. “I hope to someday, but it’s commercial art that pays my bills—advertising, book covers, that sort of thing. Between assignments I’m working on a series of fine-art oils for an eventual show.”
    Time to score some points, Tom thought as he nodded.
    “Speaking of fine art, Gia, may I say that you are a vision straight out of a Botticelli.”
    Her cheeks colored. “What a sweet thing to say.”
    He didn’t mention that he was trying to picture her posed as Botticelli’s Venus.
    “Botticelli…” Jack said, snapping his fingers and looking perplexed. “Botticelli… isn’t that the tropical plant place down on Sixth?”
    “Ignore him,” Gia said with a laugh. “He loves to play the philistine.”
    “Are you sure he’s playing?”
    Her fingers wrapped around Jack’s hand. “I’m sure.”
    Tom repressed an insane urge to grab those intertwined hands and yank them apart. Gia should be holding his hand.
    He took a sip of his vodka and forced himself to lean back.
    What was