Jack Wakes Up Read Free

untouchable. And he’s not trying to compensate for anything, as Victoria once suggested. The Mustang eats hills like they were bumps, a San Francisco must, makes a sound like a jet engine, and does what he wants. The car is Jack’s love, the only friend from L.A. times that’s still around.
    In the city, heading downtown, Jack gets looks, especially in and around Union Square, where the traffic slows and the shoppers all look to see who you are. Jack keeps his sunglasses on, tries not to make eye contact with anyone. Whether they’d really recognize him or he just needs to get over his fears, he’s not sure. But a part of him doesn’t want to find out.
    Jack pulls up outside the hotel and parks next to a new white Mercedes G-Class, a big boxy number like a cross between a German tank and an SUV. He’d guess this for the Eastern Europeans’ car, but they’re probably driving a rental, one of the sports cars, the convertible Porsche, or an S-class sedan. He sees a new Mustang parked here too, a convertible, but it’s one of the recent releases he’s heard so much about. Supposedly they’re more powerful than his with the same size engine. Forty years later and they must have reengineered it to do something better, because it’ll never look as good as the Fastback. They’ve only made a lighter body, it’s likely, and that’s no great feat with forty years of technology on your side.
    Getting out of his car, Jack catches a quick second-glance from the parking attendant—the look Ralph described; people know Jack, recognize him still. As San Francisco goes, mostly sports stars and locals, not that many actors, Jack’s face is one of the few that people remember.
    He gives the attendant a five and hits the revolving door without looking back, still holding the keys to his car. If it has to be moved, they can page him.
    Inside the lobby Jack looks around, trying to decide what he should do. The place has second story-level ceilings, fancy chandeliers and leather couches all over. A big guy wearing a designer 18
    suit stands up from one of the couches on the left side of the lobby. Jack looks around for the bar, and the guy makes his way over, asks if Jack is “Mr. Palimas?”
    “No.” Jack shakes his head, taking a good look at the guy: big nose, face like an anvil. He tries to dodge the guy, more from habit than not, but the guy moves faster than Jack expects, cuts him off.
    “You are Jack. I am told to wait.” He holds up a small version of Jack’s old headshot, probably clipped from a bad newspaper article. “Ralphie told me to meet you.”
    “Oh, Ral phie,” Jack says. “In that case.” He shrugs, holds his hand out for the guy to lead the way.
    “I am Michal. Please to come.” The big guy starts toward the elevators.
    “Where did you get that?” Jack points to the picture.
    “Ralphie has changed our meeting from bar to our suite. It is big.” He turns and shows Jack an awkward toothy smile, as if he got an extra helping of teeth in the attributes line at birth and his mouth did its best to fit them all in. They run together at angles, jammed and overlapping.
    “Our suite is big so we can have party.”
    A bellman holds the elevator doors open and they enter. As the doors slide closed, Jack sees his reflection and that of the smiling suit. He’s taller than Jack and wider; this guy can carry himself. Plus he’s been lifting more than just the rocks they’ve got where he’s from, and his suit is well cut, expensive.
    Jack rubs his face. He leans toward the door and looks at his cheeks: pale and clean from this morning’s shave. A couple dots of dried blood have come out along his jaw since he left the house. His eyes still look tired; he doesn’t like what he sees. Though he’s put on five or ten pounds of muscle in the past two years, his eyes still look deep-set in his face—like he’s using—
    as if he needs a couple nights’ sleep, even though it feels like that’s all he’s