Chapter Twenty One: Big Jack
BIG JACK

Big Jack had been watching the window for days without end. Just outside the dimly lit hotel, there was a tall dogwood tree, its leaves so white that you could barely contrast between foliage and snow, its branches reaching for something beyond them.

He had noticed everything in the park beneath the hotel, from the strollers to the newcomers—who he could tell by the bewilderment on their faces at the busyness of New York—to the taxis and the delivery man. But he paid attention to the dogwood tree in particular, because a few dates before, a nondescript car had parked underneath it, and its occupants, what resembled a raven-haired woman and a short man wearing sun shades, spilled out of the car. They stayed there in the shade of the dogwood plant, silently staring up at the building.

Big Jack had oiled his gun thrice now. Maybe more. He did not keep count. Dismantle, recouple. Dismantle, recouple. Dismantle, recouple. He did it until his fingers were sore. A better part of him
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