Repairman Jack [09]-Infernal (9 page)

“Just somebody.”

“You were a bit rough on him, don’t you think?”

“He’s a nosy busybody.”

Jack hadn’t wanted Ron to know that the “boarder” he was picking up was his father. Ron would then know Jack’s real last name. That used to matter a lot—he hadn’t wanted anyone from his past to find his present, and no one in his present to know his past—not for his sake but for his family’s. Now, with his past encroaching on the present, he didn’t know if it mattered much. Still, better to keep things the way they were, especially where a weasel like Ron Clarkson was concerned.

Up ahead the attendant pushed through a pair of swinging doors and held one open for them. Jack propelled his brother ahead of him. Tom had completed all the paperwork upstairs. All that remained now was the official identification of the body and a final signature—Tom’s.

As he stepped into the room, Jack heard a voice to his left.

“Jack? That you?”

Who now?

He turned and saw Joey Castles standing by a gurney as an attendant zipped up a black body bag. He was short, maybe five-five, Jack’s age, with black hair and dark eyes; the surname on his birth certificate had not been “Castles.” He wore a black sport coat, gray slacks, and a black polo shirt. His hair, usually blow-dry perfect and sprayed granite hard, was in disarray today. His eyes looked red and puffy.

Jack stepped closer and extended his hand.

“Joey. Jeez, what happened? Who—?”

His Adam’s apple worked, his voice sounded choked. “Frankie… the La Guardia thing.”

Jack gave his hand an extra squeeze.

“Oh, no. Christ, I’m sorry.”

Joey and his brother Frankie came from a long line of scammers, most prominent among them their father, Frank Castellano Sr.

“He was coming back from visiting Dad—he’s got this big place in the Keys—and I was supposed to pick him up but I was late and…”

The words choked off.

“How’s your dad taking it?”

Joey shook his head. “You ever hear a grown man cry? Especially your father. It’s…” He shook his head again. “A son shouldn’t have to hear that. And a father shouldn’t have to hear that his oldest son was shot down like a dog on his way home from visiting him.
Merda
! You know what kind of guilt he’s going through?”

“Yeah, I know,” Jack said.

Joey looked at him. “You in the same boat? Who?”

Jack hesitated, then decided he could trust Joey with the truth. Joey wasn’t a nosy sort? and didn’t know or care enough about Jack to check it out.

“My dad.”

“Oh, shit, Jack. Fucking shit. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

Joey’s features hardened. “You know that story going ‘round about cyanide bullets? True.”

Jack felt his gut tighten. “How do you know?”

“Got a connection who got a little look-see at some reports and says it was cyanide-filled hollow-points.” His features tightened, his lips drew into a tight line. “Frankie got clipped in the shoulder, Jack. That’s all. He might’ve lived through that whole mess he hadn’t been poisoned too.” Joey bared his teeth. “Wrath of Allah can kiss my ass. Like to show them where they can stick their—”

“Whoa. Wrath of Allah? What’s that?”

“Didn’t you hear? Some group of stronzos called the
Times
and the three networks this morning saying they did it and that’s only the beginning. They’re gonna keep it up till the enemies of God and helpers of Satan are cleansed from the face of the earth. Or some such shit.”

Jack hadn’t turned on the TV this morning. He’d figured they’d only be talking about today being a national day of mourning and he’d heard all he wanted to about that.

He squeezed his eyes shut. So it
was
an Arab thing after all…

“Jeez.”

He felt a bloom of rage, but Joey was way ahead of him.

“Dirty, rat-fucking—”

“Hey, Jack?” Tom’s voice behind him.

Jack turned and saw his brother, face whiter than ever, lips almost blue, motioning him over.

“They’re bringing him out and I don’t want to do this alone.”

As Jack stepped away, Joey gave his upper arm a squeeze. “Hang in there, Jack. And don’t take off right away. Got a little something I want to talk to you about.”

Jack nodded and moved toward Tom, thinking about cyanide bullets. Dad had caught one in his thigh, a flesh wound that under normal circumstances would—

Listen to me… “normal circumstances”… shit, what was normal about being shot while waiting for your baggage?

He had little doubt that Dad, like Frankie Castles, would have survived a wound like that from a normal bullet.

Jack’s jaw muscles ached from clenching his teeth as he stood next to Tom and watched them wheel out a body bag on a gurney. The attendant, a black guy with short spiky dreads, looked bored. Jack wanted to punch him.

He steeled himself as the guy grabbed the zipper tab and pulled. When he’d opened an eighteen-inch gap, he spread the sides to reveal someone’s head.

For an awful instant Jack thought it might not be Dad, that somehow his body had been misidentified or gone missing or been spirited away. But no, there he was. He looked better than yesterday, his eyes closed, his mouth shut, his features more composed.

But still very dead.

Jack heard the air whoosh out of Tom.

“Oh, shit,” he croaked. “Oh, shit, it’s him. It’s really him.”

Jack said nothing. He couldn’t.

2

When they stepped outside, the sky was as clear and blue as Gia’s eyes, but the wind flowing down First Avenue had developed a cold, sharp edge.

“What next?” Tom said.

“I have to call the Knight Funeral Home. Soon as I confirm the body’s been released, they’ll send a car to pick him up and take him back to Johnson.”

Tom sighed. “I guess that’s the best course. Bury him next to Mom.”

Jack looked at him. “Was there ever a question in your mind?”

“Until now there’s never been a reason for the question to
be
in my mind.”

“Yeah. I hear you.”

He looked around and saw Joey Castles waiting down on the sidewalk. Despite the wind he looked comfortable inside a full-length black leather coat.

Jack turned to Tom as they reached the bottom of the steps. “Wait here. I need to talk to someone.”

Tom made a face. “Can’t it wait? It’s cold out here.”

Jack pointed across the sidewalk to a pushcart by the curb. A plastic banner proclaiming HOT COFFEE & BAGLES waved in the breeze.

“Maybe his coffee is better than his spelling. Give it a try while I see what this guy wants.”

“Jack,” Joey said when he came up to him. He lowered his voice as he hooked Jack’s arm and drew him closer. “You gonna do anything about this?”

Jack stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“I need payback. Need it real bad.”

Jack knew the feeling. “Don’t we all.”

“You don’t have to play cute with me. I don’t know exactly what you’re into, but I can make guesses. Word gets around and word is you ain’t no guy to mess with.”

Jack kept his underworld contacts and acquaintances in the dark as to the details of how he made his living, but every so often he’d drop hints to leave the impression that he had his hand in some smuggling and fencing with a little grift thrown in just for fun.

He shrugged. “Can’t believe everything you hear.”

Joey’s smile was tight. “Okay. Play it your way. Just let me know you hear anything. You decide to mix it up, I want in on the damage. Big time.”

Jack slapped him on the upper arm. “You’ll be the first guy I call.”

“About what?”

Jack turned and saw Tom standing behind his right shoulder, sipping coffee from a paper cup.

Joey smiled. “This guy’s got to be your brother, right?”

Jack felt as if he’d been slapped.

“What? Yeah. Joey, Tom. Tom, Joey Castles.” As they shook hands Jack said, “How come he’s ‘got to be’ my brother?”

Joey’s eyebrows shot up. “You kidding? Like peas in a pod, man. Shit, you two could be identical twins except for, well, I mean, okay, Tom here is a little older and a little, um, bigger—”

A
lot
bigger, Jack wanted to say.

“—but no question you’re brothers. Hey, what’re you looking at me like that for? You can’t see it?”

Jack shook his head and glanced at Tom who was shaking his head.

“I’m better looking,” Tom said. “But what’ll you be the first to know about?”

Joey stared at Tom. “You want in? You may look like Jack, but can you hack what he hacks?” He grinned. “Hey. I’m a poet.”

“‘Hack’?”

Oh, shit. Jack knew the track this train was on and needed to stop it fast. Keeping his hand out of Tom’s line of sight, he made a cutting motion, but Joey didn’t see it.

“Oh, yeah. I’m sure you know this, but let me tell you as someone was there: Right from the start your little brother made it clear that he should not be messed with. Hit him with a hammer, he came back with a sledge, know what I mean?”

Jack felt Tom’s eyes on him.

“Really.”

“Yeah, so now nobody, I mean nobody comes at Jack ‘less they’re some kinda
fessone
.”

“Is that so? Doesn’t sound like your typical appliance repairman.”

Joey gave Tom a You-kidding-me? look. “Appliance repairman? Where’d you get that—?” Finally he spotted Jack’s hand going cut-cut-cut. “Oh, yeah, well, I was speaking strictly in a business sense. You got something broke you want fixed, you call Jack. He, um, clobbers the competition. Yeah, that’s it. Clobbers ‘em. I’m speaking pricewise, of course.”

Joey was starting to sound like Jon Lovitz. Any second now he’d be saying “Yeah, that’s the ticket.”

Just shut up, Joey. Shut. Up.

He could see that Tom, who’d probably heard every possible lie in his years on the bench, wasn’t buying.

“I see. But just what is it that Jack is going to call you about?”

Joey looked uncomfortable. “Oh, nothing much. Just talking a little business. Probably not the right time or place.” He turned and started off. “Nice meeting you. Stay in touch, Jack. I mean that.”

They watched Joey Castles head downtown on First, then Tom turned to Jack.

“Mind telling me what that was all about?”

Very much, Jack thought.

“Just small talk.”

“Well then, what was he talking about? Hit you with a hammer and you come back with a sledge. What’s that mean?”

“Just running his mouth.”

“Like hell. By the way, in case you didn’t realize it, your friend Joey is a lousy liar.”

“Actually he’s pretty good—if he’s got a script.”

Tom gave him a baffled look. “Now you’re doing it too—what the hell are
you
talking about?”

Jack repressed the reflex to stonewall his brother. Maybe if he started talking about Joey’s line of work it would divert Tom from what Joey had said about him.

But he couldn’t seem too agreeable.

He shook his head. “I don’t know if I should talk about Joey’s occupation. I mean, what with you being an officer of the court and all.”

3

Tom wanted to hear about this Joey character. He didn’t look like he belonged on
The Sopranos
exactly, but Tom had seen enough louche types to spot one a light year away.

“Don’t worry about that. I’m not a judge up here. Not even licensed to practice. Just another plebeian. And let me tell you, I’ve already guessed your pal isn’t a neurosurgeon. What’s he do—sell stolen hubcaps or something?”

Jack hesitated, then, “He’s a
bidonista
.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Joey says it’s Italian for grifter.”

“He’s a scam artist?”

Jack nodded. “Family tradition.”

Tom treated himself to a pat on the back. But this raised a number of troubling questions. The big one: Jack had told this scam artist he’d be “the first to know.” Know what?

Maybe things were starting to add up, disconnected pieces beginning to form a picture. Jack’s leaving the family and hiding out in New York for fifteen years… everyone had wondered where he was and what he was doing. The word had come that he was an appliance repairman. Yeah, sure.

Tom had a growing conviction that his little brother was living, as they say, on the wrong side of the law.

It explained everything.

Jack pointed to the traffic lights on First Avenue. They’d turned red.

“Let’s cross.”