Cold City (Repairman Jack - the Early Years Trilogy) (11 page)

As if things weren’t bad enough.

It damn near killed him to do it, but he leaned over to the cash register, keyed it open, and removed four hundred-dollar bills from under the tray.  He placed them on the bar and stepped back, raising the shotgun toward the ceiling.

Aldo stepped forward.  “You’re smarter than you look,” he said as he snapped them up

Julio clenched his jaw and resisted the insane urge to blow his head off and tell Vinny to take
that
back to Tony the Cannon.

As they went out the door, Vinny turned to him.  “See you next week. Oh, I know you didn’t ask, but get rid of the ferns.  They really suck.”

Julio screamed, “
Metetelo en el culo!
”

MONDAY

1

In the week or so since Nasser al-Thani had last seen him, Roman had moved again.  He’d called his hotel and learned that he had checked out, leaving no forwarding address.  No matter.  Nasser had his mobile number.  He called that and Roman answered immediately.

“I’m glad you called.  The funding arrived.”

Wonderful.  Although the amount had been approved weeks ago, putting that much cash together without raising eyebrows or leaving a trail was a delicate matter.  Despite its contacts in the world of international banking, even the Order had to tread softly in these matters.

“Is that why you moved?” 

“One of the reasons.  Time for a change, anyway.  Call me tomorrow and I’ll arrange for you to take possession.  We’ll finalize the details of the project then.”

The project… that was how they referred to the plan.  They practiced circumlocution at an art-form level during landline phone calls, and Nasser knew to be extra cautious when speaking over a cellular network.  The calls were easily monitored, but worse: conversations occasionally leaked onto a third phone for no apparent reason. 

“I will do that.  I have another matter I’d like to discuss.  Do you remember my mentioning the piercing passion of one of our new Brooklyn associates?”

“For a certain vocal rabbi?”

“That’s the one.  The rabbi in question is speaking in town tonight.  I was wondering if I should inform our associate.  He might want to hear what he has to say.”

“He might indeed.  But you seem hesitant.”

“There’s always the possibility that it could interfere with our larger plan.”

“The larger plan has a long-term payoff.  If our associate takes decisive action, it could have an immediate effect.  Retaliatory reaction will serve only to speed our larger plan.  Tell him.  This will be interesting to watch.”

“I agree.  Most interesting.”

2

Another meeting with the man from Qatar. 

Kadir joined his three Egyptian friends in a back room of the Al-Kifah Center to see what he had to say.  It turned out he didn’t have much new except that he would deliver the money tomorrow night and finalize all plans then.

“That is all you have to say?” Sayyid said.  “You brought us here just for that? Why do you waste our time like this?”

Kadir had to agree.  He’d finished up his work labeling the cigarette packs at Tachus’s uncle’s place, and hurried here all the way from New Jersey just to hear this?

“My friend,” said Nasser al-Thani, staring at Sayyid, “you may change your mind about wasted time when you hear what else I have to say.”

“I am not your friend,” Sayyid said.  “You say all the right things, but still I do not trust you.”

Al-Thani smiled.  “So who am I if not who I say I am?”

“Oh, we know
who
you are,” Sayyid said.  “We checked that out.  But
what
you are… that is another question.”

“You think perhaps I’m CIA?  FBI?  Mossad?  Would I be helping you bring riches to the cause of jihad if I were?”

“And bringing riches to yourself as well.”

Al-Thani shrugged.  “There is more than one way to serve Allah.  You bluster like a camel in heat, but so far, what have you accomplished?”

Kadir held his breath.  Sayyid’s round face seemed to expand as it turned red.  He looked ready to strangle al-Thani.

The man from Qatar went on.  “But let me ask you another question: Who do you hate most of all in this world?”  A quick smile.  “Besides me at the moment.”

Sayyid spoke through his teeth.  “You know who.  You keep asking me about him.”

“Yes, I do indeed know who.  And as a personal favor to you, I have tracked him down.  I know where he will be tonight, and exactly what time he will be there.”

Sayyid shot to his feet.  “Tell me!  Tell me and I promise you the Zionist pig will not see tomorrow!”

3

What day is it? Jack wondered as he sipped a Rock at The Spot.

He knew it was early November because last week kids had been running around in costumes, trick-or-treating.  He’d noticed a few Ghostbusters but Ninja Turtles definitely predominated with the boys.  And he knew it was Monday, because he’d watched the Eagles trounce the Pats yesterday.  But the actual date?  Not a clue.

The past couple of weeks of his life had blurred into one long road, with Tony at one end and Bertel and the Mummy at the other.  He’d wanted to get back out to that Long Island range to do some more shooting, but had no time.  After the first run, Bertel gave him the key to the truck’s padlock, but told him to keep it hidden away so he could continue to use the story about his girlfriend’s untrusting father.  

Girlfriend… good thing he didn’t have a real one.  She’d be on his case about never seeing him.  His social life now consisted of a few brews at The Spot at the end of a run and an occasional visit to Abe.  He’d made the mistake of bringing along some sort of edible goody twice in a row; Abe had looked so heartbroken on the third visit when Jack had shown up with nothing that he vowed never to visit empty-handed again.

Each end of the road had its own ritual.  The southern ceremony began with turning the empty truck over to Tony at the Lonely Pine Motel.  It might be a U-Haul or a Ryder or a Budget or Penske – Jack never knew until he showed up at the garage the evening before.  Then nap time in one of the rooms.  As he grew used to the routine, Jack managed to get some genuine shut-eye during the break and occasionally needed Tony’s pounding on the door to wake him.  Then the eucharist – Krispy Kremes and coffee – during which he and Tony would shoot the breeze.  Though considerably older than Jack, but younger than Bertel, Tony was easy to like – affable, always smiling, always some awful joke to tell.  The facial hair thing, though… that wasn’t making it.  No way that black scraggle along his jaw would ever thicken into a self-respecting beard.  At some point in every conversation, Jack would try to pry free some info on the enigmatic Bertel, and Tony would profess ignorance.  Jack didn’t buy that for a second.  

The northern ceremony started upon his arrival at the Jersey City garage.  Having the key with him allowed the “Mohammedans” – he doubted he’d ever get used to that unwieldy term – to unload the truck without waiting for Bertel.  Then Jack would sit in silence until the man showed up.  The Mummy’s helpers spoke Arabic among themselves and the Mummy himself barely acknowledged his existence.  The envelope would be passed, an order would be taken, and Bertel would wait till they were in the tunnel to pass Jack his cut.  The space behind Jack’s floor molding was filling with hundred-dollar bills.  It became even more crowded when he was on the road because he stashed his Ruger there.

Then parking the van in a reserved space at an Upper West Side garage.  Jack suspected Bertel lived up this way.  He tried to follow him once but lost him.  At the end of the next run Bertel said he understood Jack’s curiosity but not to try that again.  So much for his man-hunting skills.

And aside from a couple of post-run beers with Julio and the dwindling regulars at The Spot, that was pretty much his life. 

A thrill a minute.

Of course, it could become genuinely thrilling if he got nabbed with those smuggled cigarettes.  A thrill he could do without.

Today had brought a variation to the routine when he’d skipped his usual post-run brew at Julio’s.  He’d been bushed and had gone straight home to crash.  He’d been jolted awake by a dog barking outside his door.  Loud as hell and the damn mutt wouldn’t quit.  Finally he’d dragged himself out of bed and gone to the door to scream bloody murder at the owner, but when he opened it he found a silent, empty hallway.

Go figure.

Anyway, the damage was done. He was wide awake.  So he’d wandered up to Julio’s.  When he reached The Spot at five the sun was already gone.  Getting dark so early these days.  Barney and Lou were at the bar – surprise! – but otherwise the place was mostly empty.

He stared at the foam atop his brew and thought about how this wasn’t quite how he’d envisioned his new life.  Then again, he hadn’t had any sort of plan other than to disappear, tell the world to fuck off, kill the old Jack, and cremate his remains until nothing but ashes remained.

He’d been using Moore as a surname.  He should change that to Jack Phoenix.  Yeah, a new Jack, risen from the ashes of the old. 

Jack Phoenix.

He shook his head.  That sucked.  It didn’t merely suck, but clearly and sincerely sucked.

Forget the name crap.  What about the smuggling?  How long to keep it up? 

He was making a delivery every other day, socking away seven grand in two weeks.  Theoretically he could pull down a hundred and eighty thou in a year.  The amount was almost unimaginable.  And all tax free.  He’d have to make a quarter mill or more in a straight job to net that amount after Uncle Sam and Governor Cuomo and Mayor Dinkins were done picking his pockets. 

Yeah, great money,
unbelievable
money, but how long before he stretched his luck past the breaking point and got pulled over by a cop determined to see what was in the truck bay?

And really, was this all there was?

When he first arrived in the city, his main concerns had been keeping something in his belly and a roof over his head – hell, his
only
concerns. Money had been a constant problem.  But now it had stopped being a problem, at least for the moment, so now other questions broke the surface.

Like, Where do I go from here?

He’d been raised to have a direction, a purpose in life.  His internal compass kept searching for north.  Well, fuck north.  Fuck purpose and direction as well.  That was why he’d come to the city.  To get lost.  To break out of that trap.  To cut all strings.

Purpose and direction create strings, and strings inevitably control your movements.  He would
not
become his father, good man though he was. 

The plan: have no plan.  Throw the rudder overboard.  Sail the sea of Now.  Live in the moment.  Go where the wind takes you. 

At this moment the wind had taken him to The Spot.  And something was in that wind.  Barney and Lou were strangely silent, and Julio… Julio looked like a caged tiger.  He had a sense that they knew something he didn’t, and weren’t sharing. 

“Something going on with our friend?” he said when Julio made the rounds of the tables.

Barney continued smoking but Lou said, “Lotsa shit goin’ down.  His sister’s ex is making life miserable for her.  And then–”

He cut off as Julio returned.  Behind Jack, the door opened.  Julio, Barney, and Lou looked up… and kept on looking.  Their eyes told different stories.  Barney’s and Lou’s looked a little cowed, Julio’s looked angry and defiant.

What the hell?

Jack turned and saw a fat guy wearing a short black raincoat strolling toward the bar.  He stopped next to Jack without looking at him.  His gaze was fixed on Julio.

“Got something for me?”

Julio glared at him and said nothing.  The guy snapped his fingers a couple of times.  “Come on, come on.  We’ve got other stops to make.”

Another couple of beats, then Julio reached under the bar and came up with a slim, legal-size envelope.  He slid it across the polished wood.  The newcomer snapped it up, ripped it open, and peeked inside. 

“Don’t trust me?” Julio gritted his teeth.

“I only trust my mother,” the guy said without looking up.

Jack caught a glimpse of some bills but couldn’t make out the denomination. 

The guy nodded and slipped it inside his raincoat.  “See you next week.”

He turned and sauntered out the door. 

Jack watched him go, then turned back to Julio, but he was looking away.  Jack hurried to the front windows, pushed aside the damn ferns, and watched him squeeze behind the wheel of a big black Crown Victoria.  A guy in a porkpie hat sat in the passenger seat.  The car roared away.

“What just happened here?” he said, returning to the bar.

“Nothing,” Julio said, then slipped into the back room.

Jack looked at Lou and Barney.  “Is he paying protection?  Is that it?”

“Long story, Jack,” Lou said.

“I got time.”

Barney said, “Better you don’t know.”

“And besides,” Lou added, “Julio wants to keep it to himself.”

“Well, you guys know.”

Barney coughed.  “We been here a lot longer than you, Jack.”

That brought home to Jack that, as much as he felt at home here, he was still an outsider.  His immediate reaction was anger.  And why not?  Everything seemed to tick him off.  But then he realized he had secrets from them as well.  Had he told them he was running cigarettes? No.  So they were even.

Still, it hurt a little. 

4

After the man from Qatar left, Tachus turned to Sayyid.  “You can’t be serious!”

“This is not a matter for discussion.  It will happen.  He will die by my hand tonight.  I do not need anyone’s help for that.  But escaping is another matter.”  He turned to Mahmoud.  “Your taxi… you could help me.”

Eyes bright, Mahmoud ran both his hands through his reddish hair.  In Afghanistan, he had walked ahead of the mujahideen, poking a reed into the soil to find Soviet mines. He feared nothing.