Dark City (Repairman Jack - Early Years 02) (39 page)

“So … you wish to remove your hijab and go bareheaded? You are here less than two weeks and already you behave like an infidel? Well, remember, dear sister: There is always a price to pay for transgressions.”

He plugged in the electric clippers he had bought and pressed the ON button. A buzz filled the room. She could not take her bulging eyes off it.

“I disown you, Hadya. You are no longer my sister. And after I am finished with you, you will
insist
on keeping your head covered—I guarantee it.”

He grabbed a handful of her hair and began to shear it down to her scalp.

2

Jack picked up the developed photos he’d taken of Zalesky’s gal pal. He smiled as he flipped through them. Though it hadn’t been intentional, Zalesky was in every single one and, as he’d hoped, from varying angles.

He headed straight for the dojo and found Preston already there working out on the body-shaped standing bag. No makeup or costume today, just a simple white karategi tied with a white belt. Jack didn’t know what level Preston had achieved but was sure it went way beyond white. Maybe he didn’t like to advertise.

The three gym rats were absent, but the hanger-on was working out with a bo.

“Hey, Pres,” Jack said, approaching. “You mentioned you knew a really good makeup guy.”

He stopped beating up on the dummy, bowed to it, then turned to Jack. Close up Jack noticed he wasn’t entirely without makeup. It looked like he’d penciled his eyebrows.

“Did I say ‘really good’? I don’t think so. I said ‘genius.’ Who wants to know—and shit, what happened to your face?”

Oh, yeah. The bruises. He wished to hell they’d fade completely. He was tired of explaining them.

“A disagreement.”

“Not with those three—?”

“No. Different bunch.”

“You should have called me.”

“It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing. And yeah, I could’ve used your help, but everything’s cool now. So about this makeup guy—”

“You want him to hide those bruises?”

“No. Does he hire out?”

Preston raised those eyebrows. “Really, he’s not that type—”

“I didn’t mean—”

“And I don’t think he’s
your
type. Besides, he’s taken.”

“I’m talking about doing a makeup job.”

“On whom?”

Knowing it would launch a thousand double entendres, Jack dreaded giving the answer.

“Me.”

“You look just fine—unless of course you want to go drag. Then you’ll need a name. How about Dietta Pepsi?”

Jack ignored that. “I need to know if he can make me look like someone else.”

Preston gave him an up-and-down. “Well, you’re too thin for Boy George, and even Desiderio couldn’t make you into RuPaul. I—”

Jack pulled out the photos. “This guy.”

Pres took them and studied them, glancing up at Jack and then back. Finally he shook his head.

“I don’t know. But if anyone can do it, Desiderio can. I’ll ask him if he’s game. What’s your number?”

Last night had been the first Jack had spent in the new place, but he didn’t have a phone yet.

“My phone won’t be installed before Wednesday and this is kind of a rush thing. Give me yours and I’ll call later and check.”

Preston gave a seductive smile. “Jack, if this is all just an elaborate scheme to get my phone number, all you had to do was ask.”

“Pres…”

“Okay, okay. But Desiderio doesn’t work for nothing. This is his profession, his art. He’ll expect to get paid.”

Jack decided it was his turn, so he feigned a horrified expression. “
Laid?
Oh, no! Ain’t gonna happen!”

Preston laughed. “Okay. I had that coming.” He put his hands on his hips and cocked his head to the side. “Remember, I do the innuendo here. Step on my turf again and I’ll put it in your endo. Got it?”

And there it was.

“Got it.”

“Let me get you my card.”

As he went over to his backpack, the hanger-on sidled up to Jack.

“Hey, thanks,” he said.

Jack turned to him. “For what?”

“For holding me back.” He nodded toward Preston. “No telling what he would have done to me.”

“Yeah. That tanto would have royally pissed him off. And you shouldn’t have needed anyone to hold you back from making three-against-one into four-against-one in the first place. Ever think of that?”

He looked sheepish. “I don’t know what was going on in my head.”

Jack knew: mob mentality. But he didn’t feel like getting into that, so he opted for a cogent, “Yeah, well…”

“Anyway, thanks.”

He hurried back to where he’d left his bo. Preston returned. A smile played about his lips as he handed Jack his card.

“I just want to make it clear: Desiderio will expect
payment
.”

Jack shrugged. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

TUESDAY

1

Jack sat in the makeup chair before a light-rimmed mirror and stared at his unfamiliar reflection.

He’d called Preston last night and learned Desiderio’s fee. Not unreasonable, so this morning Jack found himself in the cramped dressing room of an off-off-Broadway theater off Lafayette Street. Preston lounged somewhere in the shadows at the rear of the room while Desiderio fluttered around him, first on the left side, then on the right, then behind him looking over the top of Jack’s head.

“Is Desiderio your real name?” Jack said.

“Of course not, dearie. It’s a
nom de guerre
. But don’t ask what my momma called me. I’ll never tell.”

His
S
’s were sibilant, his accent was pure upper Midwest, he wore thick eyeliner. And he was a makeover wiz.

The first thing he’d done was darken Jack’s hair, then worked in some “product” and slicked it back. That done, he took a straight razor and changed Jack’s hairline to match Zalesky’s.

The photos Jack had taken were stuck up around the perimeter of the mirror. Desiderio touched a few in succession.

“He’s swarthier than you.”

“I think he might hit a tanning booth now and again.”

“Easy enough to take care of.” He grabbed Jack’s chin and turned his head left and right. “His face is fuller too.”

“Should I gobble some cheeseburgers?”

Preston’s voice floated out of the shadows. “I’ve got something you can gobble.”

“Do you mind, Pres?” Desiderio said over his shoulder. “Do you?” Turning back to Jack, “You brought one of his suits?”

“Sure did.”

“We might have to pad you up a little if it needs filling out, but we definitely need to fill out your face.”

From the shadows: “I’ve got—”

“Pres!”

And so it went …

2

Jack stepped through the door of The Spot and saw Julio behind the bar, cleaning glasses.

“Where’s the no-good, lousy spic who runs this place?” he shouted.

Julio turned and his eyes went all goggle for a second, then he said, “Mierda! It can’t be!”

Jack spread his arms to show off Zalesky’s suit as he approached the bar.

“How do I look?”

“It’s scary, meng. Who … how…?”

“Long story. Think I’ll pass?”

“Yeah. I do. I really do.”

Jack believed him. And Julio knew Zalesky better than Jack ever would. His seal of approval gave Jack the confidence to take this to the next step.

“Then let’s go.”

“Where?”

“The bank. You’re driving.”

“I gotta open—”

“Screw opening. You’ll open late today. Who’re you worried about? Darren? What’s he going to do—fire you? He doesn’t have a buyer anymore, remember?”

“But—”

“All you have to do is stay with the car. If someone sees through this, I may need to make a hasty exit.”

Julio shrugged and threw the towel into the sink. “Let’s go.”

3

While Julio idled across the street in Ralph, Jack entered the Chase branch on Westchester Avenue carrying one of Zalesky’s briefcases. Instead of stepping up to a teller window, he went to the business area. When a redheaded woman looked up, he gave her his most confident smile.

“I’d like to enter my box,” he said, handing her his key.

Oh, what Preston would do with that.

“Of course,” she said. “May I see some identification?”

She didn’t know him—what a relief.

Zalesky had left all his real ID in the apartment when he’d gone out in his bank inspector identity. Jack had borrowed it and he showed her that. She handed it back then went to another desk where she retrieved a set of keys. As he was following her to the rear he saw a young blonde look up from her desk and stare at him. Her lids narrowed.

Uh-oh. That look said
recognition
. He gave her a half smile and, on impulse, winked. She looked away, then back at him.

He moved on.

In the vault, the redhead used Zalesky’s key and her own to open a little door in a wall of little doors, then slid out a long thin box and carried it to a tiny room where she placed it on a counter. Jack had seen this sort of thing in movies but never had participated in real life.

“Take your time,” she said, handing him back his key. “Let me know when you’re finished.”

“Oh, can I ask a favor?” he said, pulling out Zalesky’s checkbook. “Would you mind terribly looking up my balance? I’m afraid I’ve been a bit haphazard in my tallying.”

The checkbook would give her the account number and keep her busy for a few minutes.

She smiled. “Of course.”

As soon as she closed the door behind her, Jack lifted the lid on a beautiful array of stacks of bills of varying sizes and denominations, some with bank bands, some with rubber bands. He didn’t bother counting—that could come later. He opened the briefcase, upended the box, and emptied it.

That done, he carried it back out to the vault area. But instead of the redhead, he saw the blonde approaching. She had one of those old-fashioned hourglass figures and walked with a natural sway. She seemed to be studying his face as she approached.

“Carol had to take a call,” she said, still staring. “I’ll finish up for her.” She leaned closer. “Have you lost weight?”

Shit-shit-shit! She knows him.

He felt a fine layer of sweat break out all over his body.

“Well, yeah,” he rasped, making his voice hoarse. “A little problem with the throat. Trouble swallowing. But I’ll be fine.” Had to get out of here—now-now-now. “Thanks for your help.”

“I need your key,” she said.

Oh, crap. Right.

He forced a smile. “Here you go.”

Once the box was locked up in the wall again, he pocketed his key and turned toward the exit.

“Thanks again.”

“Wait. Didn’t you ask Carol for your balance?”

Yeah, he had, but he didn’t care now. All he cared about was getting back into Ralph and buzzing back to Manhattan.

“That’s okay. Some other time.”

“But I have your checkbook at my desk.”

A paranoid scenario ran through his head: Redheaded Carol was out there calling the police about someone impersonating a bank customer and the blonde had been sent in to delay him.

Following her, his heart picked up tempo as he considered his options: run, or stay and play?

As they exited the vault, the glass doors to the street beckoned. He was ready to bolt until he saw Carol, the redhead, looking perfectly relaxed as she talked to a customer at her desk.

He stuffed the paranoia back into its corner, discarded what he
supposed
, and considered what he
knew
: The only thing he knew for sure was that this blonde knew Zalesky.

Yet she hadn’t said,
You’re not Neil
, only that he had lost weight. That brought a little calm.

An inane
l’esprit de l’escalier
flitted through his head: Should have told her he wasn’t feeling himself lately. But even if he’d thought of it then, he wouldn’t have had the nerve to say it. He wasn’t James Bond. He was Jack from Jersey.

Carol glanced up and gave Jack a little smile as he passed. Maybe this would turn out okay after all.

That decided it: Don’t run. Keep playing the part.

He let the blonde lead him to her desk. He noticed a wood-and-brass nameplate:
Eve Stigall
. As she seated herself behind it, she indicated the free chair.

“Have a seat. No need to be tense.”

He eased into the chair. Okay, he’d say it. “I’m not myself today.”

She blinked, then laughed. “I’ll say.”

What was going on here?

“Here’s your checkbook,” she said, handing it to him. “The slip of paper inside indicates your balance at the moment.

Jack checked it:
$1462.74
.

“I assume you intend to make a withdrawal?”

Jack considered it. Fourteen hundred wasn’t chicken feed, but just a fraction of what he’d emptied from the box. Still, no point in letting it rot in the account.

“Um, yes.”

“How much?”

He shrugged. “All of it, I guess.”

“That would close the account, which might not be a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Well, people here will wonder if you were dissatisfied with our service, if you were taking your business to another bank, and if there was anything we could do to change your mind. All sorts of questions.”

Why was she telling him this?

“Well, I wouldn’t want to upset anybody.”

“Of course not.” Her mouth took on a wry twist as she handed him a withdrawal slip. “As I’m sure you already know, this type of account requires a minimum deposit of one hundred dollars. The maximum you can withdraw today without closing it is thirteen hundred sixty-two dollars and seventy-four cents. I suggest you make it an even thirteen hundred.”

Jack’s mouth felt a little dry as he said, “No, let’s make it thirteen hundred sixty-two dollars and seventy-four cents.”

That wry smile again. “Your call.”

Was this just plain, old-fashioned greed on his part?

He didn’t think so—at least he didn’t want to think so.

Jack didn’t know if Neil Zalesky was alive or dead, but it didn’t matter. He’d physically and mentally abused Julio’s sister; he’d ripped off old folks by appealing to the best in them. One of the con man’s shibboleths is that you can’t cheat an honest man; with that in mind, the grifter uses the cupidity of ethically challenged individuals to dupe them—they get hoisted on the petard of their own greed.