Repairman Jack [04]-All the Rage (11 page)

"The Calvin Kleins and Steven Spielbergs of the world."

"And the Milos Dragovics."

"Yep. Them too. He's supposed to be at the end of Faro Lane—there. Hang a left."

Faro Lane was short and straight; the three-story house at its end blocked any view of the ocean and a good part of the sky. A Mediterranean-style tile roof, but royal blue instead of red, capped light blue stucco walls.

"I think he likes blue," Jack said.

He scanned the perimeter as they passed. A high stucco wall with what looked like broken glass embedded along the top—more aesthetically pleasing than razor wire, he supposed; videocams jutted from the walls of the house, sweeping the grounds. No security service was listed on the wrought-iron gate—Dragovic probably used his own boys as guards—but Jack spotted a German shepherd through the opening.

And then Gia stopped the car.

"Hideous," she said, shaking her head and making a disgusted face as she stared through the windshield. "No other word for it. Of all the colors available, he had to pick those? Whatever look he was going for, he missed."

"No-no!" Jack said. "Don't stop!"

He glanced up, saw a security camera atop the gatepost pointed directly at him, and quickly turned away.

"What's wrong?" Gia said.

"Nothing." Damn! Was that cam used as needed or on continuous feed? Did they have him on tape? "Just keep moving and see if we can find a way to take a walk on the sand."

Should have come alone, he thought. Never guessed she'd stop. But what's done is done. And no point in making too much of it. Who'd be suspicious of an old Buick stopping to take a gander at the big blue house? Probably happens every day.

Gia drove farther west and found a public parking area for Georgica Beach. The three of them kicked off their shoes—Jack surreptitiously removed his ankle holster and jammed the little Semmerling into his pocket—and barefooted it up the dunes. Jack and Gia strolled hand in hand eastward along the higher dry sand while Vicky frolicked along the waterline, playing tag with the waves.

"The water's cold!" she cried.

"Don't get wet," Gia told her.

They trekked up a dune and stopped at its summit to gaze at the blue expanse of Milos Dragovic's twenty-room summer cottage. From this angle Jack could see that it was U-shaped, squatting on the sand like a wary blue crab stretching its claws toward the sea. An oblong free-form pool glistened between the arms, surrounded by a teak deck. A glass-roofed structure that was either a solarium or hothouse huddled in a corner. And all around the grounds men were setting up tables and umbrellas and scrubbing chairs and chaises.

"Looks like someone's having a party," Gia said. "Are you invited?"

"Nope."

"Are you going anyway?"

Jack heard the tension in her voice, turned and saw the worry in her eyes.

"Maybe."

"I wish you wouldn't. He's not a nice man, you know."

"He says he's an honest businessman who's never been convicted of a single crime."

Gia frowned. "I know the rant: everybody picks on him because he's a Serb. But who believes that? What does he do, anyway?"

"Bad stuff, I'm told. I'm not sure of the specifics. I'm waiting for
People
to do an in-depth cover story."

"What are you keeping from me?"

"Truthfully, I don't know much about him. I don't find flashy hoods interesting reading."

"He was accused of murder."

"But the charge was dropped."

"Please don't get on the wrong side of this man."

"Trust me, that's the last thing I want to do. But I do want to get a closer look at his house."

They walked down the dune, scattering a flock of resting seagulls along the way.

"It's even uglier close up," Gia said.

Jack was making a mental map of the grounds. If he were going to invite himself in, he'd have to approach from the beach. He studied the wide open pool area, then looked out to sea. An idea began to form as he watched Vicky gathering shells along the waterline.

"Uh-oh," Gia said. "Looks like we're attracting a crowd."

Jack turned. Two very tall, very broad-shouldered beef jerkies in wraparound shades and ill-fitting dark suits were scuffing toward them across the sand. Both had broad, flat faces and bristly military-style haircuts—one brown and one that had probably been brown once but was now a shade of orange-blond. And Jack could tell from the way their sleeves rode in their left armpits that both were armed.

"Keep moving, folks," said the dark-haired one in a deep, thickly accented voice.

"Yeah," said the other, with the same accent. "This is not place for sightseeing."

"Nice house," Jack said, trying what he hoped was a disarming smile. "Who's the owner?"

Turnip-head smirked. "Someone who does not want you standing in his front yard."

Jack shrugged. "OK." He turned and took Gia's elbow. "Let's go, dear, and let these nice men get back to their work."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Gia said, pulling free of his hand.

Her eyes were narrowed and her lips were pulled into a thin line as she stared at the two guards. Jack knew that look and knew it meant trouble. Once she got her back up, she could be a badger.

"Gia—"

"No, wait. This beach is public property. We can stand out here all day if we please, and we might just do that."

Jeez. This was the last thing he wanted. Up till now he'd been just a guy out for a walk with his wife or his girlfriend who had to be shooed along. Now they'd remember him. And worse, they'd remember Gia.

"Just move on, lady," said the dark-haired one.

"No. You move on. This isn't Kosovo, you know."

That did it. Jack saw Turnip-head's cheek twitch and knew she'd hit a nerve. The dark-haired guard looked Jack's way. Jack couldn't see his eyes behind the black lenses, but the rest of his face said, We both know where this is going, don't we.

Jack knew. He turned, bent, pressed his shoulder against Gia's abdomen, and gently lifted her off the ground.

"So long, gents," he said as he carried her back up the dune.

He heard their laughter behind him and one of them say, "Now there is smart man."

Gia was beating her fists against his back, crying, "Put me
down!
Put me down right now, Jack!"

He did—at the top of the dune. She faced him, furious.

"I don't believe you did that! You carried me off like some sort of caveman!"

"Actually, I was trying to be
un
-caveman and avoid a fight."

"What fight?"

"The fight that would start as soon as the guy with the orange hair shoved you and told you to shut up and get moving."

"If he tried that I'd shove him right back."

"No,
I'd
have to do the shoving, and that would mean facing both of them because I couldn't take on one without the other stepping in, which meant I'd probably get hurt."

"You did OK last night, and besides—"

"Those two aren't a couple of middle-aged drunks. They're not even rent-a-slabs. They've got ex-military written all over them. They're tough, they're in shape, they've probably been in battle, and though they weren't looking for a fight, they were ready for it. It would not have been pretty."

"Well, who said you'd have to step in?"

"Come on, Gia. Some guy lays a hand on you right in front of me and I'm just going to stand there and watch? I don't think so. I'd have to do something."

She threw her hands up. "I'm so sick of this macho shit!"

Uh-oh. A four-letter word from Gia. That meant she was
really
ticked.

"I'm not sure I know what macho is, Gia. I hear that word and I think of somebody named Tony or Hernando in a sleeveless T-shirt, tattoos on his deltoids, and a stiletto in his fist. Is that how you think I am?"

"You know damn well I'm not talking about that. It's this 'a-man's-gotta-do-what-a-man's-gotta-do' attitude. I can't stand it sometimes."

"You want me some other way?"

Sal Vituolo's words of a few hours ago came back to him.
Bein' the man of the family can really suck, if you know what I'm sayin'.

Yeah, Sal. I know what you're saying.

Gia said, "I want you
alive
, dammit!"

"So do I. That's why I got us out of the line of fire." He held up his hands, making two Vs with his fingers, and put on his most beatific expression. "You know me… a man of peace."

That teased a hint of a smile from her. "You're a piece of work is what you are." She sighed. "It's just that I get so mad when somebody like that tries to push me around."

Jack pointed past her. "And here comes another reason for staying out of a knockdown drag-out."

Vicky came puffing up the dune carrying a horseshoe crab carapace filled with clamshells. "Look what I got!"

They oohed and ahed over her sandy treasures all the way back to the parking area.

As Gia drove the now slightly fishy-smelling car back toward the city, Jack sat in silence, pondering his next move. Since he'd already been made by Dragovic's security, he'd have to work behind the scenes.

They were near Hicksville on the LIE when Jack spotted a sign for the Jericho Turnpike. That made him think of a couple of good old boys whose services he'd employed a few years ago. And that gave him the start of an idea…

"Do you mind if we make a stop?" he said.

Gia glanced at him. "Usually it's Vicky who's got to—"

"Not that. I want to see if some old acquaintances are still in business. Take the next exit."

He directed her off the highway and along a rutted dirt road until he saw the hangar with its red sign: TWIN AIRWAYS.

"Is this the place?"

"Yeah. It's their own private airfield." He pointed to the helicopter and two Gulfstream executive jets on the runway. "They charter those out."

"And why are we here?" Gia said.

"Need to talk to these guys." He got out and started toward the hangar. "Why don't you and Vicks stretch your legs and check out the planes while I check the office."

Luckily, both the Ashe brothers were in—tall, lanky twins in their midthirties. Both had fair, shoulder-length hair, but Joe wore a stubbly beard while Frank sported a droopy mustache.

"Well, well," Frank said in a thick Georgia drawl. "Looky who it is."

Joe stepped up and stuck out a hand. "Where you been keepin' yerself, boy?"

They liked small talk about as much as Jack, so after thirty seconds or so of catching up, Joe said, "What brings you round, Jack?"

"A little business. A couple of quick charters."

"No offense," Frank said, "but since it's you, I gotta ask: how legal we talking 'bout?"

Jack shrugged. "Not terribly zflegal."

"Not no RICCO-level shit where we could get our assets froze, I hope. That would be a bummer."

"No-no," Jack said. "Not even close. More legal than the last time. Promise."

"Reckon we can handle that," Joe said. "What's up?"

11

Doug Gleason congratulated himself as he left Dr. Alcott's office in Great Neck and walked toward his car. Another once formidable barrier had fallen. He'd penetrated Dr. Alcott's perimeter defenses and actually got to sit down with the man. A coup among sales reps.

Doug had never seen himself as a salesman but had thrown himself into the job to see what he could wring from it. He'd approached it as he would a programming problem, establishing object relationships and then functionally decomposing them. His applied system had met with resounding success.

In Doug's two years on the job, the most important truth he'd discovered was that knowing all the receptionists' first names, knowing the names of all their children and grandchildren, burbling at their baby pictures, smiling for them until you thought your cheeks were going to cramp, did not guarantee you a sit-down with the doctor. You needed the secret weapon.

Food.

A crumb cake or bagels and cream cheese in the morning or pizzas and subs at noon and, for the battle-hardened veterans who manned Dr. Alcott's front lines, the afternoon coup de grace: chocolate-covered strawberries.

Those had done it. The guardians of the gate had hoisted the white flag and all but demanded that their boss give that nice young Mr. Gleason five minutes.

Doug stowed his sample case in the trunk, then slipped into the front seat of his company car—more of a business office on wheels, actually. In addition to the indispensable cellular phone, he had a cellular fax, a cellular modem for his laptop computer, and a small inkjet printer.

He checked his cell phone—not wanting to be interrupted in Alcott's office, he'd turned it off—and the display told him he had voice mail. The message was from a pharmacist in Sheepshead Bay wanting to know where he could return some TriCef that was going out of date.

Doug wondered about that as he returned the call. TriCef had been out a couple of years now, long enough to start hitting its initial expiration dates, but with the way it was selling, there shouldn't be any of those old batches left.

When he got the pharmacist on the line, Doug identified himself and said, "So what did you do, lose a bottle in the back of one of your cabinets?"

"Not at all," the man said with a vaguely Jamaican-sounding voice. "TriCef simply isn't moving for me."

"Top-selling branded cephalosporin in the country."

"Yes, I read
Pharmaceutical Forum
too, but it's not moving in my place. Same with most of the other pharmacies around here. Only a couple of our docs have ever written for it."

Troubled, Doug gave the pharmacist directions for returning his outdated stock directly to the company and said good-bye.

Was this a trend? Were sales of TriCef slowing? Not according to his commission checks. But GEM commissions were based on dollar amounts shipped rather than number of prescriptions written. And GEM did its own distribution, so it was right on top of product flow. If sales were slowing, his checks would be shrinking.