Repairman Jack [10]-Harbingers (7 page)

They turned onto Columbia, a wider, busier two-way. Good.

Jack peeked through the rear corner of his window as they passed Zeklos. He walked with his head down, his hands in his pockets. The picture of dejection. Someone wasn't having a good day.

"Is this an exciting thing you do?" Ibraham said.

"Not very."

"Oh. That is too bad."

"Hey, exciting isn't always fun."

After what Jack had been through lately, unexciting was a major plus.

"I think maybe you could tell me what you do here and I can write screenplay that I sell to movies."

"Screenplay?"

Had he somehow made a wrong turn and wound up in L.A.?

"Yes. I sell it to Hollywood. Maybe Michael Mann direct."

"Maybe he will. If he does, you'll be set for life."

As Ibrahim did a wide swing through the neighborhood, Jack switched his focus to the street signs they passed, trying to orient himself. Most had names; he'd have preferred numbers. As they returned, going the opposite direction, Jack snapped out of his slouch.

Where'd he go?

They'd reached the fringe of what might pass for a business district. All the stores were closed, but a triangular Red Hook Lager sign glowed in the window of a bar on the right.

"Wait here. I'll look inside."

When Jack reached the door—the place called itself the Elbow Room—he pulled it open only a couple of inches. And there at the bar, tossing back a shooter of something, sat his guy.

Jack peeled off another C-note as he hurried back to the cab.

"Here." He handed it through the window. "Find a place nearby to wait and I'll give you Ben's twin brother."

"How long?"

"Give it an hour."

"I don't know…"

"How many weeknights you make this much an hour?"

Ibrahim agreed to wait. Jack took his cell number and headed back to the bar.

14

The Oculus's eyes snapped open.

No!

After growing momentarily stronger, the wonderful feeling, the sense of a special presence, had faded as quickly and mysteriously as it had come.

Why? Why hadn't he come forward? He must know he'd be welcomed.

Or had he been there at all? The Oculus didn't think he'd imagined it, but circumstances were so dark and dire right now… perhaps wishful thinking on his part.

No… he'd felt what he'd felt, sensed what he'd sensed. But it was gone now.

It almost seemed as if someone or something was teasing him.

The Oculus laid back and hoped that whoever it was would return. And soon.

They needed him.

15

Whoa, Jack thought as Zeklos downed his sixth shot of Cuervo Gold in twenty minutes. Either he's a competition drinker or he's got sorrows to drown.

Jack figured on the latter.

He'd slipped in and situated himself with his back to the weasel and the rest of the room, but opposite an ancient Miller High Life sign. It showed a red witch drinking a beer as she rode a crescent moon. He'd chosen this particular sign because it was mirrored, allowing him to watch without being seen as he nursed a beer.

Wasted subterfuge, it seemed. Zeklos sat with his head down, his attention fixed on his drinking. Only time he'd look up was to signal for another. Jack probably could have sat one stool away and never been recognized. Didn't speak to anyone, and no one spoke to him. A good indication that he wasn't a regular.

Six shots seemed to do it for the guy. He rose, tossed a few bills onto the bar, and made for the door. Not exactly staggering, but definitely weaving. Jack gave him a minute, then followed.

He spotted him going back the way he'd come. Heading for the warehouse? No, he stayed on Columbia and kept going until he came to a cluster of three row houses standing alone midblock; any neighboring buildings had been demolished. Zeklos stopped at a narrow door on the end unit, keyed it open, and stepped inside.

Jack crossed to the far side of the street and watched to see if a light came on. It did: second-floor window on the left.

Okay. He strolled back across the street, fishing his lock-picking kit out of a pocket. He'd brought it along in case he had to bypass a lock or two to get to Cailin. Lucky thing. Though it hadn't been necessary then, it would come in handy now.

He stepped up to the door, glanced around—no one in sight—then checked out the lock.

And groaned.

A Medco Maxum. The place must have been ripped off in the past and someone opted for extra security. These were bitches to pick. Even with a gun it would take him a lot of fiddling before he got it open—
if he
got it open—and all that time he'd be exposed to whoever passed by.

The units to his right each had a fire escape fixed to the front, but not this one. Had to have one somewhere. City code demanded it for buildings three stories and up. He walked around the left side and found it: a classic cage-and-diagonal-ladder model. Less light back here too. Perfect.

He couldn't haul down the sliding lower ladder—the racket would wake the dead—so he examined the wall under the escape. The building was brick and old. Somewhere in time someone had decided to paint it green. A lot of that had chipped off, leaving the original red peeking through. Gave it a real Christmasy feel.

Finally he found what he needed: A slightly protruding brick at knee level.

He wedged the outside sole of his boot atop the tiny ledge and leaped. His hands found the railing. Slowly, carefully, quietly he pulled himself up to where he could climb over the top into the cage.

That done, he peeked through the window and found an empty bedroom, lights out. The illumination leaking from the hall showed a single dresser and an unmade bed. Jack tested the lower sash and smiled when it rose. He eased it up, slipped inside as quickly as he could, and shut the window. Cold air would give him away.

He pulled the Glock from the small of his back and held it at the ready. His plan was simple: Get the drop on Zeklos and see what info he could squeeze out of him.

He peeked around the doorjamb and found the man in question sitting at his kitchen table. Tears ran down his cheeks. He'd positioned the muzzle of his silenced H-K under his chin. A finger trembled on the trigger.

Jack leaped into the room and grabbed the barrel, angling it away. The weapon discharged. Plaster puffed and a silver-dollar-size pock appeared in the wall.

He snatched the pistol from Zeklos's fingers. The little guy looked up at Jack, stunned at first, then recognition dawning in his tequila-glazed eyes.

"You!"

Baring his Nutty Professor teeth he leaped at Jack with fingers curved into claws. Jack delivered a hard palm jab to his solar plexus. Zeklos gasped, lost his balance, fell back into his kitchen chair. For an instant Jack thought he was going to come back at him, but instead he doubled over and vomited. Once. Twice.

Swell.

The reek of bile and partially digested tequila filling the air was almost as bad as Julio's latest cologne.

While the guy was dry-heaving, Jack popped the magazine from the H-K and ejected the chambered round.

Once the heaving stopped, Jack pulled a chair opposite him—not too close—and sat.

"So, Mister Zeklos. What makes you want to try some do-it-yourself brain surgery?"

Zeklos raised a sweaty face the color of lemon sorbet and gave him a wide-eyed stare.

"How do you know my name?"

This was the first time Jack had heard him speak. The accent jarred him. Some sort of East European thing slipped through the booze slur, but Jack couldn't place it any closer than that.

"I'm psychic. There, see? I've answered your question, now you answer mine."

"What have I to live for? I am going to be kicked out of MV because they do not think I deserve to be called yeniçeri."

"Yeni-whatti?"

But Zeklos was in his own little world.

"My life is a cabbage roll. No-no. My life is tripe soup. Last year I lose my fathers and now this. MV is my world, my family. Without it I have nothing. No place to go, nothing to do. Damn Miller! Damn him!"

Dissension in the ranks… good to know.

"It is all your fault!" His voice rose as he glared at Jack and rubbed the burn marks on his neck. "I am in disgrace now! I am mowing the grass of life."

What?

"All because of you!" Color was returning to his face. "You make me look the fool and now they say I am not yeniçeri!"

That word again.

"Yeniceri—what's that?"

Zeklos leaned back and clammed. He seemed to realize he'd said something he shouldn't have.

Jack nodded. "Okay. You don't want to explain, fine. But then tell me how you three wound up in that basement tonight."

Zeklos shook his head.

Jack raised his Glock. "Hey, I've got a gun and you don't. 1 ask, you answer."

Zeklos sneered. "You wish to kill me? Be my visitor."

It took Jack an extra second or two to figure out the "visitor" bit.

Yeah, kind of hard to threaten to kill a guy who'd been in the process of offing himself. Not much leverage here.

"How about I not kill you? Like maybe start with a kneecap or two?"

Zeklos paled but shook his head. Undersized and funny looking, yeah, but the little guy had guts.

Which left Jack in a bit of a quandary. He could follow through with his threat but didn't think he had the stomach for it. Wouldn't be the first time he'd kneecapped someone, but that had been a mix of personal with business. This was neither. This was…

What the hell
was
this?

Jack wasn't sure. He'd wound up here because Zeklos and his buddies hadn't let matters slide after their downtown dance. Jack's curiosity had been piqued before that, but he could have lived without knowing any more about them. Now he was interested. Very much so.

But whatever the situation, Jack decided it wouldn't be a bad thing to have this cashiered yeni-something available as a potential resource.

Rising, Jack grabbed the H-K and stuck it behind his belt. Taking it served a double purpose. It took away Zeklos's suicide tool—of course his backup was somewhere around or he could have a good length of rope stashed anywhere—and gave Jack an excuse for a return visit.

"I'm going to borrow this for a while. Be cool. I'll get it back to you when you're in a better mood."

"Do not come back. You disarm me, you embarrass me, you loose my bowels, and you make fun of my teeth. You are a terrible man and I do not ever wish again to see you."

"Yeah, it's been a rough night, hasn't it," Jack said as he backed toward the door—couldn't see any reason not to take the stairs down to the street. "But we all have those."

He stopped as his fingers closed on the knob.

"At least tell me one thing, okay? Those curlicues that the jerk in the cellar was drawing all over the girl. What did they mean?"

Zeklos stared at him. "Was blueprint."

"Blueprint for what?"

"For cuts they would make."

Jack had been afraid of that.

16

As the credits began to roll, Jack stopped
The Big Lebowski
disc and turned off the TV. He was about halfway through a chronological Coen brothers festival. He'd seen them all before but had never realized how many of their films featured Steve Buscemi.

He rose, stretched, wandered to the window. He stared down at the still and silent street three stories below his brownstone apartment. Nothing happening down there. Too late and too cold.

But as he was turning away he saw what looked like a puff of smoke drift into the cone of light beneath one of the streetlamps across the street. It dissipated so quickly he wasn't sure he'd really seen it. So he waited. A few seconds later another faint white cloud drifted into the light, and he realized it wasn't smoke. It was breath.

Someone was standing in the shadow of the tree directly across the street from his apartment.

Jack squinted through the window, wishing it were cleaner. He made out a silhouette that looked male. But beyond that…

He couldn't say for sure what the guy was doing there, but Jack sensed he was watching… watching Jack's windows.

One of those guys in the black suits? Had he picked up another transponder at Zeklos's place?

He clenched his teeth. His apartment was his sanctum. Fewer than half a dozen people knew where he lived. If they'd followed him home…

No. Couldn't have. The only physical contact he'd had with Zeklos was a single gut punch. He'd stayed a couple of feet away during the rest of his visit.

And then the figure moved, turning and walking out of the shadow into the cone of light. Jack couldn't see his face but knew by the way he walked—he was using a cane but didn't seem to be leaning on it—and by the slight stoop of his shoulders that he was old. And big. Anything beyond that was hidden by his homburg and bulky overcoat—both dark brown instead of black.