Scenes from the Secret History (The Secret History of the World) (31 page)

“Okay,” Jack said.  “But
who
are they?  What are their names?  Where do they live?”

“Names?  You want I should give you names?  How about their addresses too?  What’s Repairman Jack going to do?  Pay them a little visit?”

“Well, no.  I just–”

“If I knew their names, I’d probably be dead.  I don’t
want
to know their names.  Someone else should know their names and stop them.  They’ve been pulling the world’s economic strings for centuries but no one ever does anything.  No one hunts them down and calls them to account.  Why is that, Jack?  Tell me: Is it ignorance or apathy?”

“I don’t know and couldn’t care less,” Jack said with a shrug.

Abe opened his mouth, then closed it and stared at him. 

Jack fought the grin that threatened to break free.  Goading Abe was precious fun.

Finally Abe turned to Parabellum.  “You see what I put up with from this man?  I try to enlighten him as to the true nature of things, and what does he do?  Wise he cracks.”

“As if you really believe all that,” Jack said, grinning. 

Abe stared at him, saying nothing.

Jack felt his smile fading.  “You don’t
really
believe in an international financial cabal, do you?”

“I should tell you?  But one thing you should know is that a good conspiracy theory is a
mechaieh
.  And also great fun.  But this group you mentioned, this Bouillabaisse–”

”SESOUP.”

“Whatever.  I’ll bet it’s not fun for them.  I’ll bet it’s very serious business for them: UFO’s and other stuff far from the mainstream.”

“UFO’s are mainstream?”

“They’ve been mainstreamed.  That’s why sightings are up: believing is seeing, if you should get my drift.  But when you start talking with members of Zuppa De Peche–”

“SESOUP.”

“Whatever – I bet you’ll run into
meshuggeners
so far from the mainstream they’re not even wet.”

“I can hardly wait.”  Jack glanced at his watch.  “Look, I’ve got to be heading out to the Island.  Can I borrow your truck?”

“What’s the matter with Ralph?”

“Sold him.” 

“No!”  Abe seemed genuinely shocked.  “But you loved that car.”

“I know.”  Jack had hated parting his 1963 white Corvair convertible.  “But I didn’t have much choice.  Ralph’s become a real collector’s item.  Everywhere I took him people stopped and asked me about him, wanted to buy him.  Don’t need that kind of attention.”

“Too bad.  All right, since you’re in mourning, take the truck, but remember: she only likes high test.”

“That old V6?”   

Abe shrugged.  “I shouldn’t spoil my women?”  He extracted the truck keys from his pocket and handed them to Jack as the bell on the shop’s front jangled.  A customer entered: a tanned, muscular guy with short blond hair.

“Looks like a weekend warrior,” Jack said.

Abe returned Parabellum to his cage.  “I’ll get rid of him.”

“Don’t bother.  I’ve got to go.” 

With obvious reluctance, Abe slid off the stool and left his sanctum behind the counter.  He sounded bored as he approached the customer. 

“What overpriced recreational nonsense can I sell you today?”

Jack headed for the door, holding up the truck keys as he passed Abe.

Abe waved, then turned back to his customer.  “Water skis?  You want to spend your free time sliding on top of water?  What on earth for?  It’s dangerous.  And besides, you could hit a fish.  Imagine the headache you’d cause the poor thing.  A migraine should be half so bad…”

More mayhem and merriment await in…
Conspiracies

May

ALL TH
E RAGE

(cover variant for the limited with red type)

I often list
All the Rage
as including “The Last Rakosh,” but it was actually written
around
that particular short story.

In 1990 I was slated to be guest of honor at the World Fantasy Convention along with Susan Allison, Robert Bloch, L. Sprague de Camp, Raymond Feist, David Mattingly, and Julius Schwartz.  (What a lineup!)  It’s traditional for the guests to contribute a story to the convention program.  The chairman that year was Bob Weinberg and his wife, Phyllis, was a major Repairman Jack fan.  I’d brought Jack back for “A Day in the Life,” so could I please bring him back for the convention? Pleeease?  How could I say no? 

I began with the premise that not
all
the rakoshi had died when Jack blew up Kusum’s ship, and then I added some of new characters I’d created for
Freak Show
, the anthology I’d started putting together for HWA (which eventually led to “The Peabody-Ozymandias Traveling Circus & Oddity Emporium”).

“The Last Rakosh” begged for expansion so I built a novel around it.  As often happens with me, I had no title.  But my buddy Steve Spruill read it and come up with
All the Rage
.  Perfect.

It contains some of the best fixes I ever came up with for Jack.  Here’s one of them…

ALL THE RAGE

(sample)

1

Sal Vituolo huddled on an East Hampton dune and wondered what the hell he was doing.  Freakin’ long ride to get here, and the sand being damp and chilly wasn’t helping matters much.  He hoped this was going to be worth all the trouble.

And expense.  This Repairman Jack guy didn’t come cheap.  Sal had tried to pay him in car parts but it was cash
– and lots of it – or nothing.  He hadn’t particularly featured handing over that much dough with no receipt, no guarantee.  Guy could be a scammer and just take off, but sometimes you just had to put aside everything you’d learned in the school of hard knocks and go with your gut.  Sal’s gut said this Jack was a stand-up guy.

But maybe not wrapped too tight.  Tires?  What did he want with a freakin’ truckload of old tires?

The guy had shown up this afternoon to pick up the rubber and his money.  Then he told Sal to go out and rent a videocam, a professional model with the best zoom lens and low light capabilities, and haul it out here to where he could see Dragovic’s house.  Keep your distance but get as close as you can without being spotted, he’d said.  Sal wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but here he was. 

He glanced around uneasily, hoping no one was watching him
– especially no one from Dragovic’s crew.  No telling what would happen to him if he got caught spying on the party.

He checked his watch.  Ten o’clock.  Jack had said start taping at ten, so Sal flicked on the power and settled into the eyepiece.  He’d been practicing with the videocam since he got here, and had the workings down pretty good.  At maximum zoom, the telephoto night lens magnified the light and the house to the point where Sal felt like he was looking at the place from twenty feet away.

He’d peeped the party off and on.  Looked like the Slippery Serb was tossing a bash for his boys and his big customers.  The crowd was all guys, some in suits, some in sweaters or golf shirts.  Sal knew the type from their haircuts and their swagger – Eurotrash and local tough guys, probably the kind Dragovic’s lawyers would refer to in court as “business associates.” 

Sal had watched them chow down on the best damn buffet he’d ever seen
– whole lobsters, soft-shelled crabs, a sushi chef, carvers serving everything from prime-rib to filet, a raw bar, a caviar bar with bottles of flavored vodkas jutting from a mound of shaved ice – until he got so hungry he had to turn off the camera.

As he focused the scene now, he noticed something new going on at the party.  A bunch of bikinis were splashing around in the pool.  Where’d they come from?  The guys were all hanging around the water, sipping after-dinner drinks, smoking fat cigars, and watching.

Sal felt his shoulder muscles knot… he’d bet his life that somewhere in that crowd were the guys who splattered Artie all over Church Avenue.  He could be looking at them right now.

What am I doing videotaping a party?  What for?  And where do Jack and my old tires come in?

Then he heard the helicopter.

2

“My, what interesting people,” Cino said.

Her sarcastic tone irritated Milos.  They stood in the corner where the main house joined its eastern wing.  Drinks in hand – Ketel One for Milos, the ever-present Dampierre for Cino – they leaned on the railing of the highest tier of one of the multi-level decks and surveyed Milos’s guests below. 

Cino wore a high-collared embroidered kimono-like dress of red silk that clung to every curve of her slim body on its way to her ankles.  With her dark bangs and jet eyes, she looked Oriental tonight.

“I’m sure you’ll be more impressed with Sunday’s guest list,” he said.  “The beautiful people are more your type.  But these folk” – he gestured with a sweep of his arm–”are the ones who make this place and this party possible.  My buyers, sellers, suppliers, and distributors.”

“Distributors of what?” Cino asked with a mischievous grin as she leaned against him like a cat.  She’d been
hitting the champagne since midafternoon and her glittering eyes said she was feeling little pain.  

Milos returned her smile.  “Of the many items I import and export.”

“What kind of items?”

“Whatever is in demand,” he said.

“And the bathing beauties,” she said, jutting her chin at the pool.  “Are they part of your distribution network too?”

“Hardly.  They’re items in demand, which I imported from the city especially for the occasion.” 

He’d hired the best-looking girls from a number of strip clubs and vanned them out for the night.  Their job was an easy one: party, have a good time, wear very little, and be
very
friendly.

“Ah,” Cino said.  “Window dressing.”

“More like party favors.”

Cino seemed to think this was very funny, and Milos enjoyed the ringing sound of her laughter as he watched the girls.  Nature and silicone had provided them with fabulous bodies.  They were on display now, but their real work would begin after they dried off.  They had been instructed as to the pecking order of the guests and, keeping that in mind, were to pair off with anyone who was interested.

Tonight was supposedly a little bonus for the key people in the network of drugs and guns and currency that fed Milos’s operations.  Many races down there on the patio: Italians, Greeks, Africans, Koreans, Mexicans, all soon to be part of his growing empire.  His was now an international business, and thus had to be an international man and deal with everyone.  Of course for his personal operations and security he used only full-blooded Serbs, hard, loyal men, blooded in battle.

But this gathering was more than just a party.  It was a testimonial, an affirmation of sorts.  They were here as Milos’s guests.  Some of them might harbor an inkling in the backs of their minds that they could be his equal, but tonight should lay that to rest.  This wasn’t neutral territory where equals meet.  They had come to
his
place, where
he
called the shots; they were enjoying themselves on
his
tab, and getting a good look at his impressive new digs.  They were in a position where the fact that Milos Dragovic was
the man
was being pounded home every minute of their stay.

They were down there with the bimbos, he was up here with the supermodel.  Didn’t that say it all. 

Forty-eight hours from now things would be very different.  No business associates, no bodies in the pool.  Sunday would be purely social, to establish and enhance his status among the big names out here.  

“What’s that noise?” Cino said.