Well, he’d talked about delivering the load to an Egyptian named “the Mummy,” and these guys certainly fit the Egyptian mold, so Jack began the laborious process of backing the truck through the barely wide-enough opening. With helpful hand signals from the beards, he succeeded without losing a side mirror. As the door rolled back down its tracks, Jack turned off the engine.
The first guy tapped on the window again and made a turning motion with his hand, indicating the need for a key.
Jack rolled the window down a couple of inches. “The boss has it.”
The guy looked baffled. Didn’t he speak English?
Jack held up the key chain, showing only the ignition key. “No key for the lock.”
Again that baffled look. He hurried through a doorway into what looked like a tiny office and yammered something. He emerged with a taller, heavier man following – thicker body, thicker beard, but wearing a white skullcap. If this was the Mummy, he didn’t look like one.
“I have never seen you before,” he said in a heavily accented bass voice.
“Well, that makes two of us.”
“We need the key to open the back.”
“My boss has it. He said he’d be here.”
“He usually is but he is not. Usually the driver has the key.”
Was that so? Interesting. But it made sense in a way.
“This is my first run.”
The guy hesitated, then nodded. He didn’t seem perturbed. “I see. Then we shall have to wait.”
It didn’t take long. Bertel showed up about ten minutes later and motioned Jack out of the truck as he handed the padlock key to one of the beards.
“You made good time. No troubles, I take it.”
“None.”
He clapped Jack on the upper arm. “Easiest money you ever made, right?”
Jack hadn’t seen the cash, so he didn’t feel he’d made it yet. But he only smiled and nodded.
The Arabs unloaded the props, then stacked the shrink-wrapped master cases of Marlboros against a wall. Jack saw a couple of cases of Kools there when he arrived, but that was it.
“Not much stock,” he said in a low voice.
“Didn’t I tell you? These Mohammedans can move cigarettes like nobody’s business. That’s–”
“Mohammedans?”
“Yeah. What do you call them?”
Jack shrugged. “Muslims?” At least that was what they were called in the papers.
“We called these oil-mongering, humus-slurping, camel-humping bastards Mohammedans when I was growing up, and I don’t see any reason to change.”
“So, I take it you’re not drinking buddies.”
“They don’t drink! Never trust a man who won’t have a beer with you, Jack.”
“Is that the real reason you bought us that six-pack the other day?”
“Damn straight.” He looked over at the office door. “Speaking of Mohammedans, I’ve got to go jaw with the Mummy. Looking for an exclusive here – become his only supplier.”
Bertel disappeared inside the office, and Jack watched one of the Mummy’s men reload the props while another made a show of counting the cases. Eight stacks of five, like that took counting. He heard voices rise in the office but couldn’t make out what was being said.
Bertel emerged from the office carrying a white legal envelope. The Mummy followed.
“I need more Kools,” he said. “You can supply me many Kools?”
“Sure can. Full load?”
“Forty cases, yes. I need soon.”
Bertel jerked his thumb toward Jack. “I let this guy sleep some, he can be back here day after tomorrow.” He looked at Jack. “Think you can handle that?”
Jack didn’t see why not. If he didn’t leave until six tomorrow night, he’d have nearly twenty-four hours to recoup.
“Piece of cake.”
Bertel smiled. “Famous last words. But I like your attitude.” He turned to the Mummy. “Forty of Kool, day after tomorrow. Count on it.” Back to Jack. “Still got enough driving left in you to get us back to the city?”
“Sure.”
The door went up, they drove through Jersey City and Hoboken and back into the Holland Tunnel. As soon as they entered the tiled gullet, Bertel pulled out the Arab’s envelope and counted out hundred-dollar bills.
“Put those away,” he said, handing them over.
Jack slipped them into a back pocket.
Okay, now this was officially the easiest thousand he had ever made. In fact, the only thousand he had ever made in a twenty-four hour period.
4
Portly Riaz Diab swiveled back and forth in his office chair and shook his head. “No,” he said in Arabic. “This is trouble.”
The unspoken rule was to discuss business in Arabic – the equivalent of a secret code here in America.
Nasser al-Thani had expected the refusal. Had been counting on it, in fact. Acceptance on Riaz’s part would have thrown the plan into disarray. But for appearance’s sake he needed to keep pushing.
“But this means a huge profit with no financial risk on your part.”
Riaz’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. The financial risk is all yours. The risk of jail would be all mine. But your presence concerns me more. You travel across the river from your luxurious apartment to smelly, dirty Jersey City to offer me a fortune. What is in it for you?”
“A thirty-three percent profit over a period of two or three weeks.”
“If your projections are correct, you could make one hundred percent over the same period by doing it yourself.”
Nasser made a face. “We have been over this. You know where I am from, you know my name. I cannot allow scandal to touch the emirate.”
Though the relationship was attenuated, he did share a name and a bloodline with the emir of Qatar.
Riaz shook his head again. “No. The money is tempting, but I do not need trouble.”
Nasser knew Riaz Diab’s cigarette operation was highly profitable and low risk, and for that reason had counted on him backing away from this venture.
He leaned back, feigning disappointment. “There is a window of opportunity here and it is closing. Perhaps you know someone I can trust.”
Another shake of the head. “No, I…” Riaz drummed his fingers on his cluttered desk. “Perhaps…”
Nasser leaned forward. “Yes?”
Now was where he was supposed to refer Nasser to his nephew Tachus.
“My brother’s eldest… he is always involved with one jihad group or another, always looking for contributions to topple Mubarak or free the West Bank or finance the cause of the day.”
“You don’t share his passions?”
Riaz shrugged. “I left all that and am glad of it. I came here with nothing, now I have a business. It is not a legal business, but it hurts no one and so no one bothers me. Not only that, but I feed a number of mouths directly and many more indirectly. Can that not be considered God’s work? What you propose is also illegal, but it is dangerous and can cause great anger and I am not so sure it is God’s work. And for what? So much more money than I would know what to do with? Money that might draw attention to me, causing me to lose not only what I might newly gain, but everything I already have.” Another head shake. “No. This is not for me. But Tachus…”
“Tachus?” Nasser feigned puzzlement. “This is the nephew you mentioned?”
“Yes. Tachus has many contacts in jihadist circles. They have little to lose and everything to gain from this venture.”
Nasser knew that.
“Will you put me in contact with him?”
“I will call him and vouch for you – you could not approach him yourself. He is too suspicious. I’ll have someone take you to him.”
He rose and went to the door that opened into the garage. Through the gap Nasser could see a group of young Egyptians feeding packs of cigarettes through stamping machines.
“Kadir!” Riaz called. “Kadir, come here!”
A few seconds later one of those young Egyptians appeared at the door. Riaz pulled him inside.
“Do you know where my nephew will be tonight?”
Kadir nodded. “At Al-Kifah.”
Nasser nodded. He knew the Al-Kifah Afghan Refugee Center well. Brooklyn’s jihadist hotbed.
Riaz pointed to him. “This is Nasser. You will introduce him to Tachus. My nephew will be expecting him.”
“I will meet you there,” Nasser said.
Kadir looked surprised. “You know where it is?”
“Of course. I am a regular contributor.”
A truth. The place fronted as a charity for refugees, but the money it collected went to train warriors in the eternal struggle against the infidel world. The Order, through Nasser, made regular contributions. Jihad was good. Jihad brought chaos.
Kadir’s eyes lit. “Sheikh Omar speaks tonight in the mosque on the second floor. You should come and listen. We can meet afterward.”
Nasser suppressed a groan. Sheikh Omar Abdel-Rahman… since his arrival in August, Egypt’s blind radical cleric had been preaching anywhere he could find an audience. The Al-Farouq Mosque upstairs from the Al-Kifah Center had become a regular stop. Nasser could think of few things he’d less like to do than listen to that crackpot. Hot needles under his fingernails, perhaps.
But he forced a smile. “I’m sure that would be inspiring.”
“He is brilliant,” Kadir said, his tone glowing with reverence. “I’ll meet you outside before seven and take you in.”
“Excellent.” Nasser turned to Riaz. “And you will be sure to call him?”
“Of course.”
Phase One had been securing the funding. Phase Two was connecting with the jihadists – done and done. Phase Three was convincing said jihadists that this crazy scheme was workable. Nasser al-Thani had no doubt about his abilities in that quarter. He could sell a painting of Golda Meir to the blind cleric.
5
They sat in Vinny’s black Crown Vic, parked on Liberty Avenue near the Cannon’s appliance store. Vinny had picked up Aldo first, then Tommy.
“All right,” Tommy said. He always liked to sit alone in the back, like he was being chauffeured. “What’ve we got?”
Vinny and Aldo had spent the weekend “researching” Harry Detrick. The results weren’t good. He glanced at Aldo with raised eyebrows, giving him the nod.
“Not much,” Aldo said.
“Not what I wanna hear, guys.”
Aldo shrugged. “What can we say? We visited this two-room dump in Ocean Hill he called home and turned it upside down and inside out. No stash, no nothin’.”
“Nothin’?”
“Found a lockbox,” Vinny added. “Wasn’t locked. Had a bank book, divorce papers, and a will.”
“No insurance policy?”
“Nope.”
“That inconsiderate fuck! You said bank book? Anything there?”
“If his math is right – and it was mostly subtractions – he’s got a balance of nineteen bucks.”
“Shit! Any furniture?”
Aldo nodded. “Yeah, but you’d have to pay the Salvation Army to take it.”
Vinny said, “His will leaves all his worldly possessions – I kid you not, that’s what it said – to his son.”
“Son?” Vinny heard Tommy lean forward. “How old?”
The will had listed Darren John Detrick’s birthdate and Vinny had calculated his age.
“Twenty-two.”
“Okay. This is good. We go after the kid. You know, the debts of the father are bestowed upon the children and all that.”
“Exactly what we thought,” Vinny said, “so we asked around. Ain’t gonna be easy collecting. He’s a marine and he’s over in Saudi Arabia.”
“Yeah,” Aldo said. “Part of that Desert Shield thing, or whatever it’s called.”
Vinny added, “But the good news is maybe he’ll get sent home for his father’s funeral and we can tap him then.”
Silence from the back. Vinny checked the rearview mirror and saw Tommy chewing his upper lip and shaking his head.
“What?”
“Tony’ll never go for that. He’s got this thing about guys in uniform.”
Aldo straightened in the passenger seat. “Whoa! You tellin’ me Tony Cannon’s, like, queer?”
“Fuck no! His nephew Patsy died in Nam and ever since it’s been hands off soldiers. That’s why he won’t lend to no one in uniform.” He shook his head. “Shit.”
“Too bad,” Vinny said, “because now soldier boy owns Harry’s share of a bar.”
Suddenly Tommy was like a hyperactive kid with a full bladder hanging onto the back of the front seat. “Bar? As in tavern?”
“Yeah.
“That’s it! We go after the bar. Where is it? What’s it called?”
Vinny couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Tommy this excited.
“Somewhere on the Upper West Side. Calls itself The Spot.”
6
“Miller time,” Jack said.
Only he had no intention of drinking Miller – Light or otherwise.
They’d dropped the truck off and were approaching Columbus Avenue on the Upper West Side.
“Aren’t you ready for some serious rack time?” Bertel said.
“I am, but I need to unwind a bit, and I owe you some beers, so I’m buying.”
“Where?”
“Here."
Jack gestured to a slightly worn looking bar with a trio of windows filled with hanging plants. Raised letters coated with flaking gold paint spelled out The Spot above those windows.
“We’re gonna hit The Spot,” Jack said.
“Jesus, it's a fern bar. I'm not drinking in some lousy yuppie fern bar."
Jack stepped closer to the first window next to the door and pointed to a neon Rolling Rock sign.
“That’s why we’re going in.”
“But it’s in green–”
“No, that sign means it’s on tap.”
“You’ve been here before?”
“Never.”
“Then–?”
“My dime, my choice. Come on. I drank that Anheuser Busch swill, you’ve got to suck it up and drink some real American beer.”
“No green bottles, remember?”
“Jeez, it’s on tap. Comes from an aluminum barrel.”
Bertel stared at the sign a seeming eternity, then shook his head with resignation. “Shit. Ferns. I don’t believe I’m doing this. Okay. Long as you’re buying and it’s brewed in America.”
Beer signs and a few bulbs in sconces along the wall lit the dim interior. They grabbed two seats at the mostly empty bar that occupied the left end of the room.
“What’ll it be?” said the short, muscular Hispanic bartender. A thin mustache snaked across his upper lip.
“Pair of Rocks,” Jack said.
“Pints or bottles?”
“Pints – as long as the glasses aren’t green.”
The bartender gave him a sidelong glance as the poured. After setting the beers on the bar, he headed out to the floor.
Bertel said, “Health,” as he and Jack clinked glasses.
“Back atcha.”
Jack quaffed a quarter of the glass. He’d hadn’t realized how much he’d been looking forward to a brew. Seemed like he’d been behind a steering wheel forever.
Bertel had taken a more cautious taste, but now he held up the glass and stared at it.
“Hey, not bad. Not bad at all.”
Resisting a told-ya-so, Jack sniffed the air. “Beer’s good, but what’s that smell?”
Bertel wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, what is that?”
“It’s Julio,” said a phlegmy voice from the far rear end of the bar.
Its owner had a full head of greasy dark hair; what Jack could see of his face looked weathered. A cigarette sent up a wavering trail of smoke from the ashtray next to the half-finished bar draft before him. Directly to his left sat an identical
draft and a smoldering cigarette in a second ashtray, but the chair was empty.
“But don’t say nothin’,” he added. “He’s sensitive about it.”
“I’m not saying he’s got B-O or anything,” Jack said. “It just…”
“Sorta sets your teeth on edge, don’t it,” said the smoker. “It’s his cologne.” He coughed a laugh. “Would you believe he pays good money for that shit?”
Jack turned and checked out the rest of The Spot. Fair number of tables, but mostly empty. The guy called Julio was wiping down one recently vacated. The few soft-spoken occupants scattered about displayed good haircuts and expensive sweaters. A woman in a gray warm-up was on a step stool watering the ferns.
Bertel followed his gaze. “Looks like a slow night.”
“They’re all slow nights these days,” said the smoker.
“Yeah,” Bertel said. “I guess with the recession and all–”
“Recession, hell. Damn ferns drove the regulars away. Harry’s idea. He thought–”
“Harry? Julio’s not the owner?”
“Not completely. He was a minority partner – very minority – with the late, not-so-great Harry there.”
The guy pointed to a black-draped photo on a shelf at the back of the bar. Some guy in what looked like a leisure suit. Had to be an old photo.
“Recently deceased?” Bertel said.
“Yeah. Thursday. Some heart thing. Fell in front of a bus. Don’t like to speak ill of the dead, especially the recently dead, but Harry’s one of the reasons this place is failing. The ferns was his idea.”
“Didn’t Julio have a say?” Jack said.
The guy shook his head. “Not really. He’s only got ten percent of the place. Harry had the rest. He hardly ever showed, except to make ay-hole decisions about the dee-cor, and to decide what kind of shar-doe-nay to stock. And to water the ferns, since Julio refuses.”
Jack turned again and watched the woman with the watering can. “So who’s that?”
“Nita. Harry’s ex. Can’t call her his widow, I guess, ’cause they’ve been split ten years or more. Anyway, she likes the ferns.”
“Too bad for Julio.”
“Yeah, I guess. Harry had this idea he could get a higher class of drinkers now that we’re all gen-tree-fried up here. But the place ain’t shee-shee enough for the hardcore ferners, so an empty room is the result.”
Cold City (Repairman Jack: Early Years Trilogy) rjeyt-1 Page 7
