Cold City (Repairman Jack: Early Years Trilogy) rjeyt-1

by Paul F. Wilson

  “And for why were you in such a place?”

  Jack didn’t hesitate. He’d expected the question. He trusted Abe but didn’t know how tight he was with Bertel. Would what he said here get back to his boss? He doubted it, but couldn’t be sure. So he’d come up with an answer that was neither the whole truth nor a lie – a skill he’d honed during his adolescence.

  “I thought I saw someone I knew go inside so I followed.” Follow the vague statement with a concrete change of subject: “So who was this Kahane?”

  Good thing he’d heard the name a few times or he’d be pronouncing it Kah-HAYN.

  “A pushy super Jew.”

  Jack blinked. He hadn’t expected that from Abe.

  “A what?”

  “Super Jew. A super Zionist. He started out as a rabbi of a synagogue in Howard Beach and they kicked him out for being too pushy with the orthodoxy. He went over to Israel and somehow got himself elected to the Knesset. And you know what? They kicked him out.”

  “For being too Jewish?”

  “For being too anti-Arab.”

  “In Israel?”

  Abe nodded. “In Israel. He wanted every Arab deported, a ban on Jewish-gentile marriage, and other equally meshuggeneh ideas. He and his party of like-thinkers were banned from running for office.”

  “No offense,” Jack said, “but I take it you don’t practice.”

  “Practice what?”

  Jack didn’t know if he was stepping off a cliff on Mount Faux Pas or not, but he pushed ahead, “Uh, Jewry?”

  Abe almost choked again, this time from laughter.

  “ ‘Jewry’? I’ve read that word, but until today I don’t believe I’ve ever heard anyone say it.”

  Jack felt himself redden. “Well, then, it’s a first for both of us.”

  “First off, you don’t ‘practice’ being a Jew. You’re born a Jew. You can convert, but on the whole, if your mother was Jewish, so, by law, are you. The word is ‘observe,’ and no, I’m not an observant Jew. You’ve never witnessed, but a cheeseburger I’ll eat once a week, maybe more.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “It’s traif.”

  “Can we speak English here?”

  “It’s forbidden.”

  Jack couldn’t help frowning. “But it’s beef. I thought it was pork you folks couldn’t–”

  “It’s meat and dairy together.” He shook a scolding finger. “Traif-traif-traif!”

  Jack couldn’t take any more. Big Macs forbidden? What planet was Abe from?

  “Can we get back to this Kahane guy? Why would another Jew kill him?”

  “Another Jew? Are you farblundgit in the head? It was an Arab – an Egyptian. Didn’t you listen to the news this morning?”

  “No. But the guy I saw with the gun was wearing a yarmul–” The painfully obvious answer hit him then. “Never mind.”

  “Right. A beard he had already. Put on a yarmulke and a black suit jacket, and–” He snapped his fingers. “Instant orthodox.”

  “What about those curls on the side?” he said, thinking about Tony’s getup.

  “The side curls? They’re called payot. And I don’t believe an Egyptian was wearing them.”

  “They caught him?”

  “Yes, and from what I’ve been reading and hearing, for an Arab this guy had a schlimazel’s luck.”

  “Whoa. What’s a schlimazel?”

  “An unlucky schlemiel.”

  Jack balled his fists. Okay, he’d heard the words before, but…

  “And what’s a schlemiel?”

  Abe stared at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m a hick from rural New Jersey. I’ve heard the words in the opening of Laverne and Shirley, but–”

  “Laverne and Shirley? I should know them?”

  “From TV. You know: ‘Schlemiel, schlimazel, hasenpfeffer incorporated.’”

  Abe looked lost. “What’s this you’re telling me? ‘Hasenpfeffer incorporated?’ It doesn’t make a pupik’s worth of sense.”

  A real cultural gap here.

  “This is a news show?” Abe added.

  “No. It was a comedy series from the seventies, but they’re replayed all the time.”

  Abe waved his hands. “No comedies for me. They think they’re funny? They’re not. Only news I watch, and believe none of it.”

  “Then why watch?”

  “How else should I know what not to believe?”

  “These digressions are killing me already,” Jack said, and froze. Had he really said that? He shook it off. “Whatever, I always thought schlemiel and schlimazel were nonsense words.”

  “No nonsense. A schlemiel is a habitual klutz. I should explain klutz too?”

  “No. Klutz I get.”

  “Well, that’s something. So here it is: Give a schlemiel a bowl of soup and he’ll spill it. A schlimazel is the guy he spills it on.”

  Jack smiled. “I’ve known a few of those. Okay. Why’s this Arab a schlimazel?”

  “Apparently he jumped into a cab outside the hotel thinking it would be driven by a coconspirator, but it wasn’t. So he pulled his gun and tried to hijack the cab, but the driver jumped out and ran. So the Arab had to do the same. So far you notice that, thanks to New York’s strict no-carry laws, this Arab has not encountered a single person who can shoot back. Until he runs into a postal inspector who happens to be armed.”

  “You and I can’t carry weapons but they allow a postal worker? What’s wrong with this picture?”

  “Everything. So the Egyptian shoots at someone who can shoot back. Both are wounded – the postal worker not so bad, the Arab pretty bad. But Bellevue saves him.”

  “Okay. An Arab gunning down a rabbi. That makes more sense. Well, I mean, as much sense as gunning down someone you don’t agree with can make.”

  “If it makes sense,” Abe said, “why do you look so puzzled?”

  Because he was sure Tony was part of this picture but had no idea where he fit in.

  2

  “No-no,” Tachus Diab said, waving his hands. “This changes nothing.”

  He had left a message for Nasser that it might not be a good idea to meet at the Al-Kifah Center – not after what had happened last night. So they now sat in the rear of an Afghan kabob shop that hadn’t opened yet for the day. The help were in the back prepping for lunch.

  “I’m not so sure of that,” Nasser said.

  In truth he was sure, but thought it best to play dubious.

  Tachus tugged his beard as he leaned forward. “Everything is set. All the buyers will be gathering Saturday night. We will return your investment and your profit on Sunday morning.”

  “But Sayyid is in the hospital, Mahmoud has been arrested–”

  “I warned them against this. I knew it would come to no good. But they were not part of the planning.”

  Nasser had known that. He’d had private conversations with Tachus and found him competent and committed. But he maintained a dubious look.

  “I should hope not.”

  Tachus tapped his chest, “That is my doing – all mine. I have arranged for everything at this end. Those reckless fools know none of the details. All we need is a safe delivery and all will be well.”

  Delivery was out of Nasser's hands. Roman Trejador had arranged all that.

  They both had been disappointed by the news out of Israel this morning. A minor uproar over Kahane’s slaying, a few Palestinians beaten by the rabbi’s followers over there, but that was about it. No mass murders, no bombings, no riots. No chaos.

  Ah, well. El Sayyid Nosair had been a gamble, with little downside. Trejador was right: Take the long view. Seed money into the jihadists to fund training and recruitment. A Saudi named bin Laden was feeding funds to the radicals, but nothing like the windfall that Nasser was about to provide. Best of all, none of it was traceable.

  Let them recruit and train, let them become emboldened by the West’s inaction. More suicide bombings in T
el Aviv, more US embassies blown up, Mubarak assassinated and replaced with a Khomeini clone, it was all to the good. As long as chaos raged and spread.

  Nasser pointed to the duffel bag of cash that lay between their feet beneath the table. A heavy bag – a banded stack of one hundred hundred-dollar bills did not weigh much, but three hundred of them added up to considerable weight.

  “Time and place of delivery are written down for you in there. If all goes according to schedule, you will have the transaction completed in time to be in mosque for Friday morning prayers.”

  Tachus bowed his head. “May Allah make it so.”

  Nasser suppressed a smile. Allah? Hardly. The Order would make it so.

  3

  The November sun floated high in a clear sky. He didn’t have to be on the road again until around six tonight. With time to kill, he wandered down Broadway from Abe’s toward the Deuce to see what Grindhouse Row had to offer and maybe catch a flick.

  But at Columbus Circle he found himself veering left onto 59 Street. He felt strangely drawn to the Marriott. As if seeing it in the daytime might shed some light on why Tony had been there last night. So he turned onto Lexington and continued downtown toward the hotel.

  Though dressed casually, his windbreaker and jeans were a cut above what he’d been wearing last night. No one gave him a second look as he strolled through the entrance. Once in the lobby, he hesitated. Stairs or elevator? He chose the latter. Taking the stairs might make him look too familiar with the layout. If anyone was watching – and he had little doubt that someone was – he wanted to look like a first timer here.

  He stepped off onto the second floor and deliberately turned the wrong way. After a little wandering he reversed direction and ambled back toward the Morgan D room. A yellow X of crime-scene tape crossed the closed doors. As Jack approached, a man in a wrinkled suit opened one of the doors and ducked under the tape. Looked like the detective in Plan 9 from Outer Space. All he needed was to be scratching his jaw with the muzzle of his revolver to complete the picture.

  “You got business here, kid?” he said, giving Jack a quick up-and-down.

  “Well, um, is this where that guy got shot?”

  “You didn’t answer my question: You got business here?”

  “Well, um, no, I just–”

  “You know the victim? Any connection? Know anything?”

  “No, just, um, curious.”

  His face twisted. “One of the ghouls, huh? What’s the matter with you creeps?”

  “Nothing, I–”

  “Move it along. This is an active crime scene.” He made a shooing motion. “Go on. Git.”

  Jack wasn’t about to argue. He got.

  Ghouls? he thought. The cop must have thought he was a crime-scene groupie.

  He was crossing the lobby when a voice said, “I knew it was you!”

  He turned and saw Cristin Ott hurrying toward him. She wore designer jeans and a short leather jacket, and had her arms open wide.

  “Jack! What a surprise!”

  She enveloped him in a hug and he returned the squeeze. She smelled good. He was glad he’d showered this morning.

  “Cristin!” he said as they broke, and found he didn’t have to force the smile. “Of all people!”

  “I’m so glad to see you. I just knew I saw you here last night. I called to you but I guess you didn’t hear me.”

  How to play this?

  “I thought I heard my name but didn’t see how anybody here could know me.”

  “Are you staying here?”

  “No.”

  “Really? I assumed you were. That’s why I came back – to see if you had a room. I was just heading for the front desk when you popped out of the elevator.” She frowned. “So if you’re not registered…?”

  “I was on my way to meet someone here last night but then that shooting happened.”

  Her eyes widened. “Ohmygod! Do you believe it? I didn’t know a thing about it until it was all over. From what I’ve heard it was like the wild west around here last night. Hey, what are you doing right now?”

  The truth popped out. “Nothing.”

  She beamed. “That makes two of us. Had lunch yet?”

  “No.”

  “Great. Let’s do lunch, as they say. I know this cool little…”

  4

  “Hope you don’t mind,” Cristin said as they settled into a rear booth of a tiny place called Salad Sentral. “I’ve got a thing for rabbit food.”

  Jack much preferred his rabbit food garnishing a burger, but said, “I eat anything.”

  Which was mostly true. He’d even tried tripe once, but he’d have to be pretty damn hungry to eat it again.

  Now that she was seated and settled, Jack took a look at her. Cristin looked good. Like most Jersey girls in the eighties, she’d gone through the big-hair phase in high school. Now her dark brown hair lay close to her head, framing her face. Lots less makeup than he remembered, but what she wore seemed just right. Bright blue eyes and an infectious smile completed the picture. Not a beauty by the usual standards but she seemed to have learned to make the most of her assets.

  She folded her hands on the table and leaned forward. “Figured out what you want to be when you grow up?”

  He laughed. “Not a clue. How about you?”

  “I’ve decided that growing up is overrated. How’s school?”

  “I sort of dropped out.”

  She brightened. “Me too! Last semester I only took three credits and I’m doing the same this year.”

  “FIT, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes! How did you know?”

  “I pay attention.”

  She seemed delighted that he’d remembered.

  “All that fashion stuff becomes a bit much after a while. I want that degree but I’m in no hurry. How about you?”

  “I’m out. Quit.”

  “Then you didn’t ‘sort of’ drop out. You went all the way.”

  “Yeah, I guess I did.”

  Her smile faded. “You’re the last person I’d expect to drop out. What’s up, Jack?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You always struck me as a finish-what-you-start kind of guy. What happened?”

  He didn’t want to get into all that.

  “No one thing in particular. Just got tired of everything and decided to reboot.”

  The waitress came by but neither of them had looked at the menu so they ordered drinks – a Heinie for Jack, diet cola for Cristin – and asked for a few more minutes.

  “Sorry about you mother,” she said, looking at him over her menu. “I heard about it from my folks. What a horrible, horrible accident.”

  Jack wanted to talk about something else but he couldn’t let that slide.

  “Not an accident – murder.”

  She stared at him. “What?”

  “A guy stood on an overpass and dropped a cinder block, timing it to strike an oncoming car. I’m not saying she was targeted, but I am saying she was murdered. The lawyer types may fine-shade it differently, but that’s what it was.”

  “Don’t tell me you were in the car.”

  He could only nod.

  The minutes after the block came through the windshield, branded onto his memory, began to replay in his head. He shut them off.

  Cristin leaned back, eyes wide. “You look very scary right now, Jack.”

  He forced a tenuous calm. “Let’s talk about you. A three-credit semester leaves you plenty of free time. What do you do with it?”

  She stared at him a moment longer, then relaxed. “Would you believe I’m a party planner?”

  “A what?”

  She grinned. “A party planner. I just fell into it and I love it.”

  “You get paid to throw parties for people.”

  “Yes! Paid very well, I’ll have you know. Isn’t it crazy? Of course, if it’s a corporate client, then I become an event planner, but it’s all the same. I didn’t even know the job existe
d until last year.”

  “So your clients are rich folks too lazy to do it themselves.”

  “Sometimes. Others are corporations who want an event to announce a new product or welcome a new officer, or Washington or state politicos who want a banquet to honor someone, or whatever. Others are well-heeled people from out of town who need to throw a party – engagement parties and destination weddings are the most common reason. They don’t know a thing about the city so they call my boss and she puts me or someone else on the case. I find them a space, set up the caterer, the flowers, the entertainment, all the bells and whistles while they go about their business.”

  “Was that why you were at the Marriott last night?”

  She nodded. “This out-of-town couple from Michigan needs to host a rehearsal dinner before their son’s wedding. They don’t know where to begin. I know exactly where to begin. So I met with them and we planned most of it. I’ll be escorting them around to a couple of venues later.”

  Jack oscillated his eyebrows. “ ‘Venues.’ Woo-woo.”

  “Tons of interesting party spaces for rent around the city. You’ve just got to know where to look. And I’ve got lists of them all.”

  “Is this a career?”

  “No way. But I’m making great money, meeting interesting people–”

  “For example?”

  “Oh, politicians, CEOs. You know – movers and shakers. They might come in handy later on. In this world, it’s who you know, not what you know.”

  The waitress returned with their drinks and they ordered – a Waldorf salad for Cristin, and…

  “Do you have a meat salad?” Jack asked.

  The waitress paused a second, then laughed. “I’ve been at this a long time and that’s the first time I’ve ever been asked for a ‘meat salad.’ But yeah, we’ve got ham salad and chef salad.”

  “No roast beef salad?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Let me try the chef’s salad then.”

  Cristin was grinning at him. “ ‘Roast beef salad’?”

  “Well, you never know till you ask.”

  He wanted to avoid the subject of how he was making ends meet, so he asked the question that was eventually going to rear its head.

  “Ever hear from Karina?”

  She hesitated, as if gathering her thoughts, then, “Rarely. Berkeley has done something to her head. She’s sort of gone off the deep end. Remember how she was always a vegetarian?”