The Complete Adversary Cycle: The Keep, the Tomb, the Touch, Reborn, Reprisal, Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack)

by F. Paul Wilson

  Jack allowed Kusum to lead him out the front door. As he left, he waved to Julio, who was setting up his infamous “FREE LUNCH: $2.50” sign.

  They caught a taxi immediately on Columbus Avenue and headed downtown.

  “About my fee,” Jack said once they had settled into the back of the cab.

  A small, superior smile curled Kusum’s thin lips.

  “Money? Are you not a defender of the downtrodden, a crusader for justice?”

  “Justice doesn’t pay the bills. My landlord prefers cash. So do I.”

  “Ah! A Capitalist!”

  If that was supposed to rile Jack, it did not.

  “If you don’t mind, I prefer to be called a Capitalist Swine or, at the very least, a Capitalist Running-dog. Plain old Capitalist has so little color. I hope Burkes didn’t let you think I do this out of the goodness of my heart.”

  “No. He mentioned your fee for the U.K. Mission. A rather steep one. And in cash.”

  “I don’t take checks or charges, and I don’t take physical danger lightly, especially when I could be on the receiving end.”

  “Then here is my offer… Jack: Just for trying, I will pay you in advance half of what the British paid you last year. If you return the necklace to my grandmother before she dies, I will pay you the other half.”

  This was going to be hard to turn down. The job for the U.K. Mission had involved terrorist threats. It had been complex, time-consuming, and very dicey at times. Normally he would have asked Kusum for only a fraction of that amount. But Kusum seemed quite willing and able to pay the full fee. And if Jack managed to bring that necklace back, it would be a bonafide miracle and he would deserve every penny of it.

  “Sounds fair to me,” he said without missing a beat. “If I take the job.”

  4

  Jack followed Kusum through the halls of St. Clare’s until they came to a private room where a private-duty nurse hovered near the bed. The room was dark—curtains pulled, only a small lamp in a far corner throwing dim light across the bed. The lady in the bed was very old. White hair framed a dark face that was a mass of wrinkles; gnarled hands clutched at the sheet across her chest. Fear filled her eyes. Her ragged breathing and the hum of the blower by the window were the only sounds in the room.

  Jack stood at the foot of the bed and felt the familiar tingle of rage spreading through his chest and limbs. With all he had seen, all he had done, he had yet to learn how to keep from taking something like this personally. An old woman, helpless, beaten up. It made him want to break something.

  “Ask her what he looked like.”

  Kusum rattled off something in Indian from beside the head of the bed. The woman replied in kind, slowly, painfully, in a hoarse, rasping voice.

  “She says he looked like you, but younger,” Kusum said, “and with lighter hair.”

  “Short or long?”

  Another exchange, then: “Short. Very short.”

  So: It was a young white, either a GI on leave or someone still into the punk look.

  “Anything else?”

  As the woman replied, she raked the air with clawed fingers.

  “His eyes,” Kusum said. “She scratched him across his left eye before she was knocked unconscious.”

  Good for you, Granny.

  Jack smiled reassuringly at the old lady, then turned to Kusum. “I’ll see you out in the hall.” He didn’t want to talk in front of the private nurse.

  As he stood outside the door, Jack glanced at the nurses’ station and thought he saw a familiar face. He walked over for a closer look at the junoesque blonde—every man’s fantasy nurse—writing on a chart. Yes—it was Marta. They had had a thing a few years back, in the days before Gia.

  She greeted him with a friendly kiss and a hug, and they talked about old times for a while. Then Jack asked her about Mrs. Bahkti.

  “Fading fast,” Marta said. “She’s gotten visibly worse since I came on. She’ll probably last out this shift, but I’ll be surprised if she’s here tomorrow. You know her?”

  “I’ll be doing some work for her grandson.” As with most people Jack knew socially—and there weren’t many—Marta was under the impression that he was a “security consultant.” He saw Kusum come out into the hall. “There he is now. See you later.”

  Jack led Kusum to a window at the end of the hall, where they were out of earshot of patients and hospital personnel.

  “All right,” he told him. “I’ll give it a try. But I make no promises other than to do my best.” Jack had decided he wanted to catch up with this creep.

  Kusum exhaled and muttered what sounded like a small prayer. “No more can be asked of any man. But if you cannot find the necklace by tomorrow morning, it will be too late. After that, the necklace will be of secondary importance. But I still want you to keep looking for the assailant. And when you find him, I want you to kill him.”

  Jack tightened inside but smiled and shook his head. This guy thought he was some sort of hit man.

  “I don’t do that.”

  Kusum’s eyes said he didn’t believe him.

  “Very well. Instead, you will bring him to me and I will—”

  “I will work for you until tomorrow morning,” Jack said. “I’ll give you my best shot till then. After that, you’re on your own.”

  Anger flitted across Kusum’s face. Not used to having someone say no to you, are you? Jack thought.

  “When will you start?”

  “Tonight.”

  Kusum reached inside his tunic and brought out a thick envelope. “Here is half of the payment. I will wait here with the other half should you return with the necklace tonight.”

  Feeling more than a twinge of guilt at taking so much money on such a hopeless venture, Jack nevertheless folded the envelope and stuffed it into his left rear pocket.

  “I will pay you ten thousand extra if you kill him,” Kusum added.

  Jack laughed to keep the mood light but shook his head again. “Uh-uh. But one more thing: Don’t you think it would help if I knew what the necklace looked like?”

  “Of course!” Kusum opened the collar of his tunic to reveal a heavy chain perhaps fifteen inches long. Its links were crescent-shaped, each embossed with strange-looking script. Centered side-by-side on the necklace were two elliptical, bright yellow, topaz-like stones with black centers.

  Jack held his hand out but Kusum shook his head.

  “Every member of my family wears a necklace like this—it is never removed. And so it is very important that my grandmother’s be returned to her.”

  Jack studied the necklace. It disturbed him. He could not say why, but deep in his bowels and along the middle of his back a primitive sensation raised warning. The two stones looked like eyes. The metal was silvery, but not silver.

  “What’s it made of?”

  “Iron.”

  Jack looked closer. Yes, there was a hint of rust along the edges of a couple of the links.

  “Who’d want an iron necklace?”

  “A fool who thought it was silver.”

  Jack nodded. For the first time since talking to Kusum this morning, he felt there might be a slim—very slim—chance of recovering the necklace. A piece of silver jewelry would be fenced by now and either hidden away or smelted down into a neat little ingot. But an heirloom like this, with no intrinsic value…

  “Here is a picture,” Kusum said, handing over a Polaroid of the necklace. “I have a few friends searching the pawnshops of your city looking for it.”

  “How long has she got?” he asked.

  Kusum slowly closed his collar. His expression was grim.

  “Twelve hours, the doctors say. Perhaps fifteen.”

  Great. Maybe I can find Judge Crater by then, too.

  “Where can I reach you?”

  “Here. You will look for it, won’t you?” Kusum’s dark brown eyes bored into his. He seemed to be staring at the rear wall of Jack’s brain.

  “I said I would.” />
  “And I believe you. Bring the necklace to me as soon as you find it.”

  “Sure. As soon as I find it.”

  Sure. He walked away wondering why he had agreed to help a stranger when Gia’s aunt needed him. Same old story—Jack the sucker.

  Damn!

  5

  Once back in the darkened hospital room, Kusum returned immediately to the bedside and pulled up a chair. He grasped the withered hand that lay atop the covers and studied it. The skin was cool, dry, papery. There seemed to be no tissue other than bone under the skin. And no strength at all.

  A great sadness filled him.

  Kusum looked up and saw the plea in her eyes. And the fear. He did his best to hide his own fear.

  “Kusum,” she said in Bengali, her voice painfully weak. “I’m dying.”

  He knew that. And it was tearing him up inside.

  “The American will get it back for you,” he said softly. “I’ve been told he’s very good.”

  Burkes had said he was “incredibly good.” Kusum hated all Britishers on principle, but had to admit Burkes was no fool. But did it matter what Burkes had said? It was an impossible task. Jack had been honest enough to say so. But Kusum had to try something! Even with the foreknowledge of certain failure, he had to try!

  He balled his only hand into a fist. Why did this have to happen? And now, of all times? How he despised this country and its empty people! Almost as much as the British. But this Jack was different. He was not a mass of jumbled fragments like his fellow Americans. Kusum had sensed a oneness within him. Repairman Jack did not come cheaply, but the money meant nothing. Only the knowledge that someone was out there searching gave him solace.

  “He’ll get it back for you,” he said, patting the limp hand.

  She seemed not to have heard.

  “I’m dying,” she said.

  6

  The money was a nagging pressure against his left buttock as Jack walked the half block west to Tenth Avenue and turned downtown. His hand kept straying back to the pocket; he repeatedly hooked a thumb in and out of it to make sure the envelope was still there. The problem now was what to do with the money. It was times like this that almost made him wish he had a bank account. But the bank folks insisted on a Social Security number from anyone who opened an account.

  He sighed to himself. That was one of the major drawbacks of living between the lines. If you didn’t have an SSN, you were barred from countless things. You couldn’t hold a regular job, couldn’t buy or sell stock, couldn’t take out a loan, couldn’t own a home, couldn’t even complete a Blue Shield form. The list went on and on.

  His thumb casually hooked in his left rear pocket, Jack stopped in front of a rundown office building. He rented a ten-by-twelve cubicle here—the smallest he could find. He had never met the agent, nor anyone else connected with the office. He intended to keep it that way.

  He took the creaking Otis with the penny-studded floor up to “4” and stepped off. The hall was empty. Jack’s office was 412. He walked past the door twice before pulling out the key and quickly letting himself in.

  It always smelled the same: dry and dusty. The floor and windowsills were layered with dust. Dust bunnies clogged the corners. An upper corner of the only window was spanned by an abandoned spider web—out of business.

  There was no furniture. The dull expanse of floor was broken only by the half dozen or so envelopes that had been shoved through the mail slot, and by a vinyl IBM typewriter cover and the wires that ran from it to the telephone and electrical outlets in the wall on the right.

  Jack picked up the mail. Three were bills, all addressed to Jack Finch in care of this office. The rest belonged to Occupant. He next went over to the typewriter cover and lifted it. The phone and the answerphone beneath appeared to be in good shape. Even as he squatted over it, the machine clicked on and he heard Abe’s voice give the familiar salutation in the name of Repairman Jack, followed by a man complaining of an electric dryer that wasn’t drying.

  He replaced the cover and went back to the door. A quick peek showed two secretaries from the shoe importing firm at the other end of the hall standing by the elevator. Jack waited until the door slid shut after them. He locked his office, then ducked for the stairway. His cheeks puffed with relief as he started down the worn steps. He hated coming here and made a point of doing so at rare, random intervals at odd times of the day. He did not want his face in any way connected with Repairman Jack; but there were bills to be paid, bills that he didn’t want delivered to his apartment. And popping into the office at random hours of the day or night seemed safer than having a post office box.

  Most likely none of it was necessary. Most likely no one was looking to get even with Repairman Jack. He was always careful to stay far in the background when he fixed things. Only his clients ever saw him.

  But there was always a chance. And as long as that chance existed, he made certain he was very hard to find.

  Thumb hooked again into that important pocket, Jack moved into the growing lunch hour crush, luxuriating in the anonymity of the crowd. He turned east on Forty-second and strolled up to the brick-front post office between Eighth and Ninth Avenues. There he purchased three money orders—two in negligible amounts for the phone and electric bills, and the third for a figure he considered preposterous considering the square footage of office space he was renting. He signed all three Jack Finch and mailed them off. As he was leaving, it occurred to him that while he had the cash, he might as well pay the rent on his apartment, too. He went back and purchased a fourth money order which he made out to his landlord. This one he signed Jack Berger.

  Then it was a short walk past an art deco building to the side of the Port Authority building, then across Eighth Avenue and he was in Sleazeville, U.S.A.—Times Square and environs. A never-ending freak show that would put Todd Browning to shame. Jack never passed up an opportunity to stroll through the area. He was a people-watcher and nowhere was there such a unique variety of Homo sapiens low-lificus as in Times Square.

  He walked the next block under an almost continuous canopy of theatre marquees. Exploitation Row—films here were either triple-X sex, kung-fu imports, or psycho-with-a-knife splatter films from what Jack liked to call the Julia Childs slice-and-dice school of movie-making. Stuck in between were hole-in-the-wall porn shops, stairways to “modeling studios” and dance halls, the ubiquitous Nedicks and Orange Julius stands, and sundry stores perpetually on the verge of bankruptcy—or so their window signs claimed. Mingling among the patrons of these venerable establishments were hookers and derelicts of both sexes, plus an incredible array of epicene creatures who had probably looked like boys when they were little.

  He crossed Broadway behind the building that had given the Square its name, then turned uptown on Seventh Avenue. Here the porn shops were slightly larger, the movie ticket prices higher, and the fast food of a better grade, such as Steak & Brew and Wienerwald. Set up on tables along the curb were chess and backgammon boards, where a couple of guys would play anyone for a buck. Further down were three-card monte set-ups on cardboard boxes. Pushcarts sold shish-kebab, Sabrett hot dogs, dried fruits and nuts, giant pretzels, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. The odors mingled in the air with the sounds and sights. All the record stores along Seventh were pushing the latest new wave group, Polio, playing cuts from their debut album onto the sidewalk. Jack stood waiting for the green at Forty-sixth next to a Puerto Rican with a giant cassette box on his shoulder blasting salsa at a volume that would probably cause sterility in most small mammals, while girls wearing tube tops that left their midriffs bare and satin gym shorts that left a smooth pink crescent of buttock protruding from each leg hole roller-skated through the traffic with tiny headphones on their ears and Sony Walkmans belted to their waists.

  Standing directly in the middle of the flow was a big blind Black with a sign on his chest, a dog at his feet, and a cup in his hand. Jack threw some loose change into the cup as he slip
ped by. Further on, he passed the ’Frisco Theatre, which was once again showing its favorite double feature: Deep Throat and The Devil in Miss Jones.

  There was something about New York that got to Jack. He loved its sleaze, its color, the glory and crassness of its architecture. He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

  Upon reaching the Fifties, he turned east until he came to Municipal Coins. He stopped in front and glanced briefly at the low-priced junk under the red-and-white WE BUY GOLD sign in the window—proof sets, Confederate paper, and the like—then went in.

  Monte spotted him right away.

  “Mr. O’Neil! How are you!”

  “Fine. Just call me Jack. Remember?”

  “Of course!” Monte said, grinning. “Always with the informality.” He was short, slight, balding, with scrawny arms and a big nose. A mosquito of a man. “Good to see you again!”

  Of course it was good to see him again. Jack knew he was probably Monte’s best customer. Their relationship had begun back in the mid-seventies. Jack had been stashing away his cash earnings for a while and was at a loss as to what to do with it. Abe had told him to buy gold. Krugerrands, specifically. It had been the summer of 1976 and gold was selling for $103 an ounce. Jack thought that was ridiculously high, but Abe swore it was going to go up. He practically begged Jack to buy some.

  It’s completely anonymous! Abe had said, saving his most persuasive argument for last. As anonymous as buying a loaf of bread!

  Jack looked around the shop, remembering his anxiety that first day. He had bought a lot of ten coins, a small part of his savings, but all he dared risk on something like gold. By Christmas it hit $134 an ounce. That was a thirty percent increase in four months. Spurred by the profit, he began buying gold steadily, eventually putting every cent he had into Krugers. He became a welcome face at Municipal Coins.

  Then gold really took off, approaching eight times the original value of his first coins. The volatility made him and Abe uneasy, so they got out for a while in January of 1980, selling off their holdings in small lots around the city, averaging well over five hundred percent profit, none of it recorded anywhere as income. He had bought the coins for cash, and he sold them for cash. He was supposed to report his profits to the IRS, but the IRS didn’t know he existed and he didn’t want to burden them with the information.