Repairman Jack 03 - Conspiracies

by F. Paul Wilson

  "How many strips are there?"

  "Well, let's see ... Annie started in the twenties ... "

  "Wow. He kept this up for forty years?"

  "The thirties and forties contain his best stuff. Punjab gets introduced in that book you've got there."

  "Punjab?"

  "Yeah. The big Indian guy. Geoffrey Holder played him in the film. I've always loved Little Orphan Annie, mostly for characters like Punjab and the Asp—you didn't mess with the Asp. This guy Gray is the American Dickens."

  "I didn't know you were into Dickens."

  "Well ... I liked him in high school."

  "But I can see what you mean," Gia said, flipping again. "He seems to deal with all classes."

  "Never thought much of his art, though."

  "Think again. This guy is good."

  Jack would take her word for it. Gia was an artist, doing commercial stuff like paperback covers and magazine illustrations to pay the bills, but she kept working on paintings on the side, always trying to interest a gallery in showing them.

  "I can see Thomas Nast in him," she said. "And I know I've seen some of him in Crumb."

  "The underground guy?"

  "Definitely."

  "You know underground comics?" Jack said.

  Gia looked up at him. "If it involves any kind of drawing, I want to know about it. And as for you, I've got to start dragging you to some art shows again."

  Jack groaned. She was always after him to go to openings and museums. He gave in now and then, but usually hated most of what he saw.

  "If you think it'll help," he said. "But no urinals stuck to the wall or piles of bricks on the floor, okay?"

  She smiled. "Okay."

  Jack gazed into the wild blue yonder of Gia's eyes. The very sight of her gave him a buzz. She shone like a jewel here. A couple of guys seated near the windows kept looking at her. Jack didn't blame them. He could stare at her all day. She wore little make-up—didn't need any, really—so what he was seeing was really her. Humidity tended to make her blond hair wavy. Because she wore it short, the waves created feathery little wings along the sides around her ears. Gia hated those wings. Jack loved them, and she had a whole bunch of them today. He reached out and stroked a few of the feathers.

  "Why did you do that?" she said.

  "Just wanted to touch you. Have to keep reassuring myself that you're real."

  She smiled that smile, took his hand, and gently bit his index finger.

  "Convinced?"

  "For now." He held up his tooth-marked finger and wiggled it at her. "Meat, you know. And you a brand-new vegetarian."

  He snatched his finger back before she could bite it again.

  "I am not a vegetarian," she said. "I'm just off meat."

  "Not some sort of religious thing? Or a plot against plants?"

  "No ... it's just that lately I've found myself with less of an appetite for things that were walking around under their own power not too long before they landed on my plate. Especially if they resemble what they looked like alive."

  "Like a turkey?"

  She made a face. "Stop."

  "Or better yet, a squab."

  "Must you? And by the way, anybody who eats squab in this city should know that they're eating Manhattan pigeon."

  "Come on."

  "Oh, yes." She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You order squab, they send some guy up to the roof with a net. A few minutes later ... 'squab.'"

  Jack laughed. "Is this sort of like the fur coat thing?"

  "Please—let's not discuss fur coats today. Spring is here at last and their vacuous owners will be stuffing them into vaults for the rest of the year."

  "Jeez. Can't talk about fur, squab, pulled pork—none of the fun subjects."

  "I can think of a fun subject," she said. "How about your father?"

  "My turn to say 'Stop.'"

  "Come on, now. I've never met him, but he can't be as bad as you make him out."

  "He's not bad, he's just relentless. And he cannot stay with me. You know what my place is like."

  Gia nodded. "Like the 168th Street Armory."

  "Right. I can't move all that stuff out. No place to stash it. And if he finds any of it—"

  "You mean like I did?"

  Jack nodded. "Yeah. And you know what happened."

  Gia and Jack hadn't been together that long then. He'd told her he was a security consultant. She'd been doing him a favor, a little spring cleaning, when she stumbled onto one of his caches—the one in the false rear of the antique secretary. It almost had broken them up. Even though they were back together now, tighter than ever, Jack still shuddered at how close he had come to losing Gia and Vicky. They were his anchors, his reality checks, the two most important people in the world.

  "He's an uptight middle class guy who already thinks his younger son is something of a loser; don't want him thinking he's a gun nut too. Or worse yet, figure out he's been lying to him all these years about being in the appliance repair business."

  Gia shook her head and smiled. "You're unbelievable, Jack. Here you've spent your whole adult life cutting yourself free from just about every string society attaches, and yet you still crave your father's approval."

  "I don't crave it," he said, perhaps, a tad too defensively, he realized. "It's just that he's a good man, a genuinely concerned parent, and it bugs me that he thinks I'm some sort of loser. Anybody else—present company excepted, of course—I wouldn't care. But dammit, he's my father. And I can't have him crashing with me."

  "Then you should simply say your place is too small and offer to put him up in a hotel for his stay."

  "I don't know if that's going to fly." Frustrated, he groaned and stared at the ceiling. "I'll think of something. I've got to."

  "Speaking of thinking," Gia said softly, "you might want to think about making some time in your busy schedule to stop by sometime late Friday morning."

  "I don't know, Gi. No telling what's going to be happening. What's up?"

  A tiny shrug. "Nothing much. It's just that Vicky's got a play date and she's being picked up at eleven—"

  "And we'll have the place to ourselves?"

  Those blue eyes locked onto his. "Completely."

  Jack grinned. Ooh, yes. "Something just opened up. See you one minute after eleven."

  He glanced over to the motorcycle and realized with a start that Vicky was no longer on it. He stiffened and scanned the dining area.

  "Relax," Gia said. "She's over there talking to those kids."

  Jack looked to where she was pointing and saw Vicky talking to a crowd of children about her age. They all had backpacks and were under the wings of a couple of matronly chaperones. As Jack watched, Vicky led one of the boys over.

  "Hey, Jack," she said, grinning. "His name's Jack too!"

  "Jacques," the boy said.

  "That's what I said. He's from France." She gestured to the group behind her. "They're all from France. They're visiting."

  "And where else would they come for fine American cuisine," Jack said. He extended his hand to the little boy and repeated his entire French vocabulary. "Bon-jour, Jacques."

  The kid beamed. "Bonjour, Monsieur!" and then went into overdrive Francais, incomprehensible to Jack.

  Gia answered him in kind and the two of them babbled back and forth for a couple of minutes until his chaperone called him back.

  Jack was amazed. "I didn't know you spoke French."

  "President of the French club in college."

  "It's so ... sexy. Will you speak French to me on Friday?"

  She smiled and patted his hand. "Easy, Gomez."

  "I had no idea."

  "Well, it's not like I have much chance to use it. French isn't a very useful language in Manhattan."

  "Jack;" Vicky said, "will you teach me to play baseball?"

  "Sure," Jack said. "But I've got to tell you, I wasn't a great player."

  "I just want to hit a home run."
<
br />   "That I can probably help you with."

  "Swell!" she said and kissed him on the cheek. Then she ran back to the motorcycle.

  "Why the sudden interest in baseball?" Jack said to Gia.

  "Not exactly baseball—T-ball. Some of her friends are going out for the local team and she wants to be part of it." She looked at him. "Not a great player? I'd have guessed you for an ace player."

  "Nah. Too boring. I could hit it a mile, and that's the only reason I ever made a team. I was a disaster on defense. Coaches moved me all over, infield and outfield, didn't matter—a minute out there and my eyes would glaze over and I'd be daydreaming, asleep on my feet. Or watching the bees and wasps in the clover—I was terrified of being stung."

  He smiled at the memory of being literally and figuratively out in left field and hearing the crack of a bat against the ball, waking up to see everybody staring at him, the pure terror of realizing the ball was coming his way and not having the faintest clue as to where it was. Stomach-clenching panic as he looked up, searching the bright summer sky for a dark round speck, praying he'd see it, praying even harder he'd catch it, praying hardest it wouldn't land on his head and leave him in a coma.

  Ah, the joy of being one of the boys of summer.

  "Which reminds me," Gia said, "I hope you're not going out collecting for the West Side Little League again this year."

  Uh-oh. "Well ... it's for a good cause."

  She made a face. "Do they know how you collect for them?"

  "Of course not. They just know I'm their top fundraiser."

  "Can't you just go door to door like most people? You could get hurt your way."

  He loved the concern in her eyes. "Tell you what. I'll give them whatever I already have put aside for them, and that'll be it for this year. How's that sound?"

  "Great," she said. "And what other kind of trouble have you got planned for yourself?"

  "Well, there's that guy I told you about."

  "With the missing wife?"

  "Right. Shouldn't be any rough stuff with that. More like a Sherlock Holmes thing."

  "But you're not a detective. Why did she specify you rather than a private eye?"

  "She thinks I'm the only one who will 'understand.'"

  Gia raised her shoulders. "Don't ask me why, but that gives me the creeps."

  Jack reached across and squeezed her hand. "Hey, don't worry. This has all the makings of a Gandhi job—strictly non-violent."

  "I've heard that before—and you almost wound up dead."

  "Not this time. This one's going to be smooth as glass."

  He didn't mention the other customer he'd be meeting with late tonight, however. That might be a different story.

  3

  "A beauty," Abe said, examining the gleaming Smith and Wesson 649. "Checkered rosewood stocks, even. Very nice. But as you know, my clientele tends to prefer functional over flashy."

  Jack had brought the pistol he'd confiscated from the slide to Abe for an appraisal.

  "Get the most you can for it," Jack said. "It's for the Little League."

  "Will do, but no promises. You should keep it, maybe."

  "And what?" Jack slapped a hand over his heart in shock. "Replace my Semmerling?"

  "I should suggest you abandon your favorite little baby gun? Never. But maybe consider replacing that Glock 19 you're using lately. After all, the Smitty's a revolver."

  Jack rolled his eyes. "Not this again."

  "It's a thought."

  Abe never had trusted automatics. And he never stopped trying to convert Jack, who leaned toward them.

  Jack said, "That thing's heavy and holds only six rounds—five if you keep it down on empty like I tend to do with revolvers. My glock's small, about as light as they come, and gives me a helluva lot more shots."

  "With the kind of close situations you get yourself into, even a lousy shot like you shouldn't need more than three or four rounds. And a revolver will never jam."

  "Call it a security blanket. And I've never had a cycling problem. Mainly because you sell me only the best ammo."

  "Well, yes," Abe said, thrown off by the compliment. "Quality makes a difference. Speaking of which, how are you fixed for ammo?"

  "Pretty good. Why?"

  "Just got in some new stock." He pulled a box from under the counter. "Look. Those Magsafe Defenders you're using."

  "Great. I'm running low on the .45s."

  Jack had been using frangibles like Glaser Silvers and MagSafe Defenders for a while now—hollow point rounds packed with birdshot that released after impact.

  "Forty-fives and nines, ready to go."

  Jack shook his head, remembering how naive he'd been when he'd first started in the fix-it business. He'd thought all you had to do was buy a gun and some bullets and that was it.

  Not by a long shot. Accuracy, chambering, weight, concealability, number of rounds in the magazine or cylinder, the safety mechanism, the weight of the single-action pull, the weight of the double-action pull, ease of maintenance—all had to be weighed and considered. Then came the ammunition: different situations required different loads. Did he want full metal jackets, jacketed hollowpoints, or frangibles? What size load? Choose from ninety-five to 230 grains. Medium compression or high compression? And don't forget, recoil is directly proportional to the compression of the load and inversely proportional to the weight of the pistol. A lightweight model with +P+ loads will want to fly out of your hand every time you fire.

  Jack was still feeling his way.

  "Frangibles are nice," Abe said. "But you should be carrying something with more penetration maybe?"

  Jack shook his head. He felt safer with the frangibles. "Penetration doesn't equal stopping power in my book."

  "Stopping power," Abe said, holding up one of the Defender rounds. "That they've got."

  "I'll pick some up tomorrow. I don't want to be carrying them around with me the rest of the day."

  "Big wounds," Abe said, speaking to the gleaming bullet in his hand. "Deep as a well and wide as a church door."

  "They're good," Jack said, "but I think that's overstating it a little, don't you?"

  "That was Shakespeare, sort of."

  "Shakespeare? No kidding. I didn't know he used frangibles."

  Jack backed toward the door as Abe cocked his arm to throw the bullet at him. "Got to go. By the way—Ernie's still in business, isn't he?"

  "Sure. You need new ID?"

  "I'm feeling the need for a new SSN."

  "Another Social Security number?" Abe said. "You're trying to corner the market, maybe?"

  "Just being careful."

  "Always with the careful. I've used the same phony number forever. Do you see me getting a new one every couple of years?"

  "I need a wider comfort zone than you," Jack said. "Besides, you've got a real one you can use. I don't."

  "You're crazy, you know. What's it for?"

  "A new credit card."

  "Another card!" He slapped his hands to the sides of his face and rocked dramatically. "Oy! I never should have got you started. You've become an addict!"

  Jack laughed. "And can I borrow the truck again? I've got to meet a customer in Elmhurst tonight."

  "No one's going to be shooting at you, I hope. I don't want holes in my lady."

  "No. This is just a reconnoiter. I'll rent something for the rest of the gig."

  He wouldn't want Abe's plate reported near the scene of a felony.

  4

  "That him?" Jack said.

  He crouched in the bushes behind a two-story, center-hall colonial in a middle-class neighborhood in Elmhurst. A guy named Oscar Schaffer hunkered next to him. This was their second meeting. They'd agreed to preliminary terms earlier in the week; now they were ironing out details.

  "Yeah," said Schaffer, glaring through the French doors into the house's family room. The man of the house was a big guy, easily six-four, two-fifty; crew-cut red hair, round face, and narrow blue eyes.
A bulging gut rode side-saddle on his belt buckle. "That's Gus Castleman, the no-good slimy rotten bastard who's beating up on my sister."

  "Seems like there's a lot of that going around."

  This wouldn't be the first wife-beater Jack had been asked to handle. He thought of Julio's sister. Her husband had been pounding on her. That was how Jack had met Julio. They'd been friends ever since.

  "Yeah? Well it never went around in my family. At least until now."

  A thin, mousy, brittle-looking woman whose hair was a few shades too blonde to be a natural human color entered the family room.

  "And that, I take it, is your sister."

  "That's Ceil, poor kid."

  "Okay," Jack said. "Now that I know what they look like, let's get out of here."

  They crept along the six-foot stockade cedar fence that separated the Castlemans' yard from their neighbors—one of the good things about this set-up. Also on the plus side: they had no kids, no dog, and their yard was rimmed with trees and high shrubs. Perfect for surveillance.

  After checking to make sure the street was empty, Jack and Schaffer stepped back onto the sidewalk and walked the two blocks to the darkened gas station lot where they'd left their respective rides. They chose the front seat of Schaffer's dark green Jaguar XJS convertible.

  "Not a great venue for a meeting, but it'll do."

  The Jag smelled new inside. The leather upholstery was buttery soft. Bright, bleaching light from a nearby mercury vapor street lamp poured through the windshield and illuminated their laps.

  Oscar Schaffer was some sort of big-time developer, but he didn't look like Donald Trump. He was older, for one thing—late fifties, at least—and fat. A round face with dark thinning hair above, and a second chin under construction below. One of the biggest land developers on Long Island, as he was overly fond of saying. Rich, but not Trump-rich.

  And he was sweating. Jack wondered if Donald Trump sweated. The Donald might perspire, but Jack couldn't imagine him sweating.

  Jack watched Schaffer pull a white handkerchief from his pocket and blot the moisture. Supposedly he'd started out as a construction worker who'd got into contracting and then had gone on to make a mint in custom homes. His speech still carried echoes of the streets, despite occasional words like "venue." And he carried a handkerchief. Jack couldn't think of anyone he knew who carried a handkerchief—who owned a handkerchief.