The Repairman- The Complete Box Set

by L. J. Martin

  I take a deep breath and remind myself that this gig is worth a hundred g’s. I wipe my mouth, fold my napkin, fill my coffee cup from the little silver insulated pitcher provided, rise and cross the room.

  Dragging up an empty chair from a nearby table, I position it between Simone and the larger of the two-millennial a-holes. I straddle it, leaning my forearms on the back.

  “I need to bring you up to speed,” I say, directed at the little diva.

  She eyes me like I’m something stuck to her shoe that smells bad and laughs.

  “Really, I didn’t know I was going slow.”

  “You may want to meet me after lunch for this conversation…”

  “Anything you have to say to me you can say in front of my friends.”

  I shrug. “Okay. First, you should know I don’t work for you. So please pay me the courtesy of treating me as you would any other business associate. That includes being on time.”

  “Okay, you’re fired anyway.”

  I’m silent for a moment as everyone at the table, other than Gretchen, laughs as though she was one of those lousy late-night TV comics.

  I wait until they quiet. “Like I said, I don’t work for you. I work for your father.”

  “Who works for me, so I guess you work for me after all?”

  “No, Sally, I don’t.”

  “You may call me Simone.”

  “I may call you a spoiled little twit, but I’ll refrain until I know you better.”

  “Hey,” the big blond kid snaps, “you’re a real smartass. How about you getting the hell out of here and leave us to eat our lunch.”

  I take another deep calming breath. I give him a polite nod. “Young man, I’m working here. I’ll excuse myself soon enough.”

  “The fuck you will. Get the hell…”

  I can feel the heat creep up my backbone, which doesn’t bode well for me keeping this gig or him his teeth. I interrupt but quietly through nearly clenched jaw, “Hold on, sonny. You’re getting in way over that shinny chrome dome of yours.”

  He stands and puffs out his chest like a parrot fluffing his feathers. “Look, fuck head, I played lacrosse at Yale…”

  It’s all I can do not to laugh, but I contain it. “Put your ass back in that chair. I played cross also, all over this tough old world of ours. Only mine was crossing assholes like you off the living list. I’d hate to end this job by throwing your ass through that window, but I’m getting close to doing so.”

  He’s turning red in the face, his fists balled at his sides.

  Simone may be smarter than she’s acting so far as she jumps into the exchange. “Bryan, take a seat. I have been provided with Reardon’s background and he’s not a nice man. I’m surprised he’s not eating raw meat for lunch.”

  “Fuck him,” Bryan says, but retakes his seat.

  "Bry," I say, "I'm sure you're a nice young man, but the fact is I'd look funny getting fucked and you'd look even funnier trying to fuck me after I ripped your dick off and stuffed it in your mouth." I give him a smile. “Bry, do you know what tinnitus is?”

  He shrugs, staring at me with his mouth hanging open.

  “It’s when your ears are ringing. It’s not a communicable condition. However, I’ll give you a case of it if you think you can screw with me. Your ears won’t stop ringing for a month.”

  “Shut up, Bryan,” Simone snaps. Then eyes me. “Let’s talk up in my room. Say two o’clock…no, two-thirty would be better?”

  “Fine, please be on time. Not that it matters much from now on. Just so you know, you won’t be out of my sight for the next six weeks except for going to the john. Then I may check the potty room first. We don’t have to be buddies, but I’ll do my job. Got it?”

  “Not much fucking chance of us being buddies,” she says. She gives me a phony smile, adds, “I got it,” and nods. I get up and cross the room with coffee cup in hand. Unfortunately, the waiter has removed my little thermos pitcher.

  I retake my seat and wave the waiter back over and order a cup of Earl Grey. After all, Mort is paying.

  I’m half-finished when Connie strides in, looking like a real woman, and crosses the room. I jump up and pull out her chair, and she joins me.

  “Tea?” she asks, seeming surprised.

  “No Jack Daniel’s until I put my charge to bed.”

  She gives me a devious smile. “I didn’t know bedding her was part of your duties.”

  “Very funny. She's about as sexy to me as Little Orphan Annie. How was Carlos?”

  “Smart, capable, and still a good friend. Our bags with gear are in the room when you’re ready to repack. I presumed you wanted those crates, so they’re shipped back to Vegas.”

  “Super. However, I’m now at work. Until little Simone and her lady entourage is up to speed with the alarm, and locked in her room, I won’t be leaving her side.”

  As I say that, the kids are finished and rise to leave. The others head for the door, but Simone crosses the room and sidles up to our table.

  “You…uh…work fast,” she says, and sticks out her hand to Connie.

  “Hi, Connie Nordstrom,” she says, shaking daintily. “I’m Mike’s back up.”

  “I’ll bet. I’m Simone,” she says, and cuts her eyes to me.

  Connie overrides her as she starts to speak. “Of course, I know who you are. I love your music, and what a delight that last video was. Moonlight was the song, right?”

  Simone actually seems pleased and gives Connie a sincere smile. “Thank you,” then she can’t seem to help herself. “It was a little on the rap side. I didn’t know older people…”

  I interrupt. “What’s up?” I don’t say ‘what’s up, asshole’ as I’m tempted to, nor do I suggest that the older person—Connie’s thirty-six—could kick the dog-do out of all four of them should she feel insulted.

  Simone continues. “We’re headed out to go shopping so I won’t make our two-thirty.”

  “Then please wait in the lobby until I can go to the room. I’ve got a small alarm you need to carry everywhere.” Then I smile. “Even into the loo. We can go over details and how to keep you from being overrun by fans or worse when we get on board. Right now, the alarm will do.”

  She laughs and turns and heads over to join the others, giving me a wave over her shoulder and saying, “Five minutes.”

  I yell and stop her, then move to her side. “I need the names of your two boyfriends?”

  “Not boyfriends, but they’re Bryan Cox and Terry Von Riche. Why?”

  “Terry or Terrence?”

  “Probably Terrence, why?”

  “My job, that’s why.” I turn to Connie as Simone wanders on. “Sign the tab, please. See you in the lobby. Then we’re going shopping.”

  “I’m going?”

  “Damn right, I look a lot more innocuous with you on my arm. In fact, no one will even look at me. By the way, the two metrosexuals or millennials or whatever the hell you call them these days are Terry, maybe Terrence Von Riche and Bryan Cox. A little background on them would be good. You’re strapped?”

  “Of course.”

  “Stay with them, please, until I catch up.”

  She gives me a nod and notes the names in her iPhone. So, I head for the room to gather up the alarms. Connie follows the kids.

  12

  I’ve worn out shoe leather following this crew up and down Sloan Street and in and out of every high-class shop I’ve ever heard of and many I haven’t. I’m happy to say Connie cares little about labels, but she’s amused as she watches the girls and young men ooh and aah over tee-shirts that cost a hundred pounds and goofy shoes—some of which are over a thousand—and some purses the size of my fist over four thousand pounds. Simone explains they are works of art, which also amuses me. My neck hurts from shaking my head, and my awe is not over the looks or quality of the goods, but only the price and garishness of most. Being a Carhartt kind of guy, I don’t impress easily.

  I grab a sandwich from roo
m service, but Connie goes to supper with the kids, with her .380 in her purse. Since they’re only three floors below, have their alarms, and have Connie at hand, I take the time to repack my gear.

  The client and her entourage have, so far, not decided if they want to report to Blue Pearl tonight or in the morning, but since they’re nighttime types and as the ship sails at 1:00 p.m. tomorrow, I’d imagine we will board tonight, and I must be ready. And am, when Connie shows back up at 6:30 p.m. and informs me we’re off to board, then the kids are off again. The kids have Googled and discovered British Music Experience, a concert hall of twenty thousand square feet in what’s called the O2 Bubble. It has a show, a Beatles retrospective by a tribute band called the Cheatles, in Liverpool but not far from the dock, and once aboard they can go back out to party it up. Oh, joy, I get to club it tonight with a bunch who sleeps in until lunchtime.

  And we’re off.

  Mumin goes to the Swahili Tea Room, buys a paper and takes a cup of tea, then wanders out and pulls his phone from a pocket.

  Omar Al-Amed is just getting off work, as he’s worked the early shift, and follows as he’d like to get a picture and earn his fee from the American but can’t quite get near enough. He watches Mumin from a distance.

  Mumin makes one more important call prior to the three of them boarding the Blue Pearl, and that’s to Mohamid who he arranges to meet in a small park in East London, a park with lots of trees and shrubs where a body can be easily hidden. Mumin is carrying a small .22 caliber revolver than fits easily in the palm of his hand. One doesn’t need an AK47 for a single traitor.

  Unknown to him, Omar has followed him the two blocks from the teahouse, hoping the man will stop so he can act as if he’s taking a picture of something else, or merely looking at his iPhone.

  The man enters a park, wanders to a bench, takes a seat and unfolds a newspaper, which unfortunately covers his face as he reads. Omar crosses the park then turns and heads back and sees another of the three he’d been watching as the man joins the first one.

  “As-salām 'alaykum,” Mohamid says as he approaches Mumin, who’s on a park bench reading Al Ahram al Duwali, the largest Arabic newspaper, which is published in Egypt but distributed worldwide.

  “Wa 'alaykum as-salām,” Mohamid replies, with an unusual wide smile. “We are soon to be smiled upon by Mohammed, the messenger of the one true God, Allah.”

  “Inshallah,” Mumin replies, with a tight smile. Then, it faded, “Let me see your phone again,” Mumin demands, holding out his hand.

  Mohamid shrugs and hands over the throwaway. Mumin takes another look at the recent calls and sees the phone hasn’t been used since the call made to Abu Mansoor Mukta.

  “You failed me,” Mumin says with a hard tone.

  Mohamid throws his shoulders back. “I have never failed you or our holy mission.”

  “You used the throwaway. You called Abu Mukta.”

  Mohamid’s face falls and his mouth drops open. Then he recovers. “Abu Mukta is my dear friend, and, yes, I called him, but it was on my personal…”

  “No, it was not.”

  Mohamid looks embarrassed, then confesses. “The phone you gave me is exactly the same as my personal cell. If I called him…”

  “You did.”

  Neither of them notices another Muslim who passes as if he’s enjoying the park, but like most, his attention is focused on his iPhone.

  “If I did so it was a mistake,” Mohamid says with a little gasp. “A terrible mistake and I’m sorry. I apologize to you and Mohammed and our gracious God Allah. Please, I am without shame as it was an honest mistake.”

  Mumin slowly pulls the little revolver from his pocket and points it at Mohamid, covering it with his other hand so only his target could see. “Had that call gone to anyone other than one whom I know is faithful…” He almost growls the threat. “It is your one mistake on this mission. Another and you will be food for bottom feeders in the wake of the Blue Pearl.”

  “It will not happen again,” Mohamid stutters.

  “Swear to Allah?”

  “I do, I do.”

  “Then return to your home and the next we see each other it will be on board. Do not even nod your head to me for the next weeks. Understand?”

  “Yes…Yes, I understand. I will not fail you.”

  “Inshallah. Go.”

  And Mohamid hurries away. A friend will drive him to Greenwich, a few miles down the River Thames, to report to his new job and his calling.

  Mumin finishes his newspaper and lets his anger recede, then drops the paper in a trash can as he exits the park.

  13

  Harry Weinstein’s desk phone rings in his fifth-floor embassy office, and he’s a bit surprised when Omar from the Swahili Tea Room greets him with an English hello.

  “Mister Weinstein. I have pictures of two of them. I do not have names, but I have a newspaper and a cup one of them used.”

  “Can you e-mail me the pictures?”

  “Of course.”

  “And the cup and newspaper.”

  “I presume there is a bonus for fingerprints?”

  “Would have been, had you gotten their names.”

  “Will not fingerprints provide you with a name?”

  “It will, Omar, if they are in the system.”

  “Then my bonus?”

  “Look, I’ll give you another twenty quid. When can I get the cup and paper?”

  “I am off work. Meet me at the mouth of the tube near the embassy. In a half hour.”

  “Ten four.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Harry laughs, then translates. “Got it. You bet I will.”

  Crew replacements, a normal occurrence at the cruise line’s London, Greenwich stop, report to the Blue Pearl at least eighteen hours prior to its sailing time. There’s some settling in involved as well as a few hours extensive training for new employees, even those with former experience on other lines.

  The majority of Mumin’s ten associates have been on board for some time, some many months, working in various positions; laundry, waiter, bartender, steward, deck hand, and cook’s helper. Abdul will report to Stores. His responsibility is stowing and maintaining inventory, reporting shortages, which seldom happens, and maintaining the proper supply of fruit, vegetables, spices, and meat which he needs to pull for thawing per the chef’s orders. Orders for each ship in the line are compiled near Rome at Civitavecchia, the port serving the city, then packed in containers for delivery to harbors called on by the particular cruise ship. Even meat, which is shipped frozen, arrives by container. Among the employees at Civitavecchia are Enrico Sansivio and Paulo Pierucci, both half-Syrian on their mother's side, both associates of Mumin.

  Mumin's last phone call is to Enrico to confirm that his order has been filled.

  Another, a bar manager, is responsible for liquor and mixes. A housekeeping manager for soaps and linens. Other associates will join later.

  Mohamid reports as a roustabout, who will work in general maintenance and repair, which will give him access to the ship’s shop and chemical supply rooms. He will work closely with Marco and Rajah, on board in maintenance and specializing as gas welders. Both of them are Abu Sayyaf and although he wonders if he can trust them, they were recruited by Sheik Ali Hassan, and it's not his place to question the Mullah.

  Mumin goes on board as a passenger, in the least expensive cabin on Deck Four, but still travelling in style as compared to the homes of most of his Muslim brothers and his own background having been born in Somalia. Like many of his brethren, he’s very thin with pronounced cheekbones, a high forehead, and nearly blue-black skin. But he’s taller than most at over six feet. He will stand out among other passengers, although, as usual, there will be other Blacks from America—all more generous in girth than Mumin. The joke about most Somalians and Ethiopians is they can wear a leather watchband for a belt. Mumin has been well fed since he travelled to England, so it no longer applies. He has
been provided with funds so he’s well-dressed when necessary with a dark suit or sport coat, slacks, decent cotton shirts, as well as an expensive silk tie. His suitcase, however, contains camo shirt and pants, and web belt and ankle high boots.

  Mumin’s English is more than merely passable as he worked at a U.S. drone base in Somalia, swamping in the kitchen when he was very young and drones were the newest technology and used mostly for observation. A year in England has helped.

  Luckily, Abdul and Mohamid are placed together in one of the modest crew cabins deep in the bowel of Blue Pearl, a cabin that has a bathroom, which earns the on-board crew joke: you can sit, take a piss, brush your teeth by bending slightly over the lavatory, and shower all at the same time. It has bunkbeds, each with a small storage shelf, and one pace across the room is eighteen inches of closet for each of the two cabin mates. They enjoy an equal amount of shelf space above each closet. The only luxury is a floor-length mirror on the bathroom door, facing out. Abdul thinks it’s paradise; Mohamid, the American, is not impressed. There is, however, room and privacy for both of them to pray, with shoulders touching, without attracting attention to their religion.

  They, as will the passengers, have their bags scanned as they board.

  Of course, they carry nothing to arouse suspicion, not even a Quran. What they need to complete their mission will arrive in crates of lettuce and fruit, and in boxes of frozen meat.

  Revenge is sweet, and best served cold.

  Simone, who knows one of the public relations people who works for O2, is able to get five of us comped. Which means I will have to buy a ticket for Connie. The show, of course, is sold out. She says to hell with it and decides to stay aboard the ship and get us settled in. Our bags have yet to be delivered, although they were x-rayed, and passed, as we boarded.