"Drop the blade," Jack said softly.
It clattered to the counter.
"Good. Now find that ring and put it on the counter."
Cheeks dug into the left front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a tiny diamond on a gold band. Jack's throat tightened when he saw the light in the brunette's eyes at the sight of it. Such a little thing... yet so important.
Still gripping Cheeks's crushed hand, he picked up the ring and pretended to examine it.
"You went to all that trouble for this itty bitty thing?" Jack slid it down the counter. "Here, babe. Compliments of the house."
She had to let the front of her dress drop to grab it. She clutched the tiny ring against her with both hands and began to cry. Jack felt the black fury crowd the edges of his vision. He looked at Cheeks's round baby face, glaring up at him from seat level by the counter top, and picked up the kukri. He held it before Cheeks's eyes. The pupils dilated with terror.
Releasing the broken hand, Jack immediately grabbed Cheek's throat and jaw, twisted him up and around, and slammed the back of his head down on the counter, pinning him there. With two quick strokes he carved a crude "X" in the center of Cheeks's forehead. He howled and Jack let go. He grabbed the shotgun again and shoved Cheeks toward the door.
"Don't worry, Cheeks. It's nothing embarrassing – just your signature."
Once he had them all outside, he used the shotgun to prod them into the alley between the diner and the vacant three story Borden building next door. They were a pitiful bunch, what with Tony and Rafe barely able to stand, Cheeks with a bloody forehead and a hand swollen to twice normal size, and Reece and Reilly nursing cracked ribs and swollen jaws.
"This is the last time I want to do this dance with you guys. It's bad for business around here. And besides, sooner or later one of you is really going to get hurt."
Jack was about to turn and leave them there when he heard tires squeal in the street. Headlights lit the alley and rushed toward him. Jack dove to his left to avoid being hit as the nose of a beat up Chrysler rammed into the mouth of the alley. His foot slipped on some rubble and he went down. By the time he scrambled to his feet, he found himself looking into the business ends of a shotgun, a 9mm automatic, and a Tec 9 assault pistol.
He'd found the missing members of Reilly's gang.
*
Even though it made his ribs feel like they were breaking, Matt couldn't help laughing.
"Gotcha! Gotcha, scumbag!"
He picked up the fallen scattergun and jabbed the barrel at Ski mask's gut. The guy deflected the thrust and almost pulled it from his grasp. Fast hands. Better not leave this guy any openings.
"The gun," he said. "Take it out real slow and drop it."
The guy looked at all the guns pointed at him, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his own by the barrel; it fell to the alley floor with a thud.
"Turn around," Matt told him, "lean on the wall, and spread 'em, police style. And remember – one funny move and you're full of holes."
Matt patted down his torso and legs and told him, "You musta thought I was a stupid jerk to hit this place without back up. These guys've been waiting the whole time for you to show. Never figured you'd come in the back, though. But that's okay. We gotcha now."
The frisk turned up nothing, not even a wallet. The blue jacket had nothing in the pockets except the cash from the register. He'd get that later. Right now, though, it was game time.
"All right. Turn around. Let's see what you look like."
When the guy turned, Matt reached up and pulled off the pumpkin headed ski mask. He saw an average looking guy about ten years older than he and his boys – mid thirties, maybe – with dark brown hair. Nothing special. Matt shoved the mask back on the top of the guy's head where it perched at a stupid looking angle.
"What's your name, asshole?"
"Jack."
"Jack what?"
"O'Lantern. It's an old Irish–"
Suddenly Cheeks was at Matt's shoulder, brandishing the Special Forces knife they kept in the car.
"He's mine!" he screeched. "Lemme make his face into a permanent jack o lantern!"
"Cool it, man."
"Look what he did to me! Look at my fuckin' hand! And look at this!" He pointed the knife at the bloody "X" on his forehead. "Look what he did to my face! He's mine, man!"
"You get firsts, okay? But not here, man. We're gonna take Mr. Jack here for a ride, and then we're all gonna get a turn with him." He held the shotgun out to Cheeks. "Here. Trade ya."
Matt took the heavy, slotted blade and placed the point against one of the guy's lower eyelids. He wanted to see him squirm.
"Some knife, huh? Just like the one Rambo uses. Even cuts through bone!"
The guy winced. His tough guy act was gone. He was almost whining now.
"Wha...what are you going to do?"
"Not sure yet, Mr. Jack. But I'm sure Cheeks and me can think up a thousand ways to make you wish you'd never been born."
The guy slid along the wall a little, pressing back like he was trying to seep into it. His right hand crept up and covered his mouth.
"You're not gonna t torture me, are you?"
Behind him, Cheeks laughed. Matt had to smile. Yeah, this was more like it. This was going to be fun.
"Who? Us? Torture? Nah! Just a little sport. 'Creative playtime,' as my teachers used to call it. I've got this great imagination. I can think of all sorts of–"
Matt saw the guy twist his arm funny. He heard a snikt! and suddenly this tiny pistol was in the guy's hand and the big bore of the stubby barrel was staring into his left eye from about an inch away. And the guy wasn't whining anymore.
"Imagine this, Matt!" he said through his teeth. "You do a lousy frisk."
Matt heard his boys crowding in behind him, heard somebody work the slide on an automatic.
"You got no way out of this," he told the guy.
"Neither do you," the guy said. "You want to play Rambo? Fine. You've got your oversized fishing knife? I've got this Semmerling LM 4, the world's smallest .45. It holds five three hundred-grain hollowpoints. You know about hollowpoints, Matt? Imagine one of those going into your skull. It makes a little hole going in but then it starts to spread as it goes through your brain. When it leaves your head it'll take most of your brain – not a heavy load in your case – and the back half of your skull with it, spraying the whole alley behind you."
Without turning, Matt could sense his boys moving away from directly behind him.
He dropped the knife. "Okay. We call this one a draw."
The guy grabbed the front of his shirt and dragged him deeper into the alley, to an empty doorway. Then he shoved Matt back and dove inside.
Matt didn't have to tell the others what to do. They charged up and began blasting away into the doorway. Jerry, one of the new arrivals, stood right in front of the opening and emptied his Tec 9's 36 round clip in one long, wild, jittery burst. He stopped and was grinning at Matt when a single shot came from inside. Jerry flew back like someone had jerked a wire. His assault pistol went flying as he spun and landed on his face. This big wet red hole gaped where the middle of his back used to be.
"Shit!" Matt said. He turned to Cheeks. "Go around the other side and make sure he doesn't sneak out."
Reece nudged him, making climbing motions as he pointed up at the rusty fire escape. Matt nodded and boosted him up. It creaked and groaned as Reece, his scattergun clamped under his arm, headed for the second floor like a ghost in white fringed leather. Matt hoped he got real close to the bastard before firing – close enough to make hamburger out of his head with the first shot.
Everybody waited. Even Rafe and Tony had come around enough to get their pieces out and ready. Tony was in bad shape, though. His nose was all squished in and he made weird noises when he breathed. His face looked awful, man.
They waited some more. Reece should have found him by now.
Then a shotgun boomed inside.
/>
"Awright Reece!" Rafe shouted.
Matt listened a moment to the quiet inside. "Reece! Y'get him?"
Suddenly someone came flying out the door, dark blue jacket and jack o lantern ski mask, stumbling like he was wounded.
"Shit, it's him!"
Matt opened up and so did everyone else. They pumped that bastard so full of holes a whole goddamn medical center couldn't patch him up even if they got the chance. And then they kept on blasting as he fell to the rubble strewn ground and twisted and writhed and jolted with the slugs. Finally he lay still.
Cheeks came running back from the other side of the building.
"Y'get 'im?" he said. "Y'get 'im?"
"Got him, Cheeks!" Rafe said. "Got him good!"
Matt pointed the guy's own .45 at him as he approached the body. No way he could be alive, but no sense in taking chances. That was when he noticed that the guy's hands were tied behind his back. Matt suddenly had a sick feeling that he'd been had again. He pulled off the ski mask, knowing he'd see Reece's face.
He was right. And he had a sock shoved in his mouth.
Behind Matt, Cheeks howled with rage.
*
Abe ran his fingers through the shoulder fringe of the white leather jacket.
"So, Jack. Who's your new tailor? Now that Liberace's gone, you're thinking maybe of filling his sartorial niche? Or is this Elvis you're trying to look like?"
Jack couldn't help smiling. "Could be either. But since I don't play piano, it'll have to be Elvis. You can open for me, seeing as you've got the Jackie Mason patter down perfect. You write for him?"
"What can I say?" Abe said with an elaborate shrug. "He comes to me, I give him material."
Jack pulled off the jacket. He'd known he'd get heat from Abe for it, but it was a little too cold out tonight for just a sweater. But he was glad Abe was still in his store. He kept much the same hours as Jack.
Jack rolled up the right sleeve of his sweater and set the little Semmerling back into the spring holster strapped to his forearm. Not the most comfortable rig, but after tonight he ranked it as one of the best investments he'd ever made.
"You had to use that tonight?"
"Yeah. Not one of my better nights."
"Nu? You're not going to tell me how such a beautiful and stylish leather coat fits in?"
"Sure. I'll tell you downstairs. I need some supplies."
"Ah! So this is a for buying visit and not just a social call. Good! I'm having a special on Claymores this week."
Abe stepped to the front door of the Isher Sports Shop, locked it, making sure the "SORRY, WE ARE CLOSED" sign faced toward the street. Jack waited as he unlocked the heavy steel door that led to the basement. Below, light from overhead lamps gleamed off the rows and stacks of pistols, rifles, machine guns, bazookas, grenades, knives, mines, and other miscellaneous tools of destruction.
"What'll it be?
"I lost my forty five, so I'll need a replacement for that."
"Swishy leather jackets and losing guns. A change of life, maybe? How about a nine millimeter parabellum instead? I can give you something nice in a Tokarev M213, or a TT9, or a Beretta 92F. How about a Glock 17, or a Llama Commander?"
"Nah."
"'Nah.' You never want to change."
"I'm loyal."
"To a person you can be loyal. To a country maybe you're loyal. But loyal to a caliber? Feh!"
"Just give me another Colt like the last."
"I'm out of the Mark IV. How about a Combat Stallion. Cost you five fifty."
"Deal. And maybe I should look into one of those Kevlar vests," Jack said, glancing at a rack of them at the far end of the basement.
"For years I've been telling you that. What makes a change of mind now?"
"Somebody tried to kill me tonight."
"So? This is new?"
"I mean a sniper. Right through the hotel room window. Where nobody but me knew I was staying. I didn't even use Jack in the name when I called in the reservation."
"So maybe it wasn't you they were after. Maybe it was meant for anybody who happened to walk by a window."
"Maybe," Jack said, but he couldn't quite buy it. "Lousy shot, too. I spotted a telescopic sight on it and still he managed to miss me."
Abe made a disgusted noise. "They sell guns to anybody these days."
"Maybe I'll take a raincheck on the vest," Jack said, then quickly added, "Oh, and I need another dozen shuriken."
Abe whirled on him. "Don't tell me! Don't tell me! You've been spiking cockroaches with my shuriken again, haven't you? Jack, you promised!"
Jack cringed away. "Not exactly spiking them. Hey, Abe, I get bored."
Abe reached into a square crate and pulled out one of the six pointed models, wrapped in oiled paper. He held it up and spoke to heaven.
"Oy! Precision weapons made of the finest steel! Honed to a razor's edge! But does Mr. macher Repairman Jack appreciate? Does he show respect? Reverence? Of course not! For pest control he uses them!"
"Uh, I'll need about a dozen."
Muttering Yiddish curses under his breath, Abe began pulling the shuriken out of the crate and slamming them down on the table one by one.
"Better make that a dozen and a half," Jack said.
*
First thing the next morning, Jack called George at the diner and told him to meet him at Julio's at ten. Then he went for his morning run. From a booth on the rim of Central Park, he called the answering machine that sat alone in the fourth floor office he rented on Tenth Avenue. He fast forwarded through a couple of requests for appliance repairs, then came a tentative Asian voice, Chinese maybe:
"Mistah Jack, this is Tram. Please call. Have bad problem. People say you can help." He gave a phone number, a downtown exchange.
Tram. Jack had never heard of him. He was the last on the tape. Jack reset it, then called this Tram guy. He was hard to understand, but Jack decided to see him. He told him where Julio's was and to be there at 10:30.
After a shave and a shower, he headed to Julio's for some breakfast. He was on the sidewalk, maybe half a block away, when he heard someone shout a warning. He glanced left, saw a man halfway across the street, pointing above him. Something in his expression made Jack dive for the nearest doorway. He was halfway there when something brushed his ankle and thudded against the pavement in an explosion of white.
When the dust finally cleared, Jack was staring at what was left of a fifty pound bag of cement. The man who had shouted the warning was standing on the other side of the mess.
"That maniac could've killed you!"
"Maniac?" Jack said, brushing the white powder off his coat and jeans.
"Yeah. That didn't fall. Somebody dropped it. Looked like he was aiming for your head!"
Jack spun and raced around the corner to the other side of the building. This was the second time since midnight someone had tried to off him. Or maim him. The cement bag probably wouldn't have killed him, but it easily could have broken his neck or his back.
Maybe he had a chance to catch this guy.
He found the stairs to the upper floors and pounded up a dozen flights, but by the time he reached the roof it was empty. Another bag of cement sat on the black tar surface next to a pile of bricks. Someone was planning to repair a chimney.
Warily, he hurried the rest of the way to Julio's. He didn't like this at all. Because of the nature of his business, he had carefully structured it for anonymity. He did things to people that they didn't like, so it was best that they not know who was doing it to them. He did a cash business and worked hard at being an average looking Joe. No trails. Most of the time he worked behind the scenes. His customers knew his face, but their only contact with him was over the phone or in brief meetings in places like Julio's. And he never called his answering machine from home.
But somebody seemed to know his every move. How?
"Yo, Jack!" said Julio, the muscular little man who ran the tavern. "Long time no see." He
began slapping at Jack's jacket, sending white clouds into the air. "What's all this white stuff?"
He told Julio about the two near misses.
"Y'know," Julio said, "I seem to remember hearing about some guy asking aroun' for you a coupla weeks ago. I'll find out who he was."
"Yeah. Give it a shot."
Probably wouldn't pan out to anything, but it was worth a try.
Jack scanned the tavern. It was dustier than usual. The hanging plants in the window were withered and brown.
"Your cleaning man die, Julio?"
"Nah. It's the yuppies. They keep comin' here. So I let the place get run down and dirty, an' they still come."
"Déclassé must be in."
"They make me crazy, Jack."
"Yeah, well, we've all got our crosses to bear, Julio."
Jack had finished his roll and was on his second coffee when George Kuropolis came in. He handed George a wad of cash.
"Here's what Reilly's boys took from you last night – minus your portion of the next installment on my fee. Tell the rest of your merchants association to ante in their shares."
George avoided his eyes.
"Some of them are saying you cost as much as Reilly."
Jack felt the beginnings of a surge of anger but it flattened out quickly. He was used to this. It tended to happen with a number of his customers, but more often since The Neutralizer hit the air. Before that, people who called him never expected him to work for free. Now because of some damn stupid goody two-shoes TV vigilante, more and more of his customers had the idea it was Jack's civic duty to get them out of jams. He'd been expecting some bitching from the group.
This particular merchants association had had it rough lately. They ran a cluster of shops on the lower west side. With the Westies out of the picture, they'd thought they'd have some peace. Then Reilly's gang came along and began bleeding them dry. Finally one of them, Wolansky, went to the police. Not too long after, a Molotov cocktail came through the front door of his greengrocer, blackening most of his store; and shortly after that his son was crippled in a hit and run accident outside their apartment building. As a result, Wolansky developed acute Alzheimer's when the police asked him to identify Reilly.
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