Quick Fixes: Tales of Repairman Jack

by F. Paul Wilson

  On the other hand, he thought, even the lowliest rat had been known to fight when cornered.

  Jack swung back onto the pipe and around to the windows on the other side. The bar retreated through the holes it had punched in the sheet and the window. As Jack shifted his weight to the opposite sill, he realized that from inside he was silhouetted on the sheet. Too late. The bar came crashing through the pane level with Jack’s groin, catching him in the leg. He grunted with pain as the corner of the bar tore through his jeans and gouged the flesh across the front of his thigh. In a sudden burst of rage, he grabbed the bar and pulled.

  The sheet came down and draped over Hollander. He fought it off with panicky swipes, letting go of the bar in the process. Jack pulled it the rest of the way through the window and dropped it into the alley below. Then he kicked the remaining glass out of the pane and swung inside.

  Hollander was dashing for the door, something in his right hand.

  Jack started after him, his mind registering strobe flash images as he moved: a big empty space, a card table, two chairs, three mattresses on the floor, the first empty, a boy tied to the second, a naked woman tied to the third, blood on her right breast.

  Jack picked up speed and caught him as he reached the door. He ducked as Hollander spun and swung a meat cleaver at his head. Jack grabbed his wrist with his left hand and smashed his right fist into the pale face. The cleaver fell from his fingers as he dropped to his knees.

  “I give up,” Hollander said, coughing and spitting blood. “It’s over.”

  “No,” Jack said, hauling him to his feet. The darkness was welling up in him now, whispering, taking control. “It’s not.”

  The wide blue eyes darted about in confusion. “What? Not what?”

  “Over.”

  Jack drove a left into his gut, then caught him with an uppercut as he doubled over, slamming him back against the door.

  Hollander retched and groaned as he sank to the floor again.

  “You can’t do this,” he moaned. “I’ve surrendered.”

  “And you think that does it? You’ve played dirty for days and now that things aren’t going your way anymore, that’s it? Finsies? Uncle? Tilt? Game over? I don’t think so. I don’t think so.”

  “No. You’ve got to read me my rights and take me in.”

  “Oh, I get it,” Jack said. “You think I’m a cop.”

  Hollander looked up at him in dazed confusion. He pursed his lips, beginning a question that died before it was asked.

  “I’m not.” Jack grinned. “Mooo neeer sent me.”

  He waited a few heartbeats as Hollander glanced over to where Munir’s naked wife and mutilated child were trussed up, watched the sick horror grow in his eyes. When it filled them, when Jack was sure he had tasting a crumb of what he’d been putting Munir through for days, he rammed the heel of his hand against the creep’s nose, slamming the back of his head against the door. He wanted to do it again, and again, keep on doing it until the gutless wonder’s skull was bone confetti, but he fought the urge, pulled back as Hollander’s eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed the rest of the way to the floor.

  He went first to the woman. She looked up at him with terrified eyes.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “Munir’s on his way. It’s all over.”

  She closed her eyes and began to sob through her gag.

  As Jack fumbled with the knots on her wrists, he checked out the fresh blood on her left breast. The nipple was still there. An inch long cut ran along its outer margin. A bloody straight razor lay on the mattress beside her.

  If he’d tapped on that window a few minutes later…

  As soon as her hands were free she sat up and tore the gag from her mouth. She looked at him with tear flooded eyes but seemed unable to speak. Sobbing, she went to work on her ankle bonds. Jack stepped over to where the fallen sheet lay crumpled on the floor and draped it over her.

  “That man, that… beast,” she said. “He told us Munir didn’t care about us, that he wouldn’t cooperate, wouldn’t do anything he was told.”

  Jack glanced over at Hollander’s unconscious form. Was there no limit?

  “He lied to you. Munir’s been going crazy doing everything the guy told him.”

  “Did he really cut off his…?”

  “No. But he would have if I hadn’t stopped him.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Nobody.”

  He went to the boy. The kid’s eyes were bleary. He looked flushed and his skin was hot. Fever. A wad of bloody gauze encased his left hand. Jack pulled the gag from his mouth.

  “Where’s my dad?” he said hoarsely. Not Who are you? or What’s going on? Just worried about his dad. Jack wished for a son like that someday.

  “On his way.”

  He began untying the boy’s wrists. Soon he had help from Barbara. A moment later, mother and son were crying in each other’s arms. He found their clothing and handed it to them.

  While they were dressing, Jack dragged Hollander over to Barbara’s mattress and stuffed her gag in his mouth. As he finished tying him down with her ropes, he heard someone pounding on the downstairs door. He ushered the woman and the boy out to the landing, then went down and found Munir frantic on the sidewalk.

  “Where–?”

  “Upstairs,” Jack said.

  “Are they–?”

  Jack nodded.

  He stepped aside to allow Munir past, then waited outside awhile to give them all a chance to be alone together. Five minutes, then he limped back upstairs. It wasn’t over yet. The kid was sick, needed medical attention. But there wasn’t an ER in the city that wouldn’t be phoning in a child abuse complaint as soon as they saw Robby’s left hand. And that would start officialdom down a road that might lead them to Jack.

  But Jack knew a doc who wouldn’t call anyone. Couldn’t. His license had been on permanent suspension for years.

  17

  Jack was sitting and waiting with Barbara and Munir. Doc Hargus had stitched up Barbara’s breast first because it was a fresh wound and fairly easy to repair. Robby, he’d said, was going to be another story.

  “I still cannot understand it,” Munir said for what seemed like the hundredth time but was probably only the twentieth. “Richard Hollander… how could he do this to me? To anybody? I never hurt him.”

  “You fired him,” Jack said. “He’s probably been loony tunes for years, on the verge of a breakdown, walking the line. Losing his job just pushed him over the edge.”

  “But people lose their jobs every day. They don’t kidnap and torture–”

  “He was ready to blow. You just happened to be the unlucky one. It was his first job. He had to blame somebody – anybody but himself – and get even for it. He chose you. Don’t look for logic. The guy’s crazy.”

  “But the depth of his cruelty…”

  “Maybe you could have been gentler with him when you fired him,” Barbara said. The words sent a chill through Jack, bringing back Munir’s plea from his first telephone call last night.

  Please save my family!

  Jack wondered if that was possible, if anyone could save Munir’s family now. It had begun to unravel as soon as Barbara and Robby were kidnapped. It still had been salvageable then, up to the point when the cleaver had cut through Robby’s finger. That was probably the deathblow. Even if nothing worse had happened from there on in, that missing finger would be a permanent reminder of the nightmare, and somehow it would be Munir’s fault. If he’d already gone to the police, it would be because of that; since he hadn’t, it would be his fault for not going to the police. Munir would always blame himself; deep in her heart Barbara also would blame him. And later on, maybe years from now, Robby would blame him too.

  Because there’d always be one too few fingers on Robby’s left hand, always be that scar along the margin of Barbara’s nipple, always the vagrant thought, sneaking through the night, that Munir hadn’t done all he could, that if he’d only
been a little more cooperative, Robby still would have ten fingers.

  Sure, they were together now, and they’d been hugging and crying and kissing, but later on Barbara would start asking questions: Couldn’t you have done more? Why didn’t you cut your finger off when he told you to?

  Even now, Barbara was suggesting that Munir could have been gentler when he’d fired Hollander. The natural progression from that was to: Maybe if you had, none of this would have happened.

  The individual members might still be alive, but Munir’s family was already dead. He just didn’t know it yet.

  And that saddened Jack. It mean that Hollander had won.

  Doc Hargus shuffled out of the back room. He had an aggressively wrinkled face and a Wilford Brimley mustache.

  “He’s sleeping,” Doc said. “Probably sleep through the night.”

  “But his hand,” Barbara said. “You couldn’t–?”

  “No way that finger could be reattached, not even at the Mayo Clinic. Not after spending a night in a Federal Express envelope. I sewed up the stump good and tight. You may want to get a more cosmetic repair in a few years, but it’ll do for now. He’s loaded up with antibiotics and painkillers at the moment.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” Munir said.

  “And how about you?” Doc said to Barbara. “How’re you feeling?”

  She cupped a hand over her breast. “Fine… I think.”

  “Good. Your sutures can come out in five days. We’ll leave Robby’s in for about ten.”

  “How can we ever repay you?” Munir said.

  “In cash,” Doc said. “You’ll get my bill.”

  As he shuffled back to where Robby was sleeping, Barbara pressed her head against her husband’s shoulder.

  “Oh, Munir. I can’t believe it’s over.”

  Jack watched them and knew he hadn’t completely earned his fee.

  Save my family…

  Not yet. Hollander hadn’t won yet.

  “It’s not over,” Jack said.

  They both turned to look at him.

  “We’ve still got Richard Hollander tied up in that loft. What do we do with him?”

  “I never want to see him again!” Barbara said.

  “So we let him go?”

  “No!” Munir spoke through his teeth. “I want him to hang! I want him to fry! He has to pay for what he did to Robby! To Barbara!”

  “You really think he’ll pay if we turn him in? I mean, how much faith do you have in the courts?”

  They looked at him. Their bleak stares told him they felt like everybody else: No faith. No faith at all.

  “So your only other option is to go back there and deal with him yourself.”

  Munir was nodding slowly, his mouth a tight line, his eyes angry slits. “Yes… I would like that.” He rose to his feet. “I will go back there. He has… things to answer for. I must be sure this will never happen again.”

  Barbara was on her feet too, a feral glint in her eyes.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “But Robby–”

  “I’ll stay here,” Jack said. “He knows me now. If he wakes up, I’ll be here.”

  They hesitated.

  Save my family…

  If the Habibs were going to make it they were going to have to face Hollander together and resolve all those as-yet-unasked questions by settling their scores with him. All their scores.

  “Get going,” he said. “I never made it past Tenderfoot in the Boy Scouts. Who knows how long my knots will last?”

  Jack watched them hurry out, hand in hand. Maybe this would fix their marriage, maybe it wouldn’t. All he knew for sure was that he was glad he wasn’t Richard Hollander tonight.

  He got up and went looking for Doc Hargus. The doc was never without a stock of good beer in his fridge.

  introduction to “Interlude at Duane’s”

  In January 2005, David Morrell and I were instructors at the Borderlands Bootcamp for Writers. David had helped start the International Thriller Writers organization the previous year and induced me to join. ITW in turn induced me to donate a Repairman Jack story to their anthology (Thriller) to raise funds for the organization.

  Thus was "Interlude at Duane’s" born. The Thriller table of contents is a Who’s Who of thriller writers. All contributors were limited to a 5K word count. I could have used more. Toward the end I was on fire, burning up the keyboard. I wish I could write with that speed and intensity all the time.

  As you’ll see, this one was fun.

  Thriller went on to become one of the best if not the best selling anthology of all time. And I didn’t get a dime royalty. But I did gain a ton of new readers. Many of the zillion or so people who bought the anthology had never heard of Jack. Since then I regularly run into devoted Jack fans who say their first contact with the character was in Thriller. (I’ll bet a fair number of you are reading this collection because of that story.) Doing well while doing good…nothing wrong with that.

  Ed Gorman chose it for his anthology The Deadly Bride and Other Great Mystery and Crime Stories of 2005.

  Interlude at Duane’s

  “Lemme tell you, Jack,” Loretta said, blotting perspiration from her fudgcicle skin, “these changes gots me in a baaaad mood.

  They’d just finished playing some real-life Frogger jaywalking 57th and were now chugging west.

  “Real bad. My feets killin me too. Nobody better hassle me afore I’m home and on the outside of a big ol glass of Jimmy.”

  Jack nodded, paying just enough attention to be polite. He was more interested in the passersby and was thinking how a day without your carry was like a day without clothes.

  He felt naked. Had to leave his trusty Glock and backup home today because of his annual trip to the Empire State Building. He’d designated April 19th King Kong Day. Every year he made a pilgrimage to the observation deck to leave a little wreath in memory of the Big Guy. The major drawback to the outing was the metal detector everyone had to pass through before heading upstairs. That meant no heat.

  He didn’t think he was being paranoid. Okay, maybe a little, but he’d pissed off his share of people in this city and didn’t care to run into them naked.

  After the wreath-laying ceremony, he ran into Loretta and walked her back toward Hell’s Kitchen. Oh, wait. It was Clinton now.

  They went back a dozen or so years to when both waited tables at a now-extinct trattoria on West Fourth. She’d been fresh up from Mississippi then, and he only a few years out of Jersey. Agewise, Loretta had a good decade on Jack, maybe more – might even be knocking on the door to fifty. Had a good hundred pounds on him too. Her Rubenesque days were just a fond, slim memory, but she was solid – no jiggle. She’d dyed her Chia Pet hair orange and sheathed herself in some shapeless, green-and-yellow thing that made her look like a brown manatee in a muumuu.

  She stopped and stared at a black cocktail dress in a boutique window.

  “Ain’t that pretty. Course I’ll have to wait till I’m cremated afore I fits into it.”

  They continued to Seventh Avenue. As they stopped on the corner and waited for the walking green, two Asian women came up to her.

  The taller one said, “You know where Saks Fifth Avenue?”

  Loretta scowled. “On Fifth Avenue, fool.” Then she took a breath and jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “That way.”

  Jack looked at her. “You weren’t kidding about the bad mood.”

  “You ever know me to kid, Jack?” She glanced around. “Sweet Jesus, I need me some comfort food. Like some chocolate-peanut-butter-swirl ice cream.” She pointed to the Duane Reade on the opposite corner. “There.”

  “That’s a drugstore.”

  “Honey, you know better’n that. Duane’s got everything. Shoot, if mine had a butcher section I wouldn’t have to shop nowheres else. Come on.”

  Before he could opt out, she grabbed his arm and started hauling him across the street.

  “I specially like their m
akeup. Some places just carry Cover Girl, y’know, which is fine if you a Wonder Bread blonde. Don’t know if you noticed, but white ain’t zackly a big color in these parts. Everybody darker. Cept you, a course. I know you don’t like attention, Jack, but if you had a smidge of coffee in your cream you’d be really invisible.”

  Jack expended a lot of effort on being invisible. He’d inherited a good start with his average height, average build, average brown hair, and nondescript face. Today he’d accessorized with a Mets cap, flannel shirt, worn Levi’s, and battered work boots. Just another guy, maybe a construction worker, ambling along the streets of Zoo York.

  Jack slowed as they approached the door.

  “Think I’ll take a raincheck, Lo.”

  She tightened her grip on his arm. “Hell you will. I need some company. I’ll even buy you a Dew. Caffeine still your drug of choice?”

  “Guess…till it’s time for a beer.” He eased his arm free. “Okay, I’ll spring for five minutes, but after that, I’m gone. Things to do.”

  “Five minutes ain’t nuthin, but okay.”

  “You go ahead. I’ll be right with you.”

  He slowed in her wake so he could check out the entrance. He spotted a camera just inside the door, trained on the comers and goers.

  He tugged down the brim of his hat and lowered his head. He was catching up to Loretta when he heard a loud, heavily accented voice.

  “Mira! Mira! Mira! Look at the fine ass on you!”

  Jack hoped that wasn’t meant for him. He raised his head far enough to see a grinning, mustachioed Latino leaning against the wall next to the doorway. A maroon gym bag sat at his feet. He had glossy, slicked-back hair and prison tats on the backs of his hands.

  Loretta stopped and stared at him. “You better not be talkin a me!”

  His grin widened. “But señorita, in my country it is a privilege for a woman to be praised by someone like me.”

  “And just where is this country of yours?”