Cold City (Repairman Jack - the Early Years Trilogy)

by F. Paul Wilson

  “I am not your friend,” Sayyid said. “You say all the right things, but still I do not trust you.”

  Al-Thani smiled. “So who am I if not who I say I am?”

  “Oh, we know who you are,” Sayyid said. “We checked that out. But what you are… that is another question.”

  “You think perhaps I’m CIA? FBI? Mossad? Would I be helping you bring riches to the cause of jihad if I were?”

  “And bringing riches to yourself as well.”

  Al-Thani shrugged. “There is more than one way to serve Allah. You bluster like a camel in heat, but so far, what have you accomplished?”

  Kadir held his breath. Sayyid’s round face seemed to expand as it turned red. He looked ready to strangle al-Thani.

  The man from Qatar went on. “But let me ask you another question: Who do you hate most of all in this world?” A quick smile. “Besides me at the moment.”

  Sayyid spoke through his teeth. “You know who. You keep asking me about him.”

  “Yes, I do indeed know who. And as a personal favor to you, I have tracked him down. I know where he will be tonight, and exactly what time he will be there.”

  Sayyid shot to his feet. “Tell me! Tell me and I promise you the Zionist pig will not see tomorrow!”

  3

  What day is it? Jack wondered as he sipped a Rock at The Spot.

  He knew it was early November because last week kids had been running around in costumes, trick-or-treating. He’d noticed a few Ghostbusters but Ninja Turtles definitely predominated with the boys. And he knew it was Monday, because he’d watched the Eagles trounce the Pats yesterday. But the actual date? Not a clue.

  The past couple of weeks of his life had blurred into one long road, with Tony at one end and Bertel and the Mummy at the other. He’d wanted to get back out to that Long Island range to do some more shooting, but had no time. After the first run, Bertel gave him the key to the truck’s padlock, but told him to keep it hidden away so he could continue to use the story about his girlfriend’s untrusting father.

  Girlfriend… good thing he didn’t have a real one. She’d be on his case about never seeing him. His social life now consisted of a few brews at The Spot at the end of a run and an occasional visit to Abe. He’d made the mistake of bringing along some sort of edible goody twice in a row; Abe had looked so heartbroken on the third visit when Jack had shown up with nothing that he vowed never to visit empty-handed again.

  Each end of the road had its own ritual. The southern ceremony began with turning the empty truck over to Tony at the Lonely Pine Motel. It might be a U-Haul or a Ryder or a Budget or Penske – Jack never knew until he showed up at the garage the evening before. Then nap time in one of the rooms. As he grew used to the routine, Jack managed to get some genuine shut-eye during the break and occasionally needed Tony’s pounding on the door to wake him. Then the eucharist – Krispy Kremes and coffee – during which he and Tony would shoot the breeze. Though considerably older than Jack, but younger than Bertel, Tony was easy to like – affable, always smiling, always some awful joke to tell. The facial hair thing, though… that wasn’t making it. No way that black scraggle along his jaw would ever thicken into a self-respecting beard. At some point in every conversation, Jack would try to pry free some info on the enigmatic Bertel, and Tony would profess ignorance. Jack didn’t buy that for a second.

  The northern ceremony started upon his arrival at the Jersey City garage. Having the key with him allowed the “Mohammedans” – he doubted he’d ever get used to that unwieldy term – to unload the truck without waiting for Bertel. Then Jack would sit in silence until the man showed up. The Mummy’s helpers spoke Arabic among themselves and the Mummy himself barely acknowledged his existence. The envelope would be passed, an order would be taken, and Bertel would wait till they were in the tunnel to pass Jack his cut. The space behind Jack’s floor molding was filling with hundred-dollar bills. It became even more crowded when he was on the road because he stashed his Ruger there.

  Then parking the van in a reserved space at an Upper West Side garage. Jack suspected Bertel lived up this way. He tried to follow him once but lost him. At the end of the next run Bertel said he understood Jack’s curiosity but not to try that again. So much for his man-hunting skills.

  And aside from a couple of post-run beers with Julio and the dwindling regulars at The Spot, that was pretty much his life.

  A thrill a minute.

  Of course, it could become genuinely thrilling if he got nabbed with those smuggled cigarettes. A thrill he could do without.

  Today had brought a variation to the routine when he’d skipped his usual post-run brew at Julio’s. He’d been bushed and had gone straight home to crash. He’d been jolted awake by a dog barking outside his door. Loud as hell and the damn mutt wouldn’t quit. Finally he’d dragged himself out of bed and gone to the door to scream bloody murder at the owner, but when he opened it he found a silent, empty hallway.

  Go figure.

  Anyway, the damage was done. He was wide awake. So he’d wandered up to Julio’s. When he reached The Spot at five the sun was already gone. Getting dark so early these days. Barney and Lou were at the bar – surprise! – but otherwise the place was mostly empty.

  He stared at the foam atop his brew and thought about how this wasn’t quite how he’d envisioned his new life. Then again, he hadn’t had any sort of plan other than to disappear, tell the world to fuck off, kill the old Jack, and cremate his remains until nothing but ashes remained.

  He’d been using Moore as a surname. He should change that to Jack Phoenix. Yeah, a new Jack, risen from the ashes of the old.

  Jack Phoenix.

  He shook his head. That sucked. It didn’t merely suck, but clearly and sincerely sucked.

  Forget the name crap. What about the smuggling? How long to keep it up?

  He was making a delivery every other day, socking away seven grand in two weeks. Theoretically he could pull down a hundred and eighty thou in a year. The amount was almost unimaginable. And all tax free. He’d have to make a quarter mill or more in a straight job to net that amount after Uncle Sam and Governor Cuomo and Mayor Dinkins were done picking his pockets.

  Yeah, great money, unbelievable money, but how long before he stretched his luck past the breaking point and got pulled over by a cop determined to see what was in the truck bay?

  And really, was this all there was?

  When he first arrived in the city, his main concerns had been keeping something in his belly and a roof over his head – hell, his only concerns. Money had been a constant problem. But now it had stopped being a problem, at least for the moment, so now other questions broke the surface.

  Like, Where do I go from here?

  He’d been raised to have a direction, a purpose in life. His internal compass kept searching for north. Well, fuck north. Fuck purpose and direction as well. That was why he’d come to the city. To get lost. To break out of that trap. To cut all strings.

  Purpose and direction create strings, and strings inevitably control your movements. He would not become his father, good man though he was.

  The plan: have no plan. Throw the rudder overboard. Sail the sea of Now. Live in the moment. Go where the wind takes you.

  At this moment the wind had taken him to The Spot. And something was in that wind. Barney and Lou were strangely silent, and Julio… Julio looked like a caged tiger. He had a sense that they knew something he didn’t, and weren’t sharing.

  “Something going on with our friend?” he said when Julio made the rounds of the tables.

  Barney continued smoking but Lou said, “Lotsa shit goin’ down. His sister’s ex is making life miserable for her. And then–”

  He cut off as Julio returned. Behind Jack, the door opened. Julio, Barney, and Lou looked up… and kept on looking. Their eyes told different stories. Barney’s and Lou’s looked a little cowed, Julio’s looked angry and defiant.

  What the hell?

&nbs
p; Jack turned and saw a fat guy wearing a short black raincoat strolling toward the bar. He stopped next to Jack without looking at him. His gaze was fixed on Julio.

  “Got something for me?”

  Julio glared at him and said nothing. The guy snapped his fingers a couple of times. “Come on, come on. We’ve got other stops to make.”

  Another couple of beats, then Julio reached under the bar and came up with a slim, legal-size envelope. He slid it across the polished wood. The newcomer snapped it up, ripped it open, and peeked inside.

  “Don’t trust me?” Julio gritted his teeth.

  “I only trust my mother,” the guy said without looking up.

  Jack caught a glimpse of some bills but couldn’t make out the denomination.

  The guy nodded and slipped it inside his raincoat. “See you next week.”

  He turned and sauntered out the door.

  Jack watched him go, then turned back to Julio, but he was looking away. Jack hurried to the front windows, pushed aside the damn ferns, and watched him squeeze behind the wheel of a big black Crown Victoria. A guy in a porkpie hat sat in the passenger seat. The car roared away.

  “What just happened here?” he said, returning to the bar.

  “Nothing,” Julio said, then slipped into the back room.

  Jack looked at Lou and Barney. “Is he paying protection? Is that it?”

  “Long story, Jack,” Lou said.

  “I got time.”

  Barney said, “Better you don’t know.”

  “And besides,” Lou added, “Julio wants to keep it to himself.”

  “Well, you guys know.”

  Barney coughed. “We been here a lot longer than you, Jack.”

  That brought home to Jack that, as much as he felt at home here, he was still an outsider. His immediate reaction was anger. And why not? Everything seemed to tick him off. But then he realized he had secrets from them as well. Had he told them he was running cigarettes? No. So they were even.

  Still, it hurt a little.

  4

  After the man from Qatar left, Tachus turned to Sayyid. “You can’t be serious!”

  “This is not a matter for discussion. It will happen. He will die by my hand tonight. I do not need anyone’s help for that. But escaping is another matter.” He turned to Mahmoud. “Your taxi… you could help me.”

  Eyes bright, Mahmoud ran both his hands through his reddish hair. In Afghanistan, he had walked ahead of the mujahideen, poking a reed into the soil to find Soviet mines. He feared nothing.

  “Yes! This man’s death will shake the Zionist world. Tell me what you need me to do and it will be done.”

  Sayyid turned to Tachus, but Tachus raised his hands and backed away. “I want to know nothing of this. We have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to help jihad as never before, and you want to risk it like this? You are insane. Worse, you are traitors to jihad!”

  He turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Sayyid and Mahmoud turned to Kadir.

  “And you?” Sayyid said. “Will you stand with us, or run like that jackrabbit, Tachus?”

  Kadir tried to calm his whirling thoughts. If Sayyid was caught, the trail would lead directly to the Al-Kifah Center. The enemies of Islam would converge here and the man from Qatar might change his mind as to whom to trust with his scheme.

  “How can you hesitate?” Mahmoud cried. “The Zionists have occupied your homeland since before you were born! The boots of Israeli soldiers trample Palestine soil every minute of every hour of every day! Here is a chance to strike back! You cannot refuse!”

  They were right. He could not refuse. Kadir had to be part of this.

  5

  After reluctantly dropping the matter of paying protection, Jack had another beer and then left The Spot. Being shut out of the details still stung, but he’d have to live with that.

  He turned downtown on Columbus Avenue which would morph into Ninth below 59 Street. He’d gone maybe a block when he stopped in shock at the sight of a guy with a familiar face – at least he thought it looked familiar – strolling out from a side street. The bright brown eyes and the scraggly cheeks belonged to Tony from North Carolina, but he was dressed in a frock coat and sealskin hat and had those weird Hasidic curls dangling in front of his ears. Jack knew all Hasids were orthodox but not all orthodox were Hasids. Beyond that, they were men in black. Either way, this couldn’t be Tony.

  Jack watched the guy wave for a cab. When one stopped he flashed a big, bright, chicklet-tooth smile that banished all doubt.

  Tony… dressed as an orthodox Jew. Why? Halloween was over. And Tony was supposed to be in NC.

  As he watched Tony slide into the rear of the cab, Jack made a snap decision. Nothing else going on, and he wasn’t all that tired, so why not?

  He stepped off the curb and flagged down a taxi of his own. As he slammed the door he said, “Follow that cab.”

  The bearded, turbaned driver gave him a look. “You are serious?” he said in accented English.

  Telling a “Mohammedan” to follow a guy dressed as an orthodox Jew. Was that… kosher?

  I don’t believe I just thought that.

  Then he recognized the distinct peaked wrap of the turban – the driver was a Sikh, not a Mohammedan. Jack hadn’t lived in New York six months yet but his time here had schooled him in cultural diversity.

  “Very serious,” Jack told him.

  The driver shrugged and hit the gas.

  Not a long drive. Over to Central Park West, down through Columbus Circle to 57, east to Park Avenue, then downtown some more. The leading cab pulled to the curb near the Pan Am Building.

  “Pull over here,” Jack told his driver and they stopped half a block behind.

  Tony – or his Hasidic identical twin – hopped out and started walking back uptown, heading toward Jack’s cab.

  Shit. Had he spotted him?

  He turned in the seat, angling his back toward the window. He saw $3.20 on the meter, so he threw a five onto the front seat.

  “Keep it. I’ll just wait here half a minute.”

  No confrontation on Tony’s mind. Jack watched out of the corner of his eye as he strode past, oblivious. He did a slow count of five, thanked the cabby, then stepped out and followed.

  Tony moved like a man with a mission. He crossed Park at the first light and then continued uptown another two blocks. Looked like he was heading for the brightly lit Waldorf-Astoria, but before he reached it he turned east onto 49. A block later he crossed Lexington and angled toward the Marriott East Side. Before Tony entered, Jack noticed him tugging the brim of his hat lower over his face and ducking his head.

  Interesting.

  Jack stopped by the knot of hotel guests waiting for cabs and checked out the ornate, pillared entrance. Pretty posh for a Marriott. It didn’t take long for him to spot the security cameras in each corner of the wide entrance, aimed at the comers and goers. He realized another cam somewhere above was probably focused on him right now. And he didn’t exactly blend in with this crowd.

  He couldn’t help feeling Tony was up to no good. Why leave his cab blocks away from his destination? So he could show up on foot with no cab to identify on the security tapes? He wondered if Bertel was behind it. He and Tony appeared tight, so it seemed a real possibility. And if Bertel was up to something funkier than smuggling ciggies, Jack figured he should know about it.

  Dismaying thought: If Tony caused a stir, the security tapes would be fine-combed, and sure as hell someone would see Jack and ask, Who’s that guy just standing there and why’s he staring at the security cams?

  If he were smart he’d keep walking.

  He knew that. And he knew something else: No way he was moving on.

  Jack kept his head down as he entered. Tony’s black hat and frock coat were easy to spot amid the brighter clothes in the lobby. He hurried to get closer, but as he neared he noticed something different. This man was heavier and didn’t have t
hose curls in front of his ears. Oh, crap, his beard was thick and graying. Unless Tony had stepped through some sort of time-warp wormhole here in the Marriott’s lobby, this was someone else.

  He looked around and saw another orthodox type, this one with the curls but no way was he Tony. Then he saw a third non-Tony orthodox – this one with a black fedora. Were they having a convention or something?

  Where the hell was–?

  “Jack?” said a woman’s voice from somewhere behind him.

  He froze. He didn’t recognize the voice and she could be a complete stranger, but she sounded young and the way she’d said his name… like the Jack she was calling to was the last person in the world she expected to find in the lobby of a New York hotel.

  Which certainly fit him.

  He risked a quick glance over his shoulder and saw a young, good-looking brunette, dressed to the nines, beaming at him. Had to be mistaken. He didn’t know her.

  As he turned away, he heard, “Jack from Johnson? Is that really you?”

  Oh, Christ. Who was she?

  He chanced another look and it came to him.

  Cristin! Cristin from-high-school. Cristin best-friend-of-Karina. He was blanking on her last name. Didn’t matter. He couldn’t talk to her. Couldn’t confirm that the guy she thought she saw was really him.

  He saw the three orthodoxers filing into the same open elevator. He sprinted for it.

  “Hold that, please?”

  He squeezed between the doors just before they closed and made it a foursome. He moved straight to a rear corner out of Cristin’s line of sight. He noticed the second floor button was lit as he listened to the orthodox guys speak in low tones.

  “You’re going to see the rebbe?” one said to another.

  A nod. “Morgan D, yes?”

  “So I was told.”

  The doors parted and they stepped out. Jack followed, looking for Tony. His three elevator companions checked the directions plaque on the wall, then streamed in the same direction as others of their kind. Tony was nowhere in sight.

  Jack held back a bit, then followed. Sounded as if they were going to hear some rabbi speak. Why would Tony want to be part of that? He wasn’t even Jewish as far as Jack knew, and those ear curls sure as hell weren’t his own hair. None of this made any sense.