Jack closed in on Zalesky and checked him out. He’d changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. Did he have the old lady’s cash on him? Probably not. Didn’t make sense to carry heavy cash. Which meant he’d left it in his apartment. Did he stash all his dough there as Jack did, or did he have a safe deposit box somewhere? He was a real citizen with a real-person identity, and a box would make better sense than a cash cache or a bank account. An account would track deposits and withdrawals; if he ever was investigated for anything, the IRS might want to know the source of those deposits and why taxes hadn’t been paid on them.
So Jack figured it was a relatively safe bet that Zalesky’s latest haul was sitting somewhere in his apartment, at least for the remainder of the weekend.
He followed the man to a bar-restaurant called The Main Event. Jack passed the place, walking on for about half a block, then doubled back. He strolled in and took a seat at the bar. In the mirror he saw Zalesky standing by a table where three other guys of varying ages were seated. All were grinning. Then he turned and headed Jack’s way.
“Yo, Neil,” the bartender said.
Jack tensed as Zalesky leaned on the bar not a foot away. But Jack might as well have been invisible.
“Hey, Joe.”
“’Sup?”
“Lemme have a Bud Light and a round for the guys. Put it on my tab.”
“You got it.”
He returned to the table and seemed in a great mood.
Well, he should be, Jack thought. He’d just ripped off somebody’s grandma. Buy two rounds, Neil-baby. You’re one helluva guy.
“So you’re really Joe the bartender,” Jack said, chatting him up. “The Joe the Bartender?”
Joe smiled. “The original. When Sinatra sings ‘Set ’em up, Joe,’ he’s talking about me.”
“Can you set me up with a Bud Light draft, Joe?”
He ordered a Bud because that was what Neil and company were drinking and Jack wanted to fit in.
“Need to see some proof.”
Jack showed him the Lonnie Buechner license Bertel had supplied.
“North Carolina, huh?” Joe handed it back. “You’re a long way from home.”
“Just checking in on my grandmother,” he said, thinking of the old lady Zalesky had scammed.
The bartender filled a glass and Jack sipped it slowly. It tasted like cold piss cut with seltzer, which fit his mood just fine.
“Bad day?” Joe said.
Jack looked up. The bartender was staring at him.
“Me?”
“You look ready to punch someone.”
Jack blinked. Exactly how he felt. Did it show so clearly? He needed to work on an everything’s-cool face.
“Outa work,” he said.
Joe nodded. “I hear ya. A lot of that going around. Wish I could help but things are tight all over.”
“Thanks anyway.”
The bartender wandered away, leaving Jack to watch the hijo de puta in the mirror and ponder his next move.
6
Roman Trejador glanced at the bowl of curried shrimp that room service had just delivered, then looked up at Nasser. His eyes seemed wary.
“So, the only witnesses we have are a frightened Palestinian who was hiding most of the time, and a driver whose prospects are best served by telling us what we want to hear.”
That’s quite a negative spin, Nasser thought, but pretty much on target.
“We also have the name of the other driver, who got a look at the thieves.”
“Whom we are told got a good look. Do you believe we can trust this – what was his name?”
“The driver we have is named Reggie–”
“So he says.”
Nasser knew a good actuator survived by being suspicious of everything and everyone.
“He also says the other driver’s name is Lonnie.”
“Just…Lonnie? That’s almost as bad as having no name.”
“Reggie says he knows how to find him.”
“I think you should strangle this Reggie for being a liar. Or shoot him in the knees to see if he’s telling the truth.”
“His knees are already broken.”
Trejador smiled briefly. “Touché.”
“And he thinks Lonnie broke them, so we can assume he’s motivated to find him.”
The actuator poked at his shrimp. He didn’t seem to have an appetite.
Nasser was about to ask a very important question when a door opened and a woman wearing only a black teddy stepped through. He recognized her as the young prostitute from last month. In midafternoon?
She looked surprised when she saw Nasser.
“Oops, sorry, I didn’t – oh, it’s you again.” She smiled at Trejador. “You didn’t tell me this would be a threesome.”
“It’s not, Danaë.”
She pouted. “But I like threesomes.”
“I’m sure you do. Why don’t you go take a bubble bath in that ridiculously huge tub while I talk to my associate here.”
“You’ll scrub my back?”
“Of course. Now shoo.”
As she turned and closed the door behind her, her teddy lifted to reveal a delightful pair of bare buttocks. Nasser felt a stirring in his pelvis that almost made him forget his question. But not quite.
“How did the High Council take the news?”
Another poke at the shrimp. “About as expected.”
“They needn’t worry. We will get the money back.”
“It’s not the money; you know that.”
Nasser did. The Order was richer than the Vatican, and far older. Even so, three million US was hardly a negligible sum. But the amount didn’t matter. The principle mattered. Someone had stolen something that belonged to the Order. No members of the Order had been hurt or killed in the process – the only bright spot in this cesspool – but the fact remained that someone had stolen from the Order, and that could not stand.
Which brought up the most important question. ”Did… did they say anything about me?”
Trejador nodded. “Very disappointed.”
Nasser swallowed. “What does that mean?”
“They said ‘adjustments will be made.’”
Nasser didn’t like the sound of that. “ ‘Adjustments’? What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure they knew at the time. We’ll find out when they decide.”
For an instant Nasser wished he were back home in Qatar, but then, the Order had a presence in Qatar. The Order was everywhere.
He looked at Trejador. “Do you want to speak to him? The driver?”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Maybe you can get more information out of him.”
“I sincerely doubt that. I have more pressing matters.”
Like what? Nasser thought. A soak with your whore?
But he said, “Anything I can help with?”
Trejador paused, then said, “Yes, I believe you can.” He reached behind him and produced a floppy computer disk. He held it out to Nasser. “Before giving you the money I had the serial numbers recorded.”
Nasser took the five-inch disk and stared at it. “You suspected?”
“No, but I prepare for the worst. Distribute copies to our brothers in the banking industry. Many of the bills have consecutive runs. Have them alert their people to be on the lookout for those numbers.”
“This is brilliant!”
“No, it’s a long shot. No bank can afford to check every bill that comes through, but they can keep their eye on large cash deposits or large cash transactions.” He shrugged. “Who knows? We may get lucky.”
Nasser’s spirits lifted at this ray of hope. “What about the driver – Reggie?”
He sighed. “Get his knees repaired and put him to work.”
Nasser hurried off with the disk, leaving the actuator with his cold shrimp and the very hot Danaë.
7
He watched Zalesky’s door.
Earlier in the day, Jack
had left The Main Event to make a quick trip by train to his apartment where he retrieved his lock-pick kit.
He’d worked in Abe’s uncle’s store as a teen. Every so often Mr. Rosen would buy an old piece of furniture – an armoire, a china cabinet, a bureau – that would arrive locked with the key long lost. The old guy had a lock-picking kit and had taught Jack how to open the doors and drawers without a key. Later, Jack had bought a kit of his own and had kept it through college. The skill had come in handy many a time when drunken dorm mates would find themselves locked out of their rooms.
He’d returned to Zalesky’s neighborhood in time to see him wander home from The Main Event. With nothing better to do, Jack hung around, hoping to see him leave. And sometime after dark, he did just that, carrying a small duffel. But he was dressed all in black – black jeans, black sweatshirt, black sneakers and socks, even a black watch cap. Not nearly as dashing as Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief, but he did look like he might have a little B & E action on his mind.
Jack’s plan had been to break into his apartment while he was out and relieve him of a certain black briefcase. But Zalesky’s commandolike get-up piqued Jack’s curiosity. What the hell was he up to?
Only one way to find out.
Going after the briefcase could wait until later.
He followed Zalesky to the nearby train station where he hopped the 6, just as Jack had earlier. Jack boarded one car back. He stood by the door at the front end of his car so he could watch Zalesky. When he got off at Longwood Avenue, Jack had a pretty damn good idea where he was going.
Rosa’s.
Julio had given him her address, and the hijo de puta was headed in that direction. He gave Zalesky a half block lead on Longwood and watched him turn onto Rosa’s block on Hewitt Place. But when Jack reached the corner, he was gone.
Not good. Was he in the building already? If so, Jack had to warn Rosa. He found a phone book on the opposite corner and called The Spot.
“Is Rosa home?” he said when Julio answered.
“No. She working. Why?”
“I think ‘the Ghost’ is about to pay another visit.”
Some garbled Spanish, then, “I be right there.”
“No-no-no. You stay put. Be your usual less-than-charming self. Make sure everybody knows you’re there.”
“What’re you gonna do?”
“Zap him with my neutrona wand.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Just stay there and be noticed.”
Jack found a shadowed doorway and watched the three-story building. Julio had said Rosa’s apartment was on the top floor but Jack didn’t know which windows were hers. So he kept watching the third floor, waiting for lights to go on. And while he was watching, he spotted movement on the roof – just a hint. As if someone dressed in black was lurking up there.
Had to be Zalesky. Either he knew how to pick a lock or he’d gotten hold of a key. Jack had no key, but he had something almost as good.
He removed a tension bar and a couple of picks from his kit, then crossed the street toward Rosa’s front door. The outer door opened into a small vestibule; the inner door was locked. The doorknob was a Kwikset. Cool. He loved Kwiksets.
With his left hand, Jack inserted the tension bar into the knob’s keyhole and applied gentle clockwise pressure. He worked the pick in and began raking the pins in the cylinder. He didn’t have to crouch to watch what he was doing because it was all done by feel. Eventually the pins fell into place and the cylinder turned. He gave the tension bar a final twist, the latch retracted, and the door swung open.
He slipped inside and immediately started up the steps. He hurried to the roof door and found it wasn’t alarmed. He eased it open and peeked out. No movement, no sign of anyone up here. Had Zalesky slipped back down while Jack had been fiddling with the lock? If –
He spotted a length of rope running from the chimney to the edge of the roof. He padded over and peeked. The knotted end of the rope dangled next to a third-floor window. This cheater of old ladies had more guts than Jack would have thought.
Keeping to a crouch, he moved to the chimney and found the duffel – empty. Must have held the rope. He inspected the knots fastening it to the chimney. He couldn’t identify them but they looked sturdy.
Okay…how to play this?
He could pull the rope up and make Zalesky improvise, but all he’d have to do was leave by the apartment door and walk downstairs.
Jack had a three-inch folding knife in his back pocket. He could wait till Zalesky was climbing back up and cut it. But the cut end would leave no doubt he’d been sabotaged.
Hmmm.
8
Ghost time again.
Neil was feeling pretty good as he stood in Rosa’s hallway. He’d had a few beers at the Event but he’d paced himself and had some food too. Their pepperoni pizza was tops.
Like last night, he’d called the bitch’s floor at the hospital and did his hang-up bit. So, he knew where Rosa was. And he knew where her brother was. Julio wasn’t very big but he was a tough little spic and would probably take a box cutter to Neil’s face if he caught him here. But Neil had had one of the guys from the Event call Julio’s bar and he’d answered. His friend had asked how late he’d be open, got his answer, then hung up.
He did a flashlight scan again and found nothing. No surprise. Even if she was planning a trap, the Ghost had never visited two nights in a row, so this was going to blow the bitch’s fucking mind.
When he reached her bed he pulled down her covers, unzipped his fly, and let his bladder go. He sighed with relief as the stream started. A lot of it was beer and he’d been holding it for a good hour. Man, he soaked that thing through and through. No just changing the pillow this time around. She was going to have to get a whole new mattress.
He finished, shook a few times, then tucked in and zipped up.
This was just too easy. He was tempted to do something else, but stifled the urge. Save it. He was going to be back again and again. But he couldn’t resist opening the refrigerator. He saw the carton of skim milk on the top shelf. He’d have to do some thinking and come up with something interesting to drop into that.
Something whitish that might mix unnoticed in the milk.
He smiled. Next time.
He returned to the window, leaned through, and grabbed the rope. He swung outside, lowered the sash, and started to climb. He'd gone only two steps when suddenly the rope went slack and he was falling.
“Oh, Christ!”
His left hand shot out and his fingers caught the ledge of the bitch’s window sill. He had a grip for a second but lost it before he could cross his right hand over. He saw the rope falling past him as be began to drop again. He grabbed at the ledge on the second-floor window below but his momentum was too great.
He hit the floor of the alley with a gut-wrenching, bone-crunching thud that sent pain shooting through his shoulder and chest, and down his left thigh. It took every ounce of will to keep from screaming like a girl.
Cutting through the pain was the razor-sharp realization that someone must have cut the rope. But then he saw the blue-taped upper end lying on the dirt a couple of feet away. He’d put that tape there himself. The knots must have slipped and come undone. But how?
He looked up at the edge of the roof.
How?
Never mind. Had to get out of this alley. Couldn’t get caught here. With that restraining order and all, he’d be in deep shit. He tried to rise but a burst of agony forced a yelp of pain past his clenched teeth.
He was going to have to crawl.
9
Jack had untied Zalesky’s knots and just begun retying the rope with his own when it went taut and started to vibrate. Someone was climbing it. Jack yanked on the free end of his knot and it came undone. He heard a cry of “Oh, Christ!” from below as the rope whipped away and disappeared over the edge.
Oops.
He couldn’t help wincing at the thud! that
immediately followed. Not a pretty sound.
He held off a full minute – timed it with his watch – before peeking over the roof edge. He spent the time listening to the soft moans and groans filtering up from the alley floor. When he finally looked, he saw Zalesky crawling on his belly, dragging himself with one arm and one leg, toward the sidewalk. Took him a while to reach it, and when he finally did, he began calling out in a strained voice.
“Help! Call an ambulance! Help!”
Had the knots slipped or had someone untied them? The Ghost would never know for sure.
Jack waited until the EMTs came by and carted him off to the emergency room, then he descended the stairs and left by the front door.
10
The Schlage knob on Zalesky’s door took longer to pick than Rosa’s, mainly because Jack found his hands a little unsteady, what with all the people passing on the sidewalk and going in and out of the bakery next door. He’d worn a Mets cap and had it pulled low over his face; he’d turned up the collar of his pea coat. Probably all for naught. No one seemed to notice and the lock quickly yielded.
Upstairs, Zalesky’s apartment door was double-locked – the doorknob plus a deadbolt – and those took a while, but at least his only worry was one of the neighbors stepping into the hall and spotting him.
Once inside, he turned on the lights. The city’s ERs were famous for their overcrowding and long waits, worsened by the recession. No matter where Zalesky was taken, he wouldn’t be home anytime soon. And if he had a major fracture, not at all tonight.
Jack found the briefcase in the bedroom closet. It had a three-dial combination lock, immune to picking. He found a screwdriver in a toolbox and used that to pop the case open.
“Hello, hello,” he murmured as he lifted the lid and saw the banded stacks of twenties – three of them, each labeled Chemical Bank and $2,000.
He chose one and fanned through the crisp new bills –
“Whoa!”
Only the top and bottom notes were twenties. All the bills in the middle were singles. What was labeled $2000 contained only $138. Obviously the switch money. Take in six grand in exchange for a little over four hundred – not a bad day’s work.
Cold City (Repairman Jack - the Early Years Trilogy) Page 25
