Cold City (Repairman Jack - the Early Years Trilogy)

by F. Paul Wilson

  And then it darted away as she glanced up at the waitress. “One flan, two spoons.”

  Cristin rose as the waitress moved away. “Off to the facilities. Back in a flash.” She put on a stern expression and pointed at him. “And leave me some flan.”

  Jack laughed and waved her off.

  He watched the gentle sway of her hips as she strolled away. He’d always thought Cristin kind of plain, but she was looking pretty good these days. Beer goggles? Maybe, but he didn’t think so. This was the third time he’d seen her in a week – a glimpse last Monday when she’d been meeting clients just before the shooting, at lunch the next day, and now tonight. She’d been more dressed up Monday, but she’d been working then; more casual at lunch and tonight, but whatever she wore, she wore with a certain flair.

  But more than that, she seemed comfortable in her skin… like she knew who she was. Jack envied that. He was still treading water in that regard.

  But the biggest revelation was Cristin herself. Lunch last Tuesday had been his first one-on-one with her, tonight the second. Back in high school she’d been overshadowed by Karina. If the three of them were hanging out, it was all Karina. Not that she was pushy or anything, she simply had all these offbeat interests she couldn’t stop talking about. Cristin tended to be obscured in her shadow.

  He watched her stop by the hostess’s station before heading for the ladies room. They seemed to know each other. He tried to come up with a word that best described her now that she could shine on her own.

  Vivacious.

  Yeah. That nailed it. She radiated a field, a glow of vitality that had magnetic qualities. It made Jack want to edge closer so he could siphon off some of that energy and make it his own.

  Cristin had definitely come into her own.

  The waitress brought the flan and two spoons. Even though he wasn’t big on desserts – as much as he loved junk food, he’d been born without a sweet tooth – he’d had flan before and liked it.

  Cristin appeared again at the far end of the room and he watched her stop for another brief exchange with the hostess. Then she strolled his way, waving to the bartender as she passed.

  When she arrived he rose, and pointed to the flan. “Only through supreme effort of will did I resist slurping that down.”

  “Look at those manners,” she said. “Rising when a lady arrives. Your mother taught you well.”

  “Actually, it was my father.”

  “He must have been old school.”

  “And how.”

  “Well, he did a good job.”

  “All by example.”

  His dad had been very old school about that – rising when a woman at the table rose and not sitting until she was seated. It became almost comical at a large, crowded table.

  She sat and immediately dug into the flan, closing her eyes and moaning with her first bite.

  “I so love this stuff.”

  Jack took a bite. A little too sweet for him. He took tiny bits, letting Cristin finish the bulk of it.

  They talked a while longer, then he said, “Where do we go from here?”

  “For a nightcap. I know a good place.”

  Well, this was her turf.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  He signaled the waitress and waggled a finger against his palm in the universal check, please sign.

  She came over and said, “All settled.”

  Jack looked at Cristin. “Oh, no you don’t–”

  She raised her hands. “Don’t get your macho nachos in an uproar. It’s on the house.”

  “Do I look like a dummy? I saw you talking to the hostess.”

  “And she told me the owner said my money’s no good here tonight.”

  Jack had expected a minor struggle for the check but had assumed he’d prevail. “On the house” hadn’t even been on the radar.

  “This was supposed to be my treat.”

  She shook her head. “No-no, Jacko, this was never going to be your treat. We agreed on Dutch, remember?”

  “You don’t expect me to believe–”

  “I’ve arranged a few parties here where my clients have rented the whole place. They loooove me here.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “What about the tip?”

  “Taken care of.”

  Not knowing what else to do, he pulled out a twenty and dropped it on the table. “Gotta leave something.”

  She tilted her head toward the waitress. “Estella will love you. Let’s go.”

  6

  Outside, a chill wind blew down Second Avenue. Cristin wrapped her arms across her chest.

  “Should have worn something a liiiittle warmer.”

  Jack resisted an impulse to throw an arm across her shoulders and snuggle her against him. Nice as that might have been, he opted instead for giving up his jacket. He had it halfway off before he remembered the revolver in the small of his back.

  Crap.

  He let her pull half a step ahead, then shrugged off the jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

  “Here.”

  Before she could look around, he untucked his shirt to hide the weapon.

  She smiled up at him. “And I thought chivalry was dead.”

  “Find a puddle and I’ll lay it across it.”

  She held up the blazer’s sleeve. “You really hate it that much?”

  “Loathe it.”

  He couldn’t imagine ever wearing it again – unless he wanted to look like someone else.

  “But now you’re cold.”

  “Yes, but I’m a man, and real men don’t feel cold.”

  “Or at least don’t admit it.”

  He had to admit – to himself – that he was cold. That breeze was cutting through his shirt like it was fishnet.

  “Um, where are we going? Is this nightcap place far?”

  “Right around the corner,” she said as she led him in a westward turn onto 73 Street. He followed her to the front of an apartment building halfway down the block.

  “But–”

  “My place,” she said, smiling as she handed back his blazer. “Best nightcaps in town.”

  Jack couldn’t help a tingle of anticipation. Was this really going where it seemed to be? And if so, what did he do? How did he handle it? Getting involved with someone from home was the worst possible move at this point in his new life. But the flip side… would backing off shut her off? Make her cut off contact? That might be for the best – Abe’s warnings echoed in his head – but the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her in any way. But even beyond that, he’d enjoyed the hell out of tonight. He delighted in her company. He didn’t want to lose that.

  He could beg off right now – bad stomach or something equally lame – and avoid the situation altogether. Or maybe he was kidding himself, creating this whole conundrum when sex was the furthest thing from Cristin’s mind. After all, hadn’t she made a point of saying “no strings” last week?

  He was still vacillating as they stepped into her third-floor apartment a few minutes later.

  “I’ve been here only a couple of months so I’m still decorating,” she said.

  Compared to Jack’s place it looked like a designer showroom. She had real curtains on the windows instead of room darkener shades, her couch looked first-hand instead of third or fourth. And she had art on the walls.

  “Name your poison,” she said as she opened a cabinet in the tiny kitchen.

  “What’ve you got?”

  While her back was turned, he removed the SOB holster and wrapped it in the blazer.

  “Cuervo Gold.”

  He’d never been a tequila fan. In margaritas, sure, but the few shooters he’d done had left a burning tongue but no burning desire for more.

  “What else?”

  “I’m looking. Got some Cuervo Gold, and some Cuervo Gold, and let’s see… oh, here’s some Cuervo Gold.”

  He laughed. “I’ll let you choose.”

  She
turned and stared hard, as if studying him. “Judging from the look of you, I peg you as a Cuervo Gold type.”

  “Straight up?”

  “The only way.”

  He’d never had that particular brand. Steely Dan’s “Hey, Nineteen” drifted through his head. Cuervo Gold… make tonight a wonderful thing…

  He really should go.

  But he stayed and wandered to one of the framed pieces on her walls. It ran about three feet tall and two wide. From afar he’d thought it some kind of abstract, but close up he realized it was a sketch of a dress. The woman in the dress was almost a stick figure, barely recognizable as human, let alone female. The dress was the focus. He moved on to the next – different dress, same focus. Same with the third. He bent closer and realized they were originals on slightly wrinkled sketch paper.

  “Did you do these?”

  “Yes,” she said, close behind him. “Like them?”

  As he turned she pressed an elongated shooter glass filled with golden fluid into his hand. She was close. Very close.

  “I do like them,” he said. “I have no way to judge them as far as fashion design, but I think it’s cool you’ve got your own work on your own walls.”

  “They’re okay,” she said, slipping past him and staring at the third. “I did them at FIT and had them lying around. I needed something for the walls so I figured, why not? Something different. Better than a Seurat print or Matisse that nine zillion other folks have. So I had a few framed and now I’m the only person in the whole world with Ott originals on her walls.”

  Jack felt a toast was required. He raised his glass.

  “To the artist!”

  She grinned. “I’ll drink to that.”

  They clinked glasses and tossed back the Cuervo. It burned just a little going down, but left a soft and surprisingly pleasant aftertaste. Nothing like the harsh tequilas he’d had in the past.

  “Not bad,” he said, staring at the glass. “Not bad at all.”

  She lifted the bottle from a nearby table and poured them another, saying, “This isn’t shooter tequila. This is almost like sipping whiskey.”

  He took a sip and let it roll around his tongue. He could get used to this stuff.

  He looked around. “Nice place. Looks like you’ve got a pretty good life for a college dropout.”

  “Drop-down,” she said. “I’m still taking a few credits. And as for this place, I’d love to buy it. They’re asking only ninety-five thousand.”

  Seemed like a lot to Jack.

  “ ‘Only’?”

  “I could probably get them down to ninety.”

  “Still pricey, if you ask me.”

  “City real estate is going to go through the roof, Jack.”

  He didn’t want to ask flat out how an FIT dropout – or dropdown – knew this. So he opted for…

  “Based on…?”

  “My clients. I arrange events for CEO’s families and companies and they all tell me to put any spare money I’ve got into real estate here in the city.”

  Real estate… that was for real people, with real identities. Not for him.

  “So what’s holding you back? Money?”

  “You betcha. But I’m putting away all I can for the down payment. I’ll get there.”

  Jack couldn’t help but think of Julio’s need for a down payment. Maybe the combination of that plus the tequila caused him to blurt out, “I can lend you the money.”

  She laughed. “I know you said the tips were good, but they can’t be that good.”

  Oh, right. He was supposed to be a deliveryman. And then he remembered the Mikulskis’ warning about keeping that money out of circulation.

  “I’ve got savings from my previous life.”

  She gave her head an emphatic shake. “Thanks, but no way I can take money from you.”

  He hid his relief with a hurt look. “What’s wrong with my money? Just a loan.”

  Still shaking her head – had she and Julio taken lessons together?

  “No strings, remember? A loan is a string.”

  “But you’d be getting a mortgage from a bank. That’s a loan. That’s a string.”

  “Not the kind of string I’m talking about. A bank’s an institution. You’re a person. No strings, no strings, no strings.”

  “I get it.”

  “Good.” She finished her second tequila and put the glass down. “Now let’s fuck.”

  Jack blinked. Did she just say…?

  “Um, what?”

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Like bunnies. Or, if you prefer, ‘Have sex.’ ” She stepped close and began unbuttoning his shirt. “Notice, I didn’t say ‘Make love.’ Because we’re not in love. We may be in ‘like’ but we’re not in love. Love would mean strings, a relationship, and neither of us want that.”

  Inanely, through all the sudden turmoil in his bloodstream and in his brain, he mentally corrected her: wants that.

  He gripped her wrists as she opened a second button.

  “You’ve had a lot to drink.”

  She smiled. “And you think I’ll regret this in the morning. Aw, that’s sweet. But I haven’t and I won’t.” She twisted her wrists free and began working on the third button. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

  “Which is?”

  “Getting ready to fuck your brains out and hoping you’ll reciprocate.”

  “Cristin…”

  “Just pure physical need and want, Jack. Don’t make any more of it than that. I like you. I find you attractive. So, unless you find me repulsive…” Her hand trailed down to his zipper and gave a gentle squeeze to the growing hardness there. She smiled. “Apparently you don’t. So then, I’m going to pleasure you and you’re going to pleasure me. Nothing more. Fair enough?”

  She gave him another squeeze. That did it. It had been too long a time, too many nights alone.

  His voice sounded like a croak. “Fair enough.”

  She took his hand and pulled him toward her bedroom.

  “Follow me.”

  7

  “So if we’re not making love, are we making like? I’ve never made like.”

  “Then this will be a new experience for you. And I guarantee something.”

  “What?”

  “You’re going to like it. Comfy?”

  “Yeah, but it’s awful dark in here.”

  “I like it dark. Am I rushing this too much?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Sometimes I just want to get to it, you know.”

  “You won't hear me complain. But there’s this strange sensation of a weight on my chest.”

  “That’s my butt. Are you telling me I’m fat?”

  “No way.”

  “Then get used to it…it’s gonna be there awhile. Now take your hand and – yes!”

  “Mmmm, you’re wet.”

  “I should be… been hoping all week we’d end up here.”

  “Like slick silk.”

  “Right there. That’s the spot.”

  “You like that?”

  “Yesssss…now stop talking. This is my time and I know you can find better things to do with your tongue. Aaaaah! You do! That’s it… that’s it… find the little pearl… there! Now the fingers, don’t forget the fingers. Right there. Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! Gimmeeeeeeee!”

  8

  “How’re you doing?” she said, her breath warm against his chest.

  They’d untangled the sheets and now lay stretched out on the bed, Cristin snuggled against him, her head on his shoulder, a thigh draped across his groin.

  “Wiped out.”

  She giggled. “Good. Then my work here is done.”

  No lie. He felt physically drained. But emotionally… strange. It had been over sooner than he would have wished. And he’d never expected the evening to turn out like this.

  “I wanted to last longer but, well, it’s been a long time.”

  “It’s okay. I came four times.”

  She was counting? Well, why
not? She knew what she wanted and she’d definitely been in charge, even to the point of slipping a condom on him. When he’d questioned her, she’d whispered, “I play it safe… and it’s got ridges. I loooove ridges.”

  Did she ever.

  He pouted. “Only once for me.”

  “Well, your tongue-fu is verrrry strong.”

  “You are an excellent teacher.”

  She laughed. “Seriously, though, you haven’t been getting any?”

  “Nope.”

  “Oh, man, I’d go craaaazy!”

  “I’m not very good with pickup lines. Never have been.”

  “You don’t really need them in this town. ‘Wanna fuck?’ is often enough.”

  He shook his head. “Somehow I don’t see me saying that.”

  “You can say it to me. Anytime you want. I mean, I like sex, you know.”

  Jack laughed. “Really? I never would have guessed.”

  “Seriously. I discovered that in junior high school when I gave myself my first orgasm. I didn’t have the nerve to get it on with a guy until well into high school, and that was even better. At least most of the time. So many guys, so little time.”

  Jack remembered now how Cristin had gained quite the reputation by senior year.

  “It just came back to me: Hot-to-trot Ott.”

  She smiled. “That was me. I did most of the football team.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Well, varsity first string, anyway. All except Tommy Lampman. Turned out he was gay.”

  “No way!”

  “Way. Way gay. You know who else was gay? Sheila McKim.”

  “But she was dating that jock, Warner.”

  “And he wasn’t getting any.”

  “How do you – oh, wait. Him too?”

  “No. Her.”

  Jack rose onto an elbow and stared at her. “You and Sheila?”

  She nodded. “We got assigned to a science project together – she told me later that she’d finagled me as a partner – and one night we’re working on it at her house and her folks are out and she starts playing footsy with me and, well, one thing led to another and…” She shrugged. “She was my first girl.”

  “First?”

  She glanced away. “There’ve been others.”

  “So you’re telling me you’re bi?”

  “I don’t look at it that way. The queers make it all so political and go around labeling everybody. I… like… sex. I like getting it on and I loooove getting off. The sex of the other person doesn’t matter so much as long as I like them. I could use a little more Cuervo. You?”