Dark City

by F. Paul Wilson

  “Sure it wasn’t you?”

  Bertel didn’t offer his hand. “Don’t think it wouldn’t have crossed my mind.”

  “You still pissed at me?”

  Bertel seemed to think about that. “Yeah, a little. But not that pissed.”

  Jack used to drive for him, running unlabeled cigarettes from NC to NJ, delivering them to the Mummy. But things got complicated and finally too hairy for Jack. They hadn’t parted on the best terms—Bertel felt like Jack had left him hanging.

  He gripped Jack’s hand but didn’t pull. “Sure nothing’s broken?”

  His back and shoulder hurt like hell, but he didn’t think anything was broken. He’d rolled off the embankment and, though the ground was hard, he hadn’t slammed into a tree or a big rock. Much as he hated the helmet, it had probably spared him a concussion or worse before it came loose. The leather jacket was scraped almost all the way through. He didn’t want to think what his skin would look like if he’d been wearing only a sweatshirt.

  “One way to find out.”

  Pain shot through his lower spine as he let Bertel help him to his feet, but it didn’t last long. He staggered around in a circle. His left hip hurt but everything seemed to work. He waved his arms and was rewarded with a jolt of pain down his left.

  Shit! His sliced shoulder.

  He pulled off his jacket, then began unbuttoning his shirt.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Gotta check on something.”

  When the shirt was loose enough, he pulled it off his left shoulder and checked the bandage. A little blood seepage. He lifted it for a peek—all the sutures seemed intact.

  Bertel was leaning close. “That’s a nasty one. How’d you get it?”

  “Long story.”

  “Okay, then let me try another question: How’d you get on the wrong side of those swarthy bastards?”

  “One of them says he works for your Mummy friend, said he’d seen me at the Jersey City drop and thought I was spying on him.”

  Bertel smiled. “Are you?”

  “Yeah, right.” Jack began walking up the incline toward the road. “If I ever saw him before, I don’t remember. But when I told him so he got all pissed.”

  “Pissed enough to try to kill you?”

  “Looks that way.” Then he saw his Harley. “My bike! Look at my bike!”

  “That’s not rideable,” Bertel said.

  “No shit.”

  His fury blossomed, ready to explode. If he could get his hands on that bastard—

  “We’ll put her in the back of the truck.”

  Jack bottled the rage and looked at Bertel. Why was he being so accommodating?

  “Thanks. That’d be great.”

  After much grunting and groaning, with Jack guarding his left shoulder, they slid it into the rear of Bertel’s F-150.

  “Guess I’m lucky you came along when you did,” Jack said once they were in the cab and rolling toward the LIE. “On your way to the range?”

  Bertel nodded. “I was headed out there when I saw them ram you. I didn’t know it was you, what with the helmet and all, but I swung around and came back. They were stopping—to finish you off, maybe?—but kept going when they spotted me coming.”

  “Finish me off? Why would they—?”

  Bertel shrugged. “That wasn’t a little love tap on your fender. You took a break-your-neck tumble there. That’s why they call them ‘donorcycles,’ kid.”

  “You sound like my sister.”

  Kate had said the same thing when he’d bought the Harley.

  “Yeah? She work in an ER or something?”

  Jack caught himself before he could say she just got out of a pediatric residency. Was Bertel trolling for information?

  “Something.”

  Bertel grinned. “Still as clammed up as ever.”

  Jack glanced through the rear window at his Harley. Maybe it was time to rethink this whole motorcycle thing. He realized he was shaking inside. He hadn’t seen it coming. He could have been killed. Or worse, broken his neck and ended up a quadriplegic.

  “Donorcycle or not, why would they think I’m spying on them? I get paranoia—I mean, I’m more paranoid than the average guy, but that’s a real stretch.”

  “Not if you’re up to no good,” Bertel said.

  Jack looked at him but Bertel’s gaze was fixed on the road ahead. “And they’re not?”

  “You ever hear of Abdel-Rahman?”

  “What’s that? A kind of noodle?”

  “Jesus! Sheikh Omar Abdel-Rahman. He’s this radical Mohammaden who preaches worldwide jihad—that’s holy war—and he won’t be satisfied until we’re all Mohammedans. For the past month he’s been frothing at the mouth about this whole Desert Storm thing. Those guys in the van are all his followers. And his followers tend to be the kind who blow up embassies and set off car bombs in shopping centers.”

  “Terrorists?”

  “No, professional babysitters. Of course, terrorists. That tall one with the red hair—Mahmoud Abouhalima—he’s Omar’s sometime chauffeur and is one bad actor. He was involved in killing that rabbi last fall.”

  “Kahane?”

  Bertel glanced at him. “Good for you. Most people have already forgotten about that.” His eyes narrowed. “Oh, wait. Didn’t you tell me you were at the East Side Marriott the night it went down?”

  “Yeah. Following Tony.”

  Bertel looked back at the road. “Yeah. Tony.”

  Tony Zahler had been Bertel’s right-hand man on the North Carolina end of his cigarette running operation. He and Jack had blundered into a human-trafficking operation last fall. Jack had been forced to drive one of two trucks loaded with prepubescent girls from the Outer Banks to Staten Island, while Tony was kept behind as insurance. If everything went smoothly, Tony would go free. If Jack screwed up, he’d die. Jack did as he was told but a pair of masked gunmen had busted up the sale. Tony was found in the Outer Banks house with his brains splattered all over a wall.

  When Bertel had demanded to know why Tony was dead and Jack still alive, he’d told Bertel the story—leaving out the gunmen’s identities. He’d also told him about an incident a week or so before that—about spotting Tony dressed as an Orthodox Jew and following him to the Marriott the night Kahane was killed.

  Bertel shook his head. “Still haven’t figured that one out.”

  Neither he nor Bertel had been able to come up with an explanation.

  “Probably go to our graves not knowing. Only Tony knows and he’s not talking.”

  Bertel sighed. “Anyway, the Kahane hit had jihad written all over it but nobody wants to see that. The cops can place Abouhalima and his cab at the hotel, but no one can pin anything on him. The one who works for the Mummy is named Kadir. He, along with a bunch of other formerly innocuous Mohammedans, have been radicalized into jihadist drones by Abdel-Rahman—known to his minions as the beloved Sheikh Omar.”

  “You think they’re planning some terrorism?”

  “Right now, only among themselves. Sheikh Omar is trying to take over the local mosques. He’s especially interested in the Al-Kifah Afghan Refugee Center in Brooklyn—downstairs from the Al-Farooq Mosque. A ton of money flows through the Afghan relief charity there and he wants to tap into that stream for his own ends.”

  “Which are?”

  “Toppling Mubarak tops his list.”

  Jack’s expression must have given away that he hadn’t a clue who Mubarak was.

  “Oh, for Christ sake, Jack, you have no idea what I’m talking about, do you.”

  “Well, hell, I can barely keep up with what’s going on in New York, let alone the world.”

  “Mubarak’s president of Egypt and Sheikh Omar hates him. Wants to use that relief money to fund a move against him. He’s started a nasty campaign to get rid of the current honcho at the relief center—a guy named Shalabi who wants to keep all that money going to Afghanistan.”

  “And you know a
ll this … how? You sound like the spy I’m supposed to be.”

  Bertel shrugged. “Me and Riaz Diab—the Mummy—we talk now and then. He’s Egyptian, Sheikh Omar’s Egyptian, Shalabi too. He’s kinda friends with Shalabi and says the guy’s afraid for his life. So afraid he’s already sent his wife back to Egypt, and he’s getting set to split too.”

  “So why wasn’t this Sheikh Noodle out at the firing range too?”

  Bertel laughed. “He’s the last guy you want to see out there. He’s blind. But his stooges look like they’re gearing up to do his dirty work.”

  “Which is?”

  “Kill Shalabi.”

  “But if he’s leaving…”

  “If he’s alive, even in Egypt, he can always cause them trouble by influencing where the donations go, maybe even come back to New York. If he’s dead…”

  Jack leaned back. “Well, I hope Shalabi’s packin’ when they find him, and he blows the sons-a-bitches away.”

  “That won’t happen. He’s not the type. But however it goes down, Sheikh Omar is going to be in charge of the Al-Kifah Afghan Refugee Center and its cash flow very soon.”

  “And this matters how?”

  Bertel shook his head. “I don’t know. But sometimes events that seem far removed from anything that’ll ever affect you can sneak around later and bite you on the ass.”

  “Maybe their asses’ll get bitten.”

  Bertel glanced at him again. “You thinking about extracting a little vengeance for this accident?”

  Jack shook his head. Yeah, in an ideal world, he’d love a chance at some payback against the guys who bumped him off the road. But this wasn’t that world. If yesterday was any example, overreacting could start a chain reaction that escalated and reescalated. He already had Rico and the DDP out for his blood. He didn’t need another feud in his life.

  “Nah. What’s in that for me? A little revenge, a little salve for my hurt pride? Not worth the risk. I’m gonna let it go.”

  “See? That’s why I wanted you driving for me. You’ve got perspective. You want to come back?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Perspective.”

  Bertel didn’t look too pleased with the answer.

  Too bad. Going back with Bertel meant making drops at the Mummy’s place. Jack didn’t intend to have anything more to do with the Arab world—now or in the future.

  Besides, he had to solve the Zalesky problem before Julio did it his way. Last night had been a bust. Today had to be better.

  4

  Jack’s incessant whining finally paid off.

  He’d arrived at The Main Event early today—early meaning shortly after noon but in time to grab a rubbery bar pie for lunch as the Knicks started to play the Heat. He’d ensconced himself on the same barstool as yesterday and began pestering Joe with the same rant about his rich grandmother who wouldn’t back him on a surefire investment.

  Nobody seemed terribly interested in the game. Maybe because after bombing the hell out of the occupying Iraqis for the past month, the U.S. had rolled armored divisions into Kuwait last night, turning the air war into a ground war.

  Desert Storm was rolling. Rah-rah-rah.

  Zalesky hadn’t shown yet, but Jack kept up his complaints until two raggedy, bearded, long-haired guys wearing camo boonie hats stumbled in. The kind of guys—Vietnam burnouts, maybe—who make most people avoid eye contact.

  The blond one banged on the bar three times in synch with his announcement: “We want beer, we want food, and we want the war!”

  Behind the bar, Joe wisely turned off the Knicks-Heat game and switched on CNN. Nobody objected. Certainly not Jack.

  Had a war ever before been captured live on TV as it happened? Fascinated, he watched the tanks rolling through the desert. He almost forgot to continue his whine. If Zalesky was going to show, he hoped he didn’t wait too much longer. Jack was on the clock—had to leave soon so he’d have time to get cleaned up for his dinner date with Cristin.

  He’d been combing through issues of Popular Science in prep for his scheme, looking for an angle, a way-out investment that had a patina of credibility. He’d glommed onto an article about the glowing future of fiber-optic cable. He’d read it and reread it, learning enough to be both wildly enthusiastic and totally boring on the subject.

  At around two o’clock he was maybe halfway into a rerun of his spiel about its applications in the telecommunications field—Joe’s eyes were literally glazing over—when Jack recognized a handsome thirty-something guy with dark, slicked-back hair breeze through the door. Zalesky had arrived.

  He zeroed in on a couple of locals seated at a table near the big rear-projection TV in the corner and dropped into a chair. Looked a lot better than he had last time Jack had seen him—back in November when he’d shown up at The Spot to threaten Julio about buying the place. Today he was walking without a limp and his arm seemed fine, though he did appear to have put on a few pounds—the result of inactivity after his injuries, maybe? Still pretty trim, though. Apparently no permanent damage from that fall.

  Too bad.

  Joe walked off, deserting Jack in mid-sentence, and made a beeline for the table. Jack watched in the mirror as Joe made a show of taking orders, but along the way he leaned over and whispered something to Zalesky. Zalesky leaned his chair back and stole a glance at Jack, then nodded and patted Joe on the arm. Did Zalesky pay referral fees?

  Joe returned and busied himself with refilling the burn-outs’ beers until Zalesky approached and leaned against the bar a few feet away. Jack concentrated on Desert Storm on the TV.

  5

  Kid at the bar’s got a rich grandmother …

  Joe’s whispered words had propelled Neil across the room.

  His fall off Rosa’s building had kept him out of the game too long. He’d broken his left shoulder, cracked a few ribs, and bruised his hip bone. Everything had taken forever to heal—man, he couldn’t believe he’d fallen last fucking November and the shoulder still wasn’t right. Might never be without surgery.

  Somehow Julio had been behind it. Oh, yeah, people swore he was in The Spot all that night, but Neil knew the rope hadn’t come untied by itself. Whatever, no more climbing down walls—Rosa’s or anybody else’s—for him. That left getting to her through her beloved little brother. And kicking his ass out of the bar he part-owned was going to be so sweet.

  He’d been digging into his savings to get by. And now that he was healed up—sort of—business was off. Not so bad—he was used to ups and downs and knew things would pick up. But then that kid, Darren Detrick, had called, saying he was ready to sell his father’s bar.

  That put the pressure on. Neil was always on the hunt for a fresh mark, but right now he especially needed a score. The chances of this one panning out were low but he couldn’t afford to leave any stone unturned. If he was going to buy The Spot out from under that fucker Julio, he’d need a big down payment. He had almost fifty Gs in his safe deposit box, but he’d need more.

  He shook his head. Sometimes you can be too fucking smart for your own good. To pacify the tax man, he filed annual 1040s and declared just enough income to put him above the poverty line. All well and good until he wanted to buy something like The Spot. His declared income wasn’t enough to qualify him for a heavy mortgage, so he had to produce some major scratch up front.

  And he was goddamn well gonna produce it.

  He checked out the kid from the corner of his eye. Brown hair, brown eyes, flannel shirt, worn jeans, work boots. Looked harmless enough, and anything but rich. Probably a waste of his time but …

  “Gimme a Bud Light, will ya, Joe?”

  “Sure thing, Neil.”

  Neil winced at how staged that sounded. The kid rubbed a hand across his mouth, almost as if he was hiding a smile.

  As Joe twisted off the cap and slid the bottle down the bar, he pointed to the kid. “You two should meet. Neil’s our go-to guy for investments.”
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  Neil put on a self-deprecating smile and stuck out his hand. “Hardly. Neil Zalesky.”

  “Lonnie Beuchner,” the kid said, shaking his hand with a wimpy grip.

  Neil hated guys who couldn’t give you a firm handshake. And Lonnie Beuchner? What kind of fucked-up name was that? Bet all the kids had called him “Peuchner” in grammar school. Probably high school too.

  Joe said, “Lonnie’s trying to get his grandmother to invest in this great idea he has but she’s stiffing him.”

  Easy, Joe. No need to lay it on with a trowel.

  Neil grinned and raised his eyebrows. “Investing? You hardly look old enough to drink.”

  Lonnie looked offended. “Hey, listen—”

  “Only kidding, guy.” Neil gave him a comradely slap on the back. “What’s this investment?”

  Lonnie launched into this yawner of a spiel about fiber-optic cable and its future in telecommunications. Neil interrupted before he dozed off.

  “Hey, that sounds great.”

  Lonnie leaned forward with almost messianic intensity. “It’s life-changing, Neil. A guaranteed fortune-maker. Bill Gates had the Big Idea for Microsoft and quit college to pursue it. That’s what I want to do: drop out and start my own fiber-optic company.”

  Neil wanted to laugh in his face. Bill Gates … right. You drop out of college, kid, and guess what you’ll be—a fucking college dropout.

  He needed to steer this conversation around to the really important topic: Grandma. Lonnie could shove fiber-optic cable up his nose till it came out his ass, and Neil wouldn’t care. That wasn’t why he’d come over to the bar.

  “But you can’t do that without money.”

  “Yeah,” Lonnie said, the fire fading. Then he brightened. “Hey, you wanna invest—?”

  Neil shrugged. “Maybe. But your grandmother knows you better than I do, and if she doesn’t have faith in you…”

  “She’s just shortsighted. If she could only see how fiber optics—”

  Not again.

  “Your grandmother’s got enough to fund you?”

  “In spades.”