A DAY IN THE LIFE

 

 

When the cockroach made a right turn up the wall, Jack flipped another shuriken across the room. The steel points of the throwing star drove into the wallboard just above the bug’s long antennae. It backed up and found itself hemmed in on all sides now by four of the stars.

“Did it!” Jack said from where he lay across the still made hotel bed.

He counted the shuriken protruding from the wall. A dozen of them traveled upward in a gentle arc above and behind the barely functioning TV, ending in a tiny square where the roach was trapped.

Check that. It was free again. Crawled over one of the shuriken and was now continuing on its journey to wherever. Jack let it go and rolled onto his back on the bedspread.

Bored.

And hot. He was dressed in jeans and a loose, heavy sweater under an oversized lightweight jacket, both dark blue; a black-and-orange knitted cap was jammed on the top of his head. He’d turned the thermostat all the way down but the room remained an oven. He didn’t want to risk taking anything off because, when the buzzer sounded, he had to hit the ground running.

He glanced over at the dusty end table where the little Walkman sized box with the antenna sat in silence.

“Come on, already,” he mumbled to it. “Let’s do it.”

Reilly and his sleazos were due to make their move tonight. What was taking them so long to get started? Almost one a.m. already – three hours here in this fleabag. He was starting to itch. He could handle only so much TV without getting drowsy. Even without the lulling drone of some host interviewing some actor he’d never heard of, the heat was draining him.

Fresh air. Maybe that would help.

Jack got up, stretched, and stepped to the window. A clear almost Halloween night out there, with a big moon rising over the city. He gripped the handles and pulled. Nothing. The damn thing wouldn’t budge. He was checking the edges of the sash when he heard the faint crack of a rifle. The bullet came through the glass two inches to the left of his head, peppering his face with tiny sharp fragments as it whistled past his ear.

Jack collapsed his legs and dropped to the floor. He waited. No more shots. Keeping his head below the level of the windowsill, he rose to a crouch, then leapt for the lamp on the end table at the far side of the bed, grabbed it, and rolled to the floor with it. Another shot spat through the glass and whistled through the room as his back thudded against the floor. He turned off the lamp.

The other lamp, the one next to the TV, was still on – sixty watts of help for the shooter. And whoever was shooting had to know Jack would be going for it next. He’d be ready.

On his belly, Jack slid along the industrial grade carpet toward the end of the bed until he had an angle where the bulb was visible under the shade. He pulled out his next to last shuriken and spun it toward the bulb. With an electric pop it flared blue white and left the room dark except for the flickering glow from the TV.

Immediately Jack popped his head above the bed and looked out the window. Through the spider webbed glass he caught sight of a bundled figure turning and darting away across the neighboring rooftop. Moonlight glinted off the long barrel of a high powered rifle, flashed off the lens of a telescopic sight, then he was gone.

A high pitched beep made him jump. The red light on the signal box was blinking like mad. Kuropolis wanted help. Which meant Reilly had struck.

“Swell.”

 

 

* * * * *

           

Not a bad night,” George Kuropolis thought, wiping down the counter in front of the slim young brunette as she seated herself. Not a great night, but still to have half a dozen customers at this hour was good. And better yet, Reilly and his creeps hadn’t shown up.

Maybe they’d bother somebody else tonight.

“What’ll it be?” he asked the brunette.

“Tea, please,” she said with a smile. A nice smile. She was dressed nice and had decent jewelry on. Not exactly overdressed for the neighborhood, but better than the usual.

George wished he had more customers of her caliber. And he should have them. Why the hell not? Didn’t the chrome inside and out sparkle? Couldn’t you eat off the floor? Wasn’t everything he served made right here on the premises?

“Sure. Want some pie?”

“No, thank you.”

“It’s good. Blueberry. Made it myself.”

The smile again. “No, thanks. I’m on a diet.”

“Sure,” he mumbled as he turned away to get her some hot water. “Everyone’s on a goddamn diet. Diets are gettin’ hazardous to my health.”

Just then the front door burst open and a white haired man in his mid-twenties leaped in with a sawed off shotgun in his hands. He pointed it at the ceiling and let loose a round at the fixture over the cash register. The boom of the blast was deafening as glass showered everything.

Matt Reilly was here.

Four more of his gang crowded in behind him. George recognized them: Reece was the black with the white fringe leather jacket; Rafe had the blue Mohican, Tony had the white; and Cheeks was the baby faced skinhead.

“Awwwwwriiight! Reilly said, grinning fiercely under his bent nose, mean little eyes, dark brows, and bleached crewcut. “It’s ass kickin’ time!”

George reached into his pocket and pressed the button on the beeper there, then raised his hands and backed up against the wall.

“Hey, Matt!” he called. “C’mon! What’s the problem?”

“You know the problem, George!” Reilly said.

He tossed the shotgun to Reece and stepped around the counter. Smiling, he closed with George. The smile only heightened the sick knot of fear coiling in George’s belly. He was so fixed on that empty smile that he didn’t see the sucker punch coming. It caught him in the gut. He doubled over in agony. His last cup of coffee heaved but stayed down.

He groaned. “Christ!”

“You’re late again, George!” Reilly said through his teeth. “I told you last time what would happen if you didn’t stick to the schedule!”

George struggled to remember his lines.

“I can’t pay two protections! I can’t afford it!”

“You can’t afford not to afford it! And you don’t have to pay two. Just pay me!”

“Sure! That’s what the other guy says when he wants his! And where are you then?”

“Don’t worry about the other guy! I’m taking care of him tonight! But you!” Reilly rammed George back against the wall. “I’m gonna hafta make a example outta you, George! People saw what happened to Wolansky when he turned pigeon. Now they’re gonna see what happens to a shit who don’t pay!”

Just then came a scream from off to George’s right. He looked and saw Reece covering the five male customers in booths two and four, making them empty their pockets onto one of the tables. Further down the counter, Cheeks was waving a big knife with a mean looking curved blade at the girl who’d wanted the tea.

“The ring, babe,” he was saying. “Let’s have it.”

“It’s my engagement ring!” she said.

“You wanna look nice at your wedding, you better give it quick.”

He reached for it and she slapped his hand away.

“No!”

Cheeks straightened up and slipped the knife into a sheath tucked into the small of his back.

“Ooooh, you shouldna done that, bitch,” said Reece in oily tones.

George wished he were a twenty five year old with a Schwartzenegger build instead of a wheezy fifty with pencil arms. He’d wipe the floor with these creeps.

“Stop him,” he said to Reilly. “Please. I’ll pay you.”

“Couldn’t stop him now if I wanted to,” Reilly said, grinning. “Cheeks likes it when they play rough.”

In a single smooth motion, the skinhead’s hand snaked out, grabbed the front of the woman’s blouse, and ripped. The whole front came away. Her breasts were visible through a semitransparent bra. She screamed and swatted at him. Cheeks shrugged off the blow and grappled with her, dragging her to the floor.

One of the men in the booth near Reece leapt to his feet and started toward the pair, yelling, “Hey! Whatta y’think you’re doin’?”

Reece slammed the shotgun barrel across his face. Blood spurted from the guy’s forehead as he dropped back into his seat.

“Tony!” Reilly said to the Mohican standing by the cash register. “Where’s Rafe?”

“Inna back.”

George suddenly felt his scalp turn to fire as Reilly grabbed him by the hair and shoved him toward Tony.

“Take George in the back. You and Rafe give him some memory lessons so he won’t be late again.”

George felt his sphincters loosening. Where was Jack?

“I’ll pay! I told you I’ll pay!”

“It’s not the same, George,” Reilly said with a slow shake of his head. “If I gotta come here and kick ass every month just to get what’s mine, well, I got better things to do, y’know?”

As George watched, Reilly hit the “NO SALE” button on the cash register and started digging into the bills.

Thick, pincer like fingers closed on the back of George’s neck as he was propelled into the rear of the diner. He saw Rafe off to the side, playing with the electric meat grinder where George mixed his homemade sausage.

“Rafe!” said Tony. “Matt wants us to teach Mr. Greasyspoon some manners!”

Rafe didn’t look up. He had a raw chicken leg in his hand. He shoved it into the top of the meat grinder. The sickening crunch of bone and cartilage being pulverized rose over the whir of the motor, then ground chicken leg began to extrude through the grate at the bottom.

“Hey, Tone!” Rafe said, looking up and grinning. “I got a great idea!”

 

 

* * * * *

 

Jack pounded along the second floor hallway. He double timed down the flight of stairs to the lobby, sprinted across the carpet tiles that spelled out “The Lucky Hotel” in bright yellow on dark blue, and pushed through the smudged glass doors of the entrance. One of the letters on the neon sign above the door was out. The ucky Hotel flashed fitfully in hot red.

Jack leaped down the three front steps and hit the pavement running. Half a block to the left, then another left down an alley, leaping puddles and dodging garbage cans until he came to the rear of the Highwater Diner. He had his key ready and shoved it into the deadbolt on the delivery door. He paused there long enough to draw his .45 automatic, a Colt Mark IV, and to stretch the knitted cap down over his face. It then became a Halloween decorated ski mask, and he was looking out through a bright orange jack o lantern. He pulled the door open and slipped into the storage area at the rear of the kitchen.

Up ahead he heard the sound of a scuffle, and George’s terrified voice crying, “No, don’t! Please don’t!”

He rounded the corner of the meat locker and found Tony and Rafe – he’d know those Mohicans anywhere – from Reilly’s gang forcing George’s hand into a meat grinder and George struggling like all hell to keep it out. But he was losing the battle. His fingers would soon be sausage meat.

Jack was just reaching for the slide on his automatic when he spotted a meat-tenderizing hammer on a nearby counter. He picked it up and hefted it. Heavy – a good three pounds, most of it in the steel head. Pocketing the pistol, he stepped over to the trio and began a sidearm swing toward Tony’s skull.

“Tony! Trick or treat!”

Tony looked up just in time to stop the full weight of the waffle-faced hammer head with the center of his face. It made a noise like smoonch! as it buried itself in his nose. He was half way to the floor before Rafe even noticed.

“Tone?”

Jack didn’t wait for him to look up. He used the hammer to crunch a wide part in the center of Rafe’s blue Mohican. Rafe joined Tony on the floor.

“God, am I glad to see you!” George said, gasping and fondling his fingers as if to reassure himself that they were all there. “What took you so long?”

“Can’t’ve been more than two minutes,” Jack said, slipping the handle of the hammer through his belt and pulling the automatic again.

“Seemed like a year!”

“The rest of them out front?”

“Just three – Reilly, the skinhead, and Reece.”

Jack paused. “Where’s the rest of them?”

“Don’t know.”

Jack thought he knew. The other three had probably been on that rooftop trying to plug him in his hotel room. But how had they found him? He hadn’t even told George about staying at the Lucky.

One way to find out...

“Okay. You lock the back door and stay here. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“There’s a girl out there–” George said.

Jack nodded. “I’m on my way.”

He turned and almost bumped into Reilly coming through the swinging doors from the front. He was counting the fistful of cash in his hands.

“How we doin’ back–?” Reilly said and then froze when the muzzle of Jack’s automatic jammed up under his chin.

“Happy Halloween,” Jack said.

“Shit! You again!”

“Right, Matt, old boy. Me again. And I see you’ve made my collection for me. How thoughtful. You can shove it in my left pocket.”

Reilly’s face was white with rage as he glanced over to where Tony writhed on the floor next to the unconscious Rafe.

“You’re a dead man, pal. Worse than dead!”

Jack smiled through the ski mask and increased the pressure of the barrel on Reilly’s throat.

“Just do as you’re told.”

“What’s with you and these masks, anyway?” he said as he stuffed the money into Jack’s pocket. “You that ugly? Or do you think you’re Spiderman or something?”

“No, I’m Pumpkinman. And this way I know you but you don’t know me. You see, Matt, I’ve been keeping close tabs on you. I know all your haunts. I stand in plain view and watch you. I’ve watched you play pool at Gus’s. I’ve walked up behind you in a crowd and bumped you as I passed. I could have slipped an ice pick between your ribs a dozen times by now. But don’t try to spot me. You won’t. While you’re trying too hard to look like Billy Idol, I’m trying even harder to look like nobody.”

“You are nobody, man!” His voice was as tough as ever, but a haunted look had crept into his eyes.

Jack laughed. “Surprised to see me?”

“Not really,” Reilly said, recovering. “I figured you’d show up.”

“Yeah? What’s the matter? No faith in your hit squad?”

“Hit squad?” There was genuine bafflement in his eyes. “What the fuck you talkin’ about?”

Jack sensed that Reilly wasn’t faking it. He was as baffled as Jack.

He let his mind wander an instant. If not Reilly’s bunch, then who?

No time for that now. Especially with the muffled screams coming from the front. He turned Reilly around and shoved him back through the swinging doors to the front of the diner. Once there, he bellied Reilly up against the counter and put the .45 to his temple. He saw Reece covering half a dozen customers with a sawed off shotgun. But where was that psycho, Cheeks?

“Okay, turkeys!” Jack yelled. “Fun’s over! Drop the hardware!”

Reece spun and faced them. His eyes widened and he raised the scattergun in their direction. Jack felt Reilly cringe back against him.

“Go ahead,” Jack said, placing himself almost completely behind Reilly. “You can’t make him any uglier.”

“Don’t, man!” Reilly said in a low voice.

Reece didn’t move. He didn’t seem to know what to do. So Jack told him.

“Put the piece on the counter or I’ll blow his head off.”

“No way,” Reece said.

“Don’t try me, pal. I’ll do it just for fun.”

Jack hoped Reece didn’t think he was bluffing, because he wasn’t. He’d already been shot at twice tonight and he was in a foul mood.

“Do what he says, man,” Reilly told him.

“No way!” Reece said. “I’ll get outta here, but no way I’m givin’ that suckuh my piece!”

Jack wasn’t going to allow that. As soon as Reece got outside he’d start peppering the big windows with shot. He was about to move Reilly out from behind the counter to block the aisle when one of the customers Reece had been covering stood up behind him and grabbed the pump handle of the scattergun. A second man leapt to his side to help. One round blasted into the ceiling, and then the gun was useless – with all those hands on it, Reece couldn’t pump another round into the chamber. Two more customers jumped up and overpowered him. The shotgun came free as a fifth man with a deep cut in his forehead shoved Reece back onto the seat of the booth and began pounding at his face. More fists began to fly. These were very angry men.

Jack guided Reilly toward the group. He saw two pairs of legs – male and female, struggling on the floor around the far end of the counter. He shoved Reilly toward the cluster of male customers.

“Here’s another one for you. Have fun. Just don’t do anything to them they wouldn’t do to you.”

Two of the men smiled and slammed Reilly down face first on the booth’s table. They began pummeling his kidneys as Jack hurried down to where Cheeks was doing his dirty work.

He looked over the edge of the counter and saw that the skinhead held the woman’s arms pinned between them with his left hand and had his right thrust up under her bra, twisting her nipple, oblivious to everything else. Her right eye was bruised and swollen. She was crying and writhing under him, even snapping at him with her teeth. A real fighter. She must have put up quite a struggle. Cheeks’ face was bleeding from several scratches.

Jack was tempted to put a slug into the base of Cheeks’ spine so he’d not only never walk again, he’d never get it up again, either. But Cheeks’ knife was in the way, and besides, the bullet might pass right through him and into the woman. So he pocketed the .45, grabbed Cheeks’ right ear, and ripped upward.

Cheeks came off the floor with a howl. Jack lifted him by the ear and stretched his upper body across the counter. He could barely speak. He really wanted to hurt this son of a bitch.

“Naughty, naughty!” he managed to say. “Didn’t you ever go to Catholic school? Didn’t the nuns tell you that bad things would happen to you if you ever did that to a girl?”

He stretched Cheek’s right hand out on the counter, palm down.

“Like you might get warts?”

He pulled the meat hammer from his belt and raised it over his head.

“Or worse?”

He put everything he had into the shot. Bones crunched like breadsticks. Cheeks screamed and slipped off the counter. He rolled on the floor, moaning and crying, cradling his injured hand like a mother with a newborn baby.

“Never hassle a paying customer,” Jack said. “George can’t pay his protection without them.”

He grabbed Reece’s scattergun and pulled him and Reilly free from the customers. Both were battered and bloody. He shoved them toward the front door.

“I told you clowns about trying to cut in on my turf! How many times we have to do this dance?”

Reilly whirled on him, rage in his eyes. He probably would have leapt at Jack’s throat if not for the shotgun.

“We was here first, asshole!”

“Maybe. But I’m here now, so scrape up your two wimps from the back room and get them out of here.”

He oversaw the pair as they dragged Rafe and Tony out the front door. Cheeks was on his feet by then. Jack waved him forward.

“C’mon, loverboy. Party’s over.”

“He’s got my ring!” the brunette cried from the far end of the counter. She held her torn dress up over her breasts. There was blood at the corner of her mouth. “My engagement ring.”

“Really?” Jack said. “That ought to be worth something! Let’s see it.”

Cheeks glared at Jack and reached into his back pocket with his good hand.

“You wanna see it?” he said. Suddenly he was swinging a big Gurkha kukri knife through the air, slashing at Jack’s eyes. “Here! Get a close look!”

Jack blocked the curved blade with the short barrel of the sawed off, then grabbed Cheeks’ wrist and twisted. As Cheeks instinctively brought his broken hand up, Jack dropped the shotgun. He grabbed the injured hand and squeezed. Cheeks screamed and went to his knees.

“Drop the blade,” Jack said softly.

It clattered to the counter.

“Good. Now find that ring and put it on the counter.”

Cheeks dug into the left front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a tiny diamond on a gold band. Jack’s throat tightened when he saw the light in the brunette’s eyes at the sight of it. Such a little thing... yet so important.

Still gripping Cheeks’ crushed hand, he picked up the ring and pretended to examine it.

“You went to all that trouble for this itty bitty thing?” Jack slid it down the counter. “Here, babe. Compliments of the house.”

She had to let the front of her dress drop to grab it. She clutched the tiny ring against her with both hands and began to cry. Jack felt the black fury crowd the edges of his vision. He looked at Cheeks’ round baby face, glaring up at him from seat level by the counter top, and picked up the kukri. He held it before Cheeks’ eyes. The pupils dilated with terror.

Releasing the broken hand, Jack immediately grabbed Cheek’s throat and jaw, twisted him up and around, and slammed the back of his head down on the counter, pinning him there. With two quick strokes he carved a crude “X” in the center of Cheeks’ forehead. He howled and Jack let go. He grabbed the shotgun again and shoved Cheeks toward the door.

“Don’t worry, Cheeks. It’s nothing embarrassing – just your signature.”

Once he had them all outside, he used the shotgun to prod them into the alley between the diner and the vacant three story Borden building next door. They were a pitiful bunch, what with Tony and Rafe barely able to stand, Cheeks with a bloody forehead and a hand swollen to twice normal size, and Reece and Reilly nursing cracked ribs and swollen jaws.

“This is the last time I want to do this dance with you guys. It’s bad for business around here. And besides, sooner or later one of you is really going to get hurt.”

Jack was about to turn and leave them there when he heard tires squeal in the street. Headlights lit the alley and rushed toward him. Jack dove to his left to avoid being hit as the nose of a beat up Chrysler rammed into the mouth of the alley. His foot slipped on some rubble and he went down. By the time he scrambled to his feet, he found himself looking into the business ends of a shotgun, a 9mm automatic, and a Tec 9 assault pistol.

He’d found the missing members of Reilly’s gang.

 

 

* * * * *

 

Even though it made his ribs feel like they were breaking, Matt couldn’t help laughing.

“Gotcha! Gotcha, scumbag!”

He picked up the fallen scattergun and jabbed the barrel at Ski mask’s gut. The guy deflected the thrust and almost pulled it from his grasp. Fast hands. Better not leave this guy any openings.

“The gun,” he said. “Take it out real slow and drop it.”

The guy looked at all the guns pointed at him, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his own by the barrel; it fell to the alley floor with a thud.

“Turn around,” Matt told him, “lean on the wall, and spread ‘em, police style. And remember – one funny move and you’re full of holes.”

Matt patted down his torso and legs and told him, “You musta thought I was a stupid jerk to hit this place without back up. These guys’ve been waiting the whole time for you to show. Never figured you’d come in the back, though. But that’s okay. We gotcha now.”

The frisk turned up nothing, not even a wallet. The blue jacket had nothing in the pockets except the cash from the register. He’d get that later. Right now, though, it was game time.

“All right. Turn around. Let’s see what you look like.”

When the guy turned, Matt reached up and pulled off the pumpkin headed ski mask. He saw an average looking guy about ten years older than he and his boys – mid thirties, maybe – with dark brown hair. Nothing special. Matt shoved the mask back on the top of the guy’s head where it perched at a stupid looking angle.

“What’s your name, asshole?

“Jack.”

“Jack what?”

“O’Lantern. It’s an old Irish–”

Suddenly Cheeks was at Matt’s shoulder, brandishing the special services knife they kept in the car.

“He’s mine!” he screeched. “Lemme make his face into a permanent jack o lantern!”

“Cool it, man.”

“Look what he did to me! Look at my fuckin’ hand! And look at this!” He pointed the knife at the bloody “X” on his forehead. “Look what he did to my face! He’s mine, man!”

“You get firsts, okay? But not here, man. We’re gonna take Mr. Jack here for a ride, and then we’re all gonna get a turn with him.” He held the shotgun out to Cheeks. “Here. Trade ya.”

Matt took the heavy, slotted blade and placed the point against one of the guy’s lower eyelids. He wanted to see him squirm.

“Some knife, huh? Just like the one Rambo uses. Even cuts through bone!”

The guy winced. His tough guy act was gone. He was almost whining now.

“Wha...what are you going to do?”

“Not sure yet, Mr. Jack. But I’m sure Cheeks and me can think up a thousand ways to make you wish you’d never been born.”

The guy slid along the wall a little, pressing back like he was trying to seep into it. His right hand crept up and covered his mouth.

“You’re not gonna t torture me, are you?”

Behind him, Cheeks laughed. Matt had to smile. Yeah, this was more like it. This was going to be fun.

“Who? Us? Torture? Nah! Just a little sport. ‘Creative playtime,’ as my teachers used to call it. I’ve got this great imagination. I can think of all sorts of–”

Matt saw the guy twist his arm funny. He heard a snikt! and suddenly this tiny pistol was in the guy’s hand and the big bore of the stubby barrel was staring into his left eye from about an inch away. And the guy wasn’t whining anymore.

“Imagine this, Matt!” he said through his teeth. “You do a lousy frisk.”

Matt heard his boys crowding in behind him, heard somebody work the slide on an automatic.

“You got no way out of this,” he told the guy.

“Neither do you,” the guy said. “You want to play Rambo? Fine. You’ve got your oversized fishing knife? I’ve got this Semmerling LM 4, the world’s smallest .45. It holds five three hundred-grain hollowpoints. You know about hollowpoints, Matt? Imagine one of those going into your skull. It makes a little hole going in but then it starts to break up into thousands of tiny pieces that fan out as they go through your brain. When those pieces leave your head they’ll take most of your brain – not a heavy load in your case – and the back half of your skull with them, spraying the whole alley behind you.”

Without turning, Matt could sense his boys moving away from directly behind him.

He dropped the knife. “Okay. We call this one a draw.”

The guy grabbed the front of his shirt and dragged him deeper into the alley, to an empty doorway. Then he shoved Matt back and dove inside.

Matt didn’t have to tell the others what to do. They charged up and began blasting away into the doorway. Jerry, one of the new arrivals, stood right in front of the opening and emptied his Tec 9’s 36 round clip in one long, wild, jittery burst. He stopped and was grinning at Matt when a single shot came from inside. Jerry flew back like someone had jerked a wire. His assault pistol went flying as he spun and landed on his face. This big wet red hole gaped where the middle of his back used to be.

“Shit!” Matt said. He turned to Cheeks. “Go around the other side and make sure he doesn’t sneak out.”

Reece nudged him, making climbing motions as he pointed up at the rusty fire escape. Matt nodded and boosted him up. It creaked and groaned as Reece, his scattergun clamped under his arm, headed for the second floor like a ghost in white fringed leather. Matt hoped he got real close to the bastard before firing – close enough to make hamburger out of his head with the first shot.

Everybody waited. Even Rafe and Tony had come around enough to get their pieces out and ready. Tony was in bad shape, though. His nose was all squished in and he made weird noises when he breathed. His face looked awful, man.

They waited some more. Reece should have found him by now.

Then a shotgun boomed inside.

“Awright Reece!” Rafe shouted.

Matt listened a moment to the quiet inside. “Reece! Y’get him?”

Suddenly someone came flying out the door, dark blue jacket and jack o lantern ski mask, stumbling like he was wounded.

“Shit, it’s him!”

Matt opened up and so did everyone else. They pumped that bastard so full of holes a whole goddamn medical center couldn’t patch him up even if they got the chance. And then they kept on blasting as he fell to the rubble strewn ground and twisted and writhed and jolted with the slugs. Finally he lay still.

Cheeks came running back from the other side of the building.

“Y’get ‘im?” he said. “Y’get ‘im?”

“Got him, Cheeks!” Rafe said. “Got him good!”

Matt pointed the guy’s own .45 at him as he approached the body. No way he could be alive, but no sense in taking chances. That was when he noticed that the guy’s hands were tied behind his back. Matt suddenly had a sick feeling that he’d been had again. He pulled off the ski mask, knowing he’d see Reece’s face.

He was right. And he had a sock shoved in his mouth.

Behind Matt, Cheeks howled with rage.

 

 

* * * * *

 

Abe ran his fingers through the shoulder fringe of the white leather jacket.

“So, Jack. Who’s your new tailor? Now that Liberace’s gone, you’re thinking maybe of filling his sartorial niche? Or is this Elvis you’re trying to look like?”

Jack couldn’t help smiling. “Could be either. But since I don’t play piano, it’ll have to be Elvis. You can open for me, seeing as you’ve got the Jackie Mason patter down perfect. You write for him?”

“What can I say?” Abe said with an elaborate shrug. “He comes to me, I give him material.”

Jack pulled off the jacket. He’d known he’d get heat from Abe for it, but it was a little too cold out tonight for just a sweater. But he was glad Abe was still in his store. He kept much the same hours as Jack.

Jack rolled up the right sleeve of his sweater and set the little Semmerling back into the spring holster strapped to his forearm. Not the most comfortable rig, but after tonight he ranked it as one of the best investments he’d ever made.

“You had to use that tonight?”

“Yeah. Not one of my better nights.”

“Nu? You’re not going to tell me how such a beautiful and stylish leather coat fits in?”

“Sure. I’ll tell you downstairs. I need some supplies.”

“Ah! So this is a for buying visit and not just a social call. Good! I’m having a special on Claymores this week.”

Abe stepped to the front door of the Isher Sports Shop, locked it, making sure the “SORRY, WE ARE CLOSED” sign faced toward the street. Jack waited as he unlocked the heavy steel door that led to the basement. Below, light from overhead lamps gleamed off the rows and stacks of pistols, rifles, machine guns, bazookas, grenades, knives, mines, and other miscellaneous tools of destruction.

“What’ll it be?

“I lost my forty five, so I’ll need a replacement for that.”

“Swishy leather jackets and losing guns. A change of life, maybe? How about a nine millimeter parabellum instead? I can give you something nice in a Tokarev M213, or a TT9, or a Beretta 92F. How about a Glock 17, or a Llama Commander?”

“Nah.”

“‘Nah.’ You never want to change.”

“I’m loyal.”

“To a person you can be loyal. To a country maybe you’re loyal. But loyal to a caliber? Feh!”

“Just give me another Colt like the last.”

“I’m out of the Mark IV. How about a Combat Stallion. Cost you five fifty.”

“Deal. And maybe I should look into one of those Kevlar vests,” Jack said, glancing at a rack of them at the far end of the basement.

“For years I’ve been telling you that. What makes a change of mind now?”

“Somebody tried to kill me tonight.”

“So? This is new?”

“I mean a sniper. Right through the hotel room window. Where nobody but me knew I was staying. I didn’t even use Jack in the name when I called in the reservation.”

“So maybe it wasn’t you they were after. Maybe it was meant for anybody who happened to walk by a window.”

“Maybe,” Jack said, but he couldn’t quite buy it. “Lousy shot, too. I spotted a telescopic sight on it and still he managed to miss me.”

Abe made a disgusted noise. “They sell guns to anybody these days.”

“Maybe I’ll take a raincheck on the vest,” Jack said, then quickly added, “Oh, and I need another dozen shuriken.”

Abe whirled on him. “Don’t tell me! Don’t tell me! You’ve been spiking cockroaches with my shuriken again, haven’t you? Jack, you promised!”

Jack cringed away. “Not exactly spiking them. Hey, Abe, I get bored.”

Abe reached into a square crate and pulled out one of the six pointed models, wrapped in oiled paper. He held it up and spoke to heaven.

“Oy! Precision weapons made of the finest steel! Honed to a razor’s edge! But does Mr. macher Repairman Jack appreciate? Does he show respect? Reverence? Of course not! For pest control he uses them!”

“Uh, I’ll need about a dozen.”

Muttering Yiddish curses under his breath, Abe began pulling the shuriken out of the crate and slamming them down on the table one by one.

“Better make that a dozen and a half,” Jack said.

 

 

* * * * *

 

First thing the next morning, Jack called George at the diner and told him to meet him at Julio’s at ten. Then he went for his morning run. From a booth on the rim of Central Park, he called the answering machine that sat alone in the fourth floor office he rented on Tenth Avenue. He fast forwarded through a couple of requests for appliance repairs, then came a tentative Oriental voice, Chinese maybe:

“Mistah Jack, this is Tram. Please call. Have bad problem. People say you can help.” He gave a phone number, a downtown exchange.

Tram. Jack had never heard of him. He was the last on the tape. Jack reset it, then called this Tram guy. He was hard to understand, but Jack decided to see him. He told him where Julio’s was and to be there at 10:30.

After a shave and a shower, he headed to Julio’s for some breakfast. He was on the sidewalk, maybe half a block away, when he heard someone shout a warning. He glanced left, saw a man halfway across the street, pointing above him. Something in his expression made Jack dive for the nearest doorway. He was half way there when something brushed his ankle and thudded against the pavement in an explosion of white.

When the dust finally cleared, Jack was staring at what was left of a fifty pound bag of cement. The man who had shouted the warning was standing on the other side of the mess.

“That maniac could’ve killed you!”

“Maniac?” Jack said, brushing the white powder off his coat and jeans.

“Yeah. That didn’t fall. Somebody dropped it. Looked like he was aiming for your head!”

Jack spun and raced around the corner to the other side of the building. This was the second time since midnight someone had tried to off him. Or maim him. The cement bag probably wouldn’t have killed him, but it easily could have broken his neck or his back.

Maybe he had a chance to catch this guy.

He found the stairs to the upper floors and pounded up a dozen flights, but by the time he reached the roof it was empty. Another bag of cement sat on the black tar surface next to a pile of bricks. Someone was planning to repair a chimney.

Warily, he hurried the rest of the way to Julio’s. He didn’t like this at all. Because of the nature of his business, he had carefully structured it for anonymity. He did things to people that they didn’t like, so it was best that they not know who was doing it to them. He did a cash business and worked hard at being an average looking Joe. No trails. Most of the time he worked behind the scenes. His customers knew his face, but their only contact with him was over the phone or in brief meetings in places like Julio’s. And he never called his answering machine from home.

But somebody seemed to know his every move. How?

“Yo, Jack!” said Julio, the muscular little man who ran the tavern. “Long time no see.” He began slapping at Jack’s jacket, sending white clouds into the air. “What’s all this white stuff?”

He told Julio about the two near misses.

Y’know,” Julio said, “I seem to remember hearing about some guy asking aroun’ for you a coupla weeks ago. I’ll find out who he was.”

“Yeah. Give it a shot.”

Probably wouldn’t pan out to anything, but it was worth a try.

Jack scanned the tavern. It was dustier than usual. The hanging plants in the window were withered and brown.

“Your cleaning man die, Julio?”

“Nah. It’s the yuppies. They keep comin’ here. So I let the place get run down and dirty, an’ they still come.”

“Déclassé must be in.”

“They make me crazy, Jack.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve all got our crosses to bear, Julio.”

Jack had finished his roll and was on his second coffee when George Kuropolis came in. He handed George a wad of cash.

“Here’s what Reilly’s boys took from you last night – minus your portion of the next installment on my fee. Tell the rest of your merchants association to ante in their shares.”

George avoided his eyes.

“Some of them are saying you cost as much as Reilly.”

Jack felt the beginnings of a surge of anger but it flattened out quickly. He was used to this. It always had happened with a number of his customers, but more often since The Neutralizer hit the air. Before that, people who called him never expected him to work for free. Now because of some damn stupid goody two-shoes TV vigilante, more and more of his customers had the idea it was Jack’s civic duty to get them out of jams. He’d been expecting some bitching from the group.

This particular merchants association had had it rough lately. They ran a cluster of shops on the lower west side. With the Westies out of the picture, they’d thought they’d have some peace. Then Reilly’s gang came along and began bleeding them dry. Finally one of them, Wolansky, went to the police. Not too long after, a Molotov cocktail came through the front door of his greengrocer, blackening most of his store; and shortly after that his son was crippled in a hit and run accident outside their apartment building. As a result, Wolansky developed acute Alzheimer’s when the police asked him to identify Reilly.

That was when George and the others got together and called Repairman Jack.

“You going to tell me you don’t see the difference?”

“No, of course not,” George said hurriedly.

“Well, let me refresh your memory,” Jack said. “You came to me, not the other way round. This isn’t television and I’m not The Neutralizer. Don’t get reality and make believe confused here. This is my work. I get paid for what I do. I was around before that do gooder came on the air and I’ll be around after he’s off. Those knives Reilly and his bunch carry aren’t props. Their guns aren’t loaded with blanks. This is the real thing. I don’t risk my neck for kicks.”

“All right, all right,” George said. “I’m sorry–”

“And another thing. I may be costing you, but I’m just temporary, George. Like purgatory. Reilly is hell, and hell is forever. He’ll bleed you until he’s stopped.”

“I know. I just wish it was over. I don’t know if I can take another night like last night.” George began rubbing his right hand. “They were gonna–”

“But they didn’t. And as long as they see me as a competitor, they’ll save their worst for me.”

George shuddered and looked at his fingers. “I sure hope so.”

Shortly after George left, an Oriental who looked to be on the far side of fifty showed up at the door. His face was bruised and scraped, his left eye was swollen half shut. Julio intercepted him, shook his hand, welcomed him to his place, clapped him on the back, and led him toward the rear of the tavern. Jack noticed that he walked with a limp. A bum right leg. By the time he reached Jack’s table, he had been thoroughly frisked. If Julio found anything, he would lead him right past Jack and out the back door.

“Tram,” Julio said, stopping at Jack’s table, “this is the man you’re looking for. Jack, this is Tram.”

They had coffee and made small talk while Tram smoked unfiltered Pall Malls back to back. Jack led the conversation around to Tram’s background. His fractured English was hard to follow but Jack managed to piece together the story.

Tram was from Vietnam, from Quang Ngai, he said. He had fought in a string of wars for most of his life, from battling the French with the Viet Minh at Dien Bien Phu through the final civil war that had ravaged what was left of his country. It was during the last one that a Cong finger charge finished his right leg. Along with so many others who had fought on the losing side, Tram became a refugee after the war. But things improved after he made it to the States. Now an American made prosthesis of metal and plastic took up where his own flesh left off below the knee. And he now ran a tiny laundry just off Canal Street, on the interface between Little Italy and Chinatown.

Finally he got around to the reason he had called Jack.

His laundry had been used for years as a drop between the local mob and some drug runners from Phnom Penh. The set up was simple. The “importers” left a package of Cambodian brown on a given morning; that afternoon it was picked up by one of the local Italian guys who would leave a package of cash in its place. No one watching would see anything unusual. The laundry’s customers ran the ethnic gamut of the area – white, black, yellow, and all the shades between; the bad guys walked in with bundles of dirty clothes and walked out with packages wrapped in brown paper, just like everyone else.

“How’d you get involved in this?” Jack asked.

“Mr. Tony,” Tram said, lighting still another cigarette.

Sounded like a hairdresser. “Mr. Tony who?”

“Campisi.”

“Tony Campisi?” That was no hairdresser.

Tram nodded. “Yes, yes. Knew very good Mister Tony nephew Patsy in Quang Ngai. We call him ‘Fatman’ there. Was with Patsy when he die. Call medic for him but too late.”

Jack had heard of Tony “the Cannon” Campisi. Who hadn’t? A big shot in the dope end of the Gambino family. Tram went on to say that “Fatman” Pasquale had been one of Tony’s favorite nephews. Tony learned of Tram’s friendship with Patsy and helped Tram get into the States after the U.S. bailed out of Nam. Tony even set him up in the laundry business.

But there was a price to pay. Natch.

“So he put you in business and used your place as a drop.”

“Yes. Make promise to do for him.”

“Seems like small time for a guy like Campisi.”

“Mr. Tony have many place to drop. No put all egg in one basket, he say.”

Smart. If the narcs raided a drop, they never got much, and didn’t affect the flow through all the other drops around the city. Campisi had a slick rep. Which was probably why he had rarely seen the inside of a Federal courtroom.

“So why the change of heart?”

Tram shrugged. “Mr. Tony dead.”

Right. The Gambino family had pretty much fallen apart after old Carlo’s death and a deluge of Federal indictments. And Tony “the Cannon” Campisi had succumbed to the Big Casino of the lung last summer.

“You don’t like the new man?”

“No like dope. Bad.”

“Then why’d you act as middle man for Campisi?”

“Make promise.”

Jack’s gaze locked with Tram’s for an instant. The brown eyes stared back placidly. Not much more needed t in the way of explanation.

“Right. So what’s the present situation?”

The present situation was that the hard guy who had made the drops and pick-ups for Campisi over the years was now running that corner of the operation himself. Tram had tried to tell him that the deal was off – “Mr. Tony dead...promise dead,” as Tram put it. But Aldo D’Amico wasn’t listening. He’d paid Tram a personal visit the other day. The result was Tram’s battered face.

“He belted you around himself?”

A nod. “He like that.”

Jack knew the type – you could take the guy off the street, but you couldn’t take the street out of the guy.

Obviously, Tram couldn’t go to the police or the DEA about Aldo. He’d had to find some unofficial help.

“So you want me to get him off your back.”

Another nod. “Have heard you can do.”

“Maybe. Don’t you have any Vietnamese friends who can help you?”

“Mr. Aldo will know is me. Will break my store, hurt my family.”

And Jack could imagine how. The Reillys and the D’Amicos... bully boys, pure and simple. The only difference between them was the size of their bank accounts. And the size of their organizations.

That last part bothered Jack. He did not want to get into any rough and tumble with the mob. But he didn’t like to turn down a customer just because the bad guys were too tough.

Maybe he could find a way.

Central to the Repairman Jack method was shielding himself and the customer by making the target’s sudden run of bad luck appear unrelated to the customer. The hardest part was coming up with a way to do that.

“You know my price?”

“Have been saving.”

“Good.” Jack had a feeling he was going to earn every penny of this one.

The brown eyes lit with hope. “You will help?”

“I’ll see. When’s the next pick up?”

“This day. At four.”

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

“It will not be good to shoot him dead. He has many friends.”

Jack had to smile at Tram’s matter of fact manner.

“I know. Besides, that’s only a last resort. I’ll just be there to do research.”

“Good. Want peace. Very tired of fight. Too much fight in my life.”

Jack looked at Tram’s battered face, thought of his missing leg below the knee, of the succession of wars he had fought in since age fifteen. The man deserved a little peace.

“I read you.”

Tram gave him the address of his laundry and a down payment in twenty dollar bills that were old yet clean and crisp – like he had washed, starched, and pressed them. Jack in return gave him his customary promise to deduct from his fee the worth of any currency or valuables he happened to recover from D’Amico & Co. during the course of the job.

After bowing three times, Tram left him alone at the table. Julio took his place.

“The name ‘Cirlot’ mean anything to you?” he asked.

Jack thought a moment. “Sure. Ed Cirlot. The blackmailer.”

A customer named Levinson – Tom Levinson – had come to Jack a few years ago asking to get Cirlot off his back. Levinson was a high end dealer in identities. Primo quality. Jack had used him twice in the past himself. So Levinson had called him when Cirlot had found a screw and begun turning it.

Cirlot, it seemed, had learned of a few high placed foreign mobsters who had availed themselves of Levinson’s services. He threatened to tip the Feds to their ersatz I D the next time they came Stateside. Levinson knew that if that ever happened, their boys would come looking for him.

Cirlot had made a career out of blackmail, it seemed. He was always looking for new pigeons. So Jack set himself up as a mark – supposedly a crooked coin dealer running a nationwide scam from a local boiler room. Cirlot wanted ten large down and one a month to keep quiet. If he didn’t get it, the FTC would come a knockin’ and not only close Jack down, but take him to court.

Jack had paid him – in bogus twenties. Cirlot had been caught with the counterfeit – enough of it to make a charge of conspiracy to distribute stick. When he’d named Jack’s coin operation as his source, no such operation could be found. He got ten years soft Fed time.

“Don’t tell me he’s out already.”

“Si. Good behavior. And he was asking around about you.”

Jack didn’t like that. Cirlot wasn’t supposed to know anything about Repairman Jack. The coin dealer who had stiffed the blackmailer with bogus was gone like he had never existed. Because he hadn’t.

So why was Cirlot looking for Repairman Jack? There was no connection.

Except for Tom Levinson.

“I think I’ll go visit a certain I D dealer.”

 

 

* * * * *

 

Jack spotted Levinson up on East 92nd Street, approaching his apartment house from the other side. Levinson spotted him at the same time. Instead of waving, he turned and started to run. But he couldn’t move too fast because his foot was all bandaged up. He did a quick hop skip limp combination that made him look like a fleeing Walter Brennan. Jack caught up to him easily.

“What’s the story, Tom?” he said, grabbing Levinson’s shoulder.

He looked frightened, and his spiked black hair only heightened the effect. He was a thin, weaslely man trying to look younger than his forty-something years. He was panting and his eyes were darting left and right like a cornered animal.

“I couldn’t help it, Jack! I had to tell him!”

“Tell him what?”

“About you!” His mouth began running at breakneck speed. “Somehow he connected me and that coin dealer you played. Maybe he had lots of time to think while he was inside. Maybe he remembered that he first heard about a certain coin dealer from me. Anyway, the first thing he does when he gets out is come to me. I was scared shitless, but he doesn’t want me. He wants you. Said you set him up for a fall and made him look like a jerk.”

Jack turned away from Levinson and walked in a small circle. He was angry at Levinson, and disappointed as well. He had thought the forger was a standup guy.

“We had a deal,” Jack said. “When I took you on, you were to keep quiet about it. You don’t know Repairman Jack – never hear of him. That’s part of the deal. Why didn’t you play dumb?”

“I did, but he wasn’t having any.”

“So tell him to go squat.”

“I did.” Levinson sighed. “Jack...he started cutting off my toes.”

The words stunned Jack. “He what?”

“My toes!” Levinson pointed to his bandaged left foot. “He tied me up and cut off my fucking little toe! And he was going to cut off another and another and keep on cutting until I told him how to find you!”

Jack felt his jaw muscles tighten. “Jesus!”

“So I told him all I knew, Jack. Which ain’t much. I gave him the White Pages number and told him we met at Julio’s. I don’t know any more so I couldn’t tell him anymore. He didn’t believe me, so he cut off the next one.”

“He cut off two toes?” Jack felt his gut knot.

“With a big shiny meat cleaver. You want to see?”

“Hell no.” He shook off the revulsion. “I took Cirlot for the white collar type. He never seemed the kind to mix it up.”

“Maybe he used to be, but he ain’t that way now. He’s crazed, Jack. And he wants to bring you down real bad. Says he’s gonna make you look like shit, then he’s gonna ice you. And I guess he’s already tried, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

Jack thought of the shot through the hotel window and the falling cement bag.

“Yeah. Twice.”

“I’m sorry, Jack, but he really hurt me.”

“Christ, Tom. Don’t give it another thought. I mean, your toes...damn!”

He told Levinson he’d take care of things and left him there. As he walked away, he wondered how many toes he’d have given up for Levinson.

He decided he could muddle through life without ever knowing the answer to that one.

 

 

* * * * *

 

As soon as the car pulled to a stop in front of the laundry, Aldo reached for the door handle. He felt Joey grab his arm.

“Mr. D. Let me go in. You stay out here.”

Aldo shrugged off the hand. “I know where you’re comin’ from, Joey, but don’t keep buggin’ my ass about this.”

Joey spread his hands and shrugged. “Ay. You’re the boss. But I still don’t think it’s right, know what I mean?”

Joey was okay. Aldo knew how he felt: He was Aldo D’Amico’s driver and bodyguard, so he should be doing all the rough stuff. And as far as Aldo was concerned, Joey could have most of it. But not all of it. Aldo wasn’t going to hide in the background all the time like Tony C. Hell, in his day Tony could walk through areas like this and hardly anyone would know him. He was just another paisan to these people. Well, that wasn’t going to be Aldo’s way. Everybody was going to know who he was. And when he walked through is was going to be, “Good morning, Mr. D’Amico!” “Would you like a nice apple, Mr. D’Amico?” “Have some coffee, Mr. D’Amico!” “Right this way, Mr. D’Amico!” People were going to know him, were going to treat him with respect. He deserved a little goddamn respect by now. He’d be forty five next month. He’d done Tony the Cannon’s scut work forever. Knew all the ins and outs of the operation. Now it was his. And everybody was going to know that.

“I’ll handle this like I did yesterday,” he told Joey. “Like I told you: I believe in giving certain matters the personal touch.”

What he didn’t tell Joey was that he liked the rough stuff. That was the only bad thing about moving up in the organization – you never got a chance for hands on communication with jerks like the gook who owned this laundry. Never a peep out of the little yellow bastard all the years Tony C. was running things, but as soon as he’s gone, the gook thinks he’s gonna get independent with the new guy. Not here, babe. Not when the new guy’s Aldo D’Amico.

He was hoping the gook gave him some more bullshit about not using his place for a drop anymore. Any excuse to work him over again like the other day.

“Awright,” Joey said, shaking his head with frustration, “but I’m comin’ in to back you up. Just in case.”

“Sure, Joey. You can carry the laundry.”

Aldo laughed, and Joey laughed with him.

 

 

* * * * *

 

Jack had arrived at Tram’s with a couple of dirty shirts at about 3:30. Dressed in jeans, an Army fatigue jacket, and a baseball cap pulled low on his forehead, he now sat in one of the three chairs and read the Post while Tram ran the shirts through the machine. It was a tiny hole in the wall shop that probably cost the little man most of his good leg in rent. A one man operation except for some after school counter help which Tram always sent on an errand when a pick up or delivery was due.

Jack watched the customers, a motley group of mostly lower middle class downtowners, flow in and out. Aldo D’Amico and his bodyguard were instantly identifiable by their expensive top coats when they arrived at 4:00 on the button. Aldo’s was dark gray with a black felt collar, a style Jack hadn’t seen since the Beatles’ heyday. He was mid-forties with a winter tan and wavy blow dried hair receding on both sides. Jack knew he had to be Aldo because the other guy was a side of beef and was carrying a wad of dirty laundry.

Jack noticed the second guy giving him a close inspection. He might as well have had BODYGUARD stenciled on his back. Jack glanced up, gave the two of them a disinterested up and down, then went back to the sports page.

“Got something for me, gook?” Aldo said, grinning like a shark as he slapped the knuckles of his right fist into his left palm.

Jack sighed. He knew the type. Most tough guys he knew wouldn’t hesitate to hurt somebody, even ice them if necessary, but to them it was like driving a car through downtown traffic in the rain: You didn’t particularly like it but you did it because you had to get someplace; and if you had the means, you preferred to have somebody else do it for you.

Not this Aldo. Jack could tell that mixing it up was some kind of fix for him.

Maybe that could be turned around. Jack didn’t have a real plan here. His car was parked outside. He intended to pick up Aldo and follow him around, follow him home if he could. He’d do that for a couple of days. Eventually, he’d get an idea of how to stick him. Then he’d have to find a way to work that idea to Tram’s benefit. This was going to be long, drawn out, and touchy.

At the counter, Tram sullenly placed a brown paper wrapped bundle on the counter. The bodyguard picked it up and plopped the dirty laundry down in its place. Tram ignored it.

“Please, Mr. Aldo,” he said. “Will not do this anymore.”

“Boy, you’re one stupid gook, y’know that?” He turned to his bodyguard. “Joey, take the customer for a walk while I discuss business with our Vietnamese friend here.”

Jack felt a tap on his shoulder and looked up from his paper into Joey’s surprisingly mild eyes.

“C’mon. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

“I got shirts coming,” Jack said.

“They’ll wait. My friend wants a little private talk with the owner.”

Jack wasn’t sure how to play this. He wasn’t prepared for any rough and tumble here, but he didn’t want to leave Tram to Aldo’s tender mercies again.

“Then let him talk in the back. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Joey grabbed him under the arm and pulled him out of the chair. “Yeah. You are.”

Jack came out of the chair quickly and knocked Joe’s arm away.

“Hands off, man!”

He decided that the only way to get out of this scene on his terms was to pull a psycho number. He looked at Joey’s beefy frame and heavy overcoat and knew attacking his body would be a waste of time. That left his face.

“Just stay away!” Jack shouted. “I don’t like people touching me. Makes me mad! Real mad!”

Joey dropped the brown paper bundle onto a chair. “All right. Enough of this shit.” He stepped in close, gripped Jack’s shoulders, and tried to turn him around.

Jack reached up between Joey’s arms, grabbed his ears, and yanked the bodyguard’s head forward. As he lowered his head and butted, he had a fleeting glimpse of the sick look on Joey’s startled face. He hadn’t been expecting anything like this, but he knew what was coming.

When Jack heard Joey’s nose crunch against the top of his skull, he pushed him away and kicked him hard in the balls. Joey dropped to his knees and groaned. His bloody face was slack with pain and nausea.

Jack next leapt on Aldo who was gaping at him with a stunned expression.

“You want some of me, too?” he shouted.

Aldo’s overcoat was unbuttoned and he was leaner than Joe. Jack went for the breadbasket: right left combination jabs to the solar plexus, then a knee to the face when he doubled over. Aldo went down in a heap.

But it wasn’t over. Joey was reaching a hand into his overcoat pocket. Jack jumped on him and wrestled a short barreled Cobra .357 revolver away from him.

“A gun? You pulled a fucking gun on me, man?” He slammed the barrel and trigger guard across the side of Joey’s head. “Shit that makes me mad!”

Then he spun and pointed the pistol at the tip of Aldo’s swelling nose.

“You!” he screamed. “You started this! You didn’t want me to get my shirts! Well, you can have them! They’re old anyway! I’ll take yours! All of them!”

He grabbed the bundle of dirty shirts from the counter and then went for the brown paper package on the chair.

“Jesus, no!” Aldo said. “No! You don’t know what–”

Jack leapt on him and began pistol whipping him, screaming, “Don’t tell me what I don’t know!”

As Aldo covered his head with his arms, Jack glanced at Tram motioned him over. Tram got the idea. He came out from behind the counter and shoved Jack away, but not before Jack had managed to open Aldo’s scalp in a couple of places.

“You get out!” Tram cried. “Get out or I call police!”

“Yeah, I’ll get out, but not before I put a couple of holes in this rich pig here!”

Tram stood between him and Aldo. “No! You go! You cause enough trouble!”

Jack made a disgusted noise and ran out with both bundles. Outside he found an empty Mercedes 350 SEL idling at the curb by a fire hydrant. Why not?

As he gunned the heavy car toward Canal Street, he wondered at his screaming psycho performance. Pretty convincing. And easy, too. He’d hardly stretched at all to take the part and really get into in.

That bothered him a little.

 

 

* * * * *

 

“Fifty thousand in small bills,” Abe said after he’d finished counting the money that had been wrapped inside the dirty laundry. He had it spread out in neat piles on a crate in the basement of his store. “If I were you, I shouldn’t complain. Not so bad for an afternoon’s work.”

“Yeah. But it’s the ten keys of cocaine and the thirty of Cambodian brown.” The wrapped package had housed some of the heroin. The cocaine and the rest of the heroin had been in a duffel bag in the trunk. “What am I going to do with that?”

“There’s a storm drain outside. Next time it rains...”

Jack thought about that. The heroin would definitely go down the drain. Any alligators or crocs living down in the sewers would be stoned for life. But the cocaine...that might come in handy in the future, just like the bogus twenties had come in handy against Cirlot.

Cirlot. Something about him was perking in the back of Jack’s mind.

“I’ve always wanted a Mercedes,” Abe said.

“What for? You haven’t been further east than Queens and further west than Columbus Avenue in a quarter century.”

“Someday I might like maybe to travel. See New Jersey.”

“Yeah. Well, that’s not a bad idea. No doubt about it, the best way to see New Jersey is from the inside of a Mercedes. But it’s too late. I gave the car to Julio to dispose of.”

Abe sagged. “Chop shop?”

Jack nodded. “He’s going to shop it around for quick cash. Figures another ten grand, minimum, maybe twenty.”

A take of sixty seventy K so far from one visit to Tram’s laundry. Which meant that Jack would be returning Tram’s down payment and giving him a free ride on this job. Which was fine for Tram’s bank account, but Jack didn’t know what his next step was. He’d shaken things up down there. Now maybe it would be best to sit back and watch what fell out of the trees.

He headed for Gia’s. He kept to the windy shadows as he walked along, kept looking over his shoulder. Cirlot had seemed to know where he was going, and when he’d be there. Was he watching him now?

Jack didn’t like being on this end of the game.

But how did Cirlot know? That was what ate at him. Jack knew his apartment wasn’t bugged – the place was like a fortress. Besides, Cirlot didn’t know where he lived. And even if he did, he couldn’t get inside to place a bug. Yet he seemed to know Jack’s moves. How, dammit?

Jack made a full circuit of Gia’s block and cut through an alley before he felt it was safe to enter her apartment house.

Two fish eye peepholes nippled Gia’s door. Jack had installed them himself. One was the usual height, and one was Vicky height. He knocked and stood there, pressing his thumb over the lower peephole as he waited.

“Jack, is that you?” said a child’s voice from the other side.

He pulled his thumb away and grinned into the convex glass.

“Ta daaa!”

The deadbolt slid back, the door swung inward, and suddenly he was holding a bony seven-year-old girl in his arms. She had long dark hair, blue eyes, and a blinding smile.

“Jack! Whatcha bring me?”

He pointed to the breast pocket of his fatigue jacket. Vicky reached inside and pulled out a packet of bubblegum cards.

“Football cards! Neat! You think there’s any Jets in this one?”

“Only one way to find out.”

He carried her inside and put her down. He locked the door behind them as she fumbled with the wrapper.

“Jack!” she said, her voiced hushed with wonder. “They’re all Jets! All Jets! Oh, this is so neat!”

Gia stepped into the living room. “The only eight-year old in New York who says ‘neat.’ Wonder where she got that from?”

She kissed him lightly and he slid an arm around her waist, pulling her close to him. She shared her daughter’s blue eyes and bright smile, but her hair was blonde. She brightened up the whole room for Jack.

“I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I think it’s pretty neat to get five – five – members of your favorite team in a single pack of bubblegum. I don’t know anybody else who’s got that kind of luck.”

Jack had gone through a dozen packs of cards before coming up with those five Jets, then he had slipped them into a single wrapper and glued the flaps back in place. Vicky had developed a thing for the Jets, simply because she liked their green and white jerseys – which was as good a reason as any to be a Jets fan.

“Start dinner yet?” he asked.

Gia shook her head. “Just getting ready to. Why?”

“Have to take a raincheck. I’ve got a few things I’ve got to do tonight.”

She frowned. “Nothing dangerous, I hope.”

“Nah.”

“That’s what you always say.”

“Well, sure. I mean, after surviving the blue meanies last year, everything else is a piece of cake.”

“Don’t mention those things!” Gia shuddered and hugged him. “Promise you’ll call me when you’re back home?”

“Yes, mother.”

“I’m serious. I worry about you.”

“You just made my day.”

She broke away and picked up a slim cardboard box from the couch. “Land’s End” was written across one end.

“Your order arrived today.”

“Neat.” He pulled out a bright red jacket with navy blue lining. He pulled off the fatigue jacket and tried it on. “Perfect. How do I look?”

“Like every third person in Manhattan,” Gia said.

“Great!”

“All you need is a Hard Rock Cafe sweat shirt and the picture will be complete.”

Jack worked at being ordinary, at being indistinguishable from everybody else, just another face in the crowd. To do that, he had to keep up with what the crowd was wearing. Since he didn’t have a charge card, Gia had ordered the jacket for him on hers.

“I’d better turn off the oven,” Gia said.

“I’ll treat tomorrow night. Chinese. For sure.”

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll believe it when I smell it.”

Jack stood there in the tiny living room, watching Vicky spread out her football cards, listening to Gia move about the kitchen over the drone of Eyewitness News, drinking in the rustle and bustle and noises and silences of a home. The domestic feel of this tiny apartment – he wanted it. But it seemed so out of reach. He could come and visit and warm himself by the fire, but he couldn’t stay. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t gather it up and take it with him.

His work was the problem. He had never asked Gia to marry him because he knew the answer would be no. Because of what he did for a living. And he wouldn’t ask her for the same reason: Because of what he did for a living. Marriage would make him vulnerable. He couldn’t expose Gia and Vicky to risk like that. He’d have to retire first. But he wasn’t even forty. Besides go crazy, what would he do for the next thirty or forty years?

Become a citizen? Get a day job? How would he do that? How would he explain why there was no record of his existence up till now? No job history, no Social Security hours, no file of 1040’s. The IRS would want to know if he was an illegal alien or a Gulag refugee or something. And if he wasn’t, they’d ask a lot of questions he wouldn’t want to answer.

He wondered if he had started something he couldn’t stop.

And then he was looking out through the picture window in Gia’s dining room at the roof of the apartment house across the street and remembering the bullets tearing through the hotel room less than twenty four hours ago. His skin tingled with alarm. He felt vulnerable here. And worse, he was exposing Gia and Vicky to his own danger. Quickly he made his apologies and good byes, kissed them both, and hurried back to the street.

He stood outside the apartment house, slowly walking back and forth before the front door.

Come on, you son of a bitch! Do you know I’m here? Take a shot! Let me know!

No shot. Nothing fell from the roof.

Jack stretched his cramped fingers out from the tight fists he had made. He imagined some vicious bastard like Cirlot finding out about Gia and Vicky, threatening them, maybe hurting them...it almost put him over the edge.

He began walking back toward his own apartment. He moved quickly along the pavement, then broke into a run, trying to work off the anger, the mounting frustration.

This had to stop. And it was going to stop. Tonight, if he had anything to say about it.

 

 

* * * * *

 

Jack stopped at a pay phone and called Tram. The Vietnamese told him that Aldo and his bodyguard had limped out and found a cab, swearing vengeance on the punk who had busted them up. Tram was worried that Aldo might take his wrath out on him if he couldn’t find Jack. That worried Jack, too. He called his answering machine but found nothing of interest on it

As he hung up he remembered something: Cirlot and phones. Yes. That was how the blackmailer had got his hooks into his victims. The guy was an ace wiretapper.

Jack trotted back to his brownstone. But instead of going up to his apartment, he slipped down to the utility closet. He pulled open the phone box and spotted the tap immediately: jumper wires attached to a tiny high frequency transmitter. Cirlot probably had a voice activated recorder stashed not too far from here.

Now things were starting to make sense. Cirlot had learned from Levinson that Jack met customers at Julio’s. He’d hung around outside until he spotted Jack, then tailed him home.

Jack clucked to himself. He was getting careless in his old age.

Soon after that, Cirlot had shown up, probably as a phone man, inserted the tap, and sat back and listened. Jack had used his apartment phone to reserve the room at the Lucky Hotel...and he had called Julio this morning to tell him he’d be over by ten thirty. It all fit.

Jack closed the phone box, leaving the tap in place.

Two could play this game.

 

 

* * * * *

 

Jack sprawled amid the clutter of Victorian oak and bric-a-brac that filled the front room of his apartment and called George at the diner. This was his second such call in half an hour, except that the first had been made from a public phone. He had told George to expect this call, and had told him what to say.

“Hello, George,” he said when the Greek picked up the other end. “You got the next payment together from your merchants association?”

“Yeah. We got it. In cash like usual.”

“Good deal. I’ll be by around midnight to pick it up.”

“I’ll be here,” George said.

Jack hung up and sat there, thinking. The bait was out. If Cirlot was listening, chances were good he’d set up another ambush somewhere in the neighborhood of the Highwater Diner at around midnight. But Jack planned to be there first to see if he could catch Cirlot setting up. And then they would settle things. For good. Jack wasn’t going to have anybody dogging his steps back to Gia and Vicky, especially someone who had chopped a couple of toes off a former customer.

On his way downtown an hour later, Jack called his answering machine again. He heard a message from George asking him to call right away. When he did, he heard a strange story.

“I asked you to what?” Jack said.

“Meet you in the old Borden building next door. You said there’d been a change of plans and it was probably safer if you didn’t show up at the diner. So I was to meet you next door at ten thirty and hand over the money.”

Jack had to smile. This Cirlot was slicker than he’d thought.

“Did it sound like me?”

“Hard to say. The connection was bad.”

“What did you say?”

“I agreed, but I thought it was fishy because it wasn’t the way we had set it up before. And because you said you’d be wearing a ski mask like last night. That sounded fishy, too.”

“Good man. I appreciate the call. Call me again if you hear from anyone who says he’s me.”

“Will do.”

Jack hung up. Instead of hailing a cab to go downtown, he ducked into a nearby tavern and ordered a draft of Amsterdam.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Cirlot seemed more interested in ripping him off than knocking him off – at least tonight. Tom Levinson’s words came back: Gonna make you look like shit, then he’s gonna ice you.

So that was it. Another piece fell into place. The bag of cement had missed him. Okay – no one could expect much accuracy against a moving target with a heavy, cumbersome object like that. But the shooter outside the Lucky Hotel had had a telescopic sight. Jack had been a sitting duck. The guy shouldn’t have missed.

Unless he’d wanted to. That had to be it. Cirlot was playing head games with him, getting him off balance until he had a chance to humiliate him, expose him, make him look like a jerk. He wanted to payback in kind before he killed Jack.

Ripping off one of his fees would be a good start.

Jack’s anger was tinged with amusement.

He’s playing my own game against me.

But not for long. Jack was the old hand here. It was his game. He’d invented it, and he’d be damned if he’d let Cirlot outplay him. The simplest thing to do was to confront Cirlot in that old wreck of a building and have a showdown.

Simple, direct, effective, but lacking in style. He needed to come up with something very neat here. A masterstroke, even.

And then, as he lifted his glass to drain the final ounces of his draft, he had it.

 

 

* * * * *

 

Reilly was waiting his turn at the pool table. He didn’t feel like shooting much. With Reece and Jerry dead, everybody was down and pissed. All they’d talked about since last night was finding that jack o lantern guy. The only laugh they’d had all day was when they learned that Reece’s real name was Maurice.

Just then Gus called over from the bar. He was holding the phone receiver in the air.

“Yo! Reilly! You’re wanted!”

“Yeah? Who?”

“Said to tell you it’s Pumpkinhead.”

Reilly nearly tripped over his stick getting to the phone. Cheeks and the others were right behind him.

“Gonna find you, fucker!” he said as soon as he got the receiver to his head.

“I know you are,” said the voice on the other end. “Because I’m gonna tell you where I am. We need a meet. Tonight. You lost two men and I almost got killed last time we tangled. What do you say to a truce? We can find some way to divide things up so we both come out ahead.”

Reilly was silent while he controlled himself. Was this fucker crazy? A truce? After what he did last night?

“Sure,” he managed to say. “We can talk.”

“Good. Just you and me.”

“Okay.” Riiiiight. “Where?”

“The old place we were in last night – next to the Highwater. Ten thirty okay?”

Reilly looked at his watch. That gave him an hour and a half. Plenty of time.

“Sure.”

“Good. And remember, Reilly: Come alone or the truce is off.”

“Yeah.”

He hung up and turned to his battered boys. They didn’t look like much, what with Rafe, Tony, and Cheeks all bandaged up, and Cheeks’ hand in a cast. Hard to believe only one guy had done all this. But that one guy was a mean dude, full of tricks. So they weren’t going to take any chances this time. No talk. No deals. No hesitation. No reprieve. They were going to throw everything they had at him tonight.

“That really him?” Cheeks asked.

“Yeah,” said Reilly, smiling. “And tonight we’re gonna have us some punkin pie!”

 

 

* * * * *

 

“Aldo, this man insists on speaking to you!”

Aldo D’Amico glared at his wife and removed the ice pack from his face. He had a brutal headache from the bruises and stitches in his scalp. His nose was killing him. Broken in two places. The swelling made him sound like he had a bad cold.

He wondered for the hundredth time about that punk in the laundry. Had the gook set them up? Aldo wanted to believe it, but it just didn’t wash. If he’d been laying for Aldo, he’d have had his store filled with some sort of gook army, not one white guy. But Christ the way that one guy moved! Fast. Like liquid lightning. A butt and a kick and Joey was down and then he’d been on Aldo, his face crazy. No. It hadn’t been a set up. Just some stunad punk. But that didn’t make it any easier to take.

“I told you, Maria, no calls!”

Bad enough he’d be laughed at all over town for being such a gavone to allow some nobody to bust him up and steal his car, and even worse that his balls were on the line for the missing money and shit, so why couldn’t Maria follow a simple order? He never should have come home tonight. He’d have been better off at Franny’s loft on Greene Street. Franny did what she was told. She damn well better. He paid her rent.

“But he says he has information on your car.”

Aldo’s hand shot out. “Gimme that! Hello!”

“Mr. D’Amico, sir,” said a very deferential voice on the other end. “I’m very sorry about what happened today at that laundry. If I’da known it was someone like you, I wouldn’a caused no trouble. But I didn’t know, y’see, an I got this real bad temper, so like I’m sorry–”

“Where’s the car?” Aldo said in a low voice.

“I got it safe and I wanna return it to you along with the money I took and the, uh, other laundry and the, uh, stuff in the trunk, if you know what I mean and I think you do.”

The little shit was scared. Good. Scared enough to want to give everything back. Even better. Aldo sighed with relief.

“Where is it?”

“I’m in it now. Like I’m talkin’ on you car phone. But I’m gonna leave it somewhere and tell you where you can find it.”

“Don’t do that!” Aldo said quickly.

His mind raced. Getting the car back was number one priority, but he wanted to get this punk, too. If he didn’t even the score, it would be a damn long time before he could hold his head up on the street.

“Don’t leave it anywhere! Someone might rip it off before I get there, and that’ll be on your head! We’ll meet–”

“Oh, no! I’m not getting plugged full of holes!”

Yes, you are, Aldo thought, remembering the punk pointing Joey’s magnum in his face.

“Hey, don’t worry about that,” Aldo said softly. “You’ve apologized and you’re returning the car. It was an accident. We’ll call it even. As a matter of fact, I like the way you move. You made Joey look like he was in slow motion. Actually, you did me a favor. Made me see how bad my security is.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I could use a guy like you. How’d you like to replace Joey?”

“Y’mean be your bodyguard? I don’t know, Mr. D’Amico.”

“Think about it. We’ll talk about it when I see you tonight. Where we gonna meet?”

“Uuuuh, how about by the Highwater Diner? It’s down on–”

“I know where it is.”

“Yeah, well there’s an old abandoned building right next door. How about if I meet you there?”

“Great. When?”

“Ten thirty.”

“That’s kinda soon–”

“I know. But I’ll feel safer.”

“Hey, don’t worry! When Aldo D’Amico gives his word, you can take it to the bank!”

And I promise you, punk, you’re a dead man!

“Yeah, well, just in case we don’t hit it off, I’ll be wearing a ski mask. I figure you didn’t get a real good look at me in that laundry and I don’t want you getting a better one.”

“Have it your way. See you at ten thirty.”

He hung up and called to his wife. “Maria! Get Joey on the phone. Tell him to get over here now!”

Aldo went to his desk drawer and pulled out his little Jennings .22 automatic. He hefted it. Small, light, and loaded with high velocity longs. It did the job at close range. And Aldo intended to be real close when he used this.

 

 

* * * * *

 

A little before ten, Jack climbed up to the roof of the Highwater Diner and sat facing the old Borden building. He watched Reilly and five of his boys – the whole crew – arrive shortly afterwards. They entered the building from the rear. Two of them carried large duffel bags. They appeared to have come loaded for bear. Not too long after them came Aldo and three wiseguys. They took up positions outside in the alley below and out of sight on the far side.

No one, it seemed, wanted to be fashionably late.

At 10:30 sharp, a lone figure in a dark coat, jeans, and what looked like a knit watch cap strolled along the sidewalk in front of the Highwater. He paused a moment to stare in through the front window. Jack hoped George was out of sight like he had told him to be. The dark figure continued on. When he reached the front of the Borden building, he glanced around, then started toward it. As he approached the gaping front entry, he stretched the cap down over his face. Jack couldn’t see the design clearly but it appeared to be a crude copy of the one he’d worn last night. All it took was some orange paint...

Do you really want to play Repairman Jack tonight, pal?

For an instant he flirted with the idea of shouting out a warning and aborting the set up. But he called up thoughts of life in a wheelchair due to a falling cement bag, of Levinson’s missing toes, of bullets screaming through Gia and Vicky’s apartment.

He kept silent.

He watched the figure push in through the remains of the front door and disappear inside. In the alley, Aldo and Joey rose from their hiding places and shrugged to each other in the moonlight. Jack knew what Aldo was thinking: Where’s my car?

But they leapt for cover when the gunfire began. It was a brief roar, but very loud and concentrated. Jack picked out the sound of single rounds, bursts from a pair of assault pistols, and at least two, maybe three shotguns, all blasting away simultaneously. Barely more than a single prolonged flash from within. Then silence.

Slowly, cautiously, Aldo and his boys came out of hiding, whispering, making baffled gestures. One of them was carrying an Uzi, another held a sawed off. Jack watched them slip inside, heard shouts, even picked out the word “car.”

Then all hell broke loose.

It looked as if a very small, very violent thunderstorm had got itself trapped on the first floor of the old Borden building. The racket was deafening, the flashes through the glassless windows like half a dozen strobe lights going at once. It went on full force for what seemed like twenty minutes but ticked out to slightly less than five on Jack’s watch. Then it tapered and died. Finally… quiet. Nothing moved.

No. Check that. Someone was crawling out a side window and falling into the alley. Jack went down to see.

Reilly. He was bleeding from his mouth, his nose, and his gut. And he was hurting.

“Get me a ambulance, man!” he grunted as Jack crouched over him. His voice was barely audible.

“Right away, Matt,” Jack said.

Reilly looked up at him. His eyes widened. “Am I dead? I mean...we offed you but good in there.”

“You offed the wrong man, Reilly.”

“Who cares...you can have this turf...I’m out of it...just get me a fucking ambulance! Please?”

Jack stared at him a moment. “Sure,” he said.

Jack got his hands under Reilly’s arms and lifted him. The wounded man nearly passed out with the pain of being moved. But he was aware enough to notice that Jack wasn’t dragging him toward the street.

“Hey...where y’takin’ me?”

“Around back.”

Jack could hear the sirens approaching. He quickened his pace toward the rear.

“Need a doc...need a ambulance.”

“Don’t worry,” Jack said. “There’s one coming now.”

He dumped Reilly in the rearmost section of the Borden building’s back alley and left him there.

“Wait here for your ambulance,” he told him. “It’s the same one you called for Wolansky’s kid when you ran him down last month.”

Then Jack headed for the Highwater Diner to call Tram and tell George that they didn’t need him anymore.