Cold City (Repairman Jack: Early Years Trilogy) rjeyt-1

by Paul F. Wilson

  “Five then,” said Drexler. “Boys? Girls? A mixture?”

  It didn’t matter, so Roman flipped a mental coin. “Let’s make it boys, this time.”

  Nasser al-Thani frowned. “Assuming all goes according to plan, once we’ve captured our prey, what do we do with the children?”

  Roman smiled. The answer was so obvious. “Capturing the killers is only step one. Our goal is the return of our investment. We will need a means to induce them to tell us where the money is. The children will make excellent persuaders.”

  “I agree,” Drexler said, nodding. “But this will all take time to arrange, and I assume no one will object if I make use of the interval to track down the elusive Lonnie. Reggie is very motivated in that regard, and I’ve supplied him with his weapon of choice.”

  A waste of time, Roman knew, but let Drexler pursue his obsession with Lonnie. It would keep him out of Roman’s hair.

  2

  Kadir Allawi and Mahmoud Abouhalima stepped out of the Al-Kifah Center and walked west along Atlantic Avenue. On a normal Thursday at this time, the streets would be jammed with traffic and pedestrians. Today, because of the American holiday, the two of them traveled unimpeded.

  Both were fresh from prayers at the Al-Farouq mosque upstairs at the center where they’d listened to an enraged Sheikh Omar rail against their missing fellow Muslims who were home with their families. This was an American holiday, the blind cleric had shouted, where thanks were given to the Christian God and the Jewish God. No true follower of Islam should recognize this holiday. No such Holy Day – the origin of the English word “holiday” – existed in the Quran. Only the Quran could declare a Holy Day. This fourth Thursday in November had been declared a holiday by men, signed into law by infidels. Laws cannot come from men. All law comes from the Quran.

  Sheikh Omar’s lectures never failed to fill Kadir with holy purpose. But he had noticed a shift in the cleric’s targets. Where Mubarak and Egypt’s secular government had been his focus at first, jihad in America seemed his main concern now. For that reason – and that reason alone – Kadir was glad he was here in America, in the heart of the new jihad, instead of back in Palestine.

  “Thanksgiving,” Mahmoud said, speaking the English word then switching to Arabic. “It’s not so bad, I think, if it leaves the streets to us.”

  “You have something to be thankful for – the FBI questioned you and then let you go.”

  “Yes, I thank Allah for that.”

  “And we can also be thankful that money has been promised for Sayyid’s defense.”

  El Sayyid Nosair’s picture had been all over the papers for a while after the assassination, but the furor seemed to have died down this past week. Word had come from Osama bin Laden that he was sending money for his defense.

  “Yes, but it will go to a headline-hunting Jew.”

  Kadir had been shocked when a notorious lawyer named William Kuntsler, a Jew, announced that he would be defending Sayyid. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

  “I know Sayyid needs a defense, but a Jew?”

  Mahmoud said, “Remember what Sheikh Omar says: We need not use pure Islamic methods in order to achieve a purer form of Islam. If our goal is pure, we may use whoever and whatever means to achieve our end. And if that includes using Zionist pigs to hasten their own destruction, so be it.”

  That lifted some of the guilt Kadir had felt about plotting to deliver those children into slavery. If it furthered jihad, it was all good.

  “But what of Tachus?” he said. “Does no one care that he was shot down like a dog?”

  “He was martyred in the cause of jihad and has gone to his reward. He is in Heaven with Allah and has seventy-two virgins to attend him. But those who attacked him also attacked jihad, because they stole funds that would further jihad. We shall deal with them – with all of them.”

  “How?”

  “I will show you.”

  They continued along Atlantic Avenue at a quick pace. Kadir had to work to keep up with the taller Mahmoud’s long strides.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Not much farther now.”

  They came to a point where they could see the harbor. Mahmoud pointed across the water to the lower end of Manhattan.

  “Look at it, Kadir. Study the skyline.”

  Kadir did as he was bid. The sinking sun gleamed off the two gleaming fingers of the Trade Towers as they pointed skyward.

  “Now close your eyes and imagine one tower toppling against the other, and the two of them crashing to earth in a pile of rubble.”

  Kadir closed his eyes and saw empty sky where steel and concrete and glass had risen, saw smoke rising to Heaven from the ruins.

  He opened his eyes. The Towers remained.

  “A beautiful dream.”

  “Not a dream,” Mahmoud said. “A plan. One you and I will make happen.”

  3

  Neil Zalesky perched on a stool in The Main Event and watched the Lions crush the Broncos on the TV over the bar. The place was empty except for guys without families. His own was back in Toledo and he didn’t miss them – couldn’t even remember missing them, ever. Bunch of stiffs. On the rare occasions he’d go back home – only for funerals and only if someone really close had bought it – his mother would badger him with the traditional you-never-call-you-never-write shit. And what could he say? He never did. Out of sight, out of mind. As for the marriage thing – he’d tried it and look how that turned out. At least he didn’t have kids tugging on his sleeve.

  Marriage… the word triggered a memory cascade starting with Rosa, tumbling to Julio, and ending at the missing money.

  Neil slammed his hand on the counter, knocking over his beer.

  “Shit!”

  He jumped and lifted his arm – his left arm – to keep from soaking the sleeve of his sweater. Wrong arm – pain shot through his broken humerus and into his shoulder–

  “Shit!”

  –causing him to twist off his stool. He shot his left foot out to keep from falling – the bad hip.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  Joe hurried over with a bar rag. “Neil, you okay?”

  “Yeah. Just clumsy with this sling, is all.”

  But he wasn’t okay. Nowhere fucking near okay. He hurt every minute of every day since the fall. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t work the old ladies. And he was out fifteen fucking grand!

  All because of that greasy little spic.

  Maybe not Julio directly… the lock on the apartment door had been picked and he couldn’t see Julio being able to do that. Which meant the spic must have hired somebody. Sure as hell wasn’t one of those two drunks at the bar all the time. Whoever it was, Neil had no doubt the same somebody had untied his knots at Rosa’s. But how had the guy known he’d be at Rosa’s – especially the second night in a row?

  Only one way: He’d been followed.

  The idea creeped him out. He stole a look around the bar. A couple of new faces, but that wasn’t unusual. They came and went, but the regulars remained, well, regular.

  He balled his fists – shit! Even that hurt.

  Well, Julio was gonna feel some pain of his own when Neil bought The Spot. The place would already be his – or at least pretty damn close to his – if the owner wasn’t in Saudi fucking Arabia. But his mother said he’d be home soon. Neil had always wanted to own a bar.

  He’d control only ninety percent of it, but that was even better than owning it all. Because Julio would still hold ten percent, and ten percent wasn’t dick. The spic would have no say. Neil was gonna make his life miserable. And once Neil turned the place around and got it back in the black, Julio would wait till hell froze over before he saw his cut.

  Soon as he got control, he’d hire Joe to run the place.

  Right after he kicked Julio out on his ass.

  4

  Vinny Donato leaned back on the couch and thought of that old Alka-Seltzer commercial he used to love as a kid: �
�I can’t believe I ate that whole thing.” That was how he felt. He would have loved to loosen his belt and unbutton his pants, but he wasn’t at home.

  He remembered that particular commercial because it was playing all the time on TV when he was twelve, just around the time his father died. Dad had complained of indigestion, taken a couple of Alka-Seltzer, gone to bed, and woke up dead.

  He wondered how his life would be now if the old man hadn’t kicked off then.

  Anyway, Mom was still around. He’d picked her up earlier today, around two or so, and driven her over here to Uncle Bill’s place in Howard Beach. He was married to Mom’s sister Marie and his real name was Biagio but people had called him Bill forever. Mom brought her revered veal-and-pork lasagna, and Vinny contributed some wine he and Aldo had lifted from the storeroom of a high-end liquor store in Forest Hills.

  He and Mom had arrived just as Marie was setting out brimming antipasto trays: prosciutto, salami, and mortadella with provolone, Parmigiano-Reggiano, asiago, and gorgonzola, plus giant shrimp, the ever-present olives, along with sliced bread, breadsticks, and crackers.

  The usual twenty or so aunts, uncles, nieces, and nephews had gathered for the annual feast. Between helping Bill with drinks, Vinny managed to inflict considerable damage on the antipasto. Then it was on to the serious food. Vinny poured the amarone and pinot grigio he’d contributed while Marie put out platters of her huge homemade cheese ravioli swimming in red gravy.

  The turkey followed, with Uncle Bill wielding the carving knife, but it was almost a side dish against Mom’s lasagna, plus gnocchi pomodoro, and linguine con vongole.

  Then fresh hot chestnuts, followed by a ricotta cheese cake, cannoli, a huge assortment of cookies. Plus Aunt Marie always set aside a couple of zeppole for Vinny.

  No fucking way he could believe he ate the whole thing.

  “Vinny?” Uncle Bill was leaning out of the kitchen, holding the phone receiver. “You got a call.”

  Vinny struggled off the couch. A call? Who’d be calling him today? Had to be important. Couldn’t be family because all the family that mattered was here. Had to be business. But what?

  “It’s Tommy,” Uncle Bill said, handing him the receiver. “He sounds funny.”

  Vinny jammed the receiver tight against his ear. “Yeah?”

  “Yo, VinnAY!”

  Christ, coked to the eyeballs.

  “Tommy. How’d you know to call here?”

  “’Cause you go to your Uncle Bill’s every Turkey Day.”

  No argument there.

  “Well, Happy Thanksgiving, Tommy.”

  “Fuck Thanksgiving.”

  “Ay, don’t say that.”

  “I hate Turkey Day. You know why? Because we don’t do no collections on Turkey Day.”

  The ladies were busy all around him with the after-dinner cleanup. Vinny snaked through them and stretched the phone cord to the max – just enough to put him in Marie’s laundry room by the back door.

  “Nobody around to collect from, Tommy.”

  “Then we go to their homes and pull ’em out of their easy chairs and make ’em pay up on their front lawns.”

  Jesus, what had set him off? Had to be cash flow. More going up his nose than flowing into his pocket.

  “But anyway, I didn’t call to complain about this useless fucking holiday. I called to celebrate you and me goin’ into business together.”

  Vinny felt a coolness trickle along his spine. “What business?”

  “Salvage, man. That looks like a sweet deal you got going there. But I’m thinkin’ it’s too much for a guy who’s never handled a business before. You need an experienced hand, so I’m gonna partner with you.”

  Vinny controlled his voice. “I’m doin’ fine, Tommy.” He wanted to add, and the last thing I need is a fucked-up coke head snorting up all the profits. But he held that back.

  “But you could be doing so much better – and with my help, we’ll both be doing better.”

  Over my fucking grave, Vinny thought. But he didn’t want to get into an argument on the phone in his uncle’s kitchen.

  “I gotta go, Tommy.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s fuckin’ Turkey Day. Tell your uncle I said hello. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

  Vinny returned to the kitchen and with great effort replaced the wall phone on its cradle without smashing it. He turned to find his uncle staring at him.

  “I don’t know what you just heard, but that look on your face tells me it can’t be good. Ain’t I told you a million times–?”

  Vinny waved him off. “It’s all right. Nothing important.”

  Bill had a nine-to-five with the Transit Authority. Started as a conductor, moved up, but still brought home shit pay. When Vinny’s dad died, Bill started with the father-figure thing, always warning him against getting involved with the “mooks.” After Mom remarried, he backed off. And by the time Mom’s second kicked the bucket, Vinny was out of the house, doing a little this and a little that and getting connected.

  Bill gave him a long stare, then turned away. Vinny went and poured himself another glass of amarone.

  Right now, all he could do was hope this scheme of Tommy’s was pure coke talk and he’d forget it tomorrow. Otherwise, he had a problem. Tommy was Vinny’s superior, but if push came to shove, Vinny would go over his head and appeal to Tony Cannon.

  No fucking way was Tommy coming into the business.

  5

  Jack-Jack-Jack…

  The name echoed through Rico’s head as he limped along West 23 Street, inspecting the faces of the passersby. The wind cut through his ratty hoodie.

  “It’s cold out here,” Ramon said in Spanish as he walked beside him. He had his hands jammed into the pockets of his fatigue jacket. “And we ain’t gonna find him today anyway.”

  Perhaps Thanksgiving wasn’t the best day to be searching, but Rico had to do something.

  “This is where you spotted the maricon, right?”

  “Yeah–”

  “And you said he had groceries like he was picking up food.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And where do you buy stuff like that? Where you live. He lives around here. I can smell him.”

  “Yeah, but–”

  “But what?”

  “It’s been a long time.”

  “Long time? You think it’s been a long time for you? How about for me? You said you chase him with your machete. Why–”

  “I chased him, and I scared him, but I don’t know if I could really cut him.”

  “Well, I can! It’s been more than a month and my knee still ain’t right! I can’t take a deep breath without it still hurting. Bring him to me, and I’ll cut him!”

  He’d strapped his machete to his leg to act as a brace and to hide it. He’d made a slit in his jeans big enough to slip his hand through, so he could grab the handle and pull the blade free in a second.

  He still could not work, and that humiliated him. He’d been reduced to taking money from his sister to pay the rent.

  He knew what Ramon was thinking. He’d heard Carlos and Juan mention it: Maybe Rico shouldn’t have punched him.

  Easy to say now. And to tell the truth, Rico wished he hadn’t. Jack had turned into an animal. But Rico had just been so pissed, him coming in and getting next to Giovanni, taking Rico’s spot and all.

  Jack-Jack-Jack…

  He would find him, no matter how long it took. He patted the scabbard of his machete. And then…

  6

  Reggie wasn’t used to shooting from a sitting position. Never tried it before. He was used to standing, and occasionally kneeling, but he couldn’t stand yet, and sure as shit couldn’t kneel, so he sat in his wheelchair and did his best.

  Hard as hell.

  But he wanted to get the feel of the new hunting bow. That weird dude Drexler had asked him his weapon of choice. Reggie had told him and the next day he’d found himself the owner of a PSE Infinity SR 1000. A fine bow.


  He rolled his chair over to the target he’d set up on the far side of the basement. Drexler had moved him into the basement of this old stone building near Chinatown and the Manhattan Bridge. He called it a “Lodge,” but what lodge it belonged to, Reggie didn’t know. He hadn’t recognized the big seal in the front foyer.

  Whoever they were, they seemed to have bucks. Nobody had told him in so many words, but he could read between the lines and gathered that Drexler’s people had funded the purchase of the girls; they’d been ripped off and wanted their bucks back.

  Reggie was more than glad to help him.

  He pulled his arrows from the seat cushion he’d propped on a chair. He’d attached a crude smiley face to the cushion and labeled it “Lonnie.” His first shots had gone wide, some missing the paper entirely. But this last go-round had landed ten out of ten in the circular face.

  He smiled at the grouping of punctures and began murmuring his Scottish grandmother’s favorite song.

  We’ll meet again,

  Don’t know where, don’t know when,

  But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day…

  7

  “So glum on such a festive day?”

  Jack shook himself out of a reverie and looked at Abe, wedged into the other side of the diner booth. A steaming plate of sliced turkey, giblet gravy, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and green beans sat before each of them.

  Jack shrugged. “First time I’ve ever spent Thanksgiving alone.”

  “And I’m what? Chopped liver?”

  Oh, hell.

  “No, I didn’t mean alone alone. I meant without my family.”

  “You’re sad and lonely? Maybe you should go back.”

  “No way. I’m neither. Just seems strange, is all.”

  Would have seemed even more strange at home – the first Thanksgiving ever without his mother. He couldn’t imagine the day without her. She’d always spent it in the background, bustling around the kitchen, with Kate acting as sous chef, while Jack and Tom and Dad watched football in the living room. Eventually Dad would get called away to carve the turkey. Then they’d gather around the loaded table and dig in.