The Barrens & Others

by F. Paul Wilson

  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 Asian 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. 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 effect 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 in 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 as
ked.

  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 stand up 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 heard 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 any more. 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 it 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 b
e 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 any more."

  "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."