Hardbingers rj-10

by F. Paul Wilson

  "Hey, I'm a dropout, remember? But now it starts to make sense. These guys behaved like a team, were well armed, and the little guy, Zeklos, was devastated that he was being kicked out. Said he had nothing to live for. If you were raised since childhood to be part of a team, and then got kicked out… yeah, you might want to put a bullet through your brain."

  "Speak for yourself."

  "He also talked about something called emvee being his world. That ring any sort of bell?"

  "Emvee?" Abe shook his head. "Could be initials. But M-V initials could stand for anything from motor vehicles to music video to the Maldives to whatever. Oy. Such possibilities. It gives me an ache in the head."

  The phone rang. Abe bent to check the caller ID.

  "This I have to take."

  Jack waved and headed for the door. Things to do.

  2

  He'd gone maybe half a block when he heard someone calling his name. He turned and saw Abe waving from the store's front door.

  "Jack! Come back! Such news I've got!"

  So Jack went back.

  "What's up?" he said as he followed Abe's bustling form back to the rear of the store.

  "That call was from a contact overseas—the one who's been working on your resurrection."

  "Why didn't you say so? I would have waited."

  "I didn't know if it would be good news. I didn't want to get your hopes up."

  Hopes up? They'd just shot into orbit.

  Impending fatherhood called for changes—momentous changes—in his legal status. Right now that status was zilch. The various and sundry governments—federal, state, and local—wheeling around him had no clue that he existed. Since his birth he'd stayed under their radar—by happenstance as a teenager, by design since he'd slipped into the city fifteen years ago.

  But to be a real and true father to the baby, he had to be a citizen. Sure, he could love it and nurture it just as much in his present nonexistent state, but Gia had brought up a wrenching scenario: What if something happened to her?

  The possibility had never occurred to Jack, mainly because the idea of anything bad happening to Gia was inconceivable. She would always be there.

  But her point had been nailed home last November when she'd told him how a speeding truck had come within inches of splattering her all over Park Avenue.

  Gia's death, as unthinkable as it seemed, and as remote a prospect as he could imagine, was not beyond the realm of possibility. Jack knew losing her would leave him emotionally devastated, but the ripples from her death would have far-reaching effects.

  The baby would have no father of record. Jack—using his real surname for the ürst time since he'd gone underground—might be listed in the hospital birth records, but couldn't be listed anywhere else. The guy in question had never filed a 1040, so the IRS would be eager to talk to him. But Homeland Security would be even more interested. A man without an identity, with no official record of his existence… if that didn't start the word "terrorist" flashing red in their heads, nothing would.

  He might be able to straighten it out without doing time, but that would take years. And during those years, Vicky—who he considered his adopted child—and his natural child would be living with Gia's folks back in Iowa. Jack had never met them, but he was sure they were good people. And as such they'd want to keep their grandchildren out of the clutches of someone as unsavory as Jack. Vicky would be forever lost to him—with no blood tie, he was out of the picture for her—and he'd have to fight for his own child. A custody battle for the baby would be ugly and inevitably go against him.

  The only way to prevent that horror show was to become a real person—be reborn as someone with a clean slate. Someone with no relatives, no legal baggage.

  Abe's idea had been brilliant: Assume the identity of someone overseas, a dead someone who wasn't listed as such. A nobody with no family to come looking for him.

  Where would one find such a man?

  "What did he say? Did he find someone?"

  Abe nodded as he slipped behind the counter and fished out a yellow legal pad.

  "You're going to be Mirko Abdic."

  "Who is?"

  "Was. He was a Christian Croatian gofer used by an associate in Bosnia during the war—a street kid he took under his wing. Used him to deliver messages when the communications broke down—a frequent occurrence according to him. Young Mirko was captured and tortured and killed by some Muslim Serb militia. My associate tracked them down and learned his fate. Since no one was asking or even cared, he neglected to report Mirko's death."

  "But was his birth recorded? You never know in these Third World countries."

  "Recorded. My associate checked."

  "Criminal record?"

  Abe shook his head. "Never arrested. If he'd lived longer, I'm sure he'd have had a long one. And since he was born and baptized a Christian, he won't be scrutinized like a Muslim."

  Jack thought about that. A few minutes ago the plan had been an abstrac-tion, a possibility. Now that it was a reality, Jack wasn't sure how he felt. Relief that a solution had been found, but tinged with a certain inescapable dismay.

  "This I know you know," Abe said, studying him, "but you have many changes ahead of you."

  "Tell me about it. Everything is going to change."

  "Not everything. You'll still be Jack, just with a different name."

  "I might still be Jack, but I can't be Repairman Jack."

  "And that will be a terrible shame."

  Jack shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. Maybe it's time to hang it up and start a new chapter."

  "You're mixing metaphors already."

  "Yeah, well, it's simply too dangerous to stay in the fix-it trade."

  Not just to him, but to the family he was about to have.

  He'd always tried to work his fix-its at arm's length, keeping his head down, never allowing himself to be seen. In the ideal fix, the target never even knew he'd been fixed. Just chalked it up to a run of bad luck and cursed the fates instead of Jack.

  But every so often, no matter how carefully he planned, something went wrong. Like that old saying: Want to make God laugh? Tell him your plans.

  Sometimes he was seen, which meant someone knew his face—or thought he did. Jack used various disguise techniques—wigs, mustaches; something as simple as cotton pledgets stuffed between the gums and the cheeks gave a face an entirely different look—but he always ran the risk that someone looking for him would wind up on the same block. If the old target spotted him and followed him home…

  "You're maybe thinking about Cirlot?"

  Jack nodded. He'd fixed Ed Cirlot but it had been one of those cases where he'd had no choice but to show his face. Because of Jack, Cirlot wound up in jail. When he got out he'd come looking.

  "He gave me a bad time. But I was living alone in my apartment. No one in danger but me. What if he'd followed me to Gia's?"

  "Let's not think about that. The fact that it's happened only once is testament to the care you take."

  "Once is too many. That's why I can't risk making new enemies. Repairman Jack is dead, long live… what's his name again?"

  "Your name." Abe glanced at his yellow pad. "Mirko Abdic." He made a face. "Oy, such a name. You're going to have to change it as soon as you can."

  "Right. Along with my spots."

  His whole life… upside down. Becoming a citizen, joining the herd and allowing the politicos to fleece him along with the rest of the sheeple… the prospect made him ill.

  But it had to be done. The baby hadn't been Jack's idea, and it hadn't been Gia's, but the little guy—it had to be a he—was on his way and Jack wasn't going to let anyone get between him and his child.

  He sighed. "Okay. How's this going to work?"

  "Details still have to be fine-tuned, but plans are in the works to smuggle you into Sarajevo toward the end of the month. A nonstop trip? No. Circuitous at best. But once you're there you'll assume the identity of Mirko Abdic. A temporary
visa has been applied for—"

  "Legal?"

  "Of course. Isn't legit the whole idea? To be legit you must have a legit visa. After you get here you can marry Gia in time to be the baby's legal father. Then you apply for a green card. Later you can apply for citizenship and the circle will be complete."

  "It's a thing of beauty, Abe."

  "Your admiration and veneration I accept. But it's not over yet. Still some kinks to be ironed out. The biggest will be language. You'll have to pass through whatever outward-bound security they have over there without speaking a word of the language."

  Jack didn't like that.

  "Couldn't you have brought me in as a Brit or an Aussie? I could fake 'rine in Spine' and 'shrimp on the barbie.'"

  "Their record-keeping is too good. We needed a country with a recent period of anarchy and chaos to provide an inventory of unreported deaths. This is the best way. The language problem will be worked out."

  Jack believed that. He had implicit trust that Abe would not send him off until he was satisfied that every detail had been nailed down.

  So why did he feel so queasy?

  3

  Gia sat in the Sutton Square house kitchen and stared at Jack. She'd held back her tears as long as she could, but finally they began to flow.

  "It's true? It's really going to happen?"

  Jack nodded. "Seems that way. Still some details to be ironed out, but we should be able to tie the knot early February."

  They sat across the table in the old-fashioned kitchen. Even though she and Vicky had been living here for almost a year and a half, Gia refrained from calling it her kitchen. Legally, the tony townhouse still belonged to Vicky's aunts, but Nellie and Grace were never coming back. In a few years it would be Vicky's, but until then…

  She looked down at her cooling cup of tea as she felt a sob building. She'd been on an emotional roller coaster since the start of her third trimester—up, down, happy, sad, energetic, exhausted in rapid succession, occasionally all at the same time. And that growing sob… she bit it back but it broke free.

  Jack reached across the table and grabbed her hand.

  "What's wrong, Gi? I thought you—"

  "Nothing's wrong. Absolutely nothing. Except that I've turned your whole life upside down."

  "No, you—"

  "Go ahead. You can say it. If I hadn't been careless with my pills that one month, you wouldn't have to go to all this trouble. You'd still be doing your fix-its and leading your life the same way as before."

  She'd never been guilt-prone, but now she was drowning in it. Jack had said he was going to find a way to change his life for the baby. And though he always kept his word, the idea had remained an abstraction until this morning.

  "Oh," he said. "And I had nothing to do with the baby, I suppose?"

  "Well, sure you did, but—"

  "No buts. The past is past, the baby is now. He wasn't planned—"

  Gia couldn't help it. "She."

  "Let me rephrase: The baby wasn't planned, right, but we haven't been pointing fingers because there's no one to point to. So don't go pointing a finger at yourself. Things are what they are. We deal with it. End of story."

  Gia agreed in principle, but couldn't get past the enormity of jack's sacrifice.

  He rose and took the seat next to her, then drew her onto his lap.

  "Look." He slipped his arms around her. "Here's the way I see it. I've always known I couldn't keep up the Repairman Jack thing forever. It's not the kind of scene you can play indefinitely. I mean, can you see me wearing Depends while I'm meeting customers in Julio's?"

  Gia laughed through her tears. "That's taking things to extremes, don't you think? Just a little?"

  "Maybe, but the thing is, I've had a good run, and a lot of good luck. I've made a nice piece of change. At some time in the not-too-distant future I was going to have to call it quits anywray. So why not now? Why not quit wrhile I'm ahead… before I slip up and regret it? Opt to go out upright, under my own steam."

  It made a lot of sense, but didn't ring quite true. Jack was giving up the cherished, under-the-radar lifestyle he'd worked at all his adult life. He might in time convince himself that it had been the smart thing to do, the best thing to do, but she knew it was costing him dearly.

  Which reminded her of why she loved this strange, driven man.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed.

  "I feel as if I'm robbing the world of something unique and precious."

  "You're doing nothing of the sort. I'm a grown-up and this is my decision. I don't have to tell you I wish we had a different system—in a lot of ways—but this is the one we're stuck with. My approach has painted me into a corner that won't allow me to claim paternity. I can't change the system so, for the baby's sake, I've got to adapt."

  She hugged him tighter.

  "I wish there was an easier way- I hate the thought of you sneaking into a foreign country—Yugoslavia of all places."

  "Yugoslavia is no more. It's Bosnia-Hurtstogoweewee now."

  "Whatever it's called, I'm worried."

  "You always worry about me."

  "Yes, I know. But at least here in New York you're on your home turf—you own this city. It's your playground. You know all the rules. But a foreign country… where you don't even speak the language…" She tightened her grip. "I hate it. If anything happens to you…"

  He gave her a squeeze. "Nothing's going to happen. In a week or so you're going to have a foreign houseguest with a funny name."

  "What was that name again?"

  "Mirko Abdic."

  "That's got to go. We don't want to saddle our little girl with a name like Emma Abdic."

  "You mean Jack Abdic. Or maybe we could go for Arnold Abdic."

  "That's not even funny," she said, but laughed anyway.

  It felt good to laugh. She just hoped they'd have something to laugh about when all this was over.

  4

  Instead of a cab, Jack took his own wheels to Brooklyn this time. And instead of the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, he decided to cross the East River on the Williamsburg Bridge.

  Mistake… at least in a car as big as Jack's.

  Checkpoints had tightened on bridges and tunnels since what had come to be known as the LaGuardia Massacre. Before that, the heavy scrutiny had been directed at vehicles entering the city. Appeared they'd expanded that to those leaving.

  His big black Crown Vic's trunk—fittingly enough for a car that got negative miles per gallon—was huge, big enough to house a whole Al Qaeda cell and their favorite caprine squeezes. Apparently that made it something to look out for.

  Jack's stomach turned sour as a cop at the entrance to the span signaled him to pull over.

  The big, bored-looking white guy with five-o'clock shadow before noon strolled up to Jack's window. No hurrying for this guy.

  "Good morning, sir. May I see your license and registration?"

  This was bad. Very bad. Jack's IDs, though the best money could buy, were bogus. The registration would pass muster, but he didn't know if the John Tyleski license he'd been using would withstand a computer check. Ernie the ID guy was good, but no one was perfect.

  With moist fingers, Jack dug the license out of his wallet, the registration out of the glove compartment, and handed them over.

  The cop thanked him and turned away, studying them as he headed toward a kiosk by the curb. Halfway there he stopped and returned to Jack's window.

  "These don't match."

  Here we go.

  "Yessir. I drive and run errands for Mr. Donato."

  "We're talking Vinny Donuts here?"

  "Yessir."

  The cop looked around, then handed the cards back.

  "Okay. You got anything in that trunk I shouldn't see?"

  Nothing but some of Jack's burglary tools, and they were hidden in a canvas bag in the spare well.

  "Not a thing, sir. Mr. Donato is a loyal American citizen."

&
nbsp; "Yeah. Okay, pop it so I can take a look."

  Jack did. The cop made a cursory examination—going through the motions—then slammed it shut.

  He slapped the roof and said, "Have a nice day, sir."

  "I will now," Jack muttered once his window had rolled up.

  He crossed the bridge slowly, letting the adrenaline work its way out of his system as he blessed the day he'd come up with the idea of cloning Vincent Donato's car. Mr. Donato, sometimes called "Vinny Donuts" and sometimes called "Vinny the Donut," was built like Abe and ran certain ventures of dubious legality out of Brooklyn. Jack had bought a black Crown Vic identical to Vinny's and had Ernie make up an identical registration card and plate.

  The inspiration had been mothered by necessity: Someone with no love for Jack had traced the plates on his previous car to Gia, putting her and Vicky in jeopardy. Now should anyone trace his plates they'll find themselves dealing with a hard guy notorious for a bad attitude.

  He'd returned to his normal steady state by the time he reached the BQE and took it down to Red Hook. The big Vic sailed along the pocked pavement as if it were velvet.

  Across the river, Lower Manhattan gleamed in the winter sunshine. The city looked so clean from over here. Almost pristine. He wondered when someone would discover the three anything-but-pristine corpses in that cellar.

  He rolled into Red Hook, found Zeklos's apartment, and parked out front. Then he leaned back, watched the pedestrians, and waited.

  After twenty-five minutes a middle-aged man carrying a grocery bag stepped up to the building door. As he fumbled for his key, Jack hopped out and came up behind him. When he unlocked the door, Jack reached past him and held it open.

  "I got it," he said.

  The guy looked at him, suspicion in his eyes.

  AAAAAA A"You live here, bud?"

  Jack held up his own shopping bag and loosed his most charming smile.

  "Staying with Zeklos. Y'know, Two-B?"

  "You mean the ghost?"

  They stepped into a tiny vestibule, and then Jack followed the guy up the stairs.

  "Why you call him that? He's a good guy."