Quick Fixes - tales of Repairman Jack

by F. Paul Wilson

  “Ecuador.”

  “Well, you in New York now, honey, and I’m a bitch from the Bronx. Talk to me like that again and I’m gonna Bruce Lee yo ass.”

  “But I know you would like to sit on my face.”

  “Why? Yo nose bigger’n yo dick?”

  This cracked up a couple of teenage girls leaving the store. Mr. Ecuador’s face darkened. He didn’t seem to appreciate the joke.

  Head down, Jack crowded close behind Loretta as she entered the store.

  She said, “Told you I was in a bad mood.”

  “That you did, that you did. Five minutes, Loretta, okay?”

  “I hear you.”

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw Mr. Ecuador pick up his gym bag and follow them inside.

  Jack paused as Loretta veered off toward one of the cosmetic aisles. He watched to see if Ecuador was going to hassle her, but he kept on going, heading toward the rear.

  Duane Reade drugstores are a staple of New York life. The city has hundreds of them. Only the hoity-toitiest Upper East Siders hadn’t visited one. Their most consistent feature was their lack of consistency. No two were the same size or laid out alike. Okay, they all kept the cosmetics near the front, but after that it became anyone’s guess where something might be hiding. Jack could see the method to that madness: The more time people had to spend looking for what they had come for, the greater their chances of picking up things they hadn’t.

  This one seemed fairly empty and Jack assigned himself the task of finding the ice cream to speed their departure. He set off through the aisles and quickly became disoriented. The overall space was L-shaped, but instead of running in parallel paths to the rear, the aisles zigged and zagged. Whoever laid out this place was either a devotee of chaos theory or a crop circle designer.

  He was wandering among the six-foot-high shelves and passing the hemorrhoid treatments when he heard a harsh voice behind him.

  “Keep movin, yo. Alla way to the back.”

  Jack looked and saw a big, steroidal black guy in a red tank top. The overhead fluorescents gleamed off his shaven scalp. He had a fat scar running through his left eyebrow, glassy eyes, and held a snub-nose .38 caliber revolver – the classic Saturday night special.

  Jack kept his cool and held his ground. “What’s up?”

  The guy raised the gun, holding it sideways like in movies, the way no one who knew squat about pistols would be caught dead holding one.

  “Ay yo, get yo ass in gear fore I bust one in yo face.”

  Jack waited a couple more seconds to see if the guy would move closer and put the pistol within reach. But he didn’t.

  Not good. On the way to the rear, the big question was whether this was personal or not. When he saw the gaggle of frightened-looking people – the white-coated ones obviously pharmacists – kneeling before the rear counter with their hands behind their necks, he figured it wasn’t.

  A relief… sort of.

  He spotted Mr. Ecuador standing over them with a gleaming nickel-plated .357 revolver.

  Robbery.

  The black guy pushed him from behind.

  “Assume the position, asshole.”

  Jack spotted two cameras trained on the pharmacy area. He knelt at the end of the line, intertwined his fingers behind his neck, and kept his eyes on the floor.

  Okay, just keep your head down to stay off the cameras and off these bozos’ radar, and you’ll walk away with the rest of them.

  He glanced up when he heard a commotion to his left. A scrawny little Sammy Davis-size Rasta man with his hair packed into a red, yellow, and green striped knit cap appeared. He was packing a sawed-off pump-action twelve and driving another half dozen people before him. A frightened-looking Loretta was among them.

  And then a fourth – Christ, how many were there? This one had dirty, sloppy, light-brown dreads, piercings up the wazoo, and was humping the whole hip-hop catalog: peak-askew trucker cap, wide, baggy, ass-crack-riding jeans, huge New York Giants jersey.

  He pointed another special as he propelled a dark-skinned, middle-age Indian or Pakistani by the neck.

  Both the Rasta and the new guy had glazed eyes. Stoned. Maybe it would make them mellow.

  What a crew. Probably met in Rikers. Or maybe the Tombs.

  “Got Mister Maaaanagerrrr,” the white guy singsonged.

  Ecuador looked at him. “You lock the front door?”

  Whitey jangled a crowded key chain and tossed it on the counter.

  “Yep. All locked in safe and sound.”

  “Bueno. Get back up there and watch in case we miss somebody. Don’t wan nobody gettin out.”

  “Yeah, in a minute. Somethin I gotta do first.”

  He shoved the manager forward, then slipped behind the counter and disappeared into the pharmacy area.

  “Wilkins! I tol you get up front!”

  Wilkins reappeared carrying three large plastic stock bottles. He plopped them down on the counter. Jack spotted “Percocet” and “Oxy-Contin” on the labels.

  “These babies are mine. Don’t nobody touch em.”

  Ecuador spoke through his teeth. “Up front!”

  “Dude, I’m gone” Wilkins said and headed away.

  Scarbrow grabbed the manager by the jacket and shook him

  “The combination, mofo – give it up.”

  Jack noticed the guy’s name tag: J. Patel. His dark skin went a couple of shades lighter. The poor guy looked ready to faint.

  “I do not know it!”

  Rasta man raised his shotgun and pressed the muzzle against Patel’s quaking throat.

  “You tell de mon what he want to know. You tell him now!”

  Jack saw a wet stain spreading from Patel’s crotch.

  “The manager’s ou-out. I d-don’t know the combination.”

  Ecuador stepped forward. “Then you not much use to us, eh?”

  Patel sagged to his knees and held up his hands. “Please! I have a wife, children!”

  “You wan see them again, you tell me. I know you got armored car pickup every Tuesday. I been watchin. Today is Tuesday, so give.”

  “But I do not–!”

  Ecuador slammed his pistol barrel against the side of Patel’s head, knocking him down.

  “You wan die to save you boss’s money? You wan see what happen when you get shot inna head? Here. I show you.” He turned and looked at his prisoners. “Where that big bitch with the big mouth?” He smiled as he spotted Loretta. “There you are.”

  Shit.

  Ecuador grabbed her by the front of her dress and pulled, making her knee-walk out from the rest. When she’d moved half a dozen feet he released her.

  “Turn roun, bitch.”

  Without getting off her knees, she swiveled to face her fellow captives. Her lower lip quivered with terror. She made eye contact with Jack, silently pleading for him to do something, anything, please!

  Couldn’t let this happen.

  His mind raced through scenarios, moves he might make to save her, but none of them worked.

  As Ecuador raised the .357 and pointed it at the back of Loretta’s head, Jack remembered the security cameras.

  He raised his voice. “You really want to do that on TV?”

  Ecuador swung the pistol toward Jack.

  “What the fuck?”

  Without looking around, Jack pointed toward the pharmacy security cameras.

  “You’re on Candid Camera.”

  “The fuck you care?”

  Jack put on a sheepish grin. “Nothing. Just thought I’d share. Done some boosting in my day and caught a jolt in Riker’s for not noticing one of them things. Now I notice – believe me, I notice.”

  Ecuador looked up at the cameras and said, “Fuck.”

  He turned to Rasta man and pointed. Rasta smiled, revealing a row of gold-framed teeth, and raised his shotgun.

  Jack started moving with the first booming report, when all eyes were on the exploding camera. With the second boom he reache
d cover and streaked down an aisle.

  Behind him he heard Ecuador shout, “Ay! The fuck he go? Wilkins! Somebody comin you way!”

  The white guy’s voice called back, “I’m ready, dog!”

  Jack had hoped to surprise Wilkins and grab his pistol, but that wasn’t going to happen now. Christ! On any other day he’d have a couple dozen 9mm hollowpoints loaded and ready.

  He’d have to improvise.

  As he zigged and zagged along the aisles, he sent out a silent thank-you to the maniac who’d laid out these shelves. If they’d run straight, front to back, he wouldn’t last a minute. He felt like a mouse hunting for cheese, but this weird, maze-like configuration gave him a chance.

  He hurried along, looking for something, anything to use against them. Didn’t even have his knife, damn it.

  Batteries… notebooks… markers… pens… gum… greeting cards…

  No help.

  He saw a comb with a pointed handle and grabbed it. Without stopping, he ripped it from its package and stuck it in his back pocket.

  He heard Ecuador yelling about how he was going this way and Jamal should go that way, and Demont should stay with the people.

  Band-Aids… ice cream… curling iron – could he use that? Nah

  Hair color… humidifiers… Cheetos… beef jerky –

  Come on!

  He turned a corner and came to a summer cookout section. Chairs – no help. Umbrella – no help. Heavy-duty spatula – grabbed it and hefted it. Nice weight, stainless steel blade, serrated on one edge. Might be able to do a little damage with this. Spotted a grouping of butane matches. Grabbed one. Never hurt to have fire.

  Fire… he looked up and saw the sprinkler system. Every store in New York had to have one. A fire would set off the sprinklers, sending an alert to the NYFD.

  Do it.

  He grabbed a can of lighter fluid and began spraying the shelves. When he’d emptied half of it and the fluid was puddling on the floor, he reached for the butane match –

  A shot. A whizzz! past his head. A quick glance down the aisle to where Scarbrow – who had to be the Jamal Ecuador had called to – stood ten yards away, leveling his .38 for another go.

  “Ay yo I found him! Over here!

  Jack ducked and ran around a corner as the second bullet sailed past, way wide. Typical of this sort of oxygen waster, he couldn’t shoot. Junk guns like his were good for close-up damage and little else.

  With footsteps behind him, Jack paused at the shelf’s endcap and took a quick peek at the neighboring aisle. No one in sight. He dashed across to the next aisle and found himself facing a wall. Ten feet down to his right – a door.

  EMPLOYEES ONLY

  He pulled it open and stuck his head inside. Empty except for a table and some sandwich wrappers. And no goddamn exit.

  Feet pounded his way from behind to the left. He slammed the door hard and ran right. He stopped at the first endcap and dared a peek.

  Jamal rounded the bend and slid to a halt before the door, a big grin on his face.

  “Gotcha now, asshole.”

  In a crouch, gun ready, he yanked open the door. After a few heartbeats he stepped into the room.

  Here was Jack’s chance. He squeezed his wrist through the leather thong in the barbecue spatula’s handle, raised it into a two-handed kendo grip, serrated edge forward.

  Then he moved, gliding in behind Jamal and swinging at his head. Maybe the guy heard something, maybe he saw a shadow, maybe he had a sixth sense. Whatever the reason, he ducked to the side and the chop landed wide. Jamal howled as the edge bit into his meaty shoulder. Jack raised the spatula for a backhand strike, but the big guy proved more agile than he looked. He rolled and raised his pistol.

  Jack swung the spatula at it, made contact, but the blade bounced off without knocking the gun free.

  Time to go.

  He was in motion before Jamal could aim. The first shot splintered the doorframe a couple of inches to the left of his head as he dove for the opening. He hit the floor and rolled as the second went high.

  Four shots. That left two – unless Jamal had brought extras. Jack couldn’t imagine a guy like Jamal thinking that far ahead.

  On his way toward the rear, switching aisles at every opportunity, he heard Ecuador shouting from the far side of the store.

  “Jamal! You get him? You get him?”

  “No. Fucker almost got me! I catch him I’m gonna skin him alive.”

  “Ain’t got time for that! Truck be here soon! Gotta get inna the safe! Wilkins! Get back here and start lookin!”

  “Who’s gonna watch the front, dog?”

  “Fuck the front! We’re locked in, ain’t we?

  “Yeah, but–”

  “Find him!”

  “A’ight. Guess I’ll have to show you boys how it’s done.”

  Jack now had a pretty good idea where Ecuador and Jamal were – too near the barbecue section to risk going back. So he moved ahead. Toward Wilkins. He sensed that if this chain had a weak link, Wilkins was it.

  Along the way he scanned the shelves. He still had the spatula, the comb, and the butane match but needed something flammable.

  Antibiotic ointments… laxatives… marshmallows…

  Shit.

  He zigged and zagged until he found the hair-care aisle. Possibilities here. Needed a spray can.

  What the–?

  Every goddamn bottle was pump action. He wanted fluorocarbons. Where were fluorocarbons when you needed them?

  He ran down to the deodorant section. Everything here was either a roll-on or a smear-on. Whatever happened to Right Guard?

  He spotted a green can on a bottom shelf, half hidden behind a Mitchum’s floor display. Brut. He grabbed it and scanned the label.

  DANGER: Contents under pressure… flammable…

  Yes!

  Then he heard Wilkins singsonging along the neighboring aisle, high as the space station.

  “Hello, Mister Silly Man. Where aaaare youuu? Jimmy’s got a present for you.” He giggled. “No, wait. Jimmy’s got six – count em – six presents for you. Come and get em.”

  High as the space station.

  Jack decided to take him up on his offer.

  He removed the Brut cap as he edged to the end of the aisle and flattened against the shelf section separating him from Wilkins. He raised the can and held the tip of the match next it. The instant Wilkins’s face came into view, Jack reached forward, pressing the nozzle and triggering the match. A ten–inch jet of flame engulfed Wilkins’s eyes and nose.

  He howled and dropped the gun, lurched away, kicking and screaming. His dreads had caught fire.

  Jack followed him. He used the spatula to knock off the can’s nozzle. Deodorant sprayed a couple of feet into the air. He shoved the can down the back of Wilkins’s oversized jeans and struck the match. His seat exploded in flame. Jack grabbed the pistol and trotted into an aisle. Screams followed him toward the back.

  One down, three to go.

  He checked the pistol as he moved. An old .38 revolver with most of its bluing rubbed off. He opened the cylinder. Six hardball rounds. A piece of crap, but at least it was his piece of crap.

  The odds had just become a little better.

  A couple of pairs of feet started pounding toward the front. As he’d hoped, the screams were drawing a crowd.

  He heard cries of “Oh, shit” and “Oh, fuck!” and “What he do to you, bro?”

  Wilkins wailed in a glass-breaking pitch. “Pepe! Help me, man! I’m dyin!”

  Pepe… now Ecuador had a name.

  “Si,” Pepe said. “You are.”

  Wilkins screamed, “No!”

  A booming gunshot – had to come from the .357.

  “Fuck!” Jamal cried. “I don’t believe you did that!”

  A voice called from the back. “What goin on dere, mon? What hoppening?”

  “‘S’okay, Demont!” Pepe called back. “Jus stay where you are!” Then, in a lower v
oice to Jamal: “Wilkins jus slow us down. Now find that fuck fore he find a phone!”

  Jack looked back and saw a plume of white smoke rising toward the ceiling. He waited for the alarm, the sprinklers.

  Nothing.

  What did he have to do – set a bonfire?

  He slowed as he came upon the employee lounge again. Nah. That wasn’t going to work twice. He kept going. He was passing the ice cream freezer when something boomed to his right and a glass door shattered to his left. Ice cream sandwiches and cones flew, gallons rolled.

  Jack spotted Demont three aisles away, saw him pumping another shell into the chamber of his shotgun. He ducked back as the top of the nearest shelf exploded in a cloud of shredded tampons.

  “Back here, mon! Back here!”

  Jack hung at the opposite endcap until he heard Demont’s feet crunch on broken glass in the aisle he’d just left. He eased down the neighboring lane, listening, stopping at the feminine hygiene area as he waited for Demont to come even.

  As he raised his pistol and held it two inches from the flimsy metal of the shelving unit’s rear wall, he noticed a “personal” douche bag box sitting at eye level. Personal? Was there a community model?

  When he heard Demont arrive opposite him, he fired two shots. He wanted to fire four but the crappy pistol jammed. On the far side Demont grunted. His shotgun went off, punching a hole in the dropped ceiling.

  Jack tossed the pistol. Demont would be down but not out. Needed something else. Douche bags had hoses didn’t they? He opened the box. Yep – red and ribbed. He pulled it out

  Footsteps pounded his way from the far side of the store as he peeked around and spotted Demont clutching his right shoulder. He’d dropped the shotgun but was making for it again.

  Jack ran up and kicked it away, then looped the douche hose twice around his scrawny neck and dragged him back to the ruined ice cream door. He strung the hose over the top of the metal frame and pulled Demont off his feet. As the little man kicked and gagged, Jack slammed the door, trapping the hose. He tied two quick knots to make sure it didn’t slip, then dove through the empty frame for the shotgun. He pumped out the spent shell, chambered a new one, and pulled the trigger just as Jamal and Pepe rounded the corner.

  Pepe caught a few pellets, but Jamal, leading the charge, took the brunt of the blast. His shirtfront dissolved as the double-ought did a pulled-pork thing on his overdeveloped pecs. Pepe was gone by the time Jack chambered another shell. Looked back: Demont’s face had gone pruney, his kicks feeble. Ahead: Jamal lay spread eagled, staring at the ceiling with unblinking eyes.