The Last Christmas: A Repairman Jack Novel

by F. Paul Wilson

  m-e-l-i-s

  His finger darted toward the ENTER button but hesitated over it. Hess and Monaco had seemed genuinely upset about letting the word slip. Beyond upset: terrified. Monaco’s words came back:

  Burkes told us you live off the grid. You want to stay off the grid? Forget that word. You want the grid laser-focused on you? Then throw that word around. Go ahead: Google it. See what happens.

  Was the word really on the ECHELON watch list? If so, he was courting disaster by doing this, especially from his home.

  He leaned back. This was what America had come to: afraid to type a word into a search engine.

  He remembered the first time he’d used one, back in, what, the late ’90s? He’d gone to the New York Public Library and sat at one of their new computers to look up…he’d forgotten what. But he did remember the wondrous search site called AltaVista that would look up anything he wanted—an electronic go-fer with instant access to all the world’s knowledge. English, biology, chemistry, astronomy, the news, the weather, the spot price of gold or silver…anything he wanted to know at his fingertips.

  And never a worry about someone watching. Maybe someone was, but hardly anyone worried about it. Nowadays you knew someone was watching—everywhere. Cameras up and down the block, all along the shopping aisles. And in your home computer: Do a casual look-up on a knife or a pair of boots and soon ads for knives and boots would pop up on your screen for days afterward. The retailers were keeping track. So was Google—and selling the info. Who else?

  Jack stayed under the radar as best he could, but anonymity was becoming harder and harder to maintain. Privacy was a myth…a bit of fond nostalgia.

  Sighing, he backspaced until the word disappeared.

  Maybe he’d try it someday from an Internet café or the like. But if the stuff was so secret, he’d most likely find nothing. And in exchange for that nothing he’d galvanize officialdom into a search for him, poring over CCTV recordings to see who was where when the miscreant dared to enter that word. With cameras everywhere, odds were high they’d catch a look at him, enter his image in facial recognition software, and image analyzers around the world would be on the lookout for him day and night.

  Nope. Not worth it.

  He powered down, unplugged the cable, and headed for the shower.

  11

  Tier sipped his Patron in his father’s La-Z-Boy as he watched the weather report on the 11 p.m. Eyewitness News with the sound off. No need for words. The weather map said it all as they tracked the huge snowstorm aimed directly at the city and due to arrive early Tuesday.

  He had to find the Bagaq tomorrow. Not only because the storm would complicate everything, but settling this tomorrow meant only one day associated with Poncia.

  Even that was too much. The prospect repulsed him. At least they weren’t working side by side. He didn’t know if he could take that.

  Not that he couldn’t use the money. He was building a nest egg for when he started college. But he wasn’t desperate. When Dad developed a small-cell tumor in his lung, he’d applied to the September 11th Victim Compensation Fund. He’d smoked better than a pack a day most of his life, so maybe 9-11 had nothing to do with it, but he’d worked in the ruins and so he qualified for a nice hunk of change.

  He hadn’t lived long enough to spend any of it, so it had all gone to Tier. Tier kept a little cushion for himself and gave the rest to the grandparents who’d raised him. But they led simple lives and the dough was sitting in a money market account collecting interest. When they passed on, it would come back to Tier.

  So, he’d soldier through and keep as much distance as possible between him and Poncia.

  The only good thing about today was something that hadn’t happened: that sound. Tier was beginning to wonder if he’d really heard it. Because no one else had. Its volume near the center of the Sheep Meadow had nearly driven him to his knees, so how could anyone nearby—and he’d seen a good number—not hear it.

  Unless it was all in his head.

  But it had a definite location outside his head—centered in the Sheep Meadow, dammit. It didn’t make sense.

  The possibility that he had something amiss in his mind or his brain nagged at him. He wouldn’t do anything about it now. But if he heard that sound again, he’d have no choice but to seek out a doctor for a diagnosis. But where to start? A neurologist or a shrink?

  Maybe it wouldn’t happen. Maybe he’d never hear it again. He couldn’t let it distract him. He’d simply go on with his life.

  Which right now consisted of sitting here alone, sipping his Patron, and planning his next move.

  And yes, a plan was forming…a sneaky way to learn the whereabouts of Madame de Medici.

  Monday—December 22

  1

  Waiting for Jack…whoever he was.

  Albert had found a spot out of the wind that gave him a good angle on the front door to the guy’s brownstone without being seen: hiding behind the steps of another place just like it across the street.

  Easy peasy.

  Gonna be a good day, he could tell. If not for the constant throbbing in his wrecked finger, it might be a great day. The doc had said it wasn’t broken but better if it had been because it would heal better. The torn ligaments might never heal right. Man, he’d love to get his hands on that Medici bitch—in more ways than one.

  Whatever. He was here to show the boss he didn’t need no hotshot Indian PI with a badass rep for tracking folks. All he needed was Albert Poncia. Good ol’ Albert wasn’t no Big Chief Indian like Hill and didn’t have no P-I license, but what he had was instincts. All you needed was good solid instincts and you could get any job done, and done right.

  All he had to do was wait till this guy left his place. Tonto had said his name was Jack—no known last name—and he lived on the third floor. When Jack was out of sight Albert would bust in and toss his place. Tonto hadn’t been able to get in, but what did he know? Albert was ready to show him up.

  If the fucking Bagaq was there, Albert would find it and return it to the boss. If it wasn’t there, Albert would wait for this Jack guy to return and put the screws to him till he gave up the Bagaq. Either way, the boss would get his weird goody.

  Roland Apfel didn’t like to be called “boss,” so Albert always called him “Mister Apfel” to his face. But “Apfel” was a dick name. Sounded like that computer company. And “Roland” was totally dick. So, in the privacy of his head Albert called him “boss.”

  The boss treated him right and paid him good. Even let him live on the second floor, which was a good thing and a not-so-good thing since it meant the boss could call on him anytime day or night. Not that he did so very often, but every once in a while he wanted something done right away, no delay, and expected Albert to hop to it.

  Which Albert did. Basically, his job boiled down to doing whatever the boss told him to do. Some of it wasn’t legal, some of it left people bleeding. Not a good thing to get between Roland Apfel and something he wanted. No matter. Albert did what needed doing, whatever it was.

  Small price to pay for living rent free in the mid-Sixties right off Fifth Avenue. Couldn’t beat that. Room plus board. Not that he ever ate with the boss—wouldn’t want to, uh-uh, no way. But most days the house had a cook who fixed Albert something whenever he was hungry.

  He had a sweet deal and wasn’t about to let anything mess it up. So any time he could do the boss a solid, he was on it.

  Like now. Find that fucking Bagaq thing. He had no idea why the boss wanted it, but the why didn’t matter. If he wanted it, Albert would get it and—

  “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  Albert looked up to see a baldie in a sweatshirt and shorts staring down at him from the top of the brownstone’s steps. The house’s green door stood open behind him.

  “Just standing here. Who wants to know?”

  “The owner of this house wants to know, that’s who. And he happens to be me. And what you�
��re doing isn’t ‘standing,’ it’s called loitering. Now move on before I call the police.”

  “You don’t own the sidewalk, mister.”

  “I own the area around my front steps, right where you’re loitering.”

  Rich people. Some of them, like the boss, were okay, but others were real assholes.

  “Move, I said! Or you can explain it to the NYPD.”

  Okay, that wouldn’t be good. Even if they just told him to move on, cops would attract all sorts of attention. He’d have to find another lookout.

  “Awright, awright. I’m moving.”

  As he stepped away from the steps, he saw a guy coming out the door of the other brownstone. Hill had said Jack was medium all over—medium height, medium build, medium brown hair. The description fit this guy perfect.

  Awright! Albert wasn’t going to have to find a new lookout after all.

  And then he noticed the package in the guy’s hand: the same size and shape as the Bagaq. He was moving it!

  This hadn’t been the plan, but Albert saw no choice but to follow.

  2

  “You can’t park that there. Can’t you read?”

  Tier finished chaining the Forza to the NO PARKING sign and turned to the Allard’s liveried doorman. He raised his helmet’s tinted visor just enough to clear his lips.

  “First off, the bike’s on the sidewalk, and second, I’ll only be here long enough to deliver a package to one of your residents.”

  Releasing the box from the bungees that held it down, he approached the doorman. Despite the heavy ornate coat, his hat and gloves, the guy still looked cold.

  “You got a Madame de Medici here?” Tier said.

  “Lemme see your face.”

  “What?”

  “Lemme see who I’m talking to.”

  He seemed pretty serious about that, so Tier raised the visor.

  “Better?”

  His nametag said Simón and he gave Tier a long look before answering. “Who you looking for again?”

  He’d heard loud and clear but Tier would play the game.

  “Does a Madame de Medici live here?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Yeah, she lives here, but she’s away for a while.”

  Shit. Tier kept a neutral expression.

  “Away where?”

  The doorman gave him a practiced Are-you-kidding-me? look. “Even if I knew, you think I’d tell you?”

  “How long?”

  “She didn’t say.” He held out his hands. “But we’re holding her mail.”

  Tier hesitated, then handed it over.

  The doorman hefted the box, saying, “What’s in it?”

  Tier’s own Are-you-kidding-me? look wasn’t quite as nuanced, but he put it on before he turned away. “Even if I knew, you think I’d tell you?”

  “Ay, c’mon. I gotta know if it’s perishable!”

  “No worry. It’s not.”

  Just a bunch of old magazines.

  Tier unchained the bike and rolled it off the curb. He’d confirmed what he’d suspected. The Medici gal had skipped town. But with or without the Bagaq? Tier suspected the latter. His money was on Jack’s place.

  It bothered him that they knew so little about her. Usually when he took on a case, he had a thorough background on the quarry. This gal, though… total mystery woman. And that story of someone with the same name and an “uncanny” resemblance to the current Madame de Medici stealing an ancient sapphire back in 1912… he’d never admit it aloud, but that gave him the creeps. Because this gal had anything but run-of-the-mill looks. Those amber eyes…

  If she had any connection to the sapphire thief, it had to be her grandmother or some relative like that. Stupid to think it might be the same gal. She’d be pushing 150 now.

  Away for a while…Roland said she had places to crash all over the globe, which meant she could be anywhere, but Tier had instinctive doubts about the doorman’s veracity. Something about the way he’d delivered those lines. Like he said them every day. Maybe she traveled a lot. Maybe it didn’t matter if she was here or gone. He was pretty sure she’d left something at that guy Jack’s apartment, but had it been the Bagaq?

  He’d watch the Allard a little longer.

  3

  Jack took another look out Costin’s sooty, smoggy front window. The mom-and-pop had been here forever—a proto-convenience store that had opened back when the Permian Extinction was still a fond memory. Jack had been a regular since he’d moved to the Upper West Side.

  “That’s the third time you’ve looked out the window,” Liz said from behind the counter. “Something interesting going on out there?”

  Yeah, Jack thought. I’m being followed by a pear-shaped man.

  “Saw a guy with a weird-looking dog. Wondering if he’ll come back this way. Gotta find out what kind of mutt it is.”

  Over the years old man Costin and his wife had adapted their fare to the times, adding flavored coffees to their lineup of urns and, most recently, breakfast sandwiches. Lately their daughter Liz had taken an interest in the place. As a vegetarian—Jack thought he remembered her calling herself a lacto-ovo-vegetarian or some other multi-hyphenated variation—she’d been expanding the menu to her own liking.

  He returned to the sandwich counter where she was finishing the four vegetarian breakfast burritos he’d ordered. She’d trapped her wild, frizzy brown hair under a net. When she forgot the net, she looked ready to break into a flashdance any second.

  After finding the scratches on his front door last night, no surprise to find someone watching his place this morning. Jack had spotted the squat, dumpy guy in the Rangers jacket and knit cap from his front window. He’d looked cold out there, shifting from one foot to the other.

  Jack decided to lead him on a mini tour of the UWS.

  So, when he’d left the house, he’d taken the Bagaq along, tightly wrapped in a flimsy yellow plastic shopping bag so its shape and size would be obvious. If the guy had gone up the brownstone’s steps instead of bird-dogging him, Jack would have been forced to return for a confrontation. But the lure had worked. He followed Jack all the way to Costin’s.

  “Sorry this is taking so long,” Liz said.

  “Take your time. I’ve got all morning.”

  He certainly didn’t mind if his tail had to spend a little extra time on the frigid windy corner where he’d set up watch on the store.

  “I still can’t believe how good that fake sausage tastes,” he said, making conversation. “Just like the real thing.”

  No lie. Her textured vegetable protein tasted exactly like spicy sausage meat.

  “You wouldn’t believe what they’re doing with TVP these days, but that’s my own special mix of spices. I think these’ll fool Abe.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. But you know what? He’ll eat them anyway.”

  “What’s not to like?” she said. “Scrambled TVP sausage, egg whites, and low-fat cheddar wrapped in a flour tortilla. Tastes just like the real thing except without all that animal fat.”

  That was the idea. Jack needed to arrive with an offering for the non-immortal deity perched behind the rear counter, but one that wouldn’t shorten his life.

  “Don’t know why you bother, though,” she added.

  “Just doing my part.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t say this then.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Just between you and me?”

  Jack held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  “You need three, Jack.”

  He added a third. “Promise.”

  “Abe likes to stop in on his way home.”

  Hoo boy.

  “And?”

  “Well, last night he bought a gallon of cookie dough ice cream.”

  Yeah. Why do I bother?

  Shaking his head, he paid her and left the store carrying two bags instead of one.

  He wondered if his tail planned to
jump him. He hoped so.

  But no such luck. Cars crawled the street, people scurried along the sidewalks. Too many witnesses.

  So, he led him straight to Abe’s. After entering, Jack paused a few feet inside the door in case the tail followed him in. But again, no such luck.

  “Breakfast anyone?” he said, approaching the rear counter.

  Abe looked up from the array of newspapers he had spread out before him.

  “Nu? Who said I was hungry?”

  “You’ll be hungry for these. From Costin’s.”

  His face lit. “Sarmale?”

  Cabbage rolls for breakfast?

  “No. Breakfast burritos.”

  “I’ve never had. But I’m not hungry. Maybe Parabellum will try.”

  As if answering a call, the blue parakeet fluttered to a landing on Abe’s shoulder, cocking his head back and forth as he considered the two bags Jack laid on the counter.

  When Jack unwrapped the burritos, Abe gave in and tried one.

  “Just so Parabellum won’t go hungry.”

  The bird didn’t go hungry. Neither did his owner who downed two and pronounced them quite tasty.

  As they were finishing, the front door opened and a man and a boy entered.

  Abe rolled his eyes. “Oy, customers.” Wiping his hands on his shirt, he raised his voice. “Look around. If you need help—”

  “We’re from Colorado and we’re looking for skis,” the father said. He was bundled in a red Gore-Tex jacket and a knit cap.

  Jack leaned back to watch the show. Though his cover was a sporting goods shop, Abe hated to sell any of his upstairs stock. His stock in the downstairs armory was a different story. His stated goal was to try his damnedest to have every sporting customer leave emptyhanded.

  Abe’s accent thickened. “Gevalt! You’re from Colorado and you don’t have skis?”

  “Not with us. With a big storm coming, I figure we’ll head upstate and get in some runs.”

  “Snowpocalypse!” the kid cried, pumping a fist. He was about Vicky’s age and dressed like his dad but in blue. “Snowmageddon!”