Repairman Jack 04 - All the Rage

by F. Paul Wilson

  "Not a disgruntled employee, I take it."

  "No, but the man looked vaguely familiar. It took the rest of the day before I could place him. Then I remembered. He was Milos Dragovic."

  Well, well, well, Jack thought, remembering a guy who'd contacted him recently about a beef with Milos Dragovic. Two customers interested in Dragovic in as many weeks. That boy do get around.

  Nadia was staring at him. "I can't believe you haven't heard of him." She must have misinterpreted his silence.

  "Oh, I have. Everyone's heard of the Slippery Serb."

  That was what the Post had dubbed Dragovic a couple of years ago. And he lived up to the title. He'd faced indictments for gunrunning, racketeering, procuring, even murder, and had walked on every one. A sharp dresser who hobnobbed with celebrities at all the in restaurants and hot nightspots, Milos Dragovic had replaced John "the Dapper Don" Gotti as the city's chic hood.

  "You're sure it was him?" Jack said.

  "Totally. I dug out an old copy of New York magazine that had a cover story on him. Milos Dragovic, no question."

  "And he's pushing your boss around. Any idea why?"

  "That's what I'd like you to find out."

  "Well, since your guy works for a drug company—"

  "He's one of the founders."

  "Even better. Doesn't take a genius to figure out that Pharmaceuticals of a less than legal nature must be involved. Why not call the cops and tell them the Slippery Serb is shaking down your boss? I'm sure they'd love to know."

  "Because Dragovic may have something on him, some secret he's blackmailing him with. And he may already have coerced him into doing something illegal. I don't want to see him go to jail or get hurt."

  As Nadia was speaking, Jack picked up on something: a timbre in her voice, a look in her eyes as she spoke about her boss at a job she'd had for only a few weeks. More than just a professional relationship here?

  "Just who is this boss you care about so much?"

  Nadia hesitated, chewing her upper lip, then shrugged. "Oh, hell. I've gone this far, I might as well tell you: his name is Dr. Luc Monnet."

  "Like the painter?"

  "Same pronunciation, but with a double n."

  There, Nadia thought. I've told him. I hope I'm not going to regret it.

  The last thing in the world she wanted to do was cause trouble for Dr. Monnet. In fact, the very reason she'd called this Repairman Jack was to try to protect him.

  Relax, she told herself. Alicia had said she could trust this man. And Alicia Clayton's trust was not easily won.

  But after the way she'd talked about him, Nadia had expected Jack to have a commanding presence, be six-two at least and built like a fullback. The man sipping coffee on the other side of her desk was a very average Joe—midthirties, good-looking but hardly dazzling, with brown hair, brown eyes, and an easy way, dressed like men she passed hundreds of time a day on the city streets.

  I want the man I can trust with my life to be like Clint Eastwood or Arnold Schwarzenegger, she thought. Not a younger poor man's Kevin Costner.

  But then she remembered Alicia's warning: Don't let Jack's mild Mr. Everyman act fool you; his bite is infinitely worse than his bark.

  "I gather he's more than just a boss to you," Jack said.

  The offenhandedness of the remark jolted Nadia. Is it that obvious?

  She tried to make her shrug equally offhanded. "We go back a ways. He was one of my professors in medical school."

  "The one who said, 'The future is steroids'?"

  She nodded, glad to note that he'd been paying attention. "He inspired me to go into endocrinology. I owe him for that."

  Jack stared at her, as if saying, Go on… I know there's more.

  Oh, yes, there was. Lots. But Nadia was not about to confess to a stranger about the mad crush she'd had on Luc Monnet back in med school. His black curly hair, as dark as his glistening eyes, his fine features, his trim body, but most of all his manner. With his aristocratic bearing and his delicious, oh-so-faint French accent, he'd simply reeked of the Continent. Nadia had been so enthralled that she'd dreamed of seducing him, even worked out a way to go about it. She remembered the old fantasy…

  She'd seen herself entering his office and locking the door behind her. She'd never kidded herself that she had fashion model looks, but she knew she was no bowwow either. And on more than one occasion she'd caught Dr. Monnet looking at her, so the thought that she could do it wasn't completely off-the-wall. She'd be wearing a tight short top and a miniskirt worn low to expose her navel. She'd ask him for a clarification on hormone levels and sexual response. She'd work her way around the desk till she was standing next to him, rubbing a hip against him as he reviewed molecular structures. If he didn't take that bait, then she'd simply take his hand and place it on her bare inner thigh. After that, temperatures would rise, clothes would be shed, and he'd take her right there on his desk, demonstrating along the way that he was an expert in the lovemaking art for which the French were famous.

  And it had remained pure fantasy until one day near the end of the term…

  Nadia shifted to banish the faint tingling in her pelvis. Doug Gleason was the man in her life now—now and forever.

  "You owe him enough to play guardian angel?" Jack said.

  "Curtis Sliwa I'm not. But what should I do when I think that the man who inspired me toward my life's work and gave me my first job is being coerced into doing something most likely illegal?"

  "How do you know it's coercion?" Jack said.

  "Come on. If a known thug is physically pushing him around, I've got to believe he's pushing him around in other ways as well."

  Jack was nodding slowly. "Yeah. That would follow. So what would you like me to do about it?"

  "A number of things." Nadia had worked out an algorithm for the Monnet situation, much like the ones the medical journals worked up for diagnosis and treatment of a given disorder. She pictured the boxes and decision points in her mind as she spoke. "First we have to determine the connection between Dr. Monnet and Milos Dragovic. If it's all perfectly legal—which I very much doubt—then we drop it right there. If it's not so legal, then we move on. And if Dr. Monnet is being coerced, I want it stopped."

  Jack's eyes bored into her. "And if he's a willing participant in something illegal, with no coercion, then what?"

  That was the final leg of Nadia's algorithm, a blank box she hadn't filled in. She hoped, prayed she wouldn't have to. She couldn't imagine Dr. Monnet willingly involved in anything illegal. He was already wealthy. He didn't need money.

  But then she thought of the sleazy junk bond dealers in the eighties who'd ripped off hundreds of millions in a single year. But did they quit while they were ahead—way ahead? No. They wanted still more. The money itself had ceased to matter. It was the high from the risk that kept them pushing for more and more until finally they were caught.

  Was Dr. Monnet's aloof demeanor merely a facade? Could a hunger for risk, a need for speed, a jones for adrenaline boil beneath that controlled surface?

  This man sitting before her might come up with answers to questions she didn't want asked. But she had to do something. And she had to trust that an important person in her life did not have feet of clay.

  She sighed. "I don't think you'll find that. But if you do, I'll make up my mind then."

  "Fair enough," Jack said. "I'll need some addresses—his home, the company's corporate offices—phone numbers: yours, his, work, home, and so on."

  Nadia pulled an envelope from her purse. "I've got them all right here. I've also written up what I know of his life, his training, his research, plus all I know about the company, GEM Pharma."

  Jack smiled. "Efficient. I like that."

  "There's just one problem," she said, feeling her stomach tighten. Alicia had told her about the Repairman Jack's usual fee. "Money."

  "Yeah, well, I do charge for my services."

  "Of course. I can't imagine you wouldn't;
it's just that I'm only recently out of residency, and I just started this new job, and I was wondering…"

  Jack hadn't moved, but she sensed that he'd somehow receded.

  "If I'd cut my price?" He shook his head. "I don't haggle, especially when someone like Dragovic is involved. Sometimes I go on a contingency basis, but this isn't that sort of job."

  Well, at least I tried, Nadia thought. "Ok, then, can I make time payments?"

  He sat there staring at her for what felt to her like an eternity.

  "Tell you what," he said finally. "Someone else contacted me about a matter involving Mr. Dragovic—just last week as a matter of fact. If I can find a way to work the two of them together, I may be able to give you a break on the fee."

  "And if you can't?"

  He shrugged. "I don't do time payments—a guy in my position has no legal means to go after a welsher. But since Alicia vouched for you, I'll make an exception."

  Relief flooded her, "Then you'll do it?"

  "I'll look into it; that's all I promise."

  Nadia drew another envelope from her pocketbook and hesitated. Ten $100 bills crinkled within. A lot of money to hand to a man she'd met only moments ago. But despite his bland looks, she sensed a core of steely determination. All her instincts testified that he was the man.

  "All right, then. Here's a thousand as—what? A retainer?"

  He smiled as he took the envelope and tucked it away without looking inside. "Retainer, down payment, whatever you like."

  "Don't I get a receipt?"

  Another smile as he shook his head. "No receipts, no written reports, no evidence that we've ever met." He rose and extended his right hand across the desk. "It's all right here."

  She took his hand.

  "There's our contract," he said, still clasping her hand. "You trust me to do what I say I'll do, I trust you to compensate me for it."

  "Trust," she said softly. "What a concept."

  He released her hand and reached for the doorknob. "I'll be in touch."

  And then he was gone and Nadia was alone, fighting a sudden wave of apprehension. Anyone watching her hand over a thousand dollars to a complete stranger would have thought her crazy. But money had nothing to do with her worry—although she had nothing in writing, Nadia sensed she had a contract etched in stone.

  No, it was a gnawing uncertainty about what she just had set in motion and a premonition that it would end badly.

  2

  As Jack walked toward Park Avenue, looking for a cab uptown, he heard someone call to him.

  "Yo, Jack!"

  He turned and saw One-leg Lenny leaning against the wall of the Union Square Theater; he held his crutch in one hand and was rattling the change in the bottom of a Styrofoam cup with the other. His right leg stopped just below the knee.

  "Hey, Lenny," Jack said. His real name was Jerry something, but he seemed to prefer the alliterative Lenny. "What're you doing down here?"

  "Collectin' unemployment… the usual."

  Lenny wore a fatigue jacket and his tangled graying hair looked like he'd lost his comb in Nam and hadn't bothered to replace it. He kept a three-day stubble on his weathered cheeks and dressed in raggedy shirts and oversize denims—always oversize. He looked fifty but could have been forty or sixty.

  "Not exactly the usual," Jack said, pointing to Lenny's foreshortened right leg. "Every time I've seen you, the left one's been missing. What gives?"

  "My hip's been bothering me lately, so I've been switching off."

  Jack still couldn't figure how Lenny managed to strap his lower leg up behind him without a noticeable bulge. Had to be uncomfortable as all hell, but he claimed it helped him collect enough change to make it worthwhile.

  "Say, listen, Jack," he said, lowering his voice. "I got a fine new product."

  "Not today." Jack knew that Lenny dealt to supplement his panhandling.

  "No, really, it's not the usual. This stuff's new and so sweet. I'll give you a taste, on the house."

  "No, thanks."

  "My regulars down here sure like it. Leaves your head clear and don't lay no jones on you."

  "Sounds wonderful. Maybe some other time."

  "OK. You just let me know."

  Jack waved and moved on, forgetting Lenny and reviewing last week's meeting with the customer who'd wanted to see him about Dragovic. Jack had gone all the way out to Staten Island to meet him… for nothing.

  Jack had started easing back on using Julio's for his meetings, ever since last month when he'd been standing at the bar, sipping a brew, and this guy walked in and asked if Repairman Jack was around. Julio, his usual cool self, said lots of guys named Jack came in and out all day. Was he supposed to meet this Jack here? Guy said no, he'd just heard that this was his hang and he needed to talk to him. Julio had sent him off, telling him he had the wrong place.

  Jack didn't want anyplace known as his "hang"—not good for him and maybe not good for Julio. He did his utmost to work his fixes anonymously, but every so often he had to get in someone's face. He'd collected a few enemies over the years. More than a few.

  So when Jack got a call last week from someone named Sal Vituolo about hiring him for a fix-it, Jack had made the trip to Staten Island. Turned out Sal wanted him to "whack"—he'd really used the word—Milos Dragovic. Jack explained that he didn't "whack" people for money, and returned to Manhattan.

  But now he was thinking maybe he should drop in on good ol' Sal and see if he'd settle for something less than a "whack." Jack might be crossing paths with Dragovic for Nadia anyway, so why not let Sal Vituolo pay some of the freight.

  But first he needed to check with Abe, see what he knew about Dragovic.

  He raised his hand as he reached Park Avenue South and saw a cab swing into the curb, but it stopped downstream by a woman in a red suit who'd been there ahead of him. As she opened the rear door, a man in a dark blue suit darted up, nudged her aside with his briefcase, and slid into the cab. Jack watched in amazement as the woman, screeching curses, ripped the briefcase from his hand and tossed it across the sidewalk. The shocked and now embarrassed man jumped out of the cab and went after it.

  Jack had to smile. Good for you, lady. Serves the bastard right.

  Somebody nearby shouted, "You go, girl!"

  Jack was turning to look for another cab when he noticed that instead of climbing into the cab, the woman now was going after the ride snatcher. As she rushed up behind him she pulled a pair of scissors from her coat pocket and began doing the Mother Bates thing. He shouted in pain and terror as the scissors rose and fell, jabbing into a shoulder, a thigh, his back. She was going for his neck when the cabbie and a passerby grabbed her and disarmed her. Still screeching, she attacked them with her fists.

  Maybe I'll just walk, Jack thought.

  3

  "You were there?" Abe said around a mouthful of bagel. "At this so-called preppy riot?"

  Abe Grossman's Isher Sports Shop wasn't officially open at this hour, but Jack knew Abe was an early riser who didn't have much of a life outside his business. He'd knocked on the window, waved his bag of bagels, and Abe had let him in.

  "'Riot' is something of an overstatement," Jack said, pulling a few sesame seeds off his bagel and spreading them on the counter for Parabellum. Abe's pale blue parakeet hopped over and began pecking at them. "More like a whacked-out brawl. But it had some dicey moments."

  Abe, midfifties, balding, his belly straining against his white shirt, was perched on his stool on the far side of the scarred counter. His stock of bikes and Roller-blades and hockey sticks and anything else remotely related to a sport was scattered helter-skelter on shelves, floors, counters, or hung from the ceiling: layout by tornado.

  He winced when Jack told him what had almost happened to Vicky. "And this joker… he's still upright and breathing?"

  "For the moment."

  "But you have plans to make adjustments in that state of affairs, I assume?"

  "I'm working on it.
" He didn't want to talk about Robert B. Butler now. "Know anything about Milos Dragovic?"

  Abe's bagel paused in midair, halfway to his mouth. "A nice man he's not."

  "Tell me something I don't know."

  "He got his start in my business."

  "Guns?"

  Abe nodded. "In the Balkans. A true product of the nineties, Dragovic. Made a fortune with his brother running guns to both sides during the Bosnia thing. They grew up here but were born over there. Their father was in some sort of Serb militia during World War Two so they had ins. The brothers Dragovic came back rich with a small army of Serb vets that they had used to muscle into various rackets—drugs, numbers, prostitution, loan-sharking, anything that turned a profit."

  "Midnineties, right? Yeah, I remember a lot of drive-bys and shoot-'em-ups back then. Didn't know it was Dragovic's work."

  "Not all of them, of course, but he contributed his share. The brothers then tied themselves in with the Russians and used Brighton Beach as a launching pad against the Haitians and Dominicans. Totally ruthless from what I hear."

  "A little local ethnic cleansing, eh?"

  "You might say. Then when the Kosovo thing started, Milos and his brother—I can't remember his name—went back to guns, but the brother got killed in some deal that went sour. Milos came back richer and more powerful."

  "What's his organization like?"

  "He's a control freak. No lieutenant or right-hand man; micromanages everything himself. Not much of an entourage—thinks that shows weakness—and likes the fast lane."

  "Yeah, he do love to get his picture in the paper."

  "And now a club he's building, so all the beautiful people will come to him. He took over one of Regine's defunct places. And what name, do you think?"

  "Milos's Mosh Pit?"

  "No. Worse: Belgravy."

  Jack had to laugh. "No!"

  "But it won't open till the fall, so for reservations you still have time." He looked at Jack over his glasses. "You're getting involved with this man?"

  Jack shrugged. "I've found two people in as many weeks with a beef against him."