Scenes From the Secret History (The Secret History of the World)

by F. Paul Wilson

  The black guy pushed him from behind.

  “Assume the position, asshole.”

  You can watch Jack take these guys apart in Quick Fixes – Tales of Repairman Jack

  April

  Conspiracies

  (illo by reader Xiao Yu)

  (includes “Home Repairs”)

  Rasalom and Jack meet for the first time, though Rasalom doesn’t know Jack is the Heir, and Jack has no idea of Rasalom’s true nature. But Maurico suspects that Jack is more than he seems…

  Wow, did I have fun with this one. Maybe too much fun. Because I decided upon completing it that I would commit to writing the series.

  Here’s where I solidified the pattern of giving Jack both a mundane problem and a weird problem to fix in each novel. The mundane fix involves a wife-beating hubby. For that I borrowed a Repairman Jack short story called “Home Repairs” and incorporated it into the story.

  For the weird fix, I involved him in a UFO/conspiracy convention on Manhattan’s West Side. I even went to a similar convention in Laughlin, NV, to research it. It seems this woman who is in charge of SESOUP (The Society for the Exposure of Secret Organizations and Unacknowledged Phenomena.) has disappeared. You can imagine what a group of conspiracy theorists thinks about that.

  I feared I might have put too much humor in Conspiracies, but readers didn’t think so.

  Here follows one of their favorite exchanges as Jack and Abe discuss life and death and conspiracies.

  CONSPIRACIES

  (sample)

  “So why should you call them nuts?” Abe said. ”We are surrounded by conspiracies.”

  Jack had swung by the Isher Sports Shop to say hello to Abe Grossman, a graying Humpty Dumpty of a man in his late fifties with a forehead that went on almost forever, and Jack’s oldest friend in the city. In the world. They sat in their usual positions: Jack leaning on the customer side of the scarred wooden counter, Abe perched on his stool behind it, and around them, a gallimaufry of sporting goods tossed carelessly onto sagging shelves lining narrow aisles or hung from ceiling hooks, all in perpetual, undusted disarray. A Sports Authority outlet designed and maintained by Oscar Madison. One of the reasons Jack liked coming here was that it made his apartment look neat and roomy.

  “You know the root of the word?” Abe said. “Conspire: it means to breathe together. The world is rife with all sorts of people and institutions breathing together. Just take a look–” He broke off and cocked his head toward the pale blue parakeet perched on his stained left shoulder. “What’s that, Parabellum? No, we can’t do that. Jack is a friend.”

  Parabellum tilted his beak toward Abe’s ear and looked as if he were whispering into it.

  “Well, most of the time he is,” Abe said, then straightened his head and looked at Jack. “See? Conspiracies everywhere. Just now, right in front of you, Parabellum tried to engage me in a conspiracy against you for not bringing him a snack. I should be worried if I were you.”

  Usually Jack brought something edible, but he’d neglected to this time.

  “You mean I can’t drop in without bringing an offering?” Jack said. “This was a spur of the moment thing.”

  Abe looked offended. “For me – feh! – I shouldn’t care. It’s for Parabellum. He gets hungry this time of the day.”

  Jack pointed to the Technicolor droppings that festooned the shoulders of Abe’s half-sleeve white shirt. “Looks like Parabellum’s had plenty to eat already. You sure he doesn’t have colitis or something?”

  “He’s a fine healthy bird. It’s just that he gets upset by strangers – and by so-called friends who don’t bring him an afternoon snack.”

  Jack glanced pointedly at Abe’s bulging shirt front. “I’ve seen where the bird’s snacks usually end up.”

  “If you’re going to start on my weight again, you should save your breath.”

  “Wasn’t going to say a word.”

  But he wanted to. Jack was getting worried about Abe. An overweight, sedentary, Type-A personality, he was a heart attack waiting to happen. Jack couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to Abe. He loved this man. The decades that separated their birthdays hadn’t kept them from becoming the closest of friends. Abe was the only human being besides Gia Jack could talk to – really talk to. Together they had solved the world’s problems many times over. He could not imagine day-to-day life without Abe Grossman.

  So Jack had cut back on the goodies he traditionally brought whenever he stopped by, or now if he did bring something, he’d sworn it would be low cal or low fat – preferably both.

  “Anyway, I should be worried about weight? If I want to lose some, I can do it anytime. When I’m ready, I’ll go to Egypt and eat from street carts for two weeks. You’ll see. Dysentery does wonders for the waistline. Richard Simmons should be so effective.”

  “Im-Ho-Tep’s revenge, ay?” Jack said, keeping it light. He didn’t want to be a complete pain in the ass. “When do you leave?”

  “I have a call in to my travel agent now. I’m not sure when she’ll get back to me. Maybe next year. But what about you? Why are you so careful with your foods? A guy in your line of work should worry about cholesterol?”

  “I’m an optimist.”

  “You’re too healthy is what’s wrong with you. If you don’t get shot or stabbed or clubbed to death by one of the many people you’ve royally pissed off in your life, what can you die from?”

  “I’m doing research. I’ll find something interesting, I hope.”

  “Nothing you’ll die of! And how will that look on your death certificate? ‘Cause of death: Nothing.’ Won’t you feel foolish? Such an embarrassment. It will have to be a closed-coffin service to hide your red face. And really, how could I come to your funeral knowing you died of nothing?”

  “Maybe I’ll just die of shame.”

  “At least it’s something. But before you pass on, let me tell you a little something about conspiracies.”

  “Figured you have something to say on the subject.”

  “Indeed I do. Remember that global economic holocaust I used to warn you about?”

  For years Abe had gone on and on about the impending collapse of the global economy. He still maintained a mountain retreat upstate, stocked with gold coins and freeze-dried food.

  “The one that didn’t happen?”

  “The reason it didn’t happen is that they didn’t want it to happen.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “The cabal of international bankers that manipulates the global currency markets, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Here we go, Jack thought. This ought to be good.

  “’Of course,’ he says,” Abe said, speaking to Parabellum. “Skepticalman Jack thinks his old friend is meshugge.” He turned back to Jack. “Remember when the Asian and Russian markets went into free fall a while back?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “’Vaguely,’ he says.”

  “You know I don’t follow the markets.” Since he didn’t own stocks, Jack pretty much ignored Wall Street.

  “Then I’ll refresh your memory. Not so long ago the bottoms fell out of all the Asian markets. Less than a year later, the same thing in Russia, making rubles good only for toilet paper. People were losing their shirts and their pants, banks and brokerage houses were failing, Asian brokers were hanging themselves or jumping out windows. Do you think that just happened? No. It was planned, it was orchestrated, and certain people made money that should be measured in cosmological terms.”

  “What people?”

  “The members of the cabal. They’re drawn from the old royal families and international banking families of Europe along with descendants of our own robber barons. Most of their influence is concentrated in the West, and they were probably miffed at being left out of all the emerging economies booming in Asia. So they invited themselves in. They manipulated Asian currencies, inflated the markets, then pulled the plug.”

  Jac
k had to ask: “How does that help them?”

  “Simple: They sell short before the crash. When prices have bottomed out – and they know when that is because they and their buddies are pulling the strings – they cover their short positions. But that’s only half of the equation. They don’t stop there. They use their stupendous short profits to buy up damaged properties and companies at fire sale prices.”

  “So now they’ve got a piece of the action.”

  “And no small piece. After the crash, enormous amounts of Thai and Indonesian stock and property were bought up at five cents on the dollar by shadow corporations. And since the lion’s share of profits from those upstart countries will now be flowing into the cabal’s coffers, those economies will be allowed to improve.”

  “Okay,” Jack said. “But who are they? What are their names? Where do they live?”

  “Names? You want I should give you names? How about their addresses too? What’s Repairman Jack going to do? Pay them a little visit?”

  “Well, no. I just–”

  “If I knew their names, I’d probably be dead. I don’t want to know their names. Someone else should know their names and stop them. They’ve been pulling the world’s economic strings for centuries but no one ever does anything. No one hunts them down and calls them to account. Why is that, Jack? Tell me: Is it ignorance or apathy?”

  “I don’t know and couldn’t care less,” Jack said with a shrug.

  Abe opened his mouth, then closed it and stared at him.

  Jack fought the grin that threatened to break free. Goading Abe was precious fun.

  Finally Abe turned to Parabellum. “You see what I put up with from this man? I try to enlighten him as to the true nature of things, and what does he do? Wise he cracks.”

  “As if you really believe all that,” Jack said, grinning.

  Abe stared at him, saying nothing.

  Jack felt his smile fading. “You don’t really believe in an international financial cabal, do you?”

  “I should tell you? But one thing you should know is that a good conspiracy theory is a mechaieh. And also great fun. But this group you mentioned, this Bouillabaisse–”

  ”SESOUP.”

  “Whatever. I’ll bet it’s not fun for them. I’ll bet it’s very serious business for them: UFO’s and other stuff far from the mainstream.”

  “UFO’s are mainstream?”

  “They’ve been mainstreamed. That’s why sightings are up: believing is seeing, if you should get my drift. But when you start talking with members of Zuppa De Peche–”

  “SESOUP.”

  “Whatever – I bet you’ll run into meshuggeners so far from the mainstream they’re not even wet.”

  “I can hardly wait.” Jack glanced at his watch. “Look, I’ve got to be heading out to the Island. Can I borrow your truck?”

  “What’s the matter with Ralph?”

  “Sold him.”

  “No!” Abe seemed genuinely shocked. “But you loved that car.”

  “I know.” Jack had hated parting his 1963 white Corvair convertible. “But I didn’t have much choice. Ralph’s become a real collector’s item. Everywhere I took him people stopped and asked me about him, wanted to buy him. Don’t need that kind of attention.”

  “Too bad. All right, since you’re in mourning, take the truck, but remember: she only likes high test.”

  “That old V6?”

  Abe shrugged. “I shouldn’t spoil my women?” He extracted the truck keys from his pocket and handed them to Jack as the bell on the shop’s front jangled. A customer entered: a tanned, muscular guy with short blond hair.

  “Looks like a weekend warrior,” Jack said.

  Abe returned Parabellum to his cage. “I’ll get rid of him.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ve got to go.”

  With obvious reluctance, Abe slid off the stool and left his sanctum behind the counter. He sounded bored as he approached the customer.

  “What overpriced recreational nonsense can I sell you today?”

  Jack headed for the door, holding up the truck keys as he passed Abe.

  Abe waved, then turned back to his customer. “Water skis? You want to spend your free time sliding on top of water? What on earth for? It’s dangerous. And besides, you could hit a fish. Imagine the headache you’d cause the poor thing. A migraine should be half so bad…”

  More mayhem and merriment await in… Conspiracies

  May

  ALL THE RAGE

  (cover variant for the limited with red type)

  I often list All the Rage as including “The Last Rakosh,” but it was actually written around that particular short story.

  In 1990 I was slated to be guest of honor at the World Fantasy Convention along with Susan Allison, Robert Bloch, L. Sprague de Camp, Raymond Feist, David Mattingly, and Julius Schwartz. (What a lineup!) It’s traditional for the guests to contribute a story to the convention program. The chairman that year was Bob Weinberg and his wife, Phyllis, was a major Repairman Jack fan. I’d brought Jack back for “A Day in the Life,” so could I please bring him back for the convention? Pleeease? How could I say no?

  I began with the premise that not all the rakoshi had died when Jack blew up Kusum’s ship, and then I added some of new characters I’d created for Freak Show, the anthology I’d started putting together for HWA (which eventually led to “The Peabody-Ozymandias Traveling Circus & Oddity Emporium”).

  “The Last Rakosh” begged for expansion so I built a novel around it. As often happens with me, I had no title. But my buddy Steve Spruill read it and come up with All the Rage. Perfect.

  It contains some of the best fixes I ever came up with for Jack. Here’s one of them…

  ALL THE RAGE

  (sample)

  1

  Sal Vituolo huddled on an East Hampton dune and wondered what the hell he was doing. Freakin’ long ride to get here, and the sand being damp and chilly wasn’t helping matters much. He hoped this was going to be worth all the trouble.

  And expense. This Repairman Jack guy didn’t come cheap. Sal had tried to pay him in car parts but it was cash – and lots of it – or nothing. He hadn’t particularly featured handing over that much dough with no receipt, no guarantee. Guy could be a scammer and just take off, but sometimes you just had to put aside everything you’d learned in the school of hard knocks and go with your gut. Sal’s gut said this Jack was a stand-up guy.

  But maybe not wrapped too tight. Tires? What did he want with a freakin’ truckload of old tires?

  The guy had shown up this afternoon to pick up the rubber and his money. Then he told Sal to go out and rent a videocam, a professional model with the best zoom lens and low light capabilities, and haul it out here to where he could see Dragovic’s house. Keep your distance but get as close as you can without being spotted, he’d said. Sal wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but here he was.

  He glanced around uneasily, hoping no one was watching him – especially no one from Dragovic’s crew. No telling what would happen to him if he got caught spying on the party.

  He checked his watch. Ten o’clock. Jack had said start taping at ten, so Sal flicked on the power and settled into the eyepiece. He’d been practicing with the videocam since he got here, and had the workings down pretty good. At maximum zoom, the telephoto night lens magnified the light and the house to the point where Sal felt like he was looking at the place from twenty feet away.

  He’d peeped the party off and on. Looked like the Slippery Serb was tossing a bash for his boys and his big customers. The crowd was all guys, some in suits, some in sweaters or golf shirts. Sal knew the type from their haircuts and their swagger – Eurotrash and local tough guys, probably the kind Dragovic’s lawyers would refer to in court as “business associates.”

  Sal had watched them chow down on the best damn buffet he’d ever seen – whole lobsters, soft-shelled crabs, a sushi chef, carvers serving everything from prime-rib to filet, a raw bar, a cav
iar bar with bottles of flavored vodkas jutting from a mound of shaved ice – until he got so hungry he had to turn off the camera.

  As he focused the scene now, he noticed something new going on at the party. A bunch of bikinis were splashing around in the pool. Where’d they come from? The guys were all hanging around the water, sipping after-dinner drinks, smoking fat cigars, and watching.

  Sal felt his shoulder muscles knot… he’d bet his life that somewhere in that crowd were the guys who splattered Artie all over Church Avenue. He could be looking at them right now.

  What am I doing videotaping a party? What for? And where do Jack and my old tires come in?

  Then he heard the helicopter.

  2

  “My, what interesting people,” Cino said.

  Her sarcastic tone irritated Milos. They stood in the corner where the main house joined its eastern wing. Drinks in hand – Ketel One for Milos, the ever-present Dampierre for Cino – they leaned on the railing of the highest tier of one of the multi-level decks and surveyed Milos’s guests below.

  Cino wore a high-collared embroidered kimono-like dress of red silk that clung to every curve of her slim body on its way to her ankles. With her dark bangs and jet eyes, she looked Oriental tonight.

  “I’m sure you’ll be more impressed with Sunday’s guest list,” he said. “The beautiful people are more your type. But these folk” – he gestured with a sweep of his arm–”are the ones who make this place and this party possible. My buyers, sellers, suppliers, and distributors.”

  “Distributors of what?” Cino asked with a mischievous grin as she leaned against him like a cat. She’d been hitting the champagne since midafternoon and her glittering eyes said she was feeling little pain.