A Soft Barren Aftershock

by F. Paul Wilson

  Jack had paid him—in bogus twenties. Cirlot had been caught with the counterfeit—enough of it to make a charge of conspiracy to distribute stick. When he’d named Jack’s coin operation as his source, no such operation could be found. He got ten years soft Fed time.

  “Don’t tell me he’s out already.”

  “Si. Good behavior. And he was asking around about you.”

  Jack didn’t like that. Cirlot wasn’t supposed to know anything about Repairman Jack. The coin dealer who had stiffed the blackmailer with bogus was gone like he had never existed. Because he hadn’t.

  So why was Cirlot looking for Repairman Jack? There was no connection.

  Except for Tom Levinson.

  “I think I’ll go visit a certain I D dealer.”

  Jack spotted Levinson up on East 92nd Street, approaching his apartment house from the other side. Levinson spotted him at the same time. Instead of waving, he turned and started to run. But he couldn’t move too fast because his foot was all bandaged up. He did a quick hop skip limp combination that made him look like a fleeing Walter Brennan. Jack caught up to him easily.

  “What’s the story, Tom?” he said, grabbing Levinson’s shoulder.

  He looked frightened, and his spiked black hair only heightened the effect. He was a thin, weaslely man trying to look younger than his forty-something years. He was panting and his eyes were darting left and right like a cornered animal.

  “I couldn’t help it, Jack! I had to tell him!”

  “Tell him what?”

  “About you!” His mouth began running at breakneck speed. “Somehow he connected me and that coin dealer you played. Maybe he had lots of time to think while he was inside. Maybe he remembered that he first heard about a certain coin dealer from me. Anyway, the first thing he does when he gets out is come to me. I was scared shitless, but he doesn’t want me. He wants you. Said you set him up for a fall and made him look like a jerk.”

  Jack turned away from Levinson and walked in a small circle. He was angry at Levinson, and disappointed as well. He had thought the forger was a standup guy.

  “We had a deal,” Jack said. “When I took you on, you were to keep quiet about it. You don’t know Repairman Jack—never hear of him. That’s part of the deal. Why didn’t you play dumb?”

  “I did, but he wasn’t having any.”

  “So tell him to go squat.”

  “I did.” Levinson sighed. “Jack . . . he started cutting off my toes.”

  The words stunned Jack. “He what?”

  “My toes!” Levinson pointed to his bandaged left foot. “He tied me up and cut off my fucking little toe! And he was going to cut off another and another and keep on cutting until I told him how to find you!”

  Jack felt his jaw muscles tighten. “Jesus!”

  “So I told him all I knew, Jack. Which ain’t much. I gave him the White Pages number and told him we met at Julio’s. I don’t know any more so I couldn’t tell him anymore. He didn’t believe me, so he cut off the next one.”

  “He cut off two toes?” Jack felt his gut knot.

  “With a big shiny meat cleaver. You want to see?”

  “Hell no.” He shook off the revulsion. “I took Cirlot for the white collar type. He never seemed the kind to mix it up.”

  “Maybe he used to be, but he ain’t that way now. He’s crazed, Jack. And he wants to bring you down real bad. Says he’s gonna make you look like shit, then he’s gonna ice you. And I guess he’s already tried, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

  Jack thought of the shot through the hotel window and the falling cement bag.

  “Yeah. Twice.”

  “I’m sorry, Jack, but he really hurt me.”

  “Christ, Tom. Don’t give it another thought. I mean, your toes . . . damn!”

  He told Levinson he’d take care of things and left him there. As he walked away, he wondered how many toes he’d have given up for Levinson.

  He decided he could muddle through life without ever knowing the answer to that one.

  As soon as the car pulled to a stop in front of the laundry, Aldo reached for the door handle. He felt Joey grab his arm.

  “Mr. D. Let me go in. You stay out here.”

  Aldo shrugged off the hand. “I know where you’re comin’ from, Joey, but don’t keep buggin’ my ass about this.”

  Joey spread his hands and shrugged. “Ay. You’re the boss. But I still don’t think it’s right, know what I mean?”

  Joey was okay. Aldo knew how he felt: He was Aldo D’Amico’s driver and bodyguard, so he should be doing all the rough stuff. And as far as Aldo was concerned, Joey could have most of it. But not all of it. Aldo wasn’t going to hide in the background all the time like Tony C. Hell, in his day Tony could walk through areas like this and hardly anyone would know him. He was just another paisan to these people. Well, that wasn’t going to be Aldo’s way. Everybody was going to know who he was. And when he walked through is was going to be, “Good morning, Mr. D’Amico!” “Would you like a nice apple, Mr. D’Amico?” “Have some coffee, Mr. D’Amico!” “Right this way, Mr. D’Amico!” People were going to know him, were going to treat him with respect. He deserved a little goddamn respect by now. He’d be forty five next month. He’d done Tony the Cannon’s scut work forever. Knew all the ins and outs of the operation. Now it was his. And everybody was going to know that.

  “I’ll handle this like I did yesterday,” he told Joey. “Like I told you: I believe in giving certain matters the personal touch.”

  What he didn’t tell Joey was that he liked the rough stuff. That was the only bad thing about moving up in the organization—you never got a chance for hands on communication with jerks like the gook who owned this laundry. Never a peep out of the little yellow bastard all the years Tony C. was running things, but as soon as he’s gone, the gook thinks he’s gonna get independent with the new guy. Not here, babe. Not when the new guy’s Aldo D’Amico.

  He was hoping the gook gave him some more bullshit about not using his place for a drop anymore. Any excuse to work him over again like the other day.

  “Awright,” Joey said, shaking his head with frustration, “but I’m comin’ in to back you up. Just in case.”

  “Sure, Joey. You can carry the laundry.”

  Aldo laughed, and Joey laughed with him.

  Jack had arrived at Tram’s with a couple of dirty shirts at about 3:30. Dressed in jeans, an Army fatigue jacket, and a baseball cap pulled low on his forehead, he now sat in one of the three chairs and read the Post while Tram ran the shirts through the machine. It was a tiny hole in the wall shop that probably cost the little man most of his good leg in rent. A one man operation except for some after school counter help which Tram always sent on an errand when a pick up or delivery was due.

  Jack watched the customers, a motley group of mostly lower middle class downtowners, flow in and out. Aldo D’Amico and his bodyguard were instantly identifiable by their expensive top coats when they arrived at 4:00 on the button. Aldo’s was dark gray with a black felt collar, a style Jack hadn’t seen since the Beatles’ heyday. He was mid-forties with a winter tan and wavy blow dried hair receding on both sides. Jack knew he had to be Aldo because the other guy was a side of beef and was carrying a wad of dirty laundry.

  Jack noticed the second guy giving him a close inspection. He might as well have had BODYGUARD stenciled on his back. Jack glanced up, gave the two of them a disinterested up and down, then went back to the sports page.

  “Got something for me, gook?” Aldo said, grinning like a shark as he slapped the knuckles of his right fist into his left palm.

  Jack sighed. He knew the type. Most tough guys he knew wouldn’t hesitate to hurt somebody, even ice them if necessary, but to them it was like driving a car through downtown traffic in the rain: You didn’t particularly like it but you did it because you had to get someplace; and if you had the means, you preferred to have somebody else do it for you.

  Not this Aldo.
Jack could tell that mixing it up was some kind of fix for him.

  Maybe that could be turned around. Jack didn’t have a real plan here. His car was parked outside. He intended to pick up Aldo and follow him around, follow him home if he could. He’d do that for a couple of days. Eventually, he’d get an idea of how to stick him. Then he’d have to find a way to work that idea to Tram’s benefit. This was going to be long, drawn out, and touchy.

  At the counter, Tram sullenly placed a brown paper wrapped bundle on the counter. The bodyguard picked it up and plopped the dirty laundry down in its place. Tram ignored it.

  “Please, Mr. Aldo,” he said. “Will not do this anymore.”

  “Boy, you’re one stupid gook, y’know that?” He turned to his bodyguard. “Joey, take the customer for a walk while I discuss business with our Vietnamese friend here.”

  Jack felt a tap on his shoulder and looked up from his paper into Joey’s surprisingly mild eyes.

  “C’mon. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”

  “I got shirts coming,” Jack said.

  “They’ll wait. My friend wants a little private talk with the owner.”

  Jack wasn’t sure how to play this. He wasn’t prepared for any rough and tumble here, but he didn’t want to leave Tram to Aldo’s tender mercies again.

  “Then let him talk in the back. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  Joey grabbed him under the arm and pulled him out of the chair. “Yeah. You are.”

  Jack came out of the chair quickly and knocked Joe’s arm away.

  “Hands off, man!”

  He decided that the only way to get out of this scene on his terms was to pull a psycho number. He looked at Joey’s beefy frame and heavy overcoat and knew attacking his body would be a waste of time. That left his face.

  “Just stay away!” Jack shouted. “I don’t like people touching me. Makes me mad! Real mad!”

  Joey dropped the brown paper bundle onto a chair. “All right. Enough of this shit.” He stepped in close, gripped Jack’s shoulders, and tried to turn him around.

  Jack reached up between Joey’s arms, grabbed his ears, and yanked the bodyguard’s head forward. As he lowered his head and butted, he had a fleeting glimpse of the sick look on Joey’s startled face. He hadn’t been expecting anything like this, but he knew what was coming.

  When Jack heard Joey’s nose crunch against the top of his skull, he pushed him away and kicked him hard in the balls. Joey dropped to his knees and groaned. His bloody face was slack with pain and nausea.

  Jack next leapt on Aldo who was gaping at him with a stunned expression.

  “You want some of me, too?” he shouted.

  Aldo’s overcoat was unbuttoned and he was leaner than Joe. Jack went for the breadbasket: right left combination jabs to the solar plexus, then a knee to the face when he doubled over. Aldo went down in a heap.

  But it wasn’t over. Joey was reaching a hand into his overcoat pocket. Jack jumped on him and wrestled a short barreled Cobra .357 revolver away from him.

  “A gun? You pulled a fucking gun on me, man?” He slammed the barrel and trigger guard across the side of Joey’s head. “Shit that makes me mad!”

  Then he spun and pointed the pistol at the tip of Aldo’s swelling nose.

  “You!” he screamed. “You started this! You didn’t want me to get my shirts! Well, you can have them! They’re old anyway! I’ll take yours! All of them!”

  He grabbed the bundle of dirty shirts from the counter and then went for the brown paper package on the chair.

  “Jesus, no!” Aldo said. “No! You don’t know what—”

  Jack leapt on him and began pistol whipping him, screaming, “Don’t tell me what I don’t know!”

  As Aldo covered his head with his arms, Jack glanced at Tram motioned him over. Tram got the idea. He came out from behind the counter and shoved Jack away, but not before Jack had managed to open Aldo’s scalp in a couple of places.

  “You get out!” Tram cried. “Get out or I call police!”

  “Yeah, I’ll get out, but not before I put a couple of holes in this rich pig here!”

  Tram stood between him and Aldo. “No! You go! You cause enough trouble!”

  Jack made a disgusted noise and ran out with both bundles. Outside he found an empty Mercedes 350 SEL idling at the curb by a fire hydrant. Why not?

  As he gunned the heavy car toward Canal Street, he wondered at his screaming psycho performance. Pretty convincing. And easy, too. He’d hardly stretched at all to take the part and really get into in.

  That bothered him a little.

  “Fifty thousand in small bills,” Abe said after he’d finished counting the money that had been wrapped inside the dirty laundry. He had it spread out in neat piles on a crate in the basement of his store. “If I were you, I shouldn’t complain. Not so bad for an afternoon’s work.”

  “Yeah. But it’s the ten keys of cocaine and the thirty of Cambodian brown.” The wrapped package had housed some of the heroin. The cocaine and the rest of the heroin had been in a duffel bag in the trunk. “What am I going to do with that?”

  “There’s a storm drain outside. Next time it rains . . .”

  Jack thought about that. The heroin would definitely go down the drain. Any alligators or crocs living down in the sewers would be stoned for life. But the cocaine . . . that might come in handy in the future, just like the bogus twenties had come in handy against Cirlot.

  Cirlot. Something about him was perking in the back of Jack’s mind.

  “I’ve always wanted a Mercedes,” Abe said.

  “What for? You haven’t been further east than Queens and further west than Columbus Avenue in a quarter century.”

  “Someday I might like maybe to travel. See New Jersey.”

  “Yeah. Well, that’s not a bad idea. No doubt about it, the best way to see New Jersey is from the inside of a Mercedes. But it’s too late. I gave the car to Julio to dispose of.”

  Abe sagged. “Chop shop?”

  Jack nodded. “He’s going to shop it around for quick cash. Figures another ten grand, minimum, maybe twenty.”

  A take of sixty seventy K so far from one visit to Tram’s laundry. Which meant that Jack would be returning Tram’s down payment and giving him a free ride on this job. Which was fine for Tram’s bank account, but Jack didn’t know what his next step was. He’d shaken things up down there. Now maybe it would be best to sit back and watch what fell out of the trees.

  He headed for Gia’s. He kept to the windy shadows as he walked along, kept looking over his shoulder. Cirlot had seemed to know where he was going, and when he’d be there. Was he watching him now?

  Jack didn’t like being on this end of the game.

  But how did Cirlot know? That was what ate at him. Jack knew his apartment wasn’t bugged—the place was like a fortress. Besides, Cirlot didn’t know where he lived. And even if he did, he couldn’t get inside to place a bug. Yet he seemed to know Jack’s moves. How, dammit?

  Jack made a full circuit of Gia’s block and cut through an alley before he felt it was safe to enter her apartment house.

  Two fish eye peepholes nippled Gia’s door. Jack had installed them himself. One was the usual height, and one was Vicky height. He knocked and stood there, pressing his thumb over the lower peephole as he waited.

  “Jack, is that you?” said a child’s voice from the other side.

  He pulled his thumb away and grinned into the convex glass.

  “Ta daaa!”

  The deadbolt slid back, the door swung inward, and suddenly he was holding a bony seven-year-old girl in his arms. She had long dark hair, blue eyes, and a blinding smile.

  “Jack! Whatcha bring me?”

  He pointed to the breast pocket of his fatigue jacket. Vicky reached inside and pulled out a packet of bubblegum cards.

  “Football cards! Neat! You think there’s any Jets in this one?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  He car
ried her inside and put her down. He locked the door behind them as she fumbled with the wrapper.

  “Jack!” she said, her voiced hushed with wonder. “They’re all Jets! All Jets! Oh, this is so neat!”

  Gia stepped into the living room. “The only eight-year old in New York who says ‘neat.’ Wonder where she got that from?”

  She kissed him lightly and he slid an arm around her waist, pulling her close to him. She shared her daughter’s blue eyes and bright smile, but her hair was blonde. She brightened up the whole room for Jack.

  “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I think it’s pretty neat to get five—five—members of your favorite team in a single pack of bubblegum. I don’t know anybody else who’s got that kind of luck.”

  Jack had gone through a dozen packs of cards before coming up with those five Jets, then he had slipped them into a single wrapper and glued the flaps back in place. Vicky had developed a thing for the Jets, simply because she liked their green and white jerseys—which was as good a reason as any to be a Jets fan.

  “Start dinner yet?” he asked.

  Gia shook her head. “Just getting ready to. Why?”

  “Have to take a raincheck. I’ve got a few things I’ve got to do tonight.”

  She frowned. “Nothing dangerous, I hope.”

  “Nah.”

  “That’s what you always say.”

  “Well, sure. I mean, after surviving the blue meanies last year, everything else is a piece of cake.”

  “Don’t mention those things!” Gia shuddered and hugged him. “Promise you’ll call me when you’re back home?”

  “Yes, mother.”

  “I’m serious. I worry about you.”

  “You just made my day.”

  She broke away and picked up a slim cardboard box from the couch. “Land’s End” was written across one end.

  “Your order arrived today.”

  “Neat.” He pulled out a bright red jacket with navy blue lining. He pulled off the fatigue jacket and tried it on. “Perfect. How do I look?”