Cold City (Repairman Jack - the Early Years Trilogy) (33 page)

But what was he going to do with it?  Abe’s idea about the gold coins was sounding better and better.

And then a thought.

“Hey, pay off the Gambinos with it.”

Julio gave him an angry look.  “How you know about that?  Who’s been – never mind.”  He jerked a thumb toward the door that led to the bar where Lou and Barney were ensconced in their usual spots.  “The guys?”

“Right.”  Jack jumped in as Julio opened his mouth for a sure refusal.  “Think about it: One jerk gets you into a hole and another gets you out.  It’s perfect.  Cosmic symmetry.”

Julio gave a slow nod.  “Real cosmic.”  The nod turned to a shake.  “But I can’t take your money.”

“It’s
not
my money, dammit.  It’s Zalesky’s.  The
hijo de puta
is going to simplify your life.”

Julio thought about this, then sighed and shrugged.  “Okay.  We make him pay.”

Jack clapped him on the shoulder.  “Excellent!  But…” 

“But what?”

He had a sudden urge to go slow. 

“Let’s make a few more payments – with Zalesky’s dough, of course – before settling the loan.”

“Why?”

Yeah.  Why?  Curiosity?  He wasn’t sure.  Julio was being squeezed by some genuine Mafiosi, the bigger-than-life kind who got their pictures splashed in the
Daily
News
and
New York Post
above headlines with bad puns.  Jack had seen the bag man – chubby with a thick gut and a piggy face.  A far cry from the Teflon Don Gotti with his blow-dried hair and felt-collared overcoat. 

Couldn’t hurt to get a little first-hand knowledge about someone like that.

And knowledge was power.

Or so they said.

12

Roman opened his suite door expecting al-Thani.  Instead he found a Caucasian wearing a white three-piece suit and carrying a slim cane wrapped in black hide.  Equally black hair, slick and glossy, swept straight back from a widow’s peak.  He knew the man.  And had never liked him.

He forced a smile.  “Drexler.”

“Good evening, Mister Trejador.” He spoke with a vaguely German accent.  “I know it’s late, but the Council is anxious to settle this affair.”

So this is what the High Council had meant by “adjustments.”  But Roman put on a puzzled expression.

“Affair?  What affair?”

“The incident.  May I come in, or shall we discuss the situation in the hall?”

Drexler seemed to be feeling more cocky than usual.  Roman stepped back. 

“Of course.”

He turned and walked into the suite, leaving Drexler to close the door behind him.

“I hope I’m not…interrupting anything,” Drexler said.

Roman caught the inference.  The Council would have preferred all its actuators be functional eunuchs living lives of quiet desperation in cold water flats between assignments.  Like Ernst Drexler. 

They’d made veiled references to Roman’s “aberrant” lifestyle with no permanent address and hired companions.  But he got results, and as long as his string of successes held up, he’d be free to conduct his personal time as he wished.

Drexler’s only quirk was the white suit.   He wore it year round, an egregious fashion faux pas that could be due to either ignorance or arrogance.  Roman suspected the latter.  He almost appeared to be going for a Tom Wolfe look but the severe black hair ruined it.  Roman might have found a silly sort of charm in it if Drexler weren’t such a prick.

And that cane.  Wrapped in rhinoceros hide, they said. The figure Drexler cut with the combination was hardly subtle.  But then Drexler was one of those hands-off actuators. Never got his hands dirty.  Embraced the rear-echelon general model, watching from afar as his troops did his bidding.  At Drexler’s level of personal involvement, he could have spent his days in a pink tutu for all it mattered.

So unlike his father.  The cane originally had belonged to daddy, and had been much less of an affectation in his day.  Ernst, Sr., remained a legend among actuators.  His work in the Weimar years ultimately had paved the way for the One’s return to the world. He’d been the epitome of the hands-on actuator.  Roman had modeled his career on the example set by this twit’s father.

Ernst, Jr., would turn forty next year.  Roman had nearly ten years of wisdom and experience on him.  Drexler had proven himself competent, but not exceptional.  Why had the High Council sent him, of all people?  Only one reason: The legacy of
vati
Drexler.  They expected a flash of his progenitor’s brilliance.  Roman didn’t see that happening.

“Not at all.  I was expecting al-Thani with an update.”

“I contacted him and came instead.”

So that was how he’d learned the address.

“And your interest is…?”

“I should think that is obvious: I have been assigned responsibility for retrieval of the Order’s loan.”  He quickly added, “I’ve been pressed into service on the matter to allow you to continue pursuit of the creation of chaos without further distraction.”

Pressed into service?  Oh, Roman doubted that.  Doubted that very much.  Given the nod after a campaign to wheedle his way into Roman’s business would be more like it.  The part about reducing Roman’s distractions from the pursuit of chaos was no doubt the argument this cream-coated Austrian strudel pressed when presenting his petition to the Council to be allowed to come to the aid of actuator Trejador and help “settle” the “affair.”

“I see.  That’s very considerate of the Council.  Will Nasser be assisting you?”

“Only in the most peripheral way.  I have debriefed him and may call on him from time to time, but I have my own operatives to put into the field.”

“Of course you do.”

Roman let the statement stand. 

After a rather lengthy silence, Drexler said, “Well, I stopped by as a courtesy and to inquire after any insights you might have.”

“At the moment, none.  A pair of wild cards has been dealt into the game – whether by themselves or by another hand remains to be seen.”

“Where do you think the treachery occurred – this end or the other?”

Clearly, Drexler was pumping him.  Roman decided to give him what he wanted.  Be the bigger man.  Appear to be above all that petty territoriality.  Because none of it would help.

“At first I was sure it was the other end – that fellow Moose’s disappearance right before departure pointed that way, but it turns out he didn’t show up because someone broke his head out on the dunes.”

“The driver called Reggie?”

“Possibly.  But I believe you’ll find that the Egyptian, Tachus, will prove to be the indirect source of the leak.  He rented a place for the auction and issued invitations.  That was the weak link.  Someone connected the dots.”

“What do you make of the genital mutilations?”

“
Obliterations
is more like it.  Someone making a statement.”

“Exactly my conclusion.” Drexler smiled.  “And this can work to our advantage.  Anyone making a statement has an agenda that goes beyond profit.  A simple thief is more likely to take the money and run, never to be seen again.  But someone making a
statement
, someone with an
agenda
, will be heard from again.  Because money isn’t the object – the
cause
is all.  Somewhere, at some time, those two will resurface, and we’ll have our chance.”

“You’re planning on luring them out?”

“Only as a last resort.  They appear to take violent umbrage at those with a sexual predilection for children.”  Drexler made a face.  “To bait a trap will require dealing with that sort.  I am in no hurry to do so.”

“So you’re left with…?”

“The driver.  I’m having one of our brothers in the orthopedic field patch up his kneecaps.  Then we’ll see what he can do to locate this Lonnie.”

“You should get on that as soon as possible.”

Yes, Roman thought. Waste your time, not mine.

The chances of finding Lonnie were remote.  And if they did track him down, he’d know nothing.  Tachus had made a critical error and paid the ultimate price for it.  Who knew?  Drexler might make a similar error, and pay a similar price.

One could only hope.

SUNDAY

1

Neil Zalesky staggered up to his apartment door.  He’d never minded not having an elevator before, but today his wished to Christ his building had one.  The stairs damn near killed him.  God, he hurt.  He’d never hurt like this in his whole life.

And what had the hospital discharged him with?  Half a dozen Percocets – Percocet fives, no less.  They didn’t even touch the pain.  The guys up at the Event would be able to fix him up with tens, maybe some Oxycontins.  He had a major hurt on and he needed a big gun to shoot it down.

He switched the cane the hospital had given – no,
sold
him – to his slung left hand, found his key, and unlocked the door.  It was stuck; without thinking, he rammed his good shoulder against it and –

Shit!

He yelped as sharp agony speared through the left side of his chest.

The whole night had been like that.  Doze off and then get jolted awake by pain from his broken shoulder, his cracked ribs, or his bruised hip.  Certain positions were fine, others sucked ass, even with the morphine needle the hospital had given him. Hardly a wink of sleep.

He limped into his apartment.

The hospital…fuck ’em.  The EMTs had wheeled him into the ER and left him there, and four hours later someone finally got around to x-raying him.  Wound up he’d broken his left shoulder–“humerus,” the doctor had said – fractured three left ribs, and banged up his left hip. “Sprained, strained, bruised, and contused,” was how the nurse had described his hip in some ass-backward attempt to lighten him up.  Had she really thought that was in any fucking way the least bit amusing?  It hurt like a sonofabitch.  His left side wasn’t worth shit right now. 

They kept him overnight and kicked him out this morning.  What?  No cast for a broken shoulder – excuse me,
humerus
?  No, just some sort of fancy strap-down sling-brace-whatever.  He’d wanted to stay for a few days, wanted them to put him on IV morphine, buy they weren’t buying.

Could’ve been worse, man.  Could have broken his back and ended up a cripple.  He’d got off lucky, even though he looked like someone had worked him over with a baseball bat. 

That was what he’d told the EMTs.  He didn’t know what else to say.  Couldn’t tell them he fell off his ex’s roof.  Not with that restraining order.  But the mugging story meant the EMTs had to report it, and a couple of bored looking cops had shown up in the ER and taken a statement.  Neil told them three or four guys attacked him from behind with no warning.  He hadn’t got a look at their faces, had no idea why they’d attacked him.  A gang initiation, maybe?  He’d been in Longwood, after all. 

He could tell neither of the cops believed him.  After all, he still had his wallet.  But they didn’t seem to care what really happened.  Neil was alive and talking and hadn’t been hurt bad enough to warrant more than an overnight stay.  They’d file the report and forget it.

Fine.  Neil wanted to forget it too.

What had happened up on the roof?  He’d studied knots and tried them out before the first time he’d hung his ass over the bitch’s back alley.  They’d held every time before.  Last night he’d tied that rope to the chimney with a double buntline hitch.  No way that knot had come free on its own.

But who’d do that?  Nobody had known he was up there.  The bitch and her greasy brother had been miles away.  How–?

Unless those beers at The Main Event had affected him more that he’d thought.  Fuck no.  He could hold more beer than that.  Lots more.

Still…he’d seen the end of the rope.  It hadn’t been cut.

Shit, talk about bad-ass luck. 

He coughed and that earned him another shot of agony.  He groaned and cupped a hand over his broken ribs.  He’d never been stabbed but this was what getting knifed in the chest must feel like. 

He hobbled to the kitchen, filled a glass with water, and washed down three Percocets.  He emptied his pockets on the kitchen table – mostly bills from the hospital and the ambulance service.  He didn’t have any medical insurance, so he was going to have to pay cash.  His initial instinct when they’d handed him the bill was tell them to fuck off and shove it.  But wisdom had prevailed. 

The grifter game was a tightrope.  He needed a clean record if he ever got caught – Mr. Neil Zalesky was an upstanding citizen with no arrest record who always paid his rent and his bills on time.  Once a year he even declared some income and paid city, state, and federal taxes. He hated to throw money away on taxes, but he never paid anywhere near what he’d have to fork over if he declared it all.  He could afford it – and he didn’t see how he could afford not to. 

But even with all that legitimacy up front, he couldn’t risk bill collectors coming around and looking into his finances.  First thing tomorrow morning he’d mail out checks to the hospital and the ambulance service.

Trouble was, he didn’t remember how much he had in the checking account.  He always kept enough to pay the rent and utilities, but these new bills hadn’t been in the cards.  He was due for a run to the bank anyway.  The bucks had been stacking up – the Schmidt haul last week had put him well past his ten-grand limit for cash in the house – and that called for a visit to the safe deposit box.  He’d throw a couple, three thousand into the checking account while he was there.

Oh, wait.  Today was Sunday.  He’d go tomorrow.

As he was relieving his bladder, he looked at the shower.  How the hell was he going to shower with this shoulder brace?  Was he allowed to take it off?  The assholes at the hospital hadn’t told him a goddamn thing. Or maybe they had and he wasn’t listening.  He’d figure it out.

One thing he couldn’t figure out was how to handle old Mrs. Cohen.  He’d set her up for a big sting next Saturday.  He couldn’t show up looking like a mugging victim.  He couldn’t drive or open doors or handle the briefcases with only his right arm.