Repairman Jack [08]-Crisscross (50 page)

Fair? For four, five hours work? Damn-fuck right it was fair. This must be one rich queer.

Richie had heard they tended to have bucks. No kids and all that…

He put his head back and rotated it a little to the left and a little to the right, trying to look like a man wrestling with a decision. He'd already made up his mind, but he wasn't ready to say yes. Who knew? If he stalled, maybe Gorcey would up the ante to three thousand.

The act worked. Gorcey piped up and said, "I'll add another thousand if you get pictures I can use."

You mean, Richie thought, photos you
think
you can use.

By all rights he should tell the dumb schmuck that catching Luther Brady meeting with a girlfriend or even a boyfriend wasn't going to put much of a dent in his reputation. Not these days.

Damn shame too. It made Richie long for the fifties. He'd been just a little kid at the time, but he remembered how uptight everyone had been back then. Those were the days when even a so-called breath of scandal could sink a career or a reputation. His sideline business would be so much easier and more profitable now if America hadn't changed. But it had. The new attitude was pretty much anything goes. Damn hard to shock people these days.

He sure as shit wasn't telling Gorcey that, though.

But if he did come up with something juicy—really juicy—he could always snap some extra shots—innocent ones—and tell Gorcey that all Brady did up there in the woods was sit alone and meditate.

He'd keep the real deals to himself… and add Luther Brady to his herd of cows. Brady controlled millions. His milk would be extra rich and creamy.

"Okay, Lou," Richie said. "I'll do it. Normally I lay a lot of groundwork—you know, thorough backgrounding and such—before I make a move, but I sense your urgency, Lou. I feel your pain, and so I'll make an exception in your case."

Gorcey beamed and fluttered his hands again—higher this time. He looked genuinely delighted.

"That's wonderful. I'll meet you tonight at—"

Richie waved a hand. "Wait, wait. What do you mean, you'll meet me?"

"I'm going with you."

"Ohhhh, no. I work alone."

Gorcey's lips tightened into a thin line. "Perhaps, but I expect you to make an exception this time. Especially considering the amount of money I'll be paying you."

"Sorry. Can't allow it. You've got no experience in this sort of thing. You could blow the whole operation. And why would you want to come along anyway? That's what you're hiring me for."

And besides, I don't want to be sitting in some car half the night with a queer.

"I want to see for myself."

"You will," Richie told him. "In the photos."

Gorcey shook his head and his lips tightened further. "
I'm
going along, Mr. Cordova, one way or another. Either in your car, or in my own, following you as you follow Brady."

Richie recognized a note of unswayable finality in Gorcey's voice. Shit. The last thing he wanted when he was working was a tag-along amateur. Especially if said amateur was queer. And double especially if it turned out Brady had a bona fide dirty little secret.

But it didn't look like he was going to have much choice.

He sighed. "Okay, Lou. I'll take you along. But I won't be able to guarantee success. And I'll want the money up front."

Gorcey relaxed his rigid posture. "Of course. That's only fair."

"By the way, what's your sign?"

Gorcey's eyebrows rose as he smirked. "I'm usually in a bar when I'm asked that question."

Richie felt heat in his cheeks. "Don't be a wise ass. I want to check to see if our signs are going to be compatible tonight."

"I'm a Taurus." His smile changed. "And don't worry, Mr. Cordova, I won't get in the way. I promise." Something strange about his new smile… unsettling. "You'll hardly know I'm there."

10

When Jack checked his voice mail outside Cordova's and heard Abe's message—"Your package has arrived"—he hopped a cab to Manhattan.

He entered the shop, locked the front door behind him, and headed for the rear.

"Did you really find one?" he said as he approached Abe in his customary spot.

Abe said nothing, merely stared.

"Abe?"

"Jack?" His gaze ranged from Jack's hair to his glossy, wheat-brown loafers, to his man bag, then back to his hair. "This is you?"

"It's part of a fix."

"On Christopher Street you're working maybe?"

"I'll explain later. Did you get the gun?"

And still Abe stared. "Your hair… it's wet?"

"Nah. Just some sort of gel. The Beretta, Abe?"

"And your coat. Like a robe it looks with that tie thing around the waist."

All this scrutiny was making Jack uncomfortable.

"Earth to Abe. Did—?"

"Has Gia seen you like this?"

"No, and she's not going to." She might like it and want him to dress like this all the time. "I'll spell it out for you: B-E-R-E—" Yes-yes.

Abe shook himself out of whatever transported state he was in and reached under the counter. He came up with a brown paper lunch bag and slid it across the counter.

Jack slipped his hand inside and removed a stainless-steel 9mm Beretta 92. It was beautiful. It was perfect.

"Abe, you are amazing," he said, turning the gleaming pistol over and over in his hands. "Truly amazing."

"I am. Yes, I am." When Jack glanced at him with a wry smile he added, "What? I should pretend to be humble? Hours on the phone I spent. No one else in this city could have found such a thing for you on a Sunday. No one."

"I thank you for this, Abe. Really. If you hadn't found it, this whole afternoon spent setting up the fix would have gone down the drain." He looked around. "Where are your cotton gloves?"

Abe pulled an oil-smudged pair from under the counter and handed them across.

"Want some oil?"

"No. Just need to wipe it down. Don't want our fingerprints on it."

"Certainly not."

He slipped on the gloves and polished the pistol's shiny planes and bevels, its Brazilian walnut stocks. Then he pushed a release button, rotated the cam, and pulled the slide assembly off the frame in one piece. He wiped the barrel and underside of the slide.

"It's used," Abe said, "but well kept."

"I see that. Used is better than new. I just want to double-check there's no serial number on the slide."

"With a Beretta, only on the frame."

"Perfect." He replaced the slide assembly, then ejected the empty magazine from the grip. "Got those Hydra-Shoks?"

Again Abe's hand disappeared under the counter, returning this time with two boxes of 9mm rounds, each with the familiar red
Federal
across the top.

"Federal Classics, as requested. Grain-wise I've got one-twenty-four and one-forty-seven."

"The one-twenty-fours should do."

He intended to be up close and very personal when he pulled the trigger, so he preferred a lower muzzle velocity. Jack slipped open the box and removed ten rounds. He rubbed each carefully with his gloved fingers before pressing it into the magazine.

"A CSI team you're expecting?"

"You betcha."

"And you won't tell me about it?"

"After I'm through, I'll fill you in on every last detail."

"The clothes too?"

"Everything."

"So till then I must hang?"

"But you won't be hanging alone," Jack said. "Trust me on that."

11

As he walked back toward his apartment Jack realized he had just enough time to pay a visit to the ersatz Mama Roselli. He dialed her on her cell.

A weak, raspy voice said, "Hello?"

"Mrs. Roselli? This is Jack. I stopped by last night but I heard you weren't feeling well. Are you okay?"

"I'm better, thank you."

"I was wondering if I could come over to give you an update. I found Johnny and—"

"Can this wait until tomorrow? I don't think I'm well enough yet for company."

Yes, it could wait till tomorrow, although Jack would have liked his questions answered tonight. But if she was feeling as bad as she sounded—if she was faking it she deserved an Oscar—then giving her more time to recover made sense.

"Tomorrow then. I'll see you about noon or so?"

"I'll be here."

Jack cut the connection. Her sudden frailty bothered him. He'd suspected her of being kin to Anya, a tough old bird who looked like she hadn't had a sick day in her life. The only time he'd seen her not in control was when she'd had that sudden sharp pain in her back. Took her a day or so to get over it. And the next day he'd seen an oozing sore on her scarred-up back… on what she'd called "the map of my pain"… the map of where Brady was burying his pillars.

Could it be…?

He'd find out tomorrow. Tonight he had to share a car with Cordova and somehow keep himself from strangling him.

12

They sat parked east of Lexington, where Jack had waited Friday night. Cordova had insisted on using his aging, smelly Jeep Laredo, saying he had all his equipment stowed in the back, plus they might need the four-wheel drive.

So Jack had parked his rental a couple of blocks from Cordova's Williamsbridge house and cabbed to Tremont Avenue. They'd met in front of Cordova's office and driven downtown together.

"What's with the gloves?" Cordova said. "It ain't
that
cold."

Jack looked down at his hands, tightly swathed in black leather driving gloves. "My fingers are very sensitive."

Cordova snickered. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Pardon?"

"Never mind."

Probably thought he was funny. A real comedian.

Jack eyed his suet body, his suet lace with its suet cheeks, his suet hands resting on the steering wheel, and wondered if this was the same car he'd used to snatch Sister Maggie.

Be so easy to reach over and grab his suet throat and squeeze… squeeze until he passed out. Let him wake up, then start squeezing again… and then do it again…

Jack wondered how many hours he could keep it up, how many times he could—

"Hell-o-o?" Cordova said. "Did you hear me?"

Jack shook his head, not trusting himself to speak at that moment.

"I said, What time's Brady usually head for the hills?"

Jack stared at the garage exit. Eight o'clock already and so far no sign of Brady. Jack remembered Jamie telling him about Brady's Sunday night trips, but had she said anything about time? He didn't think so. Had to improvise here.

"Varies. Sometimes early, sometimes late. But always after dark."

"Well, it's already after dark, so let's hope this is an early night. I hate stakeouts anyway. And to be frank, Lou, you ain't much of a conversationalist."

"I'll have plenty to say once I have Brady where I want him," he snapped. "I gave you your money. Don't expect chitchat too."

He noticed Cordova's quick, sidelong glance and reminded himself to remain in character.

He let out a long sigh. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Cordova. I'm usually quite a talker. Sometimes I swear I just can't shut up. But tonight I'm a little tense. No, I'm a lot tense. I mean, this just might be the night I get something on him." He reached over and laid a gentle hand on the fat man's suety shoulder. "You simply have no idea how badly I want this."

Cordova shrugged off his hand. "Easy with the touching stuff. I ain't into touching."

Jack snatched his hand back and dropped it into his lap. "Sorry."

Cordova's laugh sounded forced. "Hey, relax about the rest. If there's something to get, I'll get it."

Jack hoped they got something—the bigger the better. He had three scenarios planned. Plan A was the one most fully worked out, and would kick in if they hit pay dirt scandal-wise. If not—if Brady was involved in nothing blackmail-worthy—then Jack would go with Plan B. Plan C was the simplest and the least appealing: If Brady didn't show up tonight, Jack and Cordova would return next Sunday.

The thought of allowing Richie Cordova to go on breathing for another week made him queasy. And to have to spend another night with him in this car… that might just be too much to bear. Might force Jack into doing something rash.

"Hey," Cordova said, pointing across the street to where a black Mercedes was pulling out from the garage. "Is that our boy?"

Jack squinted at the plates. "Yes! That's him! Go! Go!"

"Just take it easy," Cordova said, singsonging as if addressing a child. "A professional doesn't tip his hand like that. We'll wait a few seconds, let another car get between us,
then
start after him."