F. Paul Wilson - Quick Fixes - Tales of Repairman Jack

“Hello, George,” he said when the Greek picked up the other end. “You got the next payment together from your merchants association?”

“Yeah. We got it. In cash like usual.”

“Good deal. I’ll be by around midnight to pick it up.”

“I’ll be here,” George said.

Jack hung up and sat there, thinking. The bait was out. If Cirlot was listening, chances were good he’d set up another ambush somewhere in the neighborhood of the Highwater Diner at around midnight. But Jack planned to be there first to see if he could catch Cirlot setting up. And then they would settle things. For good. Jack wasn’t going to have anybody dogging his steps back to Gia and Vicky, especially someone who had chopped a couple of toes off a former customer.

On his way downtown an hour later, Jack called his answering machine again. He heard a message from George asking him to call right away. When he did, he heard a strange story.

“I asked you to what? ” Jack said.

“Meet you in the old Borden building next door. You said there’d been a change of plans and it was probably safer if you didn’t show up at the diner. So I was to meet you next door at ten thirty and hand over the money.”

Jack had to smile. This Cirlot was slicker than he’d thought.

“Did it sound like me?”

“Hard to say. The connection was bad.”

“What did you say?”

“I agreed, but I thought it was fishy because it wasn’t the way we had set it up before. And because you said you’d be wearing a ski mask like last night. That sounded fishy, too.”

“Good man. I appreciate the call. Call me again if you hear from anyone who says he’s me.”

“Will do.”

Jack hung up. Instead of hailing a cab to go downtown, he ducked into a nearby tavern and ordered a draft of Amsterdam.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Cirlot seemed more interested in ripping him off than knocking him off – at least tonight. Tom Levinson’s words came back: Gonna make you look like shit, then he’s gonna ice you .

So that was it. Another piece fell into place. The bag of cement had missed him. Okay – no one could expect much accuracy against a moving target with a heavy, cumbersome object like that. But the shooter outside the Lucky Hotel had had a telescopic sight. Jack had been a sitting duck. The guy shouldn’t have missed.

Unless he’d wanted to. That had to be it. Cirlot was playing head games with him, getting him off balance until he had a chance to humiliate him, expose him, make him look like a jerk. He wanted to payback in kind before he killed Jack.

Ripping off one of his fees would be a good start.

Jack’s anger was tinged with amusement.

He’s playing my own game against me.

But not for long. Jack was the old hand here. It was his game. He’d invented it, and he’d be damned if he’d let Cirlot outplay him. The simplest thing to do was to confront Cirlot in that old wreck of a building and have a showdown.

Simple, direct, effective, but lacking in style. He needed to come up with something very neat here. A masterstroke, even.

And then, as he lifted his glass to drain the final ounces of his draft, he had it.

*

Reilly was waiting his turn at the pool table. He didn’t feel like shooting much. With Reece and Jerry dead, everybody was down and pissed. All they’d talked about since last night was finding that jack o lantern guy. The only laugh they’d had all day was when they learned that Reece’s real name was Mau rice.

Just then Gus called over from the bar. He was holding the phone receiver in the air.

“Yo! Reilly! You’re wanted!”

“Yeah? Who?”

“Said to tell you it’s Pumpkinhead.”

Reilly nearly tripped over his stick getting to the phone. Cheeks and the others were right behind him.

“Gonna find you, fucker!” he said as soon as he got the receiver to his head.

“I know you are,” said the voice on the other end. “Because I’m gonna tell you where I am. We need a meet. Tonight. You lost two men and I almost got killed last time we tangled. What do you say to a truce? We can find some way to divide things up so we both come out ahead.”

Reilly was silent while he controlled himself. Was this fucker crazy? A truce ? After what he did last night?

“Sure,” he managed to say. “We can talk.”

“Good. Just you and me.”

“Okay.” Riiiiight . “Where?”

“The old place were we in last night – next to the Highwater. Ten thirty okay?”

Reilly looked at his watch. That gave him an hour and a half. Plenty of time.

“Sure.”

“Good. And remember, Reilly: Come alone or the truce is off.”

“Yeah.”

He hung up and turned to his battered boys. They didn’t look like much, what with Rafe, Tony, and Cheeks all bandaged up, and Cheeks’ hand in a cast. Hard to believe only one guy had done all this. But that one guy was a mean dude, full of tricks. So they weren’t going to take any chances this time. No talk. No deals. No hesitation. No reprieve. They were going to throw everything they had at him tonight.

“That really him?” Cheeks asked.

“Yeah,” said Reilly, smiling. “And tonight we’re gonna have us some punkin pie!”

*

“Aldo, this man insists on speaking to you!”

Aldo D’Amico glared at his wife and removed the ice pack from his face. He had a brutal headache from the bruises and stitches in his scalp. His nose was killing him. Broken in two places. The swelling made him sound like he had a bad cold.

He wondered for the hundredth time about that punk in the laundry. Had the gook set them up? Aldo wanted to believe it, but it just didn’t wash. If he’d been laying for Aldo, he’d have had his store filled with some sort of gook army, not one white guy. But Christ the way that one guy moved! Fast . Like liquid lightning. A butt and a kick and Joey was down and then he’d been on Aldo, his face crazy. No. It hadn’t been a set up. Just some stunad punk. But that didn’t make it any easier to take.

“I told you, Maria, no calls!”

Bad enough he’d be laughed at all over town for being such a gavone to allow some nobody to bust him up and steal his car, and even worse that his balls were on the line for the missing money and shit, so why couldn’t Maria follow a simple order? He never should have come home tonight. He’d have been better off at Franny’s loft on Greene Street. Franny did what she was told. She damn well better. He paid her rent.

“But he says he has information on your car.”

Aldo’s hand shot out. “Gimme that! Hello!”

“Mr. D’Amico, sir,” said a very deferential voice on the other end. “I’m very sorry about what happened today at that laundry. If I’da known it was someone like you, I wouldn’a caused no trouble. But I didn’t know, y’see, an I got this real bad temper, so like I’m sorry–”

“Where’s the car?” Aldo said in a low voice.

“I got it safe and I wanna return it to you along with the money I took and the, uh, other laundry and the, uh, stuff in the trunk, if you know what I mean and I think you do.”

The little shit was scared. Good. Scared enough to want to give everything back. Even better. Aldo sighed with relief.

“Where is it?”

“I’m in it now. Like I’m talkin’ on you car phone. But I’m gonna leave it somewhere and tell you where you can find it.”

“Don’t do that!” Aldo said quickly.

His mind raced. Getting the car back was number one priority, but he wanted to get this punk, too. If he didn’t even the score, it would be a damn long time before he could hold his head up on the street.