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

“Don’t leave it anywhere! Someone might rip it off before I get there, and that’ll be on your head! We’ll meet–”

“Oh, no! I’m not getting plugged full of holes!”

Yes, you are , Aldo thought, remembering the punk pointing Joey’s magnum in his face.

“Hey, don’t worry about that,” Aldo said softly. “You’ve apologized and you’re returning the car. It was an accident. We’ll call it even. As a matter of fact, I like the way you move. You made Joey look like he was in slow motion. Actually, you did me a favor. Made me see how bad my security is.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I could use a guy like you. How’d you like to replace Joey?”

“Y’mean be your bodyguard? I don’t know, Mr. D’Amico.”

“Think about it. We’ll talk about it when I see you tonight. Where we gonna meet?”

“Uuuuh, how about by the Highwater Diner? It’s down on–”

“I know where it is.”

“Yeah, well there’s an old abandoned building right next door. How about if I meet you there?”

“Great. When?”

“Ten thirty.”

“That’s kinda soon–”

“I know. But I’ll feel safer.”

“Hey, don’t worry! When Aldo D’Amico gives his word, you can take it to the bank!”

And I promise you, punk, you’re a dead man!

“Yeah, well, just in case we don’t hit it off, I’ll be wearing a ski mask. I figure you didn’t get a real good look at me in that laundry and I don’t want you getting a better one.”

“Have it your way. See you at ten thirty.”

He hung up and called to his wife. “Maria! Get Joey on the phone. Tell him to get over here now!”

Aldo went to his desk drawer and pulled out his little Jennings .22 automatic. He hefted it. Small, light, and loaded with high velocity longs. It did the job at close range. And Aldo intended to be real close when he used this.

*

A little before ten, Jack climbed up to the roof of the Highwater Diner and sat facing the old Borden building. He watched Reilly and five of his boys – the whole crew – arrive shortly afterwards. They entered the building from the rear. Two of them carried large duffel bags. They appeared to have come loaded for bear. Not too long after them came Aldo and three wiseguys. They took up positions outside in the alley below and out of sight on the far side.

No one, it seemed, wanted to be fashionably late.

At 10:30 sharp, a lone figure in a dark coat, jeans, and what looked like a knit watch cap strolled along the sidewalk in front of the Highwater. He paused a moment to stare in through the front window. Jack hoped George was out of sight like he had told him to be. The dark figure continued on. When he reached the front of the Borden building, he glanced around, then started toward it. As he approached the gaping front entry, he stretched the cap down over his face. Jack couldn’t see the design clearly but it appeared to be a crude copy of the one he’d worn last night. All it took was some orange paint...

Do you really want to play Repairman Jack tonight, pal?

For an instant he flirted with the idea of shouting out a warning and aborting the set up. But he called up thoughts of life in a wheelchair due to a falling cement bag, of Levinson’s missing toes, of bullets screaming through Gia and Vicky’s apartment.

He kept silent.

He watched the figure push in through the remains of the front door and disappear inside. In the alley, Aldo and Joey rose from their hiding places and shrugged to each other in the moonlight. Jack knew what Aldo was thinking: Where’s my car?

But they leapt for cover when the gunfire began. It was a brief roar, but very loud and concentrated. Jack picked out the sound of single rounds, bursts from a pair of assault pistols, and at least two, maybe three shotguns, all blasting away simultaneously. Barely more than a single prolonged flash from within. Then silence.

Slowly, cautiously, Aldo and his boys came out of hiding, whispering, making baffled gestures. One of them was carrying an Uzi, another held a sawed off. Jack watched them slip inside, heard shouts, even picked out the word “car.”

Then all hell broke loose.

It looked as if a very small, very violent thunderstorm had got itself trapped on the first floor of the old Borden building. The racket was deafening, the flashes through the glassless windows like half a dozen strobe lights going at once. It went on full force for what seemed like twenty minutes but ticked out to slightly less than five on Jack’s watch. Then it tapered and died. Finally… quiet. Nothing moved.

No. Check that. Someone was crawling out a side window and falling into the alley. Jack went down to see.

Reilly. He was bleeding from his mouth, his nose, and his gut. And he was hurting.

“Get me a ambulance, man!” he grunted as Jack crouched over him. His voice was barely audible.

“Right away, Matt,” Jack said.

Reilly looked up at him. His eyes widened. “Am I dead? I mean...we offed you but good in there.”

“You offed the wrong man, Reilly.”

“Who cares...you can have this turf...I’m out of it...just get me a fucking ambulance! Please?”

Jack stared at him a moment. “Sure,” he said.

Jack got his hands under Reilly’s arms and lifted him. The wounded man nearly passed out with the pain of being moved. But he was aware enough to notice that Jack wasn’t dragging him toward the street.

“Hey...where y’takin’ me?”

“Around back.”

Jack could hear the sirens approaching. He quickened his pace toward the rear.

“Need a doc...need a ambulance.”

“Don’t worry,” Jack said. “There’s one coming now.”

He dumped Reilly in the rearmost section of the Borden building’s back alley and left him there.

“Wait here for your ambulance,” he told him. “It’s the same one you called for Wolansky’s kid when you ran him down last month.”

Then Jack headed for the Highwater Diner to call Tram and tell George that they didn’t need him anymore.

introduction to “The Last Rakosh”

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. She begged me for a Repairman Jack story. 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 some of the new characters into Freak Show , the anthology I’d started putting together for HWA. And that eventually led to “The Peabody-Ozymandias Traveling Circus & Oddity Emporium.”

The Last Rakosh

Saturday

Vicky’s scream pierced them, froze them.

Gia turned to Jack and he saw the panic in her eyes. It came again, Vicky’s voice, high pitched, quavering with terror. But where was she? She’d wandered ahead of them down the midway only a moment ago.

Jack took off toward the sound, moving as fast as the crowd would permit, bumping and pushing those he couldn’t slide past. She couldn’t have gone far in just a couple of minutes.

Then he spotted her skinny eight year old form darting toward him through the press, her face a strained mask of white, her blue eyes wide with fear. When she spotted him, she burst into tears and held out her arms as she stumbled forward, her voice a shriek.

“Jack! Jack! It’s back! It’s gonna get me again!”

She leaped and he caught her in his arms, holding her tight. She was quaking with fear.