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

Fresh air. Maybe that would help.

Jack got up, stretched, and stepped to the window. A clear almost Halloween night out there, with a big moon rising over the city. He gripped the handles and pulled. Nothing. The damn thing wouldn’t budge. He was checking the edges of the sash when he heard the faint crack of a rifle. The bullet came through the glass two inches to the left of his head, peppering his face with tiny sharp fragments as it whistled past his ear.

Jack collapsed his legs and dropped to the floor. He waited. No more shots. Keeping his head below the level of the windowsill, he rose to a crouch, then leapt for the lamp on the end table at the far side of the bed, grabbed it, and rolled to the floor with it. Another shot spat through the glass and whistled through the room as his back thudded against the floor. He turned off the lamp.

The other lamp, the one next to the TV, was still on – sixty watts of help for the shooter. And whoever was shooting had to know Jack would be going for it next. He’d be ready.

On his belly, Jack slid along the industrial grade carpet toward the end of the bed until he had an angle where the bulb was visible under the shade. He pulled out his next to last shuriken and spun it toward the bulb. With an electric pop it flared blue white and left the room dark except for the flickering glow from the TV.

Immediately Jack popped his head above the bed and looked out the window. Through the spider webbed glass he caught sight of a bundled figure turning and darting away across the neighboring rooftop. Moonlight glinted off the long barrel of a high powered rifle, flashed off the lens of a telescopic sight, then he was gone.

A high pitched beep made him jump. The red light on the signal box was blinking like mad. Kuropolis wanted help. Which meant Reilly had struck.

“Swell.”

*

Not a bad night ,” George Kuropolis thought, wiping down the counter in front of the slim young brunette as she seated herself. Not a great night, but still to have half a dozen customers at this hour was good. And better yet, Reilly and his creeps hadn’t shown up.

Maybe they’d bother somebody else tonight.

“What’ll it be?” he asked the brunette.

“Tea, please,” she said with a smile. A nice smile. She was dressed nice and had decent jewelry on. Not exactly overdressed for the neighborhood, but better than the usual.

George wished he had more customers of her caliber. And he should have them. Why the hell not? Didn’t the chrome inside and out sparkle? Couldn’t you eat off the floor? Wasn’t everything he served made right here on the premises?

“Sure. Want some pie?”

“No, thank you.”

“It’s good. Blueberry. Made it myself.”

The smile again. “No, thanks. I’m on a diet.”

“Sure,” he mumbled as he turned away to get her some hot water. “Everyone’s on a goddamn diet. Diets are gettin’ hazardous to my health.”

Just then the front door burst open and a white haired man in his mid twenties leaped in with a sawed off shotgun in his hands. He pointed it at the ceiling and let loose a round at the fixture over the cash register. The boom of the blast was deafening as glass showered everything.

Matt Reilly was here.

Four more of his gang crowded in behind him. George recognized them: Reece was the black with the white fringe leather jacket; Rafe had the blue Mohican, Tony had the white; and Cheeks was the baby faced skinhead.

“Aw right! ” Reilly said, grinning fiercely under his bent nose, mean little eyes, dark brows, and bleached crewcut. “It’s ass kickin’ time!”

George reached into his pocket and pressed the button on the beeper there, then raised his hands and backed up against the wall.

“Hey, Matt!” he called. “C’mon! What’s the problem?”

“You know the problem, George!” Reilly said.

He tossed the shotgun to Reece and stepped around the counter. Smiling, he closed with George. The smile only heightened the sick knot of fear coiling in George’s belly. He was so fixed on that empty smile that he didn’t see the sucker punch coming. It caught him in the gut. He doubled over in agony. His last cup of coffee heaved but stayed down.

He groaned. “ Christ! ”

“You’re late again, George!” Reilly said through his teeth. “I told you last time what would happen if you didn’t stick to the schedule!”

George struggled to remember his lines.

“I can’t pay two protections! I can’t afford it!”

“You can’t afford not to afford it! And you don’t have to pay two. Just pay me!”

“Sure! That’s what the other guy says when he wants his! And where are you then?”

“Don’t worry about the other guy! I’m taking care of him tonight! But you! ” Reilly rammed George back against the wall. “I’m gonna hafta make a example outta you, George! People saw what happened to Wolansky when he turned pigeon. Now they’re gonna see what happens to a shit who don’t pay!”

Just then came a scream from off to George’s right. He looked and saw Reece covering the five male customers in booths two and four, making them empty their pockets onto one of the tables. Further down the counter, Cheeks was waving a big knife with a mean looking curved blade at the girl who’d wanted the tea.

“The ring, babe,” he was saying. “Let’s have it.”

“It’s my engagement ring!” she said.

“You wanna look nice at your wedding, you better give it quick.”

He reached for it and she slapped his hand away.

“No!”

Cheeks straightened up and slipped the knife into a sheath tucked into the small of his back.

“Ooooh, you shouldna done that, bitch,” said Reece in oily tones.

George wished he were a twenty five year old with a Schwartzenegger build instead of a wheezy fifty with pencil arms. He’d wipe the floor with these creeps.

“Stop him,” he said to Reilly. “Please. I’ll pay you.”

“Couldn’t stop him now if I wanted to,” Reilly said, grinning. “Cheeks likes it when they play rough.”

In a single smooth motion, the skinhead’s hand snaked out, grabbed the front of the woman’s blouse, and ripped. The whole front came away. Her breasts were visible through a semi transparent bra. She screamed and swatted at him. Cheeks shrugged off the blow and grappled with her, dragging her to the floor.

One of the men in the booth near Reece leapt to his feet and started toward the pair, yelling, “Hey! Whatta y’think you’re doin’?”

Reece slammed the shotgun barrel across his face. Blood spurted from the guy’s forehead as he dropped back into his seat.

“Tony!” Reilly said to the Mohican standing by the cash register. “Where’s Rafe?”

“Inna back.”

George suddenly felt his scalp turn to fire as Reilly grabbed him by the hair and shoved him toward Tony.

“Take George in the back. You and Rafe give him some memory lessons so he won’t be late again.”

George felt his sphincters loosening. Where was Jack?

“I’ll pay! I told you I’ll pay!”

“It’s not the same, George,” Reilly said with a slow shake of his head. “If I gotta come here and kick ass every month just to get what’s mine, well, I got better things to do, y’know?”

As George watched, Reilly hit the “NO SALE” button on the cash register and started digging into the bills.

Thick, pincer like fingers closed on the back of George’s neck as he was propelled into the rear of the diner. He saw Rafe off to the side, playing with the electric meat grinder where George mixed his homemade sausage.

“Rafe!” said Tony. “Matt wants us to teach Mr. Greasyspoon some manners!”