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

“He doesn’t seem to mind you.”

“We go back a long way.”

“Really? How–?”

“Let’s get back to your brother in law. You really think if he was laid up in a hospital bed for a while, a victim of violence himself, he’d have a burst of insight and ask for help?”

“It’s worth a try.”

“No, it isn’t. Save your money.”

“Well, then, if he doesn’t see the light, I could clue his doctor in and maybe arrange to have one of the hospital shrinks see him while he’s in traction.”

“You really think that’ll change anything?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got to try something short of killing him.”

“And what if those somethings don’t work?”

His face went slack, his eyes bleak.

“Then I’ll have find a way to take him out of the picture. Permanently. Even if I have to do it myself.”

“I thought you were worried about your family and your business.”

“She’s my sister, dammit!”

Jack thought about his own sister, the pediatrician. He couldn’t imagine anyone beating up on her. At least not more than once. She had a brown belt in karate and didn’t take guff from anyone. She’d either kick the crap out of you herself or call their brother, the judge, and submerge you to your lower lip in an endless stream of legal hot water. Or both.

But if she were a different sort, and somebody was beating up on her, repeatedly...

“All right,” Jack said. “I know I’ll regret this, but I’ll look into it. I’m not promising anything, but I’ll see if there’s anything I can do.”

“Hey, thanks. Thanks a–”

“It’s half down and half when I’ve done the job.”

Schaffer paused, his expression troubled.

“But you haven’t agreed to take the job yet.”

“It might take me weeks to learn what I need to know to make that decision.”

“What do you need to know? How about–?”

“We’re not practicing the Art of the Deal here. Those are the terms. Take it or leave it.”

Jack was hoping he’d leave it. And for a moment it looked as if he might.

“You’re asking me to bet on a crapshoot – blindfolded. You hold all the aces.”

“You’re mixing metaphors, but you’ve got the picture.”

Schaffer sighed. “What the hell.” He reached into his breast pocket, then slapped an envelope down on the table. “Okay! Here it is.”

Without hiding his reluctance, Jack tucked the envelope inside his shirt without opening it. He removed a notepad and pencil from his hip pocket.

“All right. Let’s get down to the who and where.”

*

Jack rubbed his eyes as he sat on the lawn chair and waited for the Castlemans to come home. His third night here and so far he hadn’t seen a hint of anything even remotely violent. Or remotely interesting. These were not exciting people. On the plus side, they had no kids, no dog, and their yard was rimmed with trees and high shrubs. Perfect for surveillance.

On Monday, Ceil had come home from teaching fifth grade at the local suburban Long Island elementary school. She entered their two story, center hall colonial, turned the TV on, and poured herself a stiff vodka. A thin, mousy, brittle looking woman whose hair was a few shades too blonde to be anyone’s natural color. She watched a soap for an hour, during which she smoked three cigarettes and downed another vodka. Then she started slicing and dicing for dinner. Around five thirty, Gus Castleman came in from a hard day of accounting at Borland Industries. A big guy, easily six four, two fifty; crew cut red hair, round face, and narrow blue eyes. A bulging gut rode side saddle on his belt buckle. He peeled off his suit coat and grunted hello to Ceil as he went straight to the refridge. He pulled out two Bud Lights and sat down before Eyewitness News. When dinner was ready he came to the kitchen table and they ate watching the TV. After dinner there was more TV. Gus fell asleep around ten. Ceil woke him up after the 11:00 news and they both went to bed.

Tuesday was the same.

On Wednesday, Ceil came home and had her vodkas in front of Santa Barbara but didn’t slice and dice. Instead she changed into a dress and drove off. When Gus didn’t show up, Jack assumed she was meeting him for dinner. Almost eleven o’clock now and they weren’t back yet. Jack hung on and waited.

Waiting. That was always the lousy part. But Jack made a point of being sure about anyone before he did a fix. After all, people lied. Jack lied to most people every day. Schaffer could be lying about Gus, might want him laid up for something that had nothing to do with his sister. Or Ceil might be lying to her brother, might be telling him it was Gus who gave her those bruises when all along it was some guy she’d been seeing on the side. Jack needed to be sure Gus was the bad guy before he made a move on him.

So far Gus was just boring. That didn’t rate hospital level injuries.

At the sound of a car in the driveway, Jack slipped out of the lawn chair and eased into the foundation shrubbery around the garage. The car parked on the driveway. He recognized Gus’s voice as they got out of the car.

“...just wish you hadn’t said that, Ceil. It made me feel real bad in front of Dave and Nancy.”

“But no one took it the way you did,” Ceil said.

Jack thought he detected a slight quaver in her voice. Too many vodkas? Or fear?

“Don’t be so sure about that. I think they’re just too good mannered to show it, but I saw the shock in Nancy’s eyes. Didn’t you see the way she looked at me when you said that?”

“No. I didn’t see anything of the sort. You’re imagining things again.”

“Oh, am I?”

“Y yes. And besides, I’ve already apologized a dozen times since we left. What more do you want from me?”

Jack heard the front storm door open.

“What I want, Ceil, is that it not keep happening like it does. Is that too much to ask?”

Ceil’s reply was cut off as the door closed behind them. Jack returned to the rear of the house where he could get a view of most of the first floor. Their voices leaked out through an open casement window over the kitchen sink as Gus strode into the kitchen.

“...don’t know why you keep doing this to me, Ceil.

I try to be good, try to keep calm, but you keep testing me, pushing me to the limit again and again.”

Ceil’s voice came from the hall, overtly anxious now.

“But I told you, Gus. You’re the only one who took it that way.”

Jack watched Gus pull an insulated pot holder mitten over his left hand, then wrap a dish towel around his right.

“Fine, Ceil. If that’s what you want to believe, I guess you’ll go on believing it. But unfortunately, that won’t change what happened tonight.”

Ceil came into the kitchen.

“But Gus–”

Her voice choked off as he turned toward her and she saw his hands.

“Why’d you do it, Ceil?”

“Oh, Gus, no! Please! I didn’t mean it!”

She turned to run but he caught her upper arm and pulled her toward him.

“You should have kept your mouth shut, Ceil. I try so hard and then you go and get me mad.”

He saw Gus take Ceil’s wrist in his mittened hand and twist her arm behind her back, twist it up hard and high. She cried out in pain.

“Gus, please don’t!”

Jack didn’t want to see this, but he had to watch. Had to be sure. Gus pressed her flat chest up against the side of the refrigerator. Her face was toward Jack. There was fear there, terror, dread, but overriding it all was a sort of dull acceptance of the inevitable that reached into Jack’s center and twisted.

Gus began ramming his padded fist into Ceil’s back, right below the bottom ribs, left side and right, pummeling her kidneys. Her eyes squeezed shut and she grunted in pain with each impact.