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

The gunman paused.

“Oh. Well, in that case–”

The guy ducked to his right as he made a hard swing with the shotgun, trying to bring it to bear on Jack. Jack corrected his aim and pulled the trigger. The Semmerling boomed and bucked in his hand. The gunman’s right eye socket became a black hole and his leather cap spun away like a Frisbee. Red mist haloed his head as it jerked back with enough force to yank his feet off the pavement. The sawed-off tumbled from his hand and skittered along the sidewalk as he sprawled back on the sidewalk and flopped around until his body got the message that what little remained of the brain was mush. Then he lay still.

Jack knelt beside the fallen cop. He looked like hell. The mercury light further blanched the deathly pallor of his face. Eyes glazing, going fast. Where the hell was old man Costin? Where was the cop’s partner? Why wasn’t anyone around to call an ambulance? Jack felt naked and exposed out here on the street, but he couldn’t take off now.

He switched the Semmerling to his left hand, located the spot in the fallen cop’s throat that was doing the most pumping, and jammed his thumb into it. The flesh was wet and hot and sticky. He’d read novel after novel that mentioned the coppery smell of blood. He didn’t get it. He’d never known copper to have an odor worth mentioning, and if it did, it sure as hell didn’t smell like this.

Jack was about to look around again for help when he heard footsteps behind him.

“All right! Hold it right there, you fucker!”

Jack turned his head and saw a uniformed cop crouched on his right, taking two-handed aim at his head with a Glock. Another blue-and-white blocked the street behind him.

Jack’s gut looped into a knot and pulled tight.

“I’m holding it.”

“Drop the gun and put your hands up!”

Jack dropped the Semmerling and raised his left hand.

“C’mon!” The cop said. “Both of them!”

“This guy’s already half dead,” Jack said. “If I take my hand off this pumper, he’ll go the rest of the way in no time.”

“Christ!” the cop said, then shouted: “Gerry – you make the call?”

“Ambulance and back-up on the way,” said a voice from the unit.

“All right. See who’s down.”

Another uniform dashed out of the darkness behind the first cop and stopped within half a dozen feet of Jack. He squinted at the ruined face above Jack’s hand.

“Oh, Jeez, it’s Carella!”

“Shit!” said the first cop. He spoke through clenched teeth as he glared at Jack. “You dirty–”

“Hey-hey!” Jack said. “Let’s get something straight here. I didn’t shoot your pal.”

“Just shut the fuck up! You think I’m stupid?”

Jack bit back an affirmative and jerked his head toward the guy on the sidewalk.

“He did it.”

Apparently the cop hadn’t seen the other body until now. He jumped to his feet.

“Oh, great. Just great.”

The second cop, the one called Gerry, eased around to the sidewalk and checked out the body.

“This one’s cooling,” he said. “Head wound.” He whistled. “Looks like a hot load.”

“And I suppose you had nothing to do with that, either?” the first cop said.

“No. Him I did. But there was another cop. He went into Costin’s. I heard a shot, and then this guy–”

“Jeez!” Gerry said. “The kid was with Carella!”

“See if he’s all right!” the first cop said.

Gerry dashed up the stairs and grabbed the door handle. As he pulled it open, a voice screamed from within.

“Stay back! I got your buddy and the owner in here! Stay back or I’ll kill ‘em both!”

Gerry scuttled back down the steps.

“We got a hostage situation here, Fred.”

“He’s got the kid!” Fred said. “God damn! Call the hostage team. Now! ”

As Gerry ran off, an emergency rig howled down the street and screeched to a halt. Jack explained to the EMTs what had happened and why he had his thumb sunk an inch into the wounded man’s neck. One of the techs pulled on a rubber glove and substituted his finger for Jack’s. He held it there as the wounded cop was lifted onto a stretcher.

Jack watched for a second, then began to edge backward, preparing to slide between two parked cars.

“No, you don’t!” Fred the cop said, jerking his pistol up level with Jack’s head. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere! Hands on the car and spread ‘em!”

Desperation gnawed on Jack’s spine as his eyes hunted for an escape route. The street crawled with uniforms, and they all seemed to be watching him. Slowly he forced his lead-filled limbs to move, slapping his hands against the hood of the patrol car, spreading his feet. He held up okay during the frisk, but he almost lost it when his hands were yanked behind his back and the cuffs squeezed around his wrists.

Cops, arrest, cuffs, interrogation, investigation, fingerprinting, exposure, court, lawyers, judges, jail – a recurrent nightmare for most of his adult life.

Tonight it was real.

2

“You sure you don’t want a lawyer?”

Jack looked up at the 20th Precinct’s chief of detectives, Lieutenant Thomas Carruthers. Fortyish, wearing a rumpled suit and no tie – a thrown-on set of clothes. Tall, dark, and handsome. Every woman’s crystal ball dream. Jack’s nightmare.

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

“Say it again. I want to make sure I’ve got it on the tape.”

Jack directed his voice toward the tape recorder sitting on the battered oak table between him and Carruthers.

“I’m sure I don’t want a lawyer. At least not yet.”

Jack did want a lawyer. Very badly. But he didn’t know any, at least any he could trust. And the first thing a lawyer would tell him was to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t want to do that. These cops thought he’d shot one of their own. Things could get nasty here at the precinct house if he clammed.

A nightmare. Booked, photographed, and worst of all, fingerprinted. He’d wanted to throw an epileptic fit when they’d coated his fingers in ink and began rolling the tips on that white card. But what would that do other than delay the inevitable?

With or without a lawyer he was screwed. If they didn’t get him for killing the cop, and if he wasn’t prosecuted for killing the guy with the shotgun, he’d still be up for possession of an unregistered firearm. Plus his cover would be permanently blown. Years of hiding in the cracks, of forging an existence in the interstices of society would be wiped away. And then the IRS would get involved, wondering why this man had no Social Security number. They’d begin investigating every nook and cranny of his entire 1040-less life.

And then the shit would really hit the fan.

Jack knew he was facing time. Hard time, soft time, state time, Fed time, it didn’t matter. He was going inside, no doubt for a long stretch.

Jack had sworn he’d never do time. And he wouldn’t.

“Good.” Carruthers spread a selection of Jack’s IDs on the table between them. “Maybe now you can tell me what’s all this bullshit?”

Jack stared at the contents of his wallet and felt the walls of the interrogation room close in. He said nothing.

“So who the hell are you?”

“The name’s Jack.”

“I gathered that.” He picked up the ID cards and shuffled through them. “Jack Berger, Jack Callahan, Jack Menella, Jack Jones” – Carruthers glanced up at him on that one – “and Jack Schwartz. So yeah, I guess your first name is Jack. But what’s the rest?”

“Jack will have to do, I’m afraid.”

Carruthers shot forward, leaning over the table, eyes ablaze.

“It won’t do at all , scumbag! One of our guys is in surgery fighting for his life and another’s a hostage and you’re up to your neck in it. So Jack ain’t gonna cut it!”