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

Jack didn’t flinch; gave back a glare of his own.

“If I hadn’t come by, Mr. Detective, your guy in surgery never would’ve made it to surgery. You’d still be scraping his brains off the street. But maybe I should’ve kept walking. If I had I wouldn’t be cuffed up here looking at you. Would you be happier if I’d done that? I know I would.”

Carruthers stared at Jack. For an instant, he seemed unsure of himself. As he opened his mouth to reply, another detective, a sergeant named Evans who’d been through a couple of times before, popped into the room again.

Evans had brought Jack into the interrogation room, and had been none too gentle getting him seated. A big guy – his jacket sleeves were tight – and Jack had no doubt that if it had been up to Evans he’d take Jack out in the nearest alley and kick him to death. Slowly.

But the cold light was gone from Evans’ eyes as he glanced Jack’s way on entering.

Carruthers stiffened at the sight of him.

“What’s up, Charlie? Any news?”

Evans shook his head. “Not really. Nothing bad, anyway. No more shots. The hostage team’s made phone contact. They’re trying to talk the guy down. Sounds really wired. Don’t worry, Tom. They’ll get him out.”

Carruthers nodded absently. “Yeah. How’s Carella?”

“Still in surgery as far as I know. Piacentino called from the One-eight. Says if there’s anything you need–”

“Tell him we’re okay, but thanks for asking.” After a pause, Carruthers said, “That it?”

“Nope. Got an ID on the dead guy. A prelim from the M.E. too.”

“So who is he?”

“You mean who was he. Abdul Khambatta, born Harvey Andrews. Out of Attica two months after a stretch for armed robbery. His sheet’s as long as my leg. One bad-news mother.”

“What’s the M.E. say?”

“No surprises. Single head shot. A pre-frag in the eye.”

Carruthers winced. “Ouch.”

“Yeah. M.E. said if the guy ever had any brains, you couldn’t prove it by him. Matches up with the three rounds left in our mystery man’s pop gun.”

Carruthers glanced at Jack. “Which isn’t registered, of course.”

“You got it.”

“How do we know the Semmerling belongs to him?”

“His prints are the only ones on it.”

“And the sawed-off?”

“Andrews’. ’Scuse me – Khambatta’s. Thing’s lousy with his prints.” He jerked a thumb at Jack. “I think we owe this guy.”

“Yeah? Maybe.”

Jack watched for some sign of relaxation from Carruthers but saw nothing. The lieutenant stayed wound tight as ever.

Carruthers said, “You ever meet anybody with five IDs who was straight, Charlie? If he’s not dirty on this he’s dirty on something else.”

“So?” Evans did not seem impressed.

“I want to know: Who is this guy?”

“Tell you one thing, Tom: His prints aren’t on file anywhere. And I mean anywhere .”

“How come I’m not surprised?”

“I got a better question,” Evans said. “How come you’re here and not over at Costin’s?”

Carruthers walked to the window and stared out at the night, saying nothing.

“I’ll take over at this end,” Evans said. “You should be there.”

Carruthers shook his head, still staring out the window.

“I’ll go nuts over there. The hostage team knows what to do. I’ll just get in the way, maybe even screw things up.”

“No you won’t. Why don’t–”

“Thanks, Charlie.” He turned and flashed him a tight smile. “I appreciate the thought, but let’s drop it. Okay?”

Evans shrugged. “Okay. But if you change your mind…”

Carruthers nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

When Evans was gone, Carruthers returned to the table, standing as he shifted through Jack’s IDs again.

“Prefragmented rounds? What’s the matter? You got something against wounding a guy?”

Jack said nothing. Truth was, he’d been loaded for indoor work. And in general, he didn’t like to have to shoot someone twice.

Suddenly Carruthers stiffened.

“I’ll be damned!” He picked up the IDs and flipped through them again. “Christ! It all fits!”

As Carruthers stared down at him, eyes wide, Jack felt his chest tighten, wondering what he’d found.

“Jesus! I always thought you were make believe. For years I’ve been catching a word here and there about this urban mercenary who hires out for all sorts of jobs, anything from kinda shady to out and out, down and dirty illegal. But when I ask about it, I get blank stares, dumb grins, and shrugs. So I figure it’s one of those urban myths, like the giant alligators in the sewers. But shit! You’re him! You’re that repairman guy!” He looked at the IDs. “Yeah – all Jacks. You’re Repairman Jack.”

Jack’s throat went dry, giving his voice a croaky sound.

“Who’s he?”

“Don’t play cute. You’re him. Gotta be. Jesus, I don’t believe this. I never thought you were real.” He looked down at the pile of phony IDs in his hand. “And I guess you aren’t. At least not officially, huh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah. Right. You know, if memory serves, some of the stuff I heard about you was pretty good, some of it wasn’t. And what wasn’t came from scumbags. But all of it sounded pretty rough. So I take it you’re a rough character, Repairman Jack. Speaking of which, why would anyone trust a guy who calls himself Repairman Jack?”

“Maybe it wasn’t his idea. Maybe someone called him that and it stuck.”

“Yeah, maybe. Sounds to me like a guy with a Robin Hood complex or something.”

“And who are you?” Jack said. “The Sheriff of Nottingham?”

While Carruthers mulled that, Jack pulled inside himself and fought the sick dread growing in his gut. This nightmare was deteriorating into a hell ride. He had to get out of here.

Jack considered that. If he could get close enough to Carruthers, even handcuffed, he might be able to do something. Anything. A crazy thought, but he was as good as dead if he stayed in custody, so he didn’t see how anything he tried could make matters worse.

“Yeah, well, whatever,” Carruthers was saying. He had that worried, distracted look again. “What are we going to do with you, Repairman Jack?”

“How about letting me go?”

Carruthers offered him a small, pursed-lips smile. “Right.”

“I did one of yours a favor, so now you do me a favor. Quid pro quo.”

Jack knew his request was useless, but he wanted to keep Carruthers talking, get him relaxed, maybe a bit careless.

“Don’t bullshit me, pal. The only one who says you helped Carella is you. How do I know you and Andrews and whoever’s still holed up in Costin’s weren’t together on this job?”

“Forget it,” Jack said, genuinely insulted. “Boosting a mom-and-pop?”

“Why not? Maybe business is slow. You operate on their level, Mr. Repairman. You’re an unknown quantity. You’re capable of anything as far as I’m concerned. So maybe Andrews did shoot Carella and maybe you two had a falling out over who was gonna get his service revolver, or who was going to finish him off. So you shot Andrews.”

“Sure. And then I tried to finish off your friend by clamping down on that artery in his neck.” Jack lifted his cuffed wrists and wiggled the fingers of his right hand. “Here. Take a look. I’ve still got his blood under my fingernails.”

Carruthers stared at Jack’s hand but didn’t move.

“Come on,” Jack said. Get close… real close. “See for yourself.”

Carruthers shook his head. “Maybe you knew you were about to get caught and were just putting on a show.”