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

“I suppose you’re right.” Jack handed him an envelope. “Here you go.”

The goateed stranger took the envelope and stuffed it inside his shirt without opening it, then left without saying good bye.

Munir stared at the finger. The dried blood on the stump end, the detail over the knuckles and around the fingernail – even down to the dirt under the nail – was incredible. It almost looked real.

“This won’t work,” he said. “I don’t care how real this looks, when he finds out it’s a fake–”

“Fake?” Jack said, stirring sugar into his coffee. “Who said it’s a fake?”

Munir snatched his hand away and pushed himself back. He wanted to sink into the vinyl covering of the booth seat, wanted to pass through to the other side and run from this man and the loathsome object on the table between them. He fixed his eyes on the seat beside him and managed to force a few words past his rising gorge.

“Please… take… that… away.”

He heard the soft crinkle and scrape of paper being folded and dragged across the table top, then Jack’s voice:

“Okay, Cinderella. You can look now. It’s gone.”

Munir kept his eyes averted. What had he got himself into? In order to save his family from one ruthless madman he was forced to deal with another. What sort of world was this?

He felt a sob build in his throat. Until last week, he couldn’t remember crying once since his boyhood. For the past few days it seemed he wanted to cry all the time. Or scream. Or both.

He saw Jack’s hand pushing a cup of coffee into his field of vision.

“Here. Drink this. Lots of it. You’re going to need to stay alert.”

An insane hope rose in Munir.

“Do you think… do you think the man on the phone did the same thing? With Robby’s finger? Maybe he went to a morgue and…”

Jack shook his head slowly, as if the movement pained him. For an instant he saw past the wall around Jack. Saw pity there.

“Don’t torture yourself,” Jack said.

Yes, Munir thought. The madman on the phone was already doing too good a job of that.

“It’s not going to work,” Munir said, fighting the blackness of despair. “He’s going to realize he’s been tricked and then he’s going to take it out on my boy.”

“No matter what you do, he’s going to find an excuse to do something nasty to your boy. Or your wife. That’s the whole idea behind this gig – make you suffer. But his latest wrinkle with the fingers gives us a chance to find out who he is and where he’s holed up.”

“How?”

“He wants your finger. How’s he going to get it? He can’t very well give us an address to mail it to. So there’s going to have to be a drop – someplace where we leave it and he picks it up. And that’s where we nab him and make him tell us where he’s got your family stashed.”

“What if he refuses to tell us?”

Jack’s voice was soft, his nod almost imperceptible. Munir shuddered at what he saw flashing through Jack’s eyes in that instant.

“Oh… he’ll tell us.”

“He thinks I won’t do it,” Munir said, looking at his fingers – all ten of them. “He thinks I’m a coward because he thinks all Arabs are cowards. He’s said so. And he was right. I couldn’t do it.”

“Hell,” Jack said, “I couldn’t do it either, and it wasn’t even my hand. But I’m sure you’d have done it eventually if I hadn’t come up with an alternative.”

Would I have done it? Munir thought. Could I have done it?

Maybe he’d have done it just to demonstrate his courage to the madman on the phone. Over the years Munir had seen the Western world’s image of the Arab male distorted beyond recognition by terrorism: the Arab bombed school buses and beheaded helpless hostages; Arab manhood aimed its weapons from behind the skirts unarmed civilian women and children.

“If something goes wrong because of this, because of my calling on you to help me, I… I will never forgive myself.”

“Don’t think like that,” Jack said. “It gets you nothing. And you’ve got to face it: No matter what you do – cut off one finger, two fingers, your left leg, kill somebody, blow up Manhattan – it’s never going to be enough. He’s going to keep escalating until you’re dead. You’ve got to stop him now, before it goes any further. Understand?”

Munir nodded. “But I’m so afraid. Poor Robby… his terrible pain, his fear. And Barbara…”

“Exactly. And if you don’t want that to go on indefinitely, you’ve got to take the offensive. Now. So let’s get back to your place and see how he wants to take delivery on your finger.”

12

Back in the apartment, Jack bandaged Munir’s hand in thick layers of gauze to make to look injured. While they waited for the phone to ring, he disappeared into the bathroom with the finger to wash it.

“We want this to be as convincing as possible,” he said. “You don’t strike me as the type to have dirty fingernails.”

When the call finally came, Munir ground his teeth at the sound of the hated voice.

Jack was beside him, gripping his arm, steadying him as he listened through an earphone he had plugged into the answering machine. He had told Munir what to say, and had coached him on how to say it, how to sound.

“ Well, Mooo neeer. You got that finger for me?”

“Yes,” he said in the choked voice he had rehearsed. “I have it.”

The caller paused, as if the caller was surprised by the response.

“ You did it? You really did it?

“Yes. You gave me no choice.”

Well, I’ll be damned. Hey, how come your voice sounds so funny?”

“Codeine. For the pain.”

“ Yeah. I’ll bet that smarts. But that’s okay. Pain’s good for you. And just think: Your kid got through it without codeine.”

Jack’s grip on his arm tightened as Munir stiffened and began to rise. Jack pulled him back to a sitting position.

“Please don’t hurt Robby anymore,” Munir said, and this time he did not have to feign a choking voice. “I did what you asked me. Now let them go.”

“ Not so fast, Mooo neeer. How do I know you really cut that finger off? You wouldn’t be bullshitting me now, would you?”

“Oh, please. I would not lie about something as important as this.”

Yet I am lying, he thought. Forgive me, my son, if this goes wrong.

“ Well, we’ll just have to see about that, won’t we? Here’s what you do: Put your offering in a brown paper lunch bag and head downtown. Go to the mailbox on the corner where Lafayette, Astor, and Eighth come together. Leave the bag on top of the mailbox, then walk half a block down and stand in front of the Astor Place Theater. Got it?”

“Yes. Yes, I think so.”

“ Of course you do. Even a bonehead like you should be able to handle those instructions.”

“But when should I do this?”

“ Ten a.m.”

“This morning?” He glanced at his watch. “But it is almost 9:30!”

“ Aaaay! And he can tell time too! What an intellect! Yeah, that’s right, Mooo neeer. And don’t be late or I’ll have to think you’re lying to me. And we know what’ll happen then, don’t we.”

“But what if–?”

“ See you soon, Mooo neeer.”

The line went dead. His heart pounding, Munir fumbled the receiver back onto its cradle and turned to Jack.

“We must hurry! We have no time to waste!”

Jack nodded. “This guy’s no dummy. He’s not giving us a chance to set anything up.”

“I’ll need the… finger,” Munir said. Even now, long after the shock of learning it was real, the thought of touching it made him queasy. “Could you please put it in the brown bag for me?”