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

“It was real! I swear it! You saw how your man reacted!”

“ He was just a wino, Mooo neeer. Scared of his own shadow. What’s he know?”

“Oh, please! You must believe me!”

“ Well, I would, Mooo neeer. Really, I would. Except for the way you grabbed him afterward. Now it’s bad enough you went after him, but I’m willing to overlook that. I’m far more generous about forgiving mistakes than you are, Mooo neeer. But what bothers me is the way you grabbed him. You used both your hands the same.”

Munir felt his blood congealing, sludging though his arteries and veins.

“What do you mean?”

“ Well, I got trouble seeing a man who just chopped off one of his fingers doing that, Mooo neeer. I mean, you grabbed him like you had two good hands. And that bothers me, Mooo neeer. Sorely bothers me.”

“Please. I swear–”

“ Swearing ain’t good enough, I’m afraid. Seeing is believing. And I believe I saw a man with two good hands out there this morning.”

“No. Really…”

“ So I’m gonna have to send you another package, Mooo neeer.”

“Oh, no! Don’t–”

“ Yep. A little memento from your wife.”

“Please, no.”

He told Munir what that memento would be, then he clicked off.

“No!”

Munir jammed his knuckles into his mouth and screamed into his fist.

“NOOOOO!”

15

Jack stood outside Richard Hollander’s door.

No sweat getting into the building. The address in the personnel file had led Jack to a rundown walk up in the West Eighties. He’d checked the mailboxes in the dingy vestibule and found R. Hollander still listed for 3B. A few quick strokes with the notched flexible plastic ruler Jack kept handy, and he was in.

He knocked – not quite pounding, but with enough urgency to bring even the most cautious resident to the peephole.

Three tries, no answer. Jack put his picks to work on the deadbolt. A Quickset. He was rusty. Took him almost a minute, and a minute was a long time when you were standing in an open hallway fiddling with someone’s lock – the closest a fully clothed man could come to feeling naked in public.

Finally the bolt snapped back. He drew his 9mm backup and entered in a crouch.

Quiet. Didn’t take long to check out the one bedroom apartment. Empty. He turned on the lights and did a thorough search.

Neat. The bed was made, the furniture dusted, clothes folded in the bureau drawers, no dirty dishes in the sink. Hollander either had a maid or he was a neatnik. People who could afford maids didn’t live in this building; that made him a neatnik. Not what Jack had expected from a guy who got fired because he couldn’t get the job done.

He checked the bookshelves. A few novels and short story collections – literary stuff, mostly – salted in among the business texts. And in the far right corner, three books on Islam with titles like Understanding Islam and An Introduction To Islam.

Not an indictment by itself. Hollander might have bought them for reference when he’d been hired by Saudi Petrol.

And he might have bought them after he was fired.

Jack was willing to bet on the latter. He had a gut feeling about this guy.

On the desk was a picture of a thin, pale, blond man with an older woman. Hollander and his mother maybe?

He went through the drawers and found a black ledger, a checkbook, and a pile of bills. Looked like he’d been dipping into his savings. He’d been paying only the minimum on his Master Card. A lot of late payment notices, and a couple of bad news letters from employment agencies. Luck wasn’t running his way, and maybe Mr. Richard Hollander was looking for someone to blame.

Folded between the back cover and the last page of the ledger was a receipt from the Brickell Real Estate Agency for a cash security deposit and first month’s rental on Loft #629. Dated last month. Made out to Sean McCabe.

Loft #629. Where the hell was that? And why did Richard Hollander have someone else’s cash receipt? Unless it wasn’t someone else’s. Had he rented loft #629 under a phony name? That would explain using cash. But why would a guy who was almost broke rent a loft?

Unless he was looking for a place to do something too risky to do in his own apartment.

Like holding hostages.

Jack copied down the Brickell agency’s phone number. He might need that later. Then he called Munir.

Hysteria on the phone. Sobbing, moaning, the guy was almost incoherent.

“Calm down, dammit! What exactly did he tell you?”

“He’s going to cut her… he’s going to cut her… he’s going to cut her…”

He sounded like a stuck record player. If Munir had been within reach Jack would have whacked him alongside the head to unstick him.

“Cut her what?”

“Cut her nipple off!”

“Oh, Jeez! Stay right there. I’ll call you right back.”

Jack retrieved the receipt for the loft and dialed the number of the realtor. As the phone began to ring, he realized he hadn’t figured out an angle to pry out the address. They wouldn’t give it to just anybody. But maybe a cop…

He hoped he was right as a pleasant female voice answered on the third ring. “Brickell Agency.”

Jack put a harsh, Brooklynese edge on his voice.

“Yeah. This is Lieutenant Adams of the Twelfth Precinct. Who’s in charge there?”

“I am.” Her voice had cooled. “Esther Brickell. This is my agency.”

“Good. Here’s the story. We’ve got a suspect in a mutilation murder but we don’t know his whereabouts. However, we did find a cash receipt among his effects. Your name was on it.”

“The Brickell Agency?”

“Big as life. Down payment of some sort on loft number six two nine. Sound familiar?”

“Not offhand. We’re computerized. We access all our rental accounts by number.”

“Fine. Then it’ll only take you a coupla seconds to get me the address of this place.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. I have a strict policy of never giving out information about my clients. Especially over the phone. All my dealings with them are strictly confidential. I’m sure you can understand.”

Swell, Jack thought. She thinks she’s a priest or a reporter.

“What I understand,” he said, “is that I’ve got a crazy perp out there and you think you’ve got privileged information. Well, listen, sweetie, the First Amendment don’t include realtors. I need the address of your six two nine loft rented to” – he glanced at the name on the receipt – “Sean McCabe. Not later. Now. Capsice ?”

“Sorry,” she said. “I can’t do that. Good day, lieutenant – if indeed you are a lieutenant.”

Shit! But Jack wasn’t giving up. He had to get this address.

“Oh, I’m a lieutenant, all right. And believe me, sweetie, you don’t come across with that address here and now, you’ve got trouble. You make me waste my time tracking down a judge to swear out a search warrant, make me come out to your dinky little office to get this one crummy address, I’m gonna do it up big. I’m gonna bring uniforms and blue and white units and we’re gonna do a thorough search. And I do mean a thorough . We’ll be there all day. And we’ll go through all your files. And while we’re at it you can explain to any prospective clients who walk in exactly what we’re doing and why – and hope they’ll believe you. And if we can’t find what we want in your computer we’ll confiscate it. And keep it for a while. And maybe you’ll get it back next Christmas. Maybe.”

“Just a minute,” she said.

Jack waited, hoping she hadn’t gone to another phone to call her lawyer and check on his empty threats, or call the Twelfth to check on a particularly obnoxious lieutenant named Adams.