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

This one seemed fairly empty and Jack assigned himself the task of finding the ice cream to speed their departure. He set off through the aisles and quickly became disoriented. The overall space was L-shaped, but instead of running in parallel paths to the rear, the aisles zigged and zagged. Whoever laid out this place was either a devotee of chaos theory or a crop circle designer.

He was wandering among the six-foot-high shelves and passing the hemorrhoid treatments when he heard a harsh voice behind him.

“Keep movin, yo. Alla way to the back.”

Jack looked and saw a big, steroidal black guy in a red tank top. The overhead fluorescents gleamed off his shaven scalp. He had a fat scar running through his left eyebrow, glassy eyes, and held a snub-nose .38 caliber revolver – the classic Saturday night special.

Jack kept his cool and held his ground. “What’s up?”

The guy raised the gun, holding it sideways like in movies, the way no one who knew squat about pistols would be caught dead holding one.

“Ay yo, get yo ass in gear fore I bust one in yo face.”

Jack waited a couple more seconds to see if the guy would move closer and put the pistol within reach. But he didn’t.

Not good. On the way to the rear, the big question was whether this was personal or not. When he saw the gaggle of frightened-looking people – the white-coated ones obviously pharmacists – kneeling before the rear counter with their hands behind their necks, he figured it wasn’t.

A relief… sort of.

He spotted Mr. Ecuador standing over them with a gleaming nickel-plated .357 revolver.

Robbery.

The black guy pushed him from behind.

“Assume the position, asshole.”

Jack spotted two cameras trained on the pharmacy area. He knelt at the end of the line, intertwined his fingers behind his neck, and kept his eyes on the floor.

Okay, just keep your head down to stay off the cameras and off these bozos’ radar, and you’ll walk away with the rest of them.

He glanced up when he heard a commotion to his left. A scrawny little Sammy Davis-size Rasta man with his hair packed into a red, yellow, and green striped knit cap appeared. He was packing a sawed-off pump-action twelve and driving another half dozen people before him. A frightened-looking Loretta was among them.

And then a fourth – Christ, how many were there? This one had dirty, sloppy, light-brown dreads, piercings up the wazoo, and was humping the whole hip-hop catalog: peak-askew trucker cap, wide, baggy, ass-crack-riding jeans, huge New York Giants jersey.

He pointed another special as he propelled a dark-skinned, middle-age Indian or Pakistani by the neck.

Both the Rasta and the new guy had glazed eyes. Stoned. Maybe it would make them mellow.

What a crew. Probably met in Rikers. Or maybe the Tombs.

“Got Mister Maaaanagerrrr,” the white guy singsonged.

Ecuador looked at him. “You lock the front door?”

Whitey jangled a crowded key chain and tossed it on the counter.

“Yep. All locked in safe and sound.”

“ Bueno . Get back up there and watch in case we miss somebody. Don’t wan nobody gettin out.”

“Yeah, in a minute. Somethin I gotta do first.”

He shoved the manager forward, then slipped behind the counter and disappeared into the pharmacy area.

“Wilkins! I tol you get up front!”

Wilkins reappeared carrying three large plastic stock bottles. He plopped them down on the counter. Jack spotted “Percocet” and “Oxy-Contin” on the labels.

“These babies are mine. Don’t nobody touch em.”

Ecuador spoke through his teeth. “ Up front !”

“Dude, I’m gone” Wilkins said and headed away.

Scarbrow grabbed the manager by the jacket and shook him

“The combination, mofo – give it up.”

Jack noticed the guy’s name tag: J. Patel . His dark skin went a couple of shades lighter. The poor guy looked ready to faint.

“I do not know it!”

Rasta man raised his shotgun and pressed the muzzle against Patel’s quaking throat.

“You tell de mon what he want to know. You tell him now !”

Jack saw a wet stain spreading from Patel’s crotch.

“The manager’s ou-out. I d-don’t know the combination.”

Ecuador stepped forward. “Then you not much use to us, eh?”

Patel sagged to his knees and held up his hands. “Please! I have a wife, children!”

“You wan see them again, you tell me. I know you got armored car pickup every Tuesday. I been watchin. Today is Tuesday, so give.”

“But I do not–!”

Ecuador slammed his pistol barrel against the side of Patel’s head, knocking him down.

“You wan die to save you boss’s money? You wan see what happen when you get shot inna head? Here. I show you.” He turned and looked at his prisoners. “Where that big bitch with the big mouth?” He smiled as he spotted Loretta. “There you are.”

Shit.

Ecuador grabbed her by the front of her dress and pulled, making her knee-walk out from the rest. When she’d moved half a dozen feet he released her.

“Turn roun, bitch.”

Without getting off her knees, she swiveled to face her fellow captives. Her lower lip quivered with terror. She made eye contact with Jack, silently pleading for him to do something, anything, please !

Couldn’t let this happen.

His mind raced through scenarios, moves he might make to save her, but none of them worked.

As Ecuador raised the .357 and pointed it at the back of Loretta’s head, Jack remembered the security cameras.

He raised his voice. “You really want to do that on TV?”

Ecuador swung the pistol toward Jack.

“What the fuck?”

Without looking around, Jack pointed toward the pharmacy security cameras.

“You’re on Candid Camera.”

“The fuck you care?”

Jack put on a sheepish grin. “Nothing. Just thought I’d share. Done some boosting in my day and caught a jolt in Riker’s for not noticing one of them things. Now I notice – believe me, I notice .”

Ecuador looked up at the cameras and said, “Fuck.”

He turned to Rasta man and pointed. Rasta smiled, revealing a row of gold-framed teeth, and raised his shotgun.

Jack started moving with the first booming report, when all eyes were on the exploding camera. With the second boom he reached cover and streaked down an aisle.

Behind him he heard Ecuador shout, “Ay! The fuck he go? Wilkins! Somebody comin you way!”

The white guy’s voice called back, “I’m ready, dog!”

Jack had hoped to surprise Wilkins and grab his pistol, but that wasn’t going to happen now. Christ! On any other day he’d have a couple dozen 9mm hollowpoints loaded and ready.

He’d have to improvise.

As he zigged and zagged along the aisles, he sent out a silent thank-you to the maniac who’d laid out these shelves. If they’d run straight, front to back, he wouldn’t last a minute. He felt like a mouse hunting for cheese, but this weird, maze-like configuration gave him a chance.

He hurried along, looking for something, anything to use against them. Didn’t even have his knife, damn it.

Batteries… notebooks… markers… pens… gum… greeting cards…

No help.

He saw a comb with a pointed handle and grabbed it. Without stopping, he ripped it from its package and stuck it in his back pocket.

He heard Ecuador yelling about how he was going this way and Jamal should go that way, and Demont should stay with the people.

Band-Aids… ice cream… curling iron – could he use that? Nah

Hair color… humidifiers… Cheetos… beef jerky –

Come on !

He turned a corner and came to a summer cookout section. Chairs – no help. Umbrella – no help. Heavy-duty spatula – grabbed it and hefted it. Nice weight, stainless steel blade, serrated on one edge. Might be able to do a little damage with this. Spotted a grouping of butane matches. Grabbed one. Never hurt to have fire.