Paul Wilson - Cold City (Repairman Jack - Early Years Trilogy)

Vinny popped another into his mouth and wandered away. He didn’t approve of beat-downs like this – not on someone who owed you money. Someone who’d ratted you out, that was a different story. You wanted to do major damage then. You wanted to inflict major hurt before you put them down. Because you wanted their body found and its condition to send a message loud and clear.

But someone who owed you money, someone you were doing business with, like Harry, you didn’t need this shit. When Vinny was sent out to encourage a loanee in arrears to catch up, all he took along was a pair of pliers, or maybe a ball-peen hammer. A dislocated or broken finger was ninety-five percent effective. For the other five percent, you brought out the artillery and asked Aldo along.

Harry stopped begging. Vinny turned back toward the others in time to see him slump forward and slide to the floor.

“Hey, what gives?” Tommy said. “You give him another head shot?”

Aldo shook his head. “Not even close.”

Vinny stepped up for a closer look. He watched Harry’s chest, waiting to see him take a breath. His gut clenched when he didn’t.

“Hey, he ain’t breathin’!”

“Oh, shit!” Aldo knelt and lifted Harry’s head. Unblinking baby blues stared ceilingward.

“He’s gone!” Vinny said.

“Whatta y’mean, ‘gone’?”

“Gone as in dead .”

“Christ!” Tommy cried, pawing at his pockets. “I’m cuffed to a fuckin’ dead man! Get him offa me!”

“Where’s the key?” Aldo said.

As Tommy continued to search his pockets, Vinny thought about what deep shit they were in. Tony Cannon always warned about getting too rough with a loanee. If the guy was completely tapped out, a through-and-through deadbeat who was never gonna pay, then yeah, mess him up and make him disappear. But you did not want to lose a guy with assets of any kind, because that was a guy with paying potential.

“Dead guys don’t pay no vig.” How many times had he heard the Cannon say that?

Looked like he’d be hearing it again. Real soon. That would be the least of it. Because the Cannon – who more correctly should have been called Tony “Penny-pincher” Campisi – would be pissed to beat all hell.

Tommy finally produced the key but his shaky fat fingers couldn’t work it into the keyhole. After a half dozen tries, he threw it at Aldo.

“Unlock it!” His voice was rising toward girly levels. “Get this dead fucker offa me!”

Vinny turned away. Pathetic.

4

Jack found a note slipped under his door when he got back to his apartment.

Your boss called

The movies had siphoned off some of his anger, leaving him strangely relaxed. But he felt himself tensing up again as he plunked coins in the hallway pay phone. He recognized Giovanni’s voice when he answered.

“It’s Jack. You rang?”

“Why don’t you have a goddamn phone?”

“Because nobody calls me.”

And because the phone company wanted all sorts of ID.

“I do.”

“Yeah, well…”

Jack usually called Giovanni so he’d know where to meet up the next morning.

“Anyways, you messed up Rico pretty bad. His knee’s swole up like a cantaloupe.”

“Really.”

Jack rubbed his swollen cheek. Couldn’t dredge up much sympathy for the guy. All he felt was bewilderment about how much damage he’d inflicted so quickly.

“Yeah. Really. He can’t work. Which means I’ve got a short crew.”

“The four of us can handle–”

“Ain’t no four of you. Only three. You can’t come back.”

Jack tightened his grip on the receiver. “What?”

“They’ll kill you, Jack. You show up, you’re gonna get cut up.”

Jack swallowed. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I wish.”

“They didn’t look all crazy mad when I left.”

“That’s ’cause they was in shock. Me too. None of us ever seen anything like that. You was like – I don’t know what you was like. Like a psycho. But after you left and they figured out what kinda shape Rico was in, they was gonna go after you. I told them they leave the job, don’t come back.”

“You don’t think they’ll cool off?”

“No way. They’re super pissed because Rico’s down and won’t be bringing in his rent and food money and they’ll have to stake him that until he’s back on his feet. You know my Spanish ain’t that good, but I heard them talking about some new gang – ‘day-day-pay’ or something like that. They want to sic ’em on you.”

D-D-P?

“Never heard of it.”

He’d heard of Bloods and Crips and Latin Kings, but knew next to nothing about New York’s gang culture.

“You know those machetes they like to use to clear brush? Well, they was swinging them around and talking about looking you up. They don’t know where you live – neither do I, for that matter – but they see you, they gonna cut you up in little pieces.”

“Jeez.”

“Yeah. Jeez.”

The realization hit him. “So I’m out of a job.”

“No way you can come back, man. Season’s coming to a close anyway. I can send what I owe you.”

Jack gave him the address of the mailbox he rented over on Tenth Avenue.

“Hey, Jack – good luck and… get yourself a gun.”

“What?”

“I’m serious. Somebody brings a knife, you bring a machete. Somebody brings a machete – like these guys – you better bring a gun.”

A gun…jeez.

“Well, it was good knowing you, Giovanni.”

“Yeah, me too. You’re a good worker, Jack. Sorry to lose you. Remember what I said.”

“Giovanni… just one thing.”

“What?”

“Fuck you.”

He slammed the phone down and, as soon as it hit the cradle, thought, Why’d I say that?

Really…what was the matter with him? Giovanni was a good guy. He’d just warned him about a possible threat to his life.

What’s wrong with me?

Jack returned to his apartment and stepped to his window. One floor below, Sixth Avenue churned in the growing darkness. Bumper-to-bumper cars and people heading home from their jobs.

He shook his head. He’d started the day with a job and not an enemy in the world. Now he was out of work and had a bunch of Dominicans out for his blood. But the worst of it, he was having trouble remembering the fight. Fight? Could he call it a fight? Rico had landed the first shot and became a punching/kicking bag after that. Jack remembered the dark surge swelling within, and then something else had seemed in control. The rock was the scariest part of it all. Would he have really crushed Rico’s skull if Giovanni hadn’t stopped him?

Wouldn’t be the first time he’d killed someone.

He’d given into that darkness once before, but he’d had some control then and remembered every detail about that time.

Giovanni’s words came back to him.

You was like – I don’t know what you was like. Like a psycho.

He guessed he’d just snapped. The combination of Rico’s riding him day after day, week after week, had built up a charge and the punch had hit the detonator. Never happened before. Hoped it never happened again. He didn’t like being out of control.

…get yourself a gun.

Maybe not a bad idea. He’d wanted one since he was a kid but his father would never allow a gun in the house. No longer a matter of want. Now it appeared he needed one.

But where to find one? He’d have to get on the radar to buy one legally, and he didn’t want to do that. So he’d have to go black market. And if he did find one, how much would it cost? He was out of a job and his life savings were in a Ziploc bag behind the floor molding in his bedroom. He had monthly rent to pay and food to buy and jobs of any kind were scarce – especially jobs that paid cash.