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

“Me?”

“Well, you ought to get one of those new ones you carry around with you in a bag. What do they call them?”

“Um, bag phones.”

“No-no. Something else. They’re smaller now. Like a brick with a straw sticking out. I’ve seen them.”

“Mobile phone?”

“That’s it!” he said, pointing at Jack. “A mobile phone you should get so you can call your uncle Abe and let him know how you are doing out there in the world.”

Uncle Abe? When did that happen?

“Mostly getting fired.”

He frowned. “Uncle Jake always said you were such a good worker. A nar you work for!”

Jack explained the circumstances.

“He told you to buy a gun?”

Jack nodded. “So I came to you.”

Abe seemed to freeze. Not that he ever moved much, but he’d suddenly become a statue.

“Do I look like a gun dealer?” He gestured at the crowded aisles. “Do you see guns here?”

“No. But that’s just it. I don’t really want to go to a gun dealer. I’m looking for someone with a gun to sell. You know, a private deal.”

“Why on Earth would you come to me for a black market gun?”

Jack noticed the Yiddishisms had disappeared and the accent had flattened into everyday New Yorkese.

Jack wondered if he’d said something wrong. “I didn’t–”

“Did someone say I could sell you one?”

Was that it? Did Abe think that Jack thought he was a gun runner? No way.

“No-no. Nothing like that. It’s just that you’ve lived in the city all your life and I figured you might have heard something and could point me in the right direction.”

He seemed to relax. “Ah, so you mean during my lifetime of shmoozing I should have maybe come across at least one person who might be in that line of merchandise.”

The accent was back.

“Exactly.”

He took off his reading glasses and, without looking, began to clean them with his tie. Jack noticed a bit of what appeared to be dried egg yolk on the tie smearing across the lenses but said nothing.

“Let me ask you first: Are you experienced?”

Jack had to smile. “Are you Jimi Hendrix?”

“What?”

“Sorry. If you mean with guns, no. Back in high school I plinked at cans in the Pines with a friend’s twenty-two rifle, but that’s about it.”

“All right then. I’m not promising, but let’s just say I do find someone who can help you out, you must first promise me something.”

Jack thought he was ahead of him. “To use it only for defense? Sure. I–”

“No-no.” He wagged a finger. “If I can deliver, you must promise to go to a certain person – whose name I’ll give – who will teach you how to safely use your purchase.”

He put the glasses back on, tried to see through the egg smear, frowned, and reached for a tissue.

“Won’t he want to know if the gun’s registered?”

“He won’t want to know from nothing except if you’ve got the hundred dollars he’ll charge for his course in pistolry.”

“A hundred ?”

“Yes, and this is a deal breaker. I don’t want you out and about with a weapon you can’t field strip and keep clean and in perfect working order. So, you promise?”

A hundred bucks… he had limited funds and nothing coming in, but could see the wisdom of knowing the proper care and feeding of something that could kill with a finger twitch.

“I promise. But speaking of bucks, what can I expect to pay?”

“Not that I have much experience with this, but for something used of good manufacture and in good working order, I’d say you’ll need three hundred American.”

“ ‘American’?”

He seemed momentarily flustered. “Well, as opposed to gold.”

“Gold?”

What was he talking about?

“Oy. Enough with the parrot act. Three hundred already. And you’d better give it to me in advance, because I’ll need cash in hand to bring the price down. Like an Arab rug dealer he haggles.”

Obviously Abe already had someone in mind, and Jack got the feeling the cash in advance was more a test of trust than anything else. Well, he’d brought cash in case Abe sent him somewhere, and for some reason he couldn’t fully fathom, he trusted this odd man, so…

He counted out three hundred and handed it over.

“When can I expect–?”

“Stay home tomorrow. All day. A package will arrive–”

“Mail?”

“Don’t be a shmuck. Just be home and ready to sign.” He snapped his fingers. “I don’t recall your last name.”

He’d never asked so Jack had never told him. He gave him the pseudonym he’d used on the apartment mailbox. Might as well be consistent, especially if he was going to get a delivery there.

“Moore.” He spelled it.

Shortly before renting the place he’d passed a dinky little playground over on Tenth Avenue dedicated to Clement Clarke Moore. He doubted any of the kids playing there – or their folks, for that matter – knew its namesake was the guy who wrote “The Night Before Christmas.”

“Okay. Remember, stay home and–”

“Don’t worry. Like a hermit I’ll be.”

Abe looked at him, then laughed.

“Kid, you’re all right.”

6

Nasser al-Thani was surprised when a dark-haired young – very young – woman opened the door.

“Ooh, look at you,” she said in a seductive tone, her gaze wandering up and down his long gray thobe. “I’ve never done one of you guys.”

“I’m sorry.” He checked the number on the door – yes, suite 1201. “I was expecting–”

“I bet you could teach me things. You know, like secrets of the harem and all that.”

What was she talking about?

“Danaë!” said a laughing, familiar male voice from somewhere beyond the short hallway. “Stop torturing the poor man and let him in!”

She smiled as she jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “He’s waiting for you in the living room.”

She moved to the side to let him pass.

One of Trejador’s prostitutes, no doubt. Nasser had heard rumors of his preference for “professional” women, but this was the first time he’d encountered one. She was wearing a long, tan raincoat, so he had no idea of her figure. He turned for a better look at her face but she’d already stepped through the door and was closing it behind her.

Nasser stepped into the living room and found Roman Trejador sitting in a bathrobe and sipping a drink. From the shape of the glass and the olive sitting in the clear fluid, Nasser assumed it was a martini.

“Right on time, as usual.” Trejador held up the glass. “Make yourself a drink.”

“I believe I will. But not like yours.”

Nasser had grown up in Qatar. Unlike other countries on the Arabian peninsula, alcohol was legal there, but still frowned upon, so he’d never developed a taste for it. Even after his years at Oxford and his MBA studies at Stanford, nothing alcoholic appealed to him. He went to the kitchenette, found the refrigerator, and removed a bottle of club soda.

“I was afraid I’d arrived early,” he said as he poured a glassful.

Trejador laughed. “Oh, you mean Danaë. She’s one of my favorites. Quite the character. And quite skilled. We took longer than usual.”

Nasser resisted a shake of his head. Most men would hide their proclivity for prostitutes to avoid the natural and inevitable questions: You have to pay for it? Can’t you get any on your own? Yet Trejador flaunted it.

Perhaps because, with his dark good looks and smooth urbanity, he very clearly did not need to pay for it. Though nearing fifty – or already there, perhaps – he’d become the favored actuator of the High Council of the Ancient Septimus Fraternal Order. He’d grown up in Spain – survived a rough childhood, Nasser had heard – but his English was flawless.