F. Paul Wilson - All the Rage

"Not exactly the usual," Jack said, pointing to Lenny's foreshortened right leg. "Every time I've seen you, the left one's been missing. What gives?"

"My hip's been bothering me lately, so I've been switching off."

Jack still couldn't figure how Lenny managed to strap his lower leg up behind him without a noticeable bulge. Had to be uncomfortable as all hell, but he claimed it helped him collect enough change to make it worthwhile.

"Say, listen, Jack," he said, lowering his voice. "I got a fine new product."

"Not today." Jack knew that Lenny dealt to supplement his panhandling.

"No, really, it's not the usual. This stuff's new and so sweet. I'll give you a taste, on the house."

"No, thanks."

"My regulars down here sure like it. Leaves your head clear and don't lay no jones on you."

"Sounds wonderful. Maybe some other time."

"OK. You just let me know."

Jack waved and moved on, forgetting Lenny and reviewing last week's meeting with the customer who'd wanted to see him about Dragovic. Jack had gone all the way out to Staten Island to meet him… for nothing.

Jack had started easing back on using Julio's for his meetings, ever since last month when he'd been standing at the bar, sipping a brew, and this guy walked in and asked if Repairman Jack was around. Julio, his usual cool self, said lots of guys named Jack came in and out all day. Was he supposed to meet this Jack here? Guy said no, he'd just heard that this was his hang and he needed to talk to him. Julio had sent him off, telling him he had the wrong place.

Jack didn't want anyplace known as his "hang"—not good for him and maybe not good for Julio. He did his utmost to work his fixes anonymously, but every so often he had to get in someone's face. He'd collected a few enemies over the years. More than a few.

So when Jack got a call last week from someone named Sal Vituolo about hiring him for a fix-it, Jack had made the trip to Staten Island. Turned out Sal wanted him to "whack"—he'd really used the word—Milos Dragovic. Jack explained that he didn't "whack" people for money, and returned to Manhattan.

But now he was thinking maybe he should drop in on good ol' Sal and see if he'd settle for something less than a "whack." Jack might be crossing paths with Dragovic for Nadia anyway, so why not let Sal Vituolo pay some of the freight.

But first he needed to check with Abe, see what he knew about Dragovic.

He raised his hand as he reached Park Avenue South and saw a cab swing into the curb, but it stopped downstream by a woman in a red suit who'd been there ahead of him. As she opened the rear door, a man in a dark blue suit darted up, nudged her aside with his briefcase, and slid into the cab. Jack watched in amazement as the woman, screeching curses, ripped the briefcase from his hand and tossed it across the sidewalk. The shocked and now embarrassed man jumped out of the cab and went after it.

Jack had to smile. Good for you, lady. Serves the bastard right.

Somebody nearby shouted, "You go, girl!"

Jack was turning to look for another cab when he noticed that instead of climbing into the cab, the woman now was going after the ride snatcher. As she rushed up behind him she pulled a pair of scissors from her coat pocket and began doing the Mother Bates thing. He shouted in pain and terror as the scissors rose and fell, jabbing into a shoulder, a thigh, his back. She was going for his neck when the cabbie and a passerby grabbed her and disarmed her. Still screeching, she attacked them with her fists.

Maybe I'll just walk, Jack thought.

3

"You were there?" Abe said around a mouthful of bagel. "At this so-called preppy riot?"

Abe Grossman's Isher Sports Shop wasn't officially open at this hour, but Jack knew Abe was an early riser who didn't have much of a life outside his business. He'd knocked on the window, waved his bag of bagels, and Abe had let him in.

"'Riot' is something of an overstatement," Jack said, pulling a few sesame seeds off his bagel and spreading them on the counter for Parabellum. Abe's pale blue parakeet hopped over and began pecking at them. "More like a whacked-out brawl. But it had some dicey moments."

Abe, midfifties, balding, his belly straining against his white shirt, was perched on his stool on the far side of the scarred counter. His stock of bikes and Roller-blades and hockey sticks and anything else remotely related to a sport was scattered helter-skelter on shelves, floors, counters, or hung from the ceiling: layout by tornado.

He winced when Jack told him what had almost happened to Vicky. "And this joker… he's still upright and breathing?"

"For the moment."

"But you have plans to make adjustments in that state of affairs, I assume?"

"I'm working on it." He didn't want to talk about Robert B. Butler now. "Know anything about Milos Dragovic?"

Abe's bagel paused in midair, halfway to his mouth. "A nice man he's not."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"He got his start in my business."

"Guns?"

Abe nodded. "In the Balkans. A true product of the nineties, Dragovic. Made a fortune with his brother running guns to both sides during the Bosnia thing. They grew up here but were born over there. Their father was in some sort of Serb militia during World War Two so they had ins. The brothers Dragovic came back rich with a small army of Serb vets that they had used to muscle into various rackets—drugs, numbers, prostitution, loan-sharking, anything that turned a profit."

"Midnineties, right? Yeah, I remember a lot of drive-bys and shoot-'em-ups back then. Didn't know it was Dragovic's work."

"Not all of them, of course, but he contributed his share. The brothers then tied themselves in with the Russians and used Brighton Beach as a launching pad against the Haitians and Dominicans. Totally ruthless from what I hear."

"A little local ethnic cleansing, eh?"

"You might say. Then when the Kosovo thing started, Milos and his brother—I can't remember his name—went back to guns, but the brother got killed in some deal that went sour. Milos came back richer and more powerful."

"What's his organization like?"

"He's a control freak. No lieutenant or right-hand man; micromanages everything himself. Not much of an entourage—thinks that shows weakness—and likes the fast lane."

"Yeah, he do love to get his picture in the paper."

"And now a club he's building, so all the beautiful people will come to him. He took over one of Regine's defunct places. And what name, do you think?"

"Milos's Mosh Pit?"

"No. Worse: Belgravy."

Jack had to laugh. "No!"

"But it won't open till the fall, so for reservations you still have time." He looked at Jack over his glasses. "You're getting involved with this man?"

Jack shrugged. "I've found two people in as many weeks with a beef against him."

"Be careful. He's a mean one. Not afraid to get his own hands dirty— likes it, I'm told."

"Dirty as in red and wet?"

"Exactly."

Jack blew out a breath. "Well, I wasn't thinking of getting in close."

"Good thinking. With that man, arm's length is too close."

Abe finished his bagel and brushed off his littered shirtfront. The parakeet raced around, gobbling up the cascade of crumbs.

"Look at my Parabellum," he said. "Better than a Dustbuster, that bird." He shook his head. "Listen to me. I'm kvelling about a parakeet."

"You've got to get out more, Abe."

"I should go out like a schnook so I can get roughed up by some middle-aged marauders? Feh! I read the papers." He waved a pudgy hand at his stack of newspapers; Abe read all the papers every day—the Times, the Daily News, the Post, Newsday, the Village Voice, even the pink-sheeted weekly Observer. "A jungle out there. I'm better off at home watching I Love Lucy reruns."