Dark City (Repairman Jack - Early Years 02) (16 page)

And besides, recycling was the new buzzword. Vinny was just pitching in and being a good citizen.

But now Tommy had “ideas.” He hadn’t asked what they were. He knew he’d hear about them sooner than he wanted. And sure enough …

“So I been thinking,” Tommy said, “we get to dip our beaks by disposing of the frames, right? But the real money’s in the parts. You know what I’m saying? Somebody else is eating all the meat and we’re getting the bones. That seem right to you?”

Vinny didn’t look at him—kept his gaze fixed on the crusher. “Seems perfect to me.”

“You mean you like them getting all the gravy?”

Now he turned to him. “Look. I bought this to have a legit business. So that if the tax man ever comes and asks me where I got the money to buy my house, I point to this place. It’s a cover, Tommy. Just like Tony C’s got his appliance store.”

“Yeah, but Tony’s big-time. You’re just small-time.”

“Ain’t always gonna be that way.”

Tommy’s eyes narrowed. “You planning on making a move?”

Whoa. What was this? Asking about a plot against Tony C? Tommy’s look said if something was in the works, he wanted in, but that could just be an act. Was Tony C suspicious? Again, the question: Was that why Tommy was here?

“A move? On Tony? You fucking crazy? Don’t let me hear you say anything like that again, y’hear me? First off, I ain’t stupid. And second, I owe that guy everything. But I don’t plan on being Tony C’s collection boy and shuttle driver the rest of my life, either. You?”

“No fuckin’ way.”

No secret Tommy wanted his own crew. So did Vinny one day. With Gotti inside—calling the shots still, but inside was inside—things might shift around, loosen up. They might get their crews sooner than if the Chief was still outside.

“So I make myself useful here. People can clean some of their cash through my place, and they can dispose of stuff that might get them in trouble if they’re caught with it. I’m making extra out of sight, but more important, I’m making connections. And meanwhile I got a completely legit side to the business that makes real money.”

“But not a lot. And that’s where my idea comes in. I can get a couple of chop guys in here. We bring in cars and strip ’em ourselves. Parts are worth a fuckin’ fortune.”

Christ, this guy was stupid. Vinny tried to explain it in language he’d understand.

“Tommy, the shylocking we’re in is completely illegit, right?”

“Right.”

“The pony parlor and games we help Tony run are the same, right?”

“Right.”

“That means if the wrong people look into them, we can be in trouble, right?”

“Right.”

“And what do we do if somebody tries to connect us with that shit?”

“We back off and say, ‘Hey, no, that ain’t us.’”

“Right. But this salvage business here, it’s in my name,
this
is me. I can’t back off it. So if we put a chop shop here, and the heat comes down, I’m a goner. They’ll have me dead to rights and I’ll wind up in a cell in Rikers next to the Chief.”

Tommy laughed. “Never happen. You’re in Tony’s crew and Tony the Cannon’s too protected.”

“Nobody’s too protected.”

“Hey, you ain’t makin’ sense, Vinny. We got chop-shop leftovers comin’ in here. You can go down for them.”

“No, I can’t.” He ticked off the points on his fingers. “Number one, the VINs are gone. Number two, they come in at night. Number three, they get crushed the next morning. Number four, they’re sold and outta here by that same afternoon. I keep nothin’ layin’ around. Nothin’! Can’t do that with a chop shop, Tommy.”

Vinny turned and walked away. Fucking idiot.

“Hey, Vinny!” he called after him. “We’re talking big money here.”

Yeah. More to suck up your nose. The guy was nothing but trouble.

3

Kadir was beginning to fear that Sheikh Omar had gone insane.

He usually spoke from his chair but tonight he was standing and waving his arms as he screamed out his hatred for the USA and all things American. He was infuriated by the humiliating defeat of Iraq’s Republican Guard—destroyed so completely that President Bush had called a cease-fire today after a mere one hundred hours of fighting. A one-hundred-hour war! Unthinkable! So incensed was the imam that he quite literally foamed at the mouth, soaking his white beard with spittle.

He had no sympathy for Saddam Hussein either, calling him a traitor to Islam who heaped shame upon the Arab world.

Kadir felt the same, almost ashamed to show his face on the street, knowing that the Americans he passed would be laughing behind his back.

The mosque was crowded—the Iraqi defeat had brought Muslims from all nationalities to pray—and all had been listening raptly at first. But now Kadir noticed ripples running through the crowd of worshippers as one leaned toward another and whispered, and then that one learned toward yet another. Had another tragedy befallen the Mideast?

He saw Mahmoud gesturing to him from the side, his expression grim. Something was definitely wrong.

He rose and hurried over. One thing good about having a blind cleric for a spiritual leader was that he could not tell when you had to leave in the middle of one of his teachings.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered when he reached his side.

Mahmoud cocked his head toward the door. “Downstairs.”

When they reached the outer office of the refugee center, he closed the door behind them and leaned close.

“They’ve found Shalabi.”

So soon? Kadir had hoped for a week, perhaps even a month, Allah willing.

“How? Who?”

“A neighbor went to check on him and found the door broken. He went inside and found him, then called the police. Word of the condition of the body has leaked.”

This was bad, very bad.

“Should we have moved the body?”

“It would have made no difference. We couldn’t hide all the evidence. Even without a body, it would be obvious he had been killed. Either way, suspicion would be falling on Sheikh Omar.”

Of course it would. Their falling-out had been very public, at least to the Muslim community. Especially after Sheikh Omar had issued that fatwa against him.

“Well,” Kadir said, “perhaps the police can suspect he was behind it, but how can they blame a blind man?”

“They cannot.”

Kadir shook his head. “He will be angry at us, won’t he.”

“Yes, but not for long. Shalabi is out of the way and the refugee fund belongs to jihad.”

Kadir hoped he saw it that way. He didn’t want Sheikh Omar to issue a fatwa against
him
.

4

Jack smiled as he watched the closing credits of
All About Eve
. He’d seen it before, but only on TV with commercial breaks every fifteen minutes or so. He hadn’t appreciated how dark and cynical it was, but that all came through loud and clear in a viewing uninterrupted by detergent and antacid ads. He was also impressed by the symmetry of its what-goes-around-comes-around ending.

He liked symmetry. Life or reality rarely presented it, offering mostly chaos instead. Symmetry had to be imposed by humans—through religion, through fiction. The most satisfying stories always seemed to impose a level of symmetry on reality.

Tomorrow night’s entry in the 1950 film festival:
In a Lonely Place
.

Which was pretty much where Jack was now. He wished he had Cristin to watch it with him.

5

Kadir came home and found his sister sitting on the couch, listening to Sheikh Omar’s tape. Her expression was troubled.

“What is wrong?”

“I have finished the tape.”

“And? Are you not enlightened? Filled with holy purpose?”

“I wish to hear more.”

Kadir fairly leaped to the shelf to fetch her another. The great imam was working his magic upon her. Soon she would be as devoted to Sheikh Omar as her brother.

FRIDAY

1

Kadir was shaking as Ali Mohamed escorted him and Mahmoud from Sheikh Omar’s office. He glanced at Mahmoud, who had paled up to the roots of his red hair.

Sheikh Omar had been furious. Not the screaming fury he’d shown against America last night. Today his fury had been cold and quiet, directed at the two of them, demanding to know why they hadn’t told him that Shalabi had been dead when they arrived. When they tried to answer, he wouldn’t listen, saying if they had told him, and he’d known the condition of the body, he would have had them report it to the police.

Everything would be different now if they had, he told them. He could have announced that he had sent the two of them on a mission of reconciliation only to discover to their horror that the poor man had been slaughtered like an animal.

But as it was, everyone thought Sheikh Omar was behind the brutality. Important donors were calling in, one after the other, to announce that they were cutting off their support. The river of donations that had been flowing into the Al-Kifah coffers was quickly dwindling to a trickle.

Sheikh Omar might have excoriated them for hours longer had he not found it necessary to prepare for
Salaat-ul-Jumma,
the Friday Prayer. He declared them traitors to jihad and dismissed them from his presence.

“You two had better find a way to make this right,” Ali Mohamed said.

He matched Mahmoud in height but was far more massive.

Kadir could barely think. Sheikh Omar wanted nothing to do with him. It took all his resolve to keep from bursting into tears.

Then he remembered the card the man from Qatar had given him …

He glanced at Mahmoud. “Maybe there is a way…”

Mahmoud offered a puzzled look.

Ali Mohamed said, “You had better find it quickly.”

“Remember when Shalabi helped us arrange for the auction of certain items last fall?”

Ali nodded. “I oversaw some of those arrangements.”

Kadir had heard that, and was relieved to have it confirmed.

“Could you oversee such arrangements again?”

“I could. You are expecting another shipment?”

“We could arrange it.”

He caught a sharp look from Mahmoud who opened his mouth—

Kadir pushed on before he could speak. “It will have nowhere near the potential profit of the last, but it could net us two hundred thousand—all of which would go to jihad.”

Ali Mohamed’s eyebrows lifted. “Such a sum would also go a long way toward bringing you back into Sheikh Omar’s good graces. But you must be quick about it. Jihad calls me to duty in the Sudan.”

“We will begin to make arrangements immediately.”

“Good. After prayer I will begin contacting the buyers, tell them to be ready. Boys or girls?”

The question took Kadir by surprise.

“Both,” he blurted.

Ali smiled. “Excellent. That will bring a good response.”

Kadir tugged on Mahmoud’s arm and they fled to the street.

“What were you thinking in there?” Mahmoud said as they walked against the cold wind blowing down Atlantic Avenue.

“Do you see any other choice? We have to work with the man from Qatar.”

“I see that now, but you didn’t tell Ali it is going to be a decoy operation.”

“I thought it best not to. He might not want to make the arrangements. And besides, how do I explain to him, as the man told us, that the leak came from our end? Much simpler to let him think that we will be offering real merchandise for auction. Those he contacts will think the same. Remember, if those two gunmen are not lured into the trap, we get nothing.”

Mahmoud stared at him a moment, then clapped him on the shoulder. “Kadir, I think I may have been underestimating you.”

Everyone, from his father, exiled from Palestine and working in a clothing store in Jordan, on down through his brothers, and his sister Hadya, and then just about everyone he had met in this godless country, had been underestimating him. Well, no more.

“Come. We need to find a phone.”

“We’ll be late for prayer.”

“This is jihad, this is God’s work. He will understand.”

2

Roman Trejador watched al-Thani smile as he put down the phone.

“Good news, I take it?”

The Qatari nodded. “Excellent news. The jihadists are on board—practically begging to proceed.”

“So soon?” Drexler said, sipping coffee. “The body was discovered less than twenty-four hours ago.”

Roman too had to admit his surprise at how quickly they’d responded.

Al-Thani said, “The brutality of Shalabi’s murder is the key. It had just the effect I expected it would.”

Nasser al-Thani was proving quite an asset. Roman had invited him and Drexler to formulate preliminary plans for the trap. Now it seemed they would have to come up with hard details and logistics instead, and soon.

Drexler frowned. “Just what effect is that?”

“Well, Shalabi was definitely on the move, and he was going to take all the refugee fund’s cash with him. Sheikh Omar’s crew had to do something. Simply making him disappear would have been the best. They could have pocketed the cash for jihad and smeared Shalabi’s name as an embezzler. Even leaving it to look like a simple robbery-murder would have worked. Some suspicion would have fallen on Sheikh Omar, but nothing serious. But the condition of his body has caused ripples far and wide.”

“How do you know this?” Roman said.

“Ever since I called Shalabi’s neighbor with my concerns about his well-being, I have kept tabs on the Islamic communities for reaction. It came almost immediately. I heard from my father of all people—he’s in Dohar and even he had heard about it. Everyone is shocked and many regular donors are withholding support. Our young friend Kadir sounded near panic.”

“And thanks to your work, they’ve turned to us,” Roman said. “As a result, we can have some say in what they do, and make sure it doesn’t work against the Order’s purposes.”

“That is why this is so perfect. The Order will be the silent partner in this enterprise. After it is done, and after we pay the jihadists the bounty, I will have a close bond with them. And if in the process we get back most of the Order’s money—”