Dark City (Repairman Jack - Early Years 02) (21 page)

“Not walking down the street. Picture that and tell me how you feel.”

“What’s she look like?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Just tell me: more like Roseanne Barr or more like Claudia Schiffer?”

No contest.

“Claudia Schiffer, of course. How does that make you feel?”

Her smile broadened. “It makes me feel like making it a threesome!”

Jack had to laugh. “You’re impossible!”

She opened her eyes. “You think I’m kidding?”

Cristin, Cristin, Cristin. She’d told him about a couple of her lesbian affairs, one with his ex-girlfriend from high school, of all people.

“Anybody else, maybe. But not you.”

“Well, if you’d said Pamela Anderson…” She waggled her hand. “Eh. A little too obvious for my taste. But Claudia Schiffer is
hot
. How’d you manage to hook up with her?”

“I didn’t say I—”

From somewhere behind them, Margaret cleared her throat. He’d forgotten all about her.

“Any questions about the apartment?” she said, looking a little bit flustered.

“I like it,” Jack said. “But I’ve got to tell you, I don’t have much of a credit record.”

“Are we talking
bad
credit?” she said.

“I guess we’re talking none at all.”

Margaret said, “I’ll talk to the owners. Usually that can be resolved with a higher security deposit.”

“Talk to them.”

Something about this place …

3

Kadir noticed Hadya take off her headphones out of the corner of his eye. He put down his Qur’an. Uncle Ferran closed the bakery early on Sunday and the two of them had spent a quiet afternoon and evening.

“Well, what do you think?”

This was the third of Sheikh Omar’s tapes she had listened to and he was anxious to hear how he had inspired her.

She frowned. “He is so angry.”

“Of course he is angry. Look how the Western world treats Islam, how it supports Israel against our homeland. How could he
not
be angry? What righteous Muslim would not share that anger?”

“Perhaps anger was not the right word. He is so full of…” She hesitated and looked away.

“What?”

“You will be angry.”

“No, I won’t.” What could she be thinking? “I promise.”

“Your Sheikh Omar is full of hate.”

“Hate for America, of course. Look at what the Great Satan has done just this past week: slaughtered Muslim soldiers in Kuwait and Iraq. Plus they supply the arms that allow Israel to keep its boot on the necks of our people.”

“But he hates Muslims too. He hated Sadat, he hates Mubarak, he hates Saddam Hussein, he hates the Saudi princes—”

“Because they allow American soldiers to tread the holy ground that is home to Mecca.”

Her eyes took on a pleading look. “But hate is not our way, Kadir. Allah has said through the Prophet—”

Kadir shot to his feet. “Do not
dare
tell me what the Prophet says! I know! I have studied at the feet of Sheikh Omar!”

“The Prophet does not teach us to hate,” she said defiantly.

“But he teaches jihad! And that is what Sheikh Omar teaches. One world, one faith—Islam!”

She rose and faced him. “What has happened to you, Kadir? You were not like this when you left.”

“No. I am older and wiser and more experienced. He has opened my eyes.”

She walked past him. “He has poisoned you. I am going to bed.”

Kadir stared at the bedroom door after she closed it behind her. Was she blind? How could she not see?

4

As soon as the door to her apartment door closed behind her, Cristin pressed her hand against the small of Jack’s back.

“Is that a gun or are you just—no, that’s a gun. Can I see it again?”

“Different gun this time.”

He pulled out the Glock, removed the magazine, and ejected the round in the chamber.

“Why’d you do that?” she said, taking it from him.

Cristin was unpredictable. She might pull the trigger—just for the hell of it.

“It’s got no safety lever. Safer this way.”

She turned it over in her hands, running her fingers over the black matte finish.

“I liked the shiny one better. This one’s kind of … ugly.”

“But easier to tote around.”

She smiled up at him. “You always carry one when you’re with me?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“To protect you.”

“Ohhhh, noooo.” She handed it to him. “When you’re with me,
you’re
the one who needs protecting.”

Yeah, he thought, but not from you.

“Dinner put me in a tequila mood. Care for a snort?”

His night to pick the restaurant and he’d chosen a Tex-Mex place called the Coyote Bar & Grille.

“Don’t mind if I do. I’ll accept only Cuervo.”

“You got it.”

As she swayed toward her liquor cabinet—which held only Cuervo Gold anyway—he looked for a place to stow the Glock. A low, Oriental-style chest sat against the hallway wall opposite the door. He pulled open the top drawer and saw a small beaded tote bag. The zipper was undone and he couldn’t help see the contents … oblong objects that looked like—

Dildos.

He was still staring when she returned with the shot glasses.

“Hey, I saw in the
Times
today that Penn and Teller have a new show opening in a few weeks. We really should—” She stopped, followed his gaze, and laughed. “You found my toys!”

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. But…”

“Different sizes, one’s battery operated, and there’s even a strap-on in there. Hey, if you want me to I can put it on and—”

He dropped the Glock into the drawer and slammed it shut.

“No way. Don’t even finish that thought.”

She handed him a shooter. “Well, feel free to borrow one to use on me should you ever run out of steam.”

“With you? Impossible.”

She clinked her glass against his. “
That’s
what I like to hear!”

5

“You know,” Cristin said as they lay together after exhausting each other, “I don’t want to lose this.”

“Lose what?”

“You and me. We’re too good together.”

No argument there. She seemed to know instinctively how to bring him to peaks of pleasure, and she’d taught him how to do the same for her.

“Why would that happen?”

“Because I think you’re getting involved.”

“Of course I’m involved. We’re both involved.”

“I mean
involved
involved. You know, where we have to think about each other. I want you to go about your business during the week without wondering what I’m doing at any given moment, and I want to go about mine without wondering if you’re wondering about me. Because if I know you are, that’s going to work on my head.”

He figured it best to tell her what she wanted to hear. “Okay. I don’t wonder about you during the week.”

She raised her head. “You don’t? Why the hell not?”

“What? Wait—”

She laughed. “You’re
waaaay
too easy.”

He stared at the ceiling. “Women.”

She nudged him. “Hey! Don’t lump me with the herd. You’ve never known anyone like me, and you’ll never know another.”

“No argument there.”

“But you know where I’m coming from, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Do you really? Sunday is
ours
. But the rest of the week is
yours
. And the rest of the week is
mine
. Separately. We went into this saying neither of us wanted strings. That’s why it’s worked.”

Jack still didn’t want strings—at least not any that weren’t of his own choosing. But he’d come to the point where he wouldn’t mind a few between Cristin and him. But she wanted no ties to anything.

So he’d do it her way.

“Okay. You’re right, you’re right, you’re right. No strings.”

She nuzzled his throat. “Repeat after me:
Noooo
strings.”

“
Noooo
strings.”

The alternative to
noooo
strings was
noooo
Cristin, and that was not something he wanted to think about.

MONDAY

1

After training to Doc Hargus’s to have his sutures removed—“You heal up good, kid” and “No charge for removal” had been pretty much the extent of their conversation—Jack donned his hoodie-cum-shades ensemble and trotted over to 10th Avenue, then walked down to the Meatpacking District. Overhead loomed the long-deserted tracks of the defunct New York Central High Line, scheduled for demolition … soon. Not a whole helluva lot going on down at street level either. Pre-noon was a little early for the locals, so Jack had the sidewalks mostly to himself.

Hundreds of slaughterhouses and meatpacking plants had given the area its name. But the industry had moved elsewhere, and as the packers moved out, the place became a haven for pushers, gays, and transsexuals. BDSM clubs like the infamous Mineshaft dotted the area until the AIDS epidemic shut them down. The gays, transsexuals, and druggies stayed, but as the meat industry continued moving away, rents in the big brick buildings fell. Ishii-san had taken advantage of that.

Word was out that the sensei was conducting a noon class in yawara technique and Jack didn’t want to miss it. Yawara were thick, short shafts of sturdy wood with enough girth to fit comfortably in the palm and long enough to leave an inch or so protruding from each end of a closed fist. Very nearly a concealed weapon, and Jack found that attractive. At various times he’d heard them referred to as
kubotan
, sometimes
koga
. He needed to learn more, which was why he was heading for the dojo.

Up on the second floor he found a good two dozen students, the steroidal trio from last week among them. Not many sensei in the city taught
yawarajutsu
, so no one wanted to miss this class.

Ever the entrepreneur, Ishii-san had stubby little yawara arranged on a table for sale, along with key-ring kubotans and hard plastic kogas. Jack found a wooden yawara with slightly flared ends that fit comfortably in his hand and bought it.

To begin, Ishii-san had them all sit cross-legged on the floor while he explained the history of the yawara. He’d just started in about how it developed from the Buddhist Kongou when Preston showed up—again in full kabuki makeup but this time wearing a salmon kimono.

“A thousand apologies, sensei,” he said, bowing. “We’re having another dress rehearsal but I rushed out because I didn’t want to miss this.”

Ishii-san acknowledged the apology with a little bow of his own. “You have stick?”

Preston reached inside his backpack and produced a ribbed stick that looked like polished redwood.

“Of course.”

As Pres kicked off his sandals Jack noticed he was wearing white, split-toe socks. Ishii-san waited until he’d arranged himself and his kimono at the edge of the group, then resumed his talk. After a brief history lesson, he reviewed the human body’s pressure points, most of which were sitting ducks for someone even minimally skilled in yawarajutsu.

Then Ishii-san clapped his hands and had everyone line up to practice the moves. Pres stripped off his kimono to reveal a tight mauve T-shirt and even tighter black bike shorts. Then he made sure to position himself next to the gym rat who’d had a beef with his makeup last week; Preston had easily won the ensuing verbal altercation. Jack hoped today would be quieter. Yawara were cool and he didn’t want the class disrupted.

“Ooh, you look so big and strong,” Pres murmured to his pumped-up neighbor. “So much sinew.”

The bigger guy turned red and Jack knew this was not going to turn out well. Not well at all …

2

Vinny’s stomach went sour when he recognized Tommy’s car in the Preston Salvage lot—parked in Vinny’s own fucking reserved spot, of course. But the car beside Tommy’s was a stranger.

He pulled his Vic in beside the unknown and got out. He started for the office but stopped when he thought he heard Tommy’s voice through the side door of the garage. Tommy? In the garage? He might get his stubby fingers dirty.

Curious, he walked over for a look and found Tommy and two strangers standing around a white 1988 Accord Integra hatchback. Immediately he knew what was up. The tool chest and the acetylene torch setup standing by the front bumper confirmed it.

Honda had a policy of not changing its parts much over the years, so they were interchangeable up and down the Accord family line. Integras were always top targets for chop shops. This car was worth tons more in pieces than whole, and those pieces could be sold off in minutes.

He felt his blood begin to heat up.

“Ay, Vinny,” Tommy said. “Wasn’t expecting you till later.”

Vinny pointed to the car and the equipment and played dumb. “What’s all this?” he said with a heroic effort not to talk through his teeth.

“Found it sitting on a street in Bensonhurst last night and couldn’t resist. Andy Manganaro lent me a couple of his guys to take it apart.”

“We already had this discussion.”

Tommy smiled. “Yeah, I know, but it was just sittin’ there. How could I pass it up? It’s worth a small fortune in pieces. Andy’s already got buyers for the parts. We’re talking an easy coupla thou here.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And then we cut off the VIN, stick the frame in the crusher, and sell it for scrap.”

Vinny glanced around. He needed something to swing. A tire iron, maybe, even a baseball bat. Then he spotted the long-handle fire ax on the wall. Perfect.

“What I say about this kind of activity here?”

“Hey, Vinny, lighten up, okay. We’ll be outta here before the day is done.”

Tommy was probably right, meaning the risk was small, but Vinny had said no chopping here and that meant no chopping. He grabbed the ax and moved toward the car.

“This day is done right now.”

“Hey, what—?”

Vinny imagined Tommy’s face in the center of the hood as he raised the ax and sank the blade into his nose.