Dark City (Repairman Jack - Early Years 02) (37 page)

“And he won’t be buying The Spot either.”

Julio’s grin faded. “Yeah. But sooner or later somebody will.”

“Why not you?”

“Yeah, right. We been through that.”

“Let’s take a drive.”

“Where?”

“The Bronx, Jeeves.”

“Jeeves?”

“Just drive.”

5

Despite the unseasonal warm spell, Kadir’s thoughts were cold and troubled as he walked along Kennedy Boulevard toward the Ramallah Bakery.

Despite his awareness that Allah had spared him for a reason, Kadir had been avoiding the Al-Farooq Mosque and the refugee center since his trip to the morgue, preferring to stay in Jersey City. He and Hadya had barely spoken since their argument on Thursday. The tension in the apartment was almost unbearable. Even yesterday, though they had attended prayers at the Al-Salaam Mosque together, they might as well have been strangers on the walk to and from.

This had to stop. As the younger sister, her place was to come to him with apologies and make peace. Yet it was frustratingly obvious that Hadya thought she was in the right. He could almost appreciate why she would think that way. She simply had been learning another language. That was not so terrible in and of itself, but the fact that Hadya had chosen English signified a danger. He sensed an urge to assimilate. Assimilation risked being tainted by American ways, American beliefs. Americans allowed their women to dress as they pleased—nearly naked in the warm weather! American women went to college, drove cars, had careers.

He saw a group of a half dozen teenage boys and girls across the street, laughing, mingling, touching, all without supervision. Was that the way Hadya would raise her daughters?

Though both sexes were equal before the eyes of Allah, the Qur’an was very clear on a woman’s place in the world:
Men have authority over women because Allah has made the one superior to the other, and because they spend their wealth to maintain them. Good women are obedient. As for those from whom you fear disobedience, admonish them and send them to their beds apart, and beat them
.”

He had intended to intercept Hadya on her way home from work and talk some sense into her, but he’d seen no sign of her by the time he arrived at the Ramallah Bakery. He stopped before the window and admired the displays of
kanafeh
,
baklawa
, and blocks of
halawa
. Before he had come to America, his mouth would water at the sight of such delicacies. But after making them and sampling them day after day while working here, they no longer tempted him.

He stepped inside and approached the young woman behind the counter. He could have asked for Uncle Ferran but didn’t want a harangue about coming back to work for him.

“I am Hadya’s brother,” he said in Arabic. “Is she around?”

She hesitated, then said, “Her shift ended. She is gone.”

“I came from our apartment and did not pass her on the way.”

“She mentioned she was going to the park to enjoy the weather.”

“Lincoln Park?”

She shrugged. “She didn’t say.”

Kadir stepped back onto the sidewalk. She must have meant Lincoln Park—it was only a few blocks away. A few minutes later, as he crossed West Side Avenue into the park, he passed a familiar-looking young woman on the second bench. She had her head back and her eyes closed, soaking in the sun. And though she was wearing an abaya, her head was uncovered, allowing the breeze to ruffle her dark hair.

He froze. That was his sister! Hadya had her hijab loose around her neck, exposing her hair—in a public park!

As Kadir stood there, he saw a couple of young men pass and look at her with what he could describe only as lust.

He wanted to attack them, wanted to attack her. Instead, he forced himself to turn and walk away. He could do nothing to her now, not in public, but she would be punished for the shame she had brought upon him and the rest of her family.

He would see to it that she suffered for this transgression. And soon.

6

The first place Jack checked was the bedroom closet.

“He had a briefcase full of cash in here last time.”

They’d parked near Zalesky’s apartment and, with Julio acting as a shield, Jack was quickly able to pick his way through the front door lock and into the building.

But no case in the closet this time.

“He no dummy,” Julio said. “Last time all his money wound up in your pocket.”

Though Jack doubted he’d find anything, he checked behind the bathroom molding anyway. He’d found about sixteen grand there last time, but came up empty this trip.

They moved to Zalesky’s front room where Jack did a slow turn.

“Okay. You told me he used to brag to Rosa that he was pulling down six figures a year with his scams. Let’s just say he inflated that real figure. Even if he doubled down on his brag, that’s still fifty grand or so. Where is it?”

“Sure didn’t spend it on this dump, meng.”

Right. Zalesky’s apartment was the opposite of lavish—like he thought of it as a place to sleep and little else.

“So he’s got to keep his money somewhere. It’s not legal, so he can’t be banking it—banks have to report big deposits. He’ll want it in a place where he won’t have to explain how he got it.”

Jack was in the same boat. He hid his cash in his apartment with his guns. But he’d scared Zalesky out of his previous hidey-hole. Where was the new one?

“Let’s take this place apart,” he said. “But softly. We don’t want a neighbor to come a-knockin’.”

Took them close to an hour to find no cash. But they did find a Chemical Bank checkbook and a safe deposit key.

Julio was flipping through the checkbook.

“Look like he pay his bills from here, but the hijo de puta got no balance.”

“Well, if I had a checkbook I probably wouldn’t keep one up to date either.”

Moot point. Unlike Jack, Zalesky was a real, tax-paying citizen—one of the stubs was for the IRS—though he probably paid only a small fraction of what he’d owe if his income was legit.

The little safe deposit key, though … Jack assumed it belonged to a box in the same bank.

He held it up. “This has to be where he hides his stash.”

“But how we get into it?”

“I could pretend to be Zalesky.”

“What if they know him?”

Good question. But there had to be a way. He couldn’t let whatever money Zalesky had hidden go to waste in that box.

“Well, we can’t do anything before Monday anyway. Let’s see what I can come up with.”

7

Neil had lost all track of time. It seemed like days since he’d been hauled out of the trunk of his car. He had no idea where he was. A garage of some kind, with car parts and tires and oil drums scattered about.

He’d feared the worst—some awful form of torture, like wiring his balls to an electric outlet or ripping off his fingernails. But none of that. The skinny guy, Aldo, he’d just stood him on his feet and faced him with raised fists.

“Come on, asshole,” he’d said. “Take your best shot.”

Turned out he’d really meant it. Neil tried to back off—he wasn’t a fighter—but Aldo kept pushing him to take a swing. So Neil gave in. Who knew? He might land a lucky punch and be able to drive the fuck out of here.

No such luck. Aldo fought him fair and square but was too quick. Neil never laid a hand on him. Aldo, on the other hand, beat the shit out of him, to the point where he was unable to stand by the time Vinny arrived.

As they’d gagged him and tied him to a chair to keep him upright, he overheard Vinny tell one of his workers to yank the engine and transmission and gas tank from the Dodge. Neil didn’t care what they did to his car as long as they let him live. Then they started to put more hurt on him and he began to wonder
when
he’d die rather than
if
.

Aldo did most of the work. He really seemed to get off on pounding someone with his fists. Vinny mostly watched and ate donuts, but every once in a while he’d pick up a crowbar and go to work. He broke Neil’s knees and elbows. Neil screamed into his gag till his voice was gone, and still they kept it up.

Then one of Vinny’s worker guys came in and said, “Look what we found.”

A few seconds later Vinny yanked Neil’s sagging head up by his hair and held something before his face.

“What the fuck is
this
?”

Neil could barely see through his swollen eyelids, but somewhere in the blur he made out a black box about the size of a cigarette pack and a wire with what looked like a microphone at the end.

“Your car was
wired
?” Vinny screamed. “You were recording my mother?”

Neil wanted to tell him no, that he knew nothing about it, but he was gagged and could only shake his head.

He couldn’t say what happened after that, because everything went black.

Until now. Now he was back in his car, but not in the trunk. They’d tossed him on the floor between the front and rear seats where he lay in a pool of agony, in and out of consciousness. His pain-fogged brain could barely form a coherent thought, but he managed to wonder how many intact bones he had left. His hands didn’t seem tied so he tried to remove his gag but his broken arms were useless.

He heard voices outside and then the engine started. Where were they taking him? What were their plans? Dump him in a ditch to freeze to death? That almost seemed better than what he was feeling now. No, it seemed definitely better.

Wait. That wasn’t the Dodge engine—something much more heavy duty.

The car gave a violent jolt that shot a blaze of agony through every damaged cell in his body. It rose into the air, moved a few feet, then was dropped to land with another burst of agony.

Had the car stopped moving, or had he passed out and more time had passed? What now? What were they
doing
? If only he knew where he was.

Another heavy-duty engine roared to life, then another impact, gentler this time. He heard steel scream in protest. The windows shattered, showering him with glass confetti. He forced his swollen eyes open and saw the roof buckling toward him.

They were crushing the car!

He tried to scream but the gag muffled the pitiful attempt.

SUNDAY

1

Neil slowly became aware of a rocking sensation. He opened his eyes and saw nothing but darkness. He tried to move but the spikes of agony from everywhere in his body reminded him of the punishment he’d endured since this afternoon.

Since this afternoon … really? It seemed like an eternity. How had this happened? What had gone wrong? Better question: What had gone right?

He remembered Vinny telling him the old bat had no grandkids. If that was true, then who was the kid bitching about his cheap grandmother in The Main Event that afternoon? Neil was sure he’d said his name was Lonnie. But if he wasn’t the Filardo broad’s grandson, who was he?

And what was that tiny microphone Vinny had dangled in front of him? His car had been wired? How?

And something else Vinny said came back to him:
If that guy hadn’t called me, you’da got away with it.

Who’d called him? Who could have even known—?

Julio.

Shit!

Rosa knew about his scam line. She must have told her little brother. Had he put the kid in the bar up to it? No way. He wasn’t smart enough. And even if he was, he was too hot-tempered to work a setup like that. It took patience, it took cool.

But how had he known the right moment to call? The wire?

Didn’t matter. Had to be connected to Julio and Rosa somehow. They were the only ones who had anything to gain from all this. Julio was probably thinking he’d killed off a buyer for that crummy bar.

Wrong
, motherfucker!

He’d get the money some other way. Better believe it. When he healed up, he’d be back, kicking ass and taking names.

And Rosa—did she think this would teach him some sort of lesson? Fuck no. Did she think he’d made her life miserable before? Just wait, bitch. Just wait.

And then he remembered something else—thrown in the back of his car, the roof coming down, glass shattering. They’d crushed his car with him in it!

He tried to lift his head but something held it down. Slowly he came to realize that he was hemmed in on all sides. They’d turned his car into a coffin, with him in it.

Which meant they thought he was dead. They’d probably dumped the car in a scrap yard and figured the rats and mice would dispose of his body.

And something else—the crushing had dislodged the gag from his mouth. He could yell for help.

He began doing just that, but the only sound he could manage was a faint, hoarse, high-pitched wail.

“Hey!” said a voice. “You hear that?”

Yes! Someone was out there! He was saved!

He loosed another pathetic wail.

“Holy shit! Yo, Vinny! Check this out!”

That voice sounded familiar. And he’d called to someone named Vinny—

Oh, shit! Oh, no!

“What?” said Vinny’s voice.

“I heard something. I think the fucker’s still alive!”

“I don’t hear nothin’.”

No way Neil was going to make another peep.

“I heard it. I swear.”

Vinny’s voice got closer. “Hey, asshole, you alive in there? If you are, I’ll hand it to you: You’re a class-A asshole, but you’re a tough one. So if you can hear me, lemme tell you, I’m glad you’re still alive. Because nothing’s too bad for you, and now you’re gonna drown. I hear that ain’t a nice way to go.”

Aldo laughed. “Yeah! You know what they say: Sleep with the fishes—and feed ’em too!”

With that the car tilted and began sliding downward. Neil heard a loud splash and then water swirled around him. It quickly engulfed him as his last breath bubbled out in a silent scream.

2

Jack and Julio maneuvered the round oak tabletop through the apartment doorway. Not terribly heavy, but its four-foot width made it awkward and unwieldy for one man. They leveled it over the paw-foot pedestal and Jack dropped to his knees to guide the holes in the underside onto the bolts jutting up from the pedestal.