Cold City (Repairman Jack - the Early Years Trilogy) by F. Paul Wilson Page B
Authors: F. Paul Wilson
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as well.”
Al-Thani shrugged. “There is more than one way to serve Allah. You bluster like a camel in heat, but so far, what have you accomplished?”
Kadir held his breath. Sayyid’s round face seemed to expand as it turned red. He looked ready to strangle al-Thani.
The man from Qatar went on. “But let me ask you another question: Who do you hate most of all in this world?” A quick smile. “Besides me at the moment.”
Sayyid spoke through his teeth. “You know who. You keep asking me about him.”
“Yes, I do indeed know who. And as a personal favor to you, I have tracked him down. I know where he will be tonight, and exactly what time he will be there.”
Sayyid shot to his feet. “Tell me! Tell me and I promise you the Zionist pig will not see tomorrow!”
3
What day is it? Jack wondered as he sipped a Rock at The Spot.
He knew it was early November because last week kids had been running around in costumes, trick-or-treating. He’d noticed a few Ghostbusters but Ninja Turtles definitely predominated with the boys. And he knew it was Monday, because he’d watched the Eagles trounce the Pats yesterday. But the actual date? Not a clue.
The past couple of weeks of his life had blurred into one long road, with Tony at one end and Bertel and the Mummy at the other. He’d wanted to get back out to that Long Island range to do some more shooting, but had no time. After the first run, Bertel gave him the key to the truck’s padlock, but told him to keep it hidden away so he could continue to use the story about his girlfriend’s untrusting father.
Girlfriend… good thing he didn’t have a real one. She’d be on his case about never seeing him. His social life now consisted of a few brews at The Spot at the end of a run and an occasional visit to Abe. He’d made the mistake of bringing along some sort of edible goody twice in a row; Abe had looked so heartbroken on the third visit when Jack had shown up with nothing that he vowed never to visit empty-handed again.
Each end of the road had its own ritual. The southern ceremony began with turning the empty truck over to Tony at the Lonely Pine Motel. It might be a U-Haul or a Ryder or a Budget or Penske – Jack never knew until he showed up at the garage the evening before. Then nap time in one of the rooms. As he grew used to the routine, Jack managed to get some genuine shut-eye during the break and occasionally needed Tony’s pounding on the door to wake him. Then the eucharist – Krispy Kremes and coffee – during which he and Tony would shoot the breeze. Though considerably older than Jack, but younger than Bertel, Tony was easy to like – affable, always smiling, always some awful joke to tell. The facial hair thing, though… that wasn’t making it. No way that black scraggle along his jaw would ever thicken into a self-respecting beard. At some point in every conversation, Jack would try to pry free some info on the enigmatic Bertel, and Tony would profess ignorance. Jack didn’t buy that for a second.
The northern ceremony started upon his arrival at the Jersey City garage. Having the key with him allowed the “Mohammedans” – he doubted he’d ever get used to that unwieldy term – to unload the truck without waiting for Bertel. Then Jack would sit in silence until the man showed up. The Mummy’s helpers spoke Arabic among themselves and the Mummy himself barely acknowledged his existence. The envelope would be passed, an order would be taken, and Bertel would wait till they were in the tunnel to pass Jack his cut. The space behind Jack’s floor molding was filling with hundred-dollar bills. It became even more crowded when he was on the road because he stashed his Ruger there.
Then parking the van in a reserved space at an Upper West Side garage. Jack suspected Bertel lived up this way. He tried to follow him once but lost him. At
Al-Thani shrugged. “There is more than one way to serve Allah. You bluster like a camel in heat, but so far, what have you accomplished?”
Kadir held his breath. Sayyid’s round face seemed to expand as it turned red. He looked ready to strangle al-Thani.
The man from Qatar went on. “But let me ask you another question: Who do you hate most of all in this world?” A quick smile. “Besides me at the moment.”
Sayyid spoke through his teeth. “You know who. You keep asking me about him.”
“Yes, I do indeed know who. And as a personal favor to you, I have tracked him down. I know where he will be tonight, and exactly what time he will be there.”
Sayyid shot to his feet. “Tell me! Tell me and I promise you the Zionist pig will not see tomorrow!”
3
What day is it? Jack wondered as he sipped a Rock at The Spot.
He knew it was early November because last week kids had been running around in costumes, trick-or-treating. He’d noticed a few Ghostbusters but Ninja Turtles definitely predominated with the boys. And he knew it was Monday, because he’d watched the Eagles trounce the Pats yesterday. But the actual date? Not a clue.
The past couple of weeks of his life had blurred into one long road, with Tony at one end and Bertel and the Mummy at the other. He’d wanted to get back out to that Long Island range to do some more shooting, but had no time. After the first run, Bertel gave him the key to the truck’s padlock, but told him to keep it hidden away so he could continue to use the story about his girlfriend’s untrusting father.
Girlfriend… good thing he didn’t have a real one. She’d be on his case about never seeing him. His social life now consisted of a few brews at The Spot at the end of a run and an occasional visit to Abe. He’d made the mistake of bringing along some sort of edible goody twice in a row; Abe had looked so heartbroken on the third visit when Jack had shown up with nothing that he vowed never to visit empty-handed again.
Each end of the road had its own ritual. The southern ceremony began with turning the empty truck over to Tony at the Lonely Pine Motel. It might be a U-Haul or a Ryder or a Budget or Penske – Jack never knew until he showed up at the garage the evening before. Then nap time in one of the rooms. As he grew used to the routine, Jack managed to get some genuine shut-eye during the break and occasionally needed Tony’s pounding on the door to wake him. Then the eucharist – Krispy Kremes and coffee – during which he and Tony would shoot the breeze. Though considerably older than Jack, but younger than Bertel, Tony was easy to like – affable, always smiling, always some awful joke to tell. The facial hair thing, though… that wasn’t making it. No way that black scraggle along his jaw would ever thicken into a self-respecting beard. At some point in every conversation, Jack would try to pry free some info on the enigmatic Bertel, and Tony would profess ignorance. Jack didn’t buy that for a second.
The northern ceremony started upon his arrival at the Jersey City garage. Having the key with him allowed the “Mohammedans” – he doubted he’d ever get used to that unwieldy term – to unload the truck without waiting for Bertel. Then Jack would sit in silence until the man showed up. The Mummy’s helpers spoke Arabic among themselves and the Mummy himself barely acknowledged his existence. The envelope would be passed, an order would be taken, and Bertel would wait till they were in the tunnel to pass Jack his cut. The space behind Jack’s floor molding was filling with hundred-dollar bills. It became even more crowded when he was on the road because he stashed his Ruger there.
Then parking the van in a reserved space at an Upper West Side garage. Jack suspected Bertel lived up this way. He tried to follow him once but lost him. At
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