Fear City by F. Paul Wilson

inside.
    â€œThis is where we will do most of the mixing,” he said in Arabic. He pointed to the ceiling. “And by the way, we have an American neighbor upstairs—lives there with his dog. This is a thick-walled building, so it is unlikely he can hear anything, but just to be safe, we say nothing in English while we are here.”
    Kadir nodded as he looked around the empty room. “You said we’ll be mixing here. In what?”
    â€œThat is your next assignment. We’ll need metal drums—the fifty-five-gallon size are easy to find and will work best.”
    â€œI know where we can get some,” Salameh said.
    â€œGood. Bring three. Oh, and pick up as many old newspapers as you can find.”
    â€œNewspapers?” Salameh said. “Why?”
    â€œI’ll explain later. Now get moving. The sooner you get them, the sooner we begin.”
    Kadir tugged on Salameh’s arm. “Let’s go. We’re wasting time.”
    He couldn’t wait to get started.

 
    3
    Abe had phoned and said the 800 number went to an answering service company located on Ninth Avenue in Hell’s Kitchen. When Jack arrived at the address he found himself peering through the window of an XXX peepshow and porn shop.
    Crap. What was going on?
    He backed up and took a look at the converted five-story tenement. A sign in the second-floor window said ANSWER MANAGEMENT in red block letters.
    Okay. Got it.
    The narrow door to the right of the store had been painted and repainted so many times that the trim had lost all its detail. A short row of black buttons was inset to the right. He pressed the one labeled ANSWER MANAGEMENT and waited to be buzzed in. Instead a woman’s tinny voice screeched from the speaker.
    â€œWho is it?”
    He should have anticipated this. When you worked above a porn shop, you didn’t simply buzz in everyone who rang. He used the name on his ID.
    â€œMy name’s Jeff Cusic. I’m here to apply for a job.”
    â€œWe’re not hiring.”
    â€œIs it because I’m a guy?”
    â€œNo, because we’re not hiring.”
    â€œDo you have any males answering your phones?”
    â€œNone of your business.”
    â€œWell, if you don’t, that’s sexual discrimination. Look, I’m not trying to cause trouble. Just let me fill out an application for when you do hire.”
    â€œOr what?”
    â€œOr I pay a visit to the city Commission on Human Rights and file a complaint.”
    The speaker went silent for a while and Jack wondered if maybe she’d hung up, but then her voice returned.
    â€œStand back and let me see what you look like.”
    â€œWhat does that—?”
    â€œIf you look like trouble, you’re not getting in.”
    He stepped back from the door and spread his arms as he looked up. He couldn’t see anyone in the window.
    â€œOkay?”
    The door buzzed. He leaped to it and pushed his way inside. The woman who met him at the top of the stairs had a face only Anne Ramsey’s mother could love.
    â€œAre you for real?” she said.
    He held up his hands, showing his empty palms. “I come in peace. I just want to fill out an application.”
    â€œWhy bother me?”
    â€œI’m trying all the answering services. My day job doesn’t pay enough, so I need a night job.”
    â€œWhat’s your day job?”
    â€œI move furniture. I need something off my feet at night.”
    Her expression looked even sourer as she shook her head. “You mean a job you can sleep through.”
    â€œJust let me apply.”
    With a sigh she motioned him into her small office. “We don’t have a form. I’ll give you an index card and you can leave your name and number.”
    â€œFair enough.”
    As he was filling it out with his phony name and a made-up number, he checked out the three-drawer filing cabinet against the wall. The top drawer was labeled A-J .