![Repairman Jack [04]-All the Rage](https://fs.ageofbook.com/478952/thumbs/152x264/repairman-jack-04-all-the-rage.jpg)
that I get so mad when somebody like that tries to push me around."
Jack pointed past her. "And here comes another reason for staying out of a knockdown drag-out."
Vicky came puffing up the dune carrying a horseshoe crab carapace filled with clamshells. "Look what I got!"
They oohed and ahed over her sandy treasures all the way back to the parking area.
As Gia drove the now slightly fishy-smelling car back toward the city, Jack sat in silence, pondering his next move. Since he'd already been made by Dragovic's security, he'd have to work behind the scenes.
They were near Hicksville on the LIE when Jack spotted a sign for the Jericho Turnpike. That made him think of a couple of good old boys whose services he'd employed a few years ago. And that gave him the start of an idea…
"Do you mind if we make a stop?" he said.
Gia glanced at him. "Usually it's Vicky who's got to—"
"Not that. I want to see if some old acquaintances are still in business. Take the next exit."
He directed her off the highway and along a rutted dirt road until he saw the hangar with its red sign: TWIN AIRWAYS.
"Is this the place?"
"Yeah. It's their own private airfield." He pointed to the helicopter and two Gulfstream executive jets on the runway. "They charter those out."
"And why are we here?" Gia said.
"Need to talk to these guys." He got out and started toward the hangar. "Why don't you and Vicks stretch your legs and check out the planes while I check the office."
Luckily, both the Ashe brothers were in—tall, lanky twins in their midthirties. Both had fair, shoulder-length hair, but Joe wore a stubbly beard while Frank sported a droopy mustache.
"Well, well," Frank said in a thick Georgia drawl. "Looky who it is."
Joe stepped up and stuck out a hand. "Where you been keepin' yerself, boy?"
They liked small talk about as much as Jack, so after thirty seconds or so of catching up, Joe said, "What brings you round, Jack?"
"A little business. A couple of quick charters."
"No offense," Frank said, "but since it's you, I gotta ask: how legal we talking 'bout?"
Jack shrugged. "Not terribly zflegal."
"Not no RICCO-level shit where we could get our assets froze, I hope. That would be a bummer."
"No-no," Jack said. "Not even close. More legal than the last time. Promise."
"Reckon we can handle that," Joe said. "What's up?"
11
Doug Gleason congratulated himself as he left Dr. Alcott's office in Great Neck and walked toward his car. Another once formidable barrier had fallen. He'd penetrated Dr. Alcott's perimeter defenses and actually got to sit down with the man. A coup among sales reps.
Doug had never seen himself as a salesman but had thrown himself into the job to see what he could wring from it. He'd approached it as he would a programming problem, establishing object relationships and then functionally decomposing them. His applied system had met with resounding success.
In Doug's two years on the job, the most important truth he'd discovered was that knowing all the receptionists' first names, knowing the names of all their children and grandchildren, burbling at their baby pictures, smiling for them until you thought your cheeks were going to cramp, did not guarantee you a sit-down with the doctor. You needed the secret weapon.
Food.
A crumb cake or bagels and cream cheese in the morning or pizzas and subs at noon and, for the battle-hardened veterans who manned Dr. Alcott's front lines, the afternoon coup de grace: chocolate-covered strawberries.
Those had done it. The guardians of the gate had hoisted the white flag and all but demanded that their boss give that nice young Mr. Gleason five minutes.
Doug stowed his sample case in the trunk, then slipped into the front seat of his company car—more of a business office on wheels, actually. In addition to the indispensable cellular phone, he had a cellular fax, a cellular modem for his laptop computer, and a small inkjet printer.
He checked his cell phone—not wanting
Jack pointed past her. "And here comes another reason for staying out of a knockdown drag-out."
Vicky came puffing up the dune carrying a horseshoe crab carapace filled with clamshells. "Look what I got!"
They oohed and ahed over her sandy treasures all the way back to the parking area.
As Gia drove the now slightly fishy-smelling car back toward the city, Jack sat in silence, pondering his next move. Since he'd already been made by Dragovic's security, he'd have to work behind the scenes.
They were near Hicksville on the LIE when Jack spotted a sign for the Jericho Turnpike. That made him think of a couple of good old boys whose services he'd employed a few years ago. And that gave him the start of an idea…
"Do you mind if we make a stop?" he said.
Gia glanced at him. "Usually it's Vicky who's got to—"
"Not that. I want to see if some old acquaintances are still in business. Take the next exit."
He directed her off the highway and along a rutted dirt road until he saw the hangar with its red sign: TWIN AIRWAYS.
"Is this the place?"
"Yeah. It's their own private airfield." He pointed to the helicopter and two Gulfstream executive jets on the runway. "They charter those out."
"And why are we here?" Gia said.
"Need to talk to these guys." He got out and started toward the hangar. "Why don't you and Vicks stretch your legs and check out the planes while I check the office."
Luckily, both the Ashe brothers were in—tall, lanky twins in their midthirties. Both had fair, shoulder-length hair, but Joe wore a stubbly beard while Frank sported a droopy mustache.
"Well, well," Frank said in a thick Georgia drawl. "Looky who it is."
Joe stepped up and stuck out a hand. "Where you been keepin' yerself, boy?"
They liked small talk about as much as Jack, so after thirty seconds or so of catching up, Joe said, "What brings you round, Jack?"
"A little business. A couple of quick charters."
"No offense," Frank said, "but since it's you, I gotta ask: how legal we talking 'bout?"
Jack shrugged. "Not terribly zflegal."
"Not no RICCO-level shit where we could get our assets froze, I hope. That would be a bummer."
"No-no," Jack said. "Not even close. More legal than the last time. Promise."
"Reckon we can handle that," Joe said. "What's up?"
11
Doug Gleason congratulated himself as he left Dr. Alcott's office in Great Neck and walked toward his car. Another once formidable barrier had fallen. He'd penetrated Dr. Alcott's perimeter defenses and actually got to sit down with the man. A coup among sales reps.
Doug had never seen himself as a salesman but had thrown himself into the job to see what he could wring from it. He'd approached it as he would a programming problem, establishing object relationships and then functionally decomposing them. His applied system had met with resounding success.
In Doug's two years on the job, the most important truth he'd discovered was that knowing all the receptionists' first names, knowing the names of all their children and grandchildren, burbling at their baby pictures, smiling for them until you thought your cheeks were going to cramp, did not guarantee you a sit-down with the doctor. You needed the secret weapon.
Food.
A crumb cake or bagels and cream cheese in the morning or pizzas and subs at noon and, for the battle-hardened veterans who manned Dr. Alcott's front lines, the afternoon coup de grace: chocolate-covered strawberries.
Those had done it. The guardians of the gate had hoisted the white flag and all but demanded that their boss give that nice young Mr. Gleason five minutes.
Doug stowed his sample case in the trunk, then slipped into the front seat of his company car—more of a business office on wheels, actually. In addition to the indispensable cellular phone, he had a cellular fax, a cellular modem for his laptop computer, and a small inkjet printer.
He checked his cell phone—not wanting
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