Cold City (Repairman Jack - the Early Years Trilogy) (7 page)

”And you’ll deliver another four hundred every week unless or until you pay off Harry’s loan. Or find someone to take over his payments.  Now get outa here."

They filed out, walked through the store, and gathered on the sidewalk in the shadow of the El where they waited as Tommy went through a “fuck”-laced, foot-stomping, fist-swinging bitch about the unfairness of it all.  What he really needed, Vinny knew, was a snort because he hadn’t dared face the Cannon with a snootful.

“All right,” he said when he’d calmed and caught his breath, “we are not, repeat
not
paying Harry’s vig, let alone his principal.”

“We kinda gathered that,” Vinny said.  He was hungry and would rather be having this conversation over a roast beef sandwich.  Then the “we” broke through his hunger.  “Whata y’mean, ‘we’?”

“We’re all in this together.  We were all there when Harry died, so we’re all on the hook.”

Conversation was delayed as a train roared by overhead.  Just as well.  Vinny knew better than to argue.  Wouldn’t do any good.  The four hundred a week would make a big dent in Tommy’s coke money.  He was going to spread the pain. 

Vinny would have his own crew, his own operation someday.  Until then he’d be a good soldier.  Stick with Tommy, help keep Tony the Cannon happy, and he’d move up.  Everybody in the organization answered to somebody.  Tommy answered to Tony. Tony answered to Sammy the Bull, who in turn answered to Gotti. 

At this point, Vinny answered to Tommy.  But it wouldn’t always be that way.  He was branching out on his own.  He’d started up a scrap metal business, and it was coming along.  He was careful not to step on anyone else’s toes.  Like he wouldn’t think of doing a loan on the side.  That would be poaching on Tony, a sure way to resurrect the Colt .44 Mag from its drawer.  But scrap metal was a safe sideline, and totally legit.  He’d borrowed a lot – and not from Tony – but it was starting to pay off.  When he heard of someone with an inconvenient corpse, he offered to handle the disposal – for a price, of course.  So far, those jobs had gone, well, swimmingly.  Soon as he got a little busier with the scrap, he could start laundering other guys’ cash.  That was where the money was.  Never a shortage of dirty cash around.

Not like sandwiches, of which there was a definite shortage at the moment.  

Aldo didn’t look hungry as he adjusted his porkpie, but apparently he also knew arguing was a dead end.  “What do we do?”

Tommy scratched his jaw.  “Well, let’s see.  What do we know about Harry?”

Vinny said, “He sucked at the ponies.”

Aldo guffawed. 

“Yeah, we know,” Tommy said.  “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if he had any luck.  Where’d he get his day-to-day money, though?  How’d he pay his bills?”

Vinny spun through what he knew about Harry.  Couldn’t come up with a damn thing.  He found it hard to think when he was hungry. 

“No idea.” 

“Yeah, that’s the problem.  So let’s find out.”

“How we do that?” Aldo said. 

“Research.  Find out everything there is to know about this guy.   Family, job, whatever.  Gotta be something we can tap into.  Find all the pockets connected to him, and we tap into the deepest.”

“Got it,” Vinny said.  “On it.”

As soon as he had some food.

6

“Can Dane Bertel be trusted?” Abe said, stuffing a piece of cake into his mouth and sprinkling crumbs all down his front.  “That’s what you’re asking?”

“I guess so,” Jack said.

He wasn’t sure what he was asking.  Bertel’s offer was a big step – bigger even than leaving home – and he needed someone to talk to.  He didn’t know anyone else in town but Abe, so he’d brought him a cake as a sort of thank-you for arranging the gun, and as an excuse for his presence.

Abe swallowed and pointed to the blue-and-white cake box.  “Did I ever mention Entenmann’s was my favorite or was it just a lucky guess?”

Jack glanced at the three empty Entenmann’s boxes stacked on the floor behind the counter.  He’d also noticed a number of Entenmann’s boxes on his previous visits. Entenmann’s had seemed like a safe choice.

“I’m psychic.”

“Such a talent you have.  And choosing the cheese-filled crumb coffee cake marks you as a maven of baked goods.”

Jack guessed a maven was a good thing.

“About Bertel…”

Abe took another bite and spoke around it.  “Trusted how?”

Jack hadn’t told Abe any details yet.

“He wants me to work for him.”

“So you want to know will he pay you what he says he will?  The answer to that is yes.”

“What if there’s trouble on the job?”  Jack didn’t know how much he could say about Bertel’s business. 

Abe looked at him.  “Say it already: He wants you should smuggle cigarettes from the South and you’re worried about getting caught.”

Well, all right.  Abe did know.

“Yeah, that’s it in a nutshell.”

“All I can say about Dane is that he’ll do what he says he’ll do.  If he says he’ll help you if you get caught, then that’s the way it will be.  If he says you’re on your own, then you’re on your own.  What has he said?”

“Neither.  I haven’t taken the job yet.”

“Well, if you take it, you should count on being on your own.  The mob he’s not.  He’s a small businessman. No lawyers on retainer.”

Jack shook his head.  “The ATF…”

“ATF, schmATF.  It’s state cops you’ll see mostly.”

Jack broke off a piece of the cake, then noticed Abe’s wounded look.

“May I?”

“Of course,” he said, but didn’t sound all that sincere.

He popped it into his mouth.  Pretty damn good.

“Well?” Jack said after swallowing – moist enough to go down easily without milk.  “What do you think?”

“You want I should decide for you?  I can’t.  You’re a grownup now.  By your wits you want to live?  Then sometimes you have to take chances.”  He raised his hands, palms up, and moved them like a juggler.  “Does the gelt outweigh the risk?  Is the risk worth the gelt?  Is any risk too much?  If so, maybe a school janitor you should be.”

Jack realized he’d come to Abe looking for more than chitchat.  He’d wanted some fatherly advice.  His own father was back in Jersey and would go ballistic at the thought of one of his sons doing anything even questionably illegal.  Abe, on the other hand, was treating him like an adult, like a peer, telling him to evaluate the pros and cons of Bertel’s offer and make up his own mind.   Jack could get used to that.

“Who is Bertel, anyway?”

“A mensch.”

Mensch…Jack knew what that one meant.

“I get the feeling he’s an ex-cop.”

“Probably ex a number of things. He’s been around awhile.  Minds his business.  Not a kibbitzer by any means.  Hires young men exclusively.”

“Sort of a Fagin, then?”

Abe shook his head.  “No, I believe he likes women.”

Jack laughed.  “
Fagin
– as in Dickens.”

“Oh.  Sorry.  I thought you said fageleh.  Speaking of women, he told me once he’d love to hire females – less chance of being stopped, he thinks – but couldn’t justify putting a young woman on the road alone at night.”

Something about that helped Jack make up his mind. 

“I think I’ll give it a shot.”  His stomach knotted as the words passed his lips.

Abe concentrated on the cake.  “You’re sure?”

“Not in the least.  But I’ll give it a trial run.  If I’m a basket case after it’s over, I’ll know it’s not for me and I’ll quit.  He will let me quit, won’t he?”

Abe nodded.  “Of course.  He may deduct certain startup expenses from your pay, but I don’t believe a blood oath is involved.”

“That’s a relief.  Do me one favor though?”

“If possible.”

“Talk me out of it?”

Abe’s eyebrows shot up.  “Me?  Talk yourself out.”

“No, I’m serious.  Hit me with the downside.”

Abe drummed his fingers on the counter for a second, then said, “Well, as I see it, a unique and wondrous situation you’ve got: The official world has no idea you exist.  This can be a useful thing if you wish to maintain it.  Transporting black market goods puts your unique and wondrous situation at risk.  You get caught and booked and you’re like the rest of us.”

Jack nodded silently.  A pretty good case for turning Bertel down. 

Abe stuffed another piece of cake in his mouth.  “What’s he offering, by the by?”

“A thousand a trip.”

Abe almost choked.  “What?  Don’t be a shmoiger!  Take it!”

MONDAY

1

Three days later Jack sat at a motel room’s front window and stared at the parking lot.  He hadn’t slept much.  Better to sit and watch the sky lighten than lie in bed and stare at the ceiling.  A thick stand of long-needle pines bordered the cracked and rutted asphalt.  He imagined that somewhere beyond them, rosy fingers of dawn were inching above the horizon. 

Crappy image.  He tried to remember the supposed owner of those supposed fingers.  Eos?  Not that he gave a damn, but he found it easier to think about things like that than what was to come.

The weekend had
flown
.

Things had begun moving immediately after he’d called to accept the job.  Bertel had sent him straight downtown to a tiny camera shop on West Houston with instructions to ask for a guy named Levinson – maybe his real name, maybe not.  Levinson turned out to be a skinny guy in his late thirties with spiky black hair and a sniffle.  He photographed Jack, took his phone number, and said he’d call when “it” was ready.  Jack figured he didn’t mean a portrait. 

Yesterday morning the call had come and Jack returned.  Levinson waited till the store was empty – not a long wait – then handed Jack an envelope.

“Check it out,” he said.

Jack pulled out a laminated card and frowned.  His own face stared back at him, but…

“Doesn’t look like a driver’s license.”

“It’s not,” Levinson said.  “Your boss has the license.  This here’s an NC State student ID.  The license is in the system, the library card isn’t.”

“Then what good is it?”

“It’s a photo ID.  Never hurts.  When the name agrees with the license – which, as you will learn, has no photo – it reassures the cop or whoever stops you that you’re you.”

“But when they check with the school they’ll–”

Levinson smirked.  “Trust me, when it comes to a choice between verifying a college library ID and a state-issued license, they go with the license every time.”

Jack checked the name.  “Lonnie Buechner?  Jeez.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

“Couldn’t you come up with something simpler?”

“You want simple or safe?  This guy’s safe because he’s real – or at least he was.  Died a few years ago.”

“What of?” 

Jack didn’t want to hear that he used to drive for Bertel.

“The big C.  North Carolina DMV’s got no dead file so, as long as your boss keeps renewing Lonnie’s license, he’s still alive… in a way.”

Swell, I’ll be a driving dead man.  George Romero images followed him out of the store.

When he called Bertel to let him know he was now licensed, he was instructed to wait at the corner of Sixth Avenue and King Street, a few blocks away.  Bertel showed up in a U-Haul truck.  He slid over to the passenger seat and handed Jack a laminated card – the second in less than an hour.

“There’s your driver’s license.”

“You mean Lonnie Buechner’s.”

“Yeah.  Some name, huh?”

Jack shook his head.  “Tell me about it.”

“Really, who names their boy Lonnie?”

“Mrs. Mack did.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

Bertel said, “Well, when I hear ‘Lonnie’ I think of big blond hair and big boobs – you know, the gal on that
WKRP
show.”

“Loni Anderson.”

“Right.  And Anderson’s a lot easier to spell than Buechner.  Make sure you know how to spell it like your own.”  He pointed ahead.  “Drive.”   

“Where?”

“Anywhere.  I know you can handle a motorcycle, but I want to see how you handle four wheels.”

Jack hadn’t driven a truck before, but this rig, with its automatic shift, wasn’t much different from a car.  Its extra width, though, made handling the narrow West Village streets a little hairy at times.

“All right,” Bertel said after half an hour.  “You pass.  Go home and take a nap.  I’ll pick you up at six.  We drive all night.”

“ ‘We’?”

“I’ll drive down with you the first time – make sure you get where you’re supposed to be when you’re supposed to be there.  You’ll come back on your own.”

“How’ll you get back?”

He grinned.  “Fly.”

Well, the nap didn’t happen. 

Bertel showed up right on time, put Jack behind the wheel, and off they went.  Out the Holland Tunnel and down the NJ Turnpike.  After they crossed the Delaware Memorial Bridge, Bertel handed him a sheet of directions that took him down the DelMarVa peninsula to a town he’d never heard of: Elizabeth City, North Carolina.

“Gotta be a quicker way,” Jack told him.

“I know.  But you’ll be taking this route back and I want you familiar with it.”  He leaned back. “Wake me when we hit the NC line.”

Then he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

The instructions were simple enough: south through DelMarVa to the tip of Cape Charles, over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel to Norfolk, then south from there to Elizabeth City in the northeast corner of NC.

Hours later, after a stop for coffee and gas, he roused Bertel who guided him to The Lonely Pine Motel.  The name gave Jack a start.  He’d grown up not far from a different Lonely Pine Motel, on Route 206 in Burlington County, NJ.  Took its name from the huge solitary pine on its property.  He’d witnessed something weird there as a kid.   

A dark-haired guy, who could have been forty but might have been fifty, was waiting in the parking lot.  He was good looking and might have been better looking without the beard he was trying to grow.

Bertel introduced him simply as Tony but didn’t mention Jack’s name.  Jack immediately found out why.

“So you’re the new Buechner,” Tony said as they shook.  He was smiling and his big chicklet teeth reflected the light from the motel, giving him a Cheshire Cat look.