Quick Fixes: Tales of Repairman Jack (24 page)

And he was heading directly for the mailbox.

When he reached it he stopped and looked over his shoulder, back along the way he had come on Eighth, then grabbed the brown paper bag Munir had left there. He reached inside, pulled out the paper towel wrapped contents, and began to unwrap it.

Suddenly he let out a strangled cry and tossed the finger into the street. It rolled in an arc and came to rest in the debris matted against the curb. He glanced over his shoulder again and began a stumbling run in the other direction, across Eighth, toward Jack and away from Munir.

“
Shit!
” Jack said aloud, working the word into his one way conversation, making it an argument, all the while pretending not to notice the doings at the mailbox.

Something tricky was going down. But what? Had the sicko sent a patsy? Jack had known the guy was sly, but he’d thought the sicko would have wanted to see the finger up close and personal, just to be sure it was real.

Unless of course the sicko was the wino and he’d done just that a few seconds ago.

He was almost up to Jack’s phone booth now. The only option Jack saw was to follow him. Give him a good lead and –

He heard pounding footsteps. Munir was coming this way –
running
this way, sprinting across the pavement, teeth bared, eyes wild, reaching for the tall guy. Jack repressed an alarmed impulse to get between the two of them. It wouldn’t do any good. Munir was out of control and had built up too much momentum. Besides, no use in tipping off his own part in this.

Munir grabbed the taller man by the elbow and spun him around.

“
Where are they?” he screeched. His face was flushed; tiny bubbles of saliva collected at the corners of his mouth. “Tell me, you swine!”

Swine?
Maybe that was a heavy duty insult from a Moslem but it was pabulum around here.

The tall guy jerked back, trying to shake Munir off. His open mouth revealed gapped rows of rotting teeth.

“
Hey, man–!”

“
Tell me or I’ll kill you!” Munir shouted, grabbing the man’s upper arms and shaking his lanky frame.

“
Lemme go, man,” he said as his head snapped back and forth like a guy in a car that had just been rear ended. Munir was going to give him whiplash in a few seconds. “Don’t know whatcher talking about!”

“
You do! You went right to the package. You’ve seen the finger – now tell me where they are!”

“
Hey, look, man, I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout whatcher sayin’. Dude stopped me down the street and told me to go check out the bag on top the mailbox. Gave me five to do it. Told me to hold up whatever was inside it.”

“
Who?” Munir said, releasing the guy and turning to look back down Eighth. “Where is he?”

“
Gone now.”

Munir grabbed the guy again, this time by the front of his fatigue jacket.

“
What did he look like?”

“
I dunno. Just a guy. Whatta you want from me anyway, man? I didn’t do nothin’. And I don’t want nothin’ to do with no dead fingers. Now getcher hands offa me!”

Jack had heard enough.

“
Let him go,” he told Munir, still pretending to talk into the phone.

Munir gave him a baffled look. “No. He can tell us–”

“
He can’t tell us anything we need to know. Let him go and get back to your apartment. You’ve done enough damage already.”

Munir blanched and loosened his grip. The guy stumbled back a couple of steps, then turned and ran down Lafayette. Munir looked around and saw that every rheumy eye in the area was on him. He stared down at his hands – the free right and the bandaged left – as if they were traitors.

“
You don’t think–?”

“
Get home. He’ll be calling you. And so will I.”

Jack watched Munir move away toward the Bowery like a sleepwalker. He hung up the phone and leaned against the booth.

What a mess. The nut had pulled a fast one. Got some wino to make the pick up. But how could a guy that kinked be satisfied with seeing Munir’s finger from afar? He seemed the type to want to hold it in his grubby little hand.

But maybe he didn’t care. Because maybe it didn’t matter.

Jack pulled out the slip of paper on which he’d written Richard Hollander’s address. Time to pay Saud Petrol’s ex employee a little visit.

14

Munir paced his apartment, going from room to room, cursing himself. Such a fool! Such an idiot! But he couldn’t help it. He’d lost control. When he’d seen that man walk up to the paper bag and reach inside it, all rationality had fled. The only thing left in his mind had been the sight of Robby’s little finger tumbling out of that envelope last night.

After that, everything was a blur.

The phone began to ring.

Oh, no! he thought. It’s him. Please, Allah, let him be satisfied. Grant him mercifulness.

He lifted the receiver and heard the voice.

“
Quite a show you put on there, Mooo neeer.”

“
Please. I was upset. You’ve seen my severed finger. Now will you let my family go?”

“
Now just hold on there a minute, Mooo neeer. I saw
a
finger go flying through the air, but I don’t know for sure if it was
your
finger.”

Munir froze with the receiver jammed against his ear.

“
Wh what do you mean?”

“
I mean, how do I know that was a real finger? How do I know it wasn’t one of those fake rubber things you buy in the five and dime?”

“
It was real! I swear it! You saw how your man reacted!”

“
He was just a wino, Mooo neeer. Scared of his own shadow. What’s he know?”

“
Oh, please! You must believe me!”

“
Well, I would, Mooo neeer. Really, I would. Except for the way you grabbed him afterward. Now it’s bad enough you went after him, but I’m willing to overlook that. I’m far more generous about forgiving mistakes than you are, Mooo neeer. But what bothers me is the
way
you grabbed him. You used both your hands the same.”

Munir felt his blood congealing, sludging though his arteries and veins.

“
What do you mean?”

“
Well, I got trouble seeing a man who just chopped off one of his fingers doing that, Mooo neeer. I mean, you grabbed him like you had two good hands. And that bothers me, Mooo neeer.
Sorely
bothers me.”

“
Please. I swear–”

“
Swearing ain’t good enough, I’m afraid. Seeing is believing. And I believe I saw a man with two good hands out there this morning.”

“
No. Really…”

“
So I’m gonna have to send you another package, Mooo neeer.”

“
Oh, no! Don’t–”

“
Yep. A little memento from your wife.”

“
Please, no.”

He told Munir what that memento would be, then he clicked off.

“
No!”

Munir jammed his knuckles into his mouth and screamed into his fist.

“
NOOOOO!”

15

Jack stood outside Richard Hollander’s door.

No sweat getting into the building. The address in the personnel file had led Jack to a rundown walk up in the West Eighties. He’d checked the mailboxes in the dingy vestibule and found
R. Hollander
still listed for 3B. A few quick strokes with the notched flexible plastic ruler Jack kept handy, and he was in.

He knocked – not quite pounding, but with enough urgency to bring even the most cautious resident to the peephole.

Three tries, no answer. Jack put his picks to work on the deadbolt. A Quickset. He was rusty. Took him almost a minute, and a minute was a long time when you were standing in an open hallway fiddling with someone’s lock – the closest a fully clothed man could come to feeling naked in public.

Finally the bolt snapped back. He drew his 9mm backup and entered in a crouch.

Quiet. Didn’t take long to check out the one bedroom apartment. Empty. He turned on the lights and did a thorough search.

Neat. The bed was made, the furniture dusted, clothes folded in the bureau drawers, no dirty dishes in the sink. Hollander either had a maid or he was a neatnik. People who could afford maids didn’t live in this building; that made him a neatnik. Not what Jack had expected from a guy who got fired because he couldn’t get the job done.

He checked the bookshelves. A few novels and short story collections – literary stuff, mostly – salted in among the business texts. And in the far right corner, three books on Islam with titles like
Understanding Islam
and
An Introduction To Islam.

Not an indictment by itself. Hollander might have bought them for reference when he’d been hired by Saudi Petrol.

And he might have bought them
after
he was fired.

Jack was willing to bet on the latter. He had a gut feeling about this guy.

On the desk was a picture of a thin, pale, blond man with an older woman. Hollander and his mother maybe?

He went through the drawers and found a black ledger, a checkbook, and a pile of bills. Looked like he’d been dipping into his savings. He’d been paying only the minimum on his Master Card. A lot of late payment notices, and a couple of bad news letters from employment agencies. Luck wasn’t running his way, and maybe Mr. Richard Hollander was looking for someone to blame.

Folded between the back cover and the last page of the ledger was a receipt from the Brickell Real Estate Agency for a cash security deposit and first month’s rental on Loft #629. Dated last month. Made out to Sean McCabe.

Loft #629. Where the hell was that? And why did Richard Hollander have someone else’s cash receipt? Unless it wasn’t someone else’s. Had he rented loft #629 under a phony name? That would explain using cash. But why would a guy who was almost broke rent a loft?

Unless he was looking for a place to do something too risky to do in his own apartment.

Like holding hostages.

Jack copied down the Brickell agency’s phone number. He might need that later. Then he called Munir.

Hysteria on the phone. Sobbing, moaning, the guy was almost incoherent.

“
Calm down, dammit! What exactly did he tell you?”

“
He’s going to cut her… he’s going to cut her… he’s going to cut her…”

He sounded like a stuck record player. If Munir had been within reach Jack would have whacked him alongside the head to unstick him.

“
Cut her what?”

“
Cut her nipple off!”

“
Oh, Jeez! Stay right there. I’ll call you right back.”

Jack retrieved the receipt for the loft and dialed the number of the realtor. As the phone began to ring, he realized he hadn’t figured out an angle to pry out the address. They wouldn’t give it to just anybody. But maybe a cop…

He hoped he was right as a pleasant female voice answered on the third ring. “Brickell Agency.”

Jack put a harsh, Brooklynese edge on his voice.

“
Yeah. This is Lieutenant Adams of the Twelfth Precinct. Who’s in charge there?”

“
I am.” Her voice had cooled. “Esther Brickell. This is my agency.”

“
Good. Here’s the story. We’ve got a suspect in a mutilation murder but we don’t know his whereabouts. However, we did find a cash receipt among his effects. Your name was on it.”

“
The Brickell Agency?”

“
Big as life. Down payment of some sort on loft number six two nine. Sound familiar?”

“
Not offhand. We’re computerized. We access all our rental accounts by number.”

“
Fine. Then it’ll only take you a coupla seconds to get me the address of this place.”

“
I’m afraid I can’t do that. I have a strict policy of never giving out information about my clients. Especially over the phone. All my dealings with them are strictly confidential. I’m sure you can understand.”

Swell, Jack thought. She thinks she’s a priest or a reporter.

“
What I understand,” he said, “is that I’ve got a crazy perp out there and you think you’ve got privileged information. Well, listen, sweetie, the First Amendment don’t include realtors. I need the address of your six two nine loft rented to” – he glanced at the name on the receipt – “Sean McCabe. Not later. Now.
Capsice
?”

“
Sorry,” she said. “I can’t do that. Good day, lieutenant – if indeed you are a lieutenant.”

Shit!
But Jack wasn’t giving up. He
had
to get this address.