Quick Fixes: Tales of Repairman Jack (28 page)

One down, three to go.

He checked the pistol as he moved. An old .38 revolver with most of its bluing rubbed off. He opened the cylinder. Six hardball rounds. A piece of crap, but at least it was his piece of crap.

The odds had just become a little better.

A couple of pairs of feet started pounding toward the front. As he’d hoped, the screams were drawing a crowd.

He heard cries of “Oh, shit” and “Oh, fuck!” and “What he
do
to you, bro?”

Wilkins wailed in a glass-breaking pitch. “Pepe! Help me, man! I’m dyin!”

Pepe… now Ecuador had a name.

“
Si
,” Pepe said. “You are.”

Wilkins screamed, “No!”

A booming gunshot – had to come from the .357.

“
Fuck!” Jamal cried. “I don’t believe you
did
that!”

A voice called from the back. “What goin on dere, mon? What hoppening?”

“‘
S’okay, Demont!” Pepe called back. “Jus stay where you are!” Then, in a lower voice to Jamal: “Wilkins jus slow us down. Now find that fuck fore he find a phone!”

Jack looked back and saw a plume of white smoke rising toward the ceiling. He waited for the alarm, the sprinklers.

Nothing.

What did he have to do – set a bonfire?

He slowed as he came upon the employee lounge again. Nah. That wasn’t going to work twice. He kept going. He was passing the ice cream freezer when something boomed to his right and a glass door shattered to his left. Ice cream sandwiches and cones flew, gallons rolled.

Jack spotted Demont three aisles away, saw him pumping another shell into the chamber of his shotgun. He ducked back as the top of the nearest shelf exploded in a cloud of shredded tampons.

“
Back here, mon! Back here!”

Jack hung at the opposite endcap until he heard Demont’s feet crunch on broken glass in the aisle he’d just left. He eased down the neighboring lane, listening, stopping at the feminine hygiene area as he waited for Demont to come even.

As he raised his pistol and held it two inches from the flimsy metal of the shelving unit’s rear wall, he noticed a “personal” douche bag box sitting at eye level.
Personal?
Was there a community model?

When he heard Demont arrive opposite him, he fired two shots. He wanted to fire four but the crappy pistol jammed. On the far side Demont grunted. His shotgun went off, punching a hole in the dropped ceiling.

Jack tossed the pistol. Demont would be down but not out. Needed something else. Douche bags had hoses didn’t they? He opened the box. Yep – red and ribbed. He pulled it out

Footsteps pounded his way from the far side of the store as he peeked around and spotted Demont clutching his right shoulder. He’d dropped the shotgun but was making for it again.

Jack ran up and kicked it away, then looped the douche hose twice around his scrawny neck and dragged him back to the ruined ice cream door. He strung the hose over the top of the metal frame and pulled Demont off his feet. As the little man kicked and gagged, Jack slammed the door, trapping the hose. He tied two quick knots to make sure it didn’t slip, then dove through the empty frame for the shotgun. He pumped out the spent shell, chambered a new one, and pulled the trigger just as Jamal and Pepe rounded the corner.

Pepe caught a few pellets, but Jamal, leading the charge, took the brunt of the blast. His shirtfront dissolved as the double-ought did a pulled-pork thing on his overdeveloped pecs. Pepe was gone by the time Jack chambered another shell. Looked back: Demont’s face had gone pruney, his kicks feeble. Ahead: Jamal lay spread eagled, staring at the ceiling with unblinking eyes.

Now what? Go after Pepe or start that fire?

Fire. Start a big one. Get those red trucks rolling.

But which way to the barbecue section? He remembered it being somewhere near the middle.

Three aisles later he found it – and Pepe too, who was looking back over his shoulder as he passed it. Jack raised the shotgun and fired, but Pepe went down just before the double ought arrived. Not on purpose. He’d slipped in the spilled lighter fluid. The shot went over his head and hit the barbecue supplies. Bags of briquettes and tins of lighter fluid exploded. Punctured cans of Raid whirly-gigged in all directions, fogging the air with bug killer.

Pepe slipped and slid as he tried to regain his feet – would have been funny if he hadn’t been holding a .357. Jack pumped again, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

Clink
.

The hammer fell on an empty chamber.

Pepe was on his knees. He smiled as he raised his pistol. Jack ducked back and dove for the floor as one bullet after another slammed through the shelving of the cough and cold products, smashing bottles, drenching him with Robitussin and Nyquil and who knew what else.

Counted six shots. Didn’t know if Pepe had a speed loader and didn’t want to find out. Yanked the butane match from his back pocket and lit her up. Jammed a Sucrets pack into the trigger guard, locking the flame on, then tossed it over the shelf. He heard no
whoomp!
like gasoline going up, but he did hear Pepe cry out in alarm. The cry turned to screams of pain and terror as the spewing Raid cans caught.

Jack crept back and peeked around the corner.

Pepe was aflame. He had his arms over his eyes, covering them against the flying, flaming pinwheels of Raid as he rolled in the burning puddle, making matters worse. Black smoke roiled toward the ceiling.

And then it happened. Clanging bells and a deluge of cold water.

Yes.

Jack saw the .357 on the floor. He sprinted by, kicking it ahead of him as he raced through the downpour to the pharmacy section. After dancing through an obstacle course of popsicles and gallons of ice cream, he found Loretta and the others cowering behind the counter. He picked up the key ring and tossed it to Patel.

“
Out! Get everybody out!”

As the stampede began, he heard Loretta yelling.

“
Hey, y’all! This man just saved our lives. You wanna pay him back, you say you never seen him. He don’t exist. You say these gangstas got inna fight and killed each other. Y’hear me? Y’hear?”

She blew Jack a kiss and joined the exodus. Jack was about to follow when a bullet smashed a bottle of mouthwash near his head. He ducked back as a second shot narrowly missed. He dove behind the pharmacy counter and peeked over the top.

A scorched, steaming, sodden Pepe shuffled Jack’s way through the rain with a small semi-auto clutched in his outstretched hand. Jack hadn’t counted on him having a backup. Hell, he hadn’t counted on him doing anything but burn. The sprinkler system had saved him.

Pepe said nothing as he approached. Didn’t have to. He had murder in his eyes. And he had Jack cornered.

He fired again. He bullet hit the counter six inches to Jack’s right, showering him with splinters as he ducked.

Nowhere to hide. Had to find a way to run out Pepe’s magazine. How? A lot of those baby semis held ten shots.

Another peek. Pepe’s slow progress had brought him within six feet. Jack was about to duck again when he saw a flash of bright green and yellow.

Loretta.

Moving faster than Jack ever would have thought possible, she charged with a gallon container of ice cream held high over her head in a two-handed grip. Pepe might have heard her without the hiss and splatter of the sprinklers. But he remained oblivious until she streaked up behind him and smashed the container against the back of his head.

Jack saw his eyes bulge with shock and pain as he pitched toward the floor. Probably felt like he’d been hit with a cinder block. As he landed face first, Loretta stayed on him – really on him. She jumped, landing knees first on the middle of his back… like Gamera on Barugon. The air rushed out of him with an agonized groan as his ribs shattered like glass.

But Loretta wasn’t finished. Shouting, she started slamming the rock-hard container against his head and neck, matching the rhythm of her words to the blows.

“
NOW you ain’t NEVER pointin NO gun to MY head EVER aGAIN!”

Jack moved up beside her and touched her arm.

“
Hey, Lo? Lo!
Loretta barada nikto
.”

She looked up at him. “Huh?”

“
I think he’s got the message.”

She looked back down at Pepe. His face was flattened against the floor, his head canted at an unnatural angle. He wasn’t breathing.

She nodded. “I do believe you right.”

Jack pulled her to her feet and pushed her toward the front.

“
Go!”

But Loretta wasn’t finished. She turned and kicked Pepe in the ribs.

“
Told you I was a bitch!”

“
Loretta – come on!”

As they hustled toward the front she said, “We even, Jack?”

“
Even Steven.”

“
Did I happen to mention my bad mood?”

“
Yes, you did, Loretta. But sometimes a bad mood can be a good thing.”

introduction to “Do-Gooder”

This was originally printed as a broadside in an edition of 200 copies in 2006. Since it’s a one-sheet, I was limited to around 700 words. It’s more of a vignette than a full story, but it’s here for the completists.

Do-Gooder

Pure luck, that’s what it was. A minute earlier or ten seconds later and he woulda missed him. As it was, Perry reached the corner just as the guy opened his door and stepped inside. Yeah, it was dark, but no mistaking him.

He’d called himself Jack when he’d set Perry up, but who knew if that was his real name. Perry had had a sweet scam going on the old lady circuit, relieving old bitches of their excess cash. This Jack had come along and said he had some flush marks but wanted a cut for the info. Fair enough. But turned out the first one he delivered had an NYPD sergeant for a son. Perry’d been busted and busted up, but good. And Jack? Jack was gone like he’d never been.

Perry beat it back to his apartment for the sawed-off twelve he kept around for protection. When he returned to the block he peeked in the townhouse window and spotted the guy with a good-looking blonde and a kid. Thought about busting in but that was stupid. Be patient.

The block dead-ended at a little park hanging over the FDR. He hid in the shadows there, took the sawed-off from under his coat, and listened to the traffic below as he waited.

Sutton Square. Ritzy block. What was this guy, some rich do-gooder getting his jollies by screwing up things for working men like Perry? Well, his do-gooder days was over. When he came out Perry would get close, cut him in half with both barrels, and keep walking like nothing happened. And then –

“
Hello, Perry.”

Perry jumped and started to spin at the sound of the soft voice so close behind but stopped when the muzzle of a pistol pressed against his cheek. He recognized the voice and his bladder clenched.

“
Jesus, Jack. Hey, what’re you doing here?”

“
That’s my question.” He took the shotgun from Perry’s hands.

“
I’m hidin. Got on the wrong side of a shy and he’s got some boys lookin for me.”

“
You’re watching that townhouse, Perry.”

“
No, I–”

“
I saw you peek in the window.”

Shit!

“
No, I swear I was just–”

“
Shhhhhh. You’ve got a sawed off. Isn’t that against parole?”

He’d just finished his jolt in the joint. Last thing he wanted was go back inside. But that would be the do-gooder thing to do: drop a dime on him.

“
You ain’t gonna turn me in, are you?”

“
No, Perry. Nothing like that.”

“
Really?” Thank God. “Hey, Jack, that’s really–”

He started to turn again but the muzzle jabbed his cheek. Hard.

“
The shotgun’s for me, isn’t it.”

That soft voice, so calm, so cold . . . giving him the creeps.

“
No way. Look, you can take it.”

“
Already have it. But seems we have a problem, Perry. You’ve got a hard-on for me and now you know where people I care about live. That can’t be.”

Can’t be
? He didn’t like the sound of that. But wait . . .

He forced a laugh. “You tryin t’scare me, Jack?”

“
Nope.”

“
Yeah, y’are. But it won’t work. Y’know why? Because you see yourself as a do-gooder. Better’n me. Helpin old ladies.
The Equalizer
. Batman without no cape.”

“
Wrong, Perry. The daughter of one of your marks hired me to get you.”

“
Hired? Bullshit.” He steeled his guts and grinned as he rose to face him. “You’re a do-gooder and you ain’t gonna do nothin.”