Repairman Jack [05]-Hosts (20 page)

Another pause, then, "Jeez, this is stupid, but if it'll make you go away—and I mean that: you go away and forget you ever saw me." He held up the printouts he'd taken. "And you get rid of the rest of these."

"Deal," Sandy said. Easy promise to make—the Savior had no way of checking.

"And I don't mean burn them. Burning causes suspicion and you'd be amazed what can be reconstructed from ashes these days. Tear them up into one-inch squares and flush them. Nothing more anonymous than a sewer system with eight million contributors."

"But there's one I can't get back. It's at a place called Julio's and—"

"I'll take care of that one."

And then it was suddenly clear what had happened this morning. Of course! The men in Julio's had recognized the man in the printout. Julio had sent Sandy here to the park, then called the Savior and told him where he'd be.

His excitement building, Sandy pulled the tape recorder from his knapsack. "Let's get started."

"Put that away. No recording. And we're not sitting out in the open here either. I've got a car nearby. I'll drive and talk, you take notes."

"Fair enough," Sandy said.

This is it! he thought as he followed the Savior out of the park. His blood tingled like champagne through his arteries. It's happening! It's all coming together! I'm on my way!

6

"You're retiring the Semmerling?" Abe said. "This I don't believe." Jack didn't want to believe it himself. He'd kept the tiny .45

strapped to his ankle for so long it felt part of him. This was like carving out a piece of his flesh. But in light of what he'd learned from Sandy

Palmer, he knew it had to go. So after ditching Palmer he'd come straight to Abe's and told him about his "interview."

"The kid knew all about it from listening to the cops on the scene.

One of them identified it from its description."

Bad enough to be caught with any weapon in this town, but to be caught carrying a gun the cops had issued a BOLO for…

Abe raised his. "A gun
maven
cop. Such luck you have."

"Yeah. Mostly bad lately."

He worried about this cub reporter or whatever Sandy Palmer was. Not that he was a bad kid, but too damn ambitious. He might make the wrong kind of compromises to get ahead—the kind that could land Jack in a lava pit.

And he lacked simple common sense. He'd got into Jack's car without an instant's hesitation. If Jack were more impulsive, or maybe had enough screws loose that he didn't care if Palmer had one of those drawings tucked away with a note, he easily could have killed him in the car and dumped him in any one of a dozen spots he knew around the city where he wouldn't be discovered for days, maybe weeks.

But he hadn't. The only thing he'd done to Sandy Palmer was lie.

Jack had led him to his car—making sure they approached from the side so he didn't get a look at the tags—and driven him around for nearly an hour while he filled the car with pure bullshit. Pretty good bullshit, he thought, considering it was created on the fly.

Palmer had taken copious notes, stopping Jack along the way for questions and clarifications. Finally Jack managed to scrape him off at a subway station, but not before the human remora had extracted his voicemail number just in case he had some "follow-up questions." Jack figured the number was safe—billed to a credit card registered to a nonexistent person.

"So what did you tell this crusading reporter?"

"I told him that the Savior was an orphan, in and out of foster homes and trouble until a cop gave him a choice of either getting booked on a B and E or joining the army."

"I see a movie already."

"I think it's been done. And Pat O'Brien probably played the cop. Anyway, Young Savior joined the U.S. Navy instead of the army and qualified for SEAL training. He received a medical discharge due to a back injury."

"And now he's a
Jarbissener
who—"

"Whoa. You lost me on that one. A farbiss-what?"

"A bitter, cranky person—you know how you get sometimes. The way I see it, such hatred this Savior has for society he's a recluse."

"Do you mind?" Jack said. "This is
my
life story I'm telling here. Let
me
tell it."

"So I can't add a little flavor, a little color?"

"An ex-Navy SEAL isn't colorful?"

"You a SEAL?" Abe laughed. "Obeying a drill sergeant? That I'd like to see."

"I wasn't a SEAL, but the Savior was."

"Do you even know what SEAL stands for?"

"Haven't a clue. But I'm sure an ex-SEAL like the Savior does. And although he has no official status with the government, he still freelances for certain government agencies."

"Is one known by three letters, the first of which is a C and the last an A, maybe?"

"He's not free to tell. But because of the nature of his government work he's always armed. Always. As a result he was able to save lives the other night. Also because of the nature of his work, he cannot allow his face to be made public."

"This is good. Such a screenwriter you would have made. A derivative hack, maybe, but that shouldn't disqualify you."

"But here's the icing: The Savior is baffled as to why he should be called a savior or a hero or anything of the sort. He only did what any other decent citizen would have done, had they been equipped to do so."

"That'll stir some talk."

"Right. Talk about something other than the Savior, I hope. Boy Reporter has his exclusive, making him happy so he goes away and leaves me alone. The cops try in vain to match the background described by El Savior to a real person, making them unhappy. They go back to watching and waiting, time passes, people forget about the Savior dude, and life gets back to normal."

Abe's eyebrows rose again, higher this time. "You're smoking something that potent and not offering any to your old friend Abe?"

Jack sighed. "Yeah, I know." No way this was going to fade away that smoothly. "But I can dream, can't I?"

"Dream away, but in the meantime I can offer you a true autoloader, better than your Semmerling."

"In .45?"

"No. But you load an AMT Backup .380 with a half dozen MagSafe sixty-grain Defenders—keeping one in the chamber, please—and you'll have almost as much stopping power as you had with the Semmerling.

A new ankle holster you won't need because this will fit in the one you have, and best of all you'll need only one hand to keep firing because you won't have to work that
farkuckt
slide for every shot."

Life without his Semmerling… Jack supposed he was going to have to get used it. Wouldn't be easy.

He sighed. "Okay. Get me one."

7

Sandy sat in his cubicle at
The Light
and looked around. Finally he was alone and nobody close enough to see what he was doing.

He'd shown up early and received an astoundingly warm welcome that took him totally by surprise. People he barely knew had shaken his hand and clapped him on the back, asking him how he was doing, what it had been like, how he'd felt, how he was handling it, and on and on. Any other day he would have basked in their attention, but not now when he had a pad full of notes from the interview of his life burning a hole in his knapsack. It took a good half hour before he was left on his own.

And now, just when he was ready…

"Hey, Palmer," said a voice on his left. "When do you expect to be kicked upstairs?"

Sandy looked up to see Pokorny gazing over the top of the divider that separated their cubicles. With his long thin nose and thinning hair he looked like one of those old time
Kilroy Was Here
doodles.

"Funny, Jay."

"Seriously," he said, ambling around the divider to slouch his beanpole bod against Sandy's desk, "your story's all anybody's talking about around here."

Sandy shrugged, tried to be humble. "Yeah, well, I thought that night on the train was the worst of my life. Now it looks like it might turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to me."

"You spun some gold, man." His envy was tangible.

"I don't know about gold. Someone handed me a lemon and I've been making lemonade."

He saw Pokorny wince and wanted to kick himself. I don't believe I just said that.

"What are you going to do for your second act?"

The question took Sandy by surprise. "Second act?"

"Sure. Now that you've got everyone's attention, how are you going to keep it?"

"I… don't know," Sandy said, playing dumb. "I never thought about it."

"You'd better think of something, my friend." He straightened from his slouch and patted Sandy on the shoulder. "You don't want to be a flash in the pan."

Condescending bastard, he thought as Pokorny slithered from sight. Flash in the pan was probably his fondest wish for Sandy.

But Pokorny didn't know that Sandy already had his second act scripted. All he needed was a little privacy to put it into production.

It took Sandy another half hour before he dared to pull out his cell phone and begin. He dialed
The Light's
main number and punched his way through the options tree until he got to an operator. Then he cupped his hand over the receiver and lowered his voice.

"I need to speak to Sandy Palmer."

"Do you know his extension?"

"No. But I must speak to him now."

"Here it is. I'll connect you."

The Savior was supposed to have gone though this same routine from three different pay phones during the first thirty minutes after he'd dropped Sandy off. It was his idea. He thought Sandy's walking in after two days off just in time to get a phone call from the city's number one mystery man was a little too pat. Sandy had to agree. So the Savior was to make sure he talked to a live operator each time and then leave hang-ups on Sandy's voicemail to show that someone had been trying to get in touch with him for a while.

Sandy jumped as his desk phone rang. He picked up the receiver, turned off his cell phone and began the charade of pretending to be talking and taking notes.

The Savior… Sandy wished he knew his name so he could call him something else. But what a cool guy. And what a life he'd led. This would make a great piece even if he weren't the Savior.

And that might be a problem. How to convince the editors that this was the real deal and not just some kook? The only way he could see to verify the caller's bona fides was the pistol. Sandy would say that the man on the phone named the make and model and explained how he'd used it. Only Sandy and the cops knew about the Semmerling.

Then the next question would be: Why you, Palmer? Why a nobody like you instead of some network anchorman or nationally syndicated columnist?

Easy.

The Savior and I were on the death train together. There's kinship there. We're blood brothers.

That should work, Sandy thought. Sounds reasonable.

The editors would check with McCann about the Semmerling. Once that was verified, they'd believe. Because they'll
want
to believe. They'll be dying to run the story.

Of course that would mean another call, or maybe even a visit from McCann.

Sandy felt his sweat begin to run. That was when the going would get rough. McCann would want all the details. Sandy had only one lie to worry about. Just one. But it was a whopper.

He prayed he wouldn't slip up.

8

So this is Jeanette Vega, Jack thought, glancing at the slim brunette in fitted shorts and pale blue tank top as he stood in her kitchen and opened the second of the two bottles of merlot he and Gia had brought. Her hair was her striking feature—glossy black, parted on the left and severely pulled back into a single tight braid that reached below the nape of her neck; warm brown eyes, no make-up, a fading tan. Not the prettiest woman Jack had ever seen, but not bad looking. Kind of quiet, but nothing so abnormal about that.

Although he usually drank beer—and he'd had a couple at Gia's before cabbing over here—Jack was determined to do the wine thing tonight. And do it with gusto. Because after the day he'd had he felt he deserved an ambitious blood alcohol level, even if it meant reading tomorrow's
Light
with a hangover.

Maybe a hangover was the only way to go, because God knew what that kid was going to write.

But that would have to wait till morning. At the moment he meant to concentrate on Jeanette. And Kate too, of course. But Kate and Gia had their heads together in the living room, discussing Jack's boyhood he was sure. He hoped Kate wouldn't spill anything embarrassing like his bed-wetting problem.

Jack had filled Gia in as best he could on Jeanette's brain tumor treatment and subsequent personality change. That hadn't deterred her; she still wanted to meet Kate. Sitting at Gia's and sipping beer as he watched her work on a painting commissioned for a paperback cover had eased his Sandy Palmer-jangled nerves.