Repairman Jack [09]-Infernal (40 page)

“I still think—”

“Shit, Jack, you know the feds. Everything by the book. Take them weeks, months to move, if at all.”

“Why wouldn’t they move?”

“Looking for bigger fish. And you know them—always making deals. Who knows? They may let these guys walk.”

The heat turned higher.

“So why show this to me if you’re not going to do anything with it?”

Joey’s expression took a grim turn. “Oh, but I am. And you damn fuck better believe that.”

“Like what?”

“Like take a little trip to Paterstine and check out this sand nigger.”

“And then what?”

He shrugged. “Play it by ear. My guy called the Paterstine cops and heard this Hamad’s active in a small group called the Center for Islamic Charities. They said it’s suspected of raising cash and funneling it to dune-nigger groups in Palestine. Like I give a shit what they do over there, but when they come over here and shoot my brother down like a dog…”

Jack noticed Joey’s knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel.

“All right. If they—”

“Look.” Joey nodded toward the street ahead. “A fucking towel head. Think anyone mind if I run him down?”

Jack looked and recognized the distinctive peaked wrap of the turban.

“I would. He’s not an Arab, he’s a Sikh.”

“Same difference.”

“No—big difference. He’s Indian. No relation at all to the guy we’re after. He’s on our side.”

“Yeah? Well then he should damn well look it.”

Jack had no response. Better not to say anything at all. Joey’s blood was up and his rage encompassed anyone from anywhere in and around the Middle East. He was looking for someone to hurt and not too particular.

Jack knew the feeling, but he wasn’t to the point where he was planning to walk into a mosque and open up with an MP-5.

“Forget him for now and answer me this: If this Islamic Charities group ships money to terrorists, why’s it still operating? The feds have shut down other operations like that.”

“Because they’re only
suspected
. No one’s been able to nail them. And they’re so small, no one’s devoting time to them. But… what if this Islamic Charities place is really a cover for Wrath of Allah?”

Jack thought about that. Yeah. What if?

Joey added, “What all this comes down to, Jack, is I’m asking you want in.”

Jack thought about that. Part of him still wanted to let the feds take it from here, but another part—the part boiling on the rear burner in his brain—screamed for blood.

As much as he wanted to spend all the time he had left with Gia and Vicky, he had to devote
some
time to this thing. If this Hamad Al-Kabeer had anything to do with Dad’s death, then Jack wanted to settle with him before he went wherever he was going.

“All right. I’m in. But I want a little more than what we have.”

“That’s why we’re headed for Paterstine.”

“Now?”

“We can be at the GW in a few minutes, and after that it’s into the wilds of darkest New Jersey.”

“Step on it then. I don’t have a lot of time.”

9

-40:52

They’d found Al-Kabeer’s apartment house—a battered three-story brick-front building—and had driven by without stopping. Then they found the Center for Islamic Charities—a storefront space with curtained windows on a tattered commercial block—and circled it about a dozen times before parking half a block down and across the street.

“Now you know why I didn’t bring the Merce.”

Jack nodded. Crummy neighborhood. Not the kind of place two white guys in a high-ticket sportster would go unnoticed.

“He in there?”

Joey shrugged. “Don’t know. But I figure we watch his house and he’s already out, we sit there all day and get nothing. We wait here we got a chance to catch him coming or going.”

“Double your pleasure, double your fun.”

“Zackly.”

Jack glanced at his watch. “I can give it two hours tops, Joey, then I’ve got to get back.”

“C’mon, Jack. We’re on a stakeout, only this time we’re the cops. You can’t bail out.”

“No choice. If I had the time I’d sit here all day and night, but time is tight right now.”

Wasn’t that the truth.

Somewhere around the thirty-minute mark a bearded guy with a pleated kufi hat and a long gray jubba stepped out of the center and walked their way.

“Jesus,” Joey said. “That our guy?”

Jack glanced back and forth between the man and the photos.

“Could be.”

“Shit. The beards make all these fucks look the same.”

Jack pointed to the visa photo, bull’s-eyeing the mole on the right side of Hamad Al-Kabeer’s nose.

“See that?” The guy was about even with them now, but even from across the street Jack could make the spot on his nose. “Tell me it’s not the same.”

A flat-finish 1911 .45 appeared in Joey’s right hand. His left was reaching for the door handle.

“Let’s get him.”

“Whoa-whoa. He’s just one guy. We want more.”

Joey, grim-faced, waggled the pistol. “Oh, we’ll get more. El-Kabong’s gonna tell us everything we need to know.”

Jack knew how Joey felt, and wouldn’t have minded a little of that action for himself—
if this
was the right guy.

Jack popped open his door. “Just sit tight a sec. I’m going to see where he’s going.”

“What for?”

“You never know.”

Jack hit the pavement and left the door closed but unlatched behind him. No use in drawing attention with a slam. He kept to the opposite side and far enough behind Al-Kabeer to stay beyond his peripheral vision.

He maintained his position for two and a half blocks until the Arab made a left turn and disappeared around a corner. If Jack’s sense of direction was working, the guy looked like he was heading back to his apartment. Jack trotted to his corner and made a point of not looking left until he’d crossed.

He spotted Al-Kabeer standing midblock with a cell phone to his ear. Incoming or outgoing? Maybe incoming because he turned and started retracing his path.

Jack positioned himself directly behind him. Yeah, Al-Kabeer was headed back to the Center.

This sucked. This meant…

Jack had an idea.

As Al-Kabeer crossed the street half a block from the Center, Jack picked up speed to close on him. He saw Joey watching. He signaled to bring the car around. As soon as he saw Joey nod, he raced up behind Al-Kabeer and knocked him flat. Jack landed with both knees on his back, knocking the wind out of him.

As the Arab struggled for air, Jack grabbed his cell phone and rifled through the pockets of his long coat where he found another phone. He took that and snaked a wallet from a rear pocket—this needed to look like a mugging—then jumped up and ran for the car. Joey tromped the gas as soon as Jack hit the passenger seat and the Ponti squealed down the street.

A few quick turns and they hit the on ramp to 80 East.

“Remind me not to get you pissed at me, all right?”

“Why?”

“Shit, you move fast. That’s what I call kicking ass. One second you’re behind him, next second you’re on top of him, third second you’re in the car.”

It hadn’t been that fast.

“Didn’t want him to see me, and definitely didn’t want any of his pals coming to help.”

“What’d you get?”

Jack flipped through the wallet. Found a couple of credit cards in Al-Kabeer’s name, half a dozen business cards, and forty-two bucks. But Jack found the phones more interesting. The first—the one he’d been using when Jack hit him—was a standard Verizon model. The second, however…

“How about that? A prepaid phone.”

Just like mine.

Joey glanced at it. “So?”

“No contract, no credit check, no name connected to the number. So why’s he got a regular phone plus one that leaves him anonymous.”

Joey’s grin would have made a shark wince. “So he can’t be traced when he calls his fellow dune coons.”

“We need a way to see who he’s been calling on this.”

“No prob.”

Jack looked at him. “You’ve got an in?”

“Hey, Frankie and me, we used to hawk cell phone licenses. I got
tons
of connections. We’ll get those numbers.”

“Great. But make it fast.”

Make it very fast.

“And one more thing,” Jack said. “I need you to take me on a quick detour.”

10

-39:51

“Wait here. I’ll only be a minute.”

Joey nodded and reached for the radio. As Jack walked away he recognized the unmistakable sound of Mad Dog Russo’s voice on WFAN.

Joey had groused a little about swinging through Astoria, but they’d hit no backups on the Cross-Bronx or the Triboro and made decent time. Jack had the photos of Al-Kabeer in hand as he stepped up on the front porch of Menelaus Manor. He’d called Lyle from the car to make sure he wouldn’t be interrupting a séance.

“Hey, Jack,” Lyle said as he opened the door. “Charlie’s been waiting for you. Want a beer?”

Jack’s impulse was to refuse, then he figured, Why not?

A few minutes later he and a Heineken keg can entered the channeling room.

“Hello, Charlie,” he said as he handed Lyle the photos. “I need a favor.”

Lyle nodded as he took them. “Charlie says if it’s at all in his power, you’ve got it.”

Once again, that odd feeling rippled over his skin: I’m talking to a dead man.

“Thanks, Charlie. Take a look at that guy in the photos. His name is Hamad Al-Kabeer. Can you tell me anything about him?”

Lyle’s ebony face broke into a grin. “I’ll go first: He’s an Arab.”

Jack had to smile. “Gotta hand it to you, Lyle. Nothing gets past you.”

The grin faded. “Charlie says you look strange.”

“Well, I’ve had better days.”

“No, he says he can’t see you clearly.” He paused, listening. “He says your edges are blurry and you seem to be… transparent.”

Jack’s gut tightened. Was it starting already? Was that how it would happen? A slow fade instead of a simple evaporation?

He looked at his hands. They looked as solid as ever. But Charlie saw the world through different eyes. Was he now seeing Jack’s future?

“Long story,” Jack said. “What about our Arab friend there?”

Lyle listened, then, “Charlie says he’s got blood on his hands.”

Jack stiffened as an electric jolt sizzled through him.

“Whose?”

“You think he might be involved in your father’s…?”

“Possibly.”

Lyle stayed silent a moment, then, “Charlie says he can’t tell whose blood, just that it’s not his own.”

Jack sat in silence. One more nail in the coffin of Hamad Al-Kabeer. He just wished it wasn’t all so damn circumstantial. He wanted something more concrete before he ripped the guy in half.

And if Al-Kabeer had been a part of it—didn’t matter if he was the shooter or just a planner—tearing him up was too easy. He needed something worse than just death. But what? If Jack had the time, he knew he’d come up with something. But time was in short supply.

Time…

He straightened in his chair.

Lyle looked at him. “What?”

“Just had an idea.”

“Care to share?”

“Not yet. Need to work out the details…”

Yeah. Many details.

Jack stepped out of Menelaus Manor in higher spirits than when he’d arrived, but not much. He squinted. The rooftops of the houses across the street flared with a corona effect from the lowering sun behind them.

…
your edges are blurry and you seem to be… transparent
…

Jack shivered in the twilight, and not because of the icy wind.

11

-39:17

A pale ghost of the nearly full moon rode the twilight as Jack stood outside Gia’s front step and knocked. He wondered if there’d be a moon or even a sun where he was going. He swore that if he somehow managed to extricate himself from this mess he’d never again take this sort of everyday beauty for granted.

Gia opened the door. Her eyes widened when she saw him.

“Where have you been?”

“Here and there.”

“But you were gone so long! You said you’d only be an hour!”

“I know. Things got complicated.”

“I was getting worried.”

“Can I spend the night?”

Gia burst into tears.