Quick Fixes: Tales of Repairman Jack

Hollander… he wished there’d been a photo in his personnel file. Jack was sure he was the bad guy here. If only he’d been able to get over to his apartment before now. Maybe he’d have found –

  And then Jack spotted him. A tall bearded guy traveling westward along Eighth Street, weaving his way through the loitering horde. He was squeezed into a filthy, undersized Army fatigue jacket, the cuffs of at least three of the multiple shirts he wore under the coat protruding from the too short sleeves; the neck of a pint bottle of Mad Dog stuck up like a periscope from the frayed edge of one of the pockets; the torn knees of his green work pants revealed threadbare jeans beneath. Piercing blue eyes peered out from under a Navy watch cap.

  The sicko? Maybe. Maybe not. One thing was sure: This guy wasn’t wandering; he had someplace to go.

  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 f
or 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.

  “Oh, I’m a lieutenant, all right. And believe me, sweetie, you don’t come across with that address here and now, you’ve got trouble. You make me waste my time tracking down a judge to swear out a search warrant, make me come out to your dinky little office to get this one crummy address, I’m gonna do it up big. I’m gonna bring uniforms and blue and white units and we’re gonna do a thorough search. And I do mean a thorough. We’ll be there all day. And we’ll go through all your files. And while we’re at it you can explain to any prospective clients who walk in exactly what we’re doing and why – and hope they’ll believe you. And if we can’t find what we want in your computer we’ll confiscate it. And keep it for a while. And maybe you’ll get it back next Christmas. Maybe.”

  “Just a minute,” she said.

  Jack waited, hoping she hadn’t gone to another phone to call her lawyer and check on his empty threats, or call the Twelfth to check on a particularly obnoxious lieutenant named Adams.

  “It’s on White Street,” she said suddenly in cold, clipped tones. “Eighteen twenty two. Two D.”

  “Thank–”

  She hung up on him. Fine. He had what he needed.

  White Street. That was in TriBeCa – the trendy triangle below Canal Street. Lots of lofts down there. Straight down Lafayette from where he and Munir had played the mailbox game. He’d been on top of the guy an hour ago.

  He punched in Munir’s number.

  “Eighteen twenty two White,” he said without preamble. “Get down there now.”

  No time for explanations. He hung up and ran for the door.

  16

  The building looked like a deserted factory. Probably was. Four stories with no windows on the first floor. Maybe an old sweat shop. A “NOW RENTING” sign next to the front door. The place looked empty. Had the Brickell lady stiffed him with the wrong address?

  With his trusty plastic ruler ready in his gloved hand, Jack hopped out of the cab and ran for the door. It was steel, a leftover from the building’s factory days. An anti jimmy plate had been welded over the latch area. Jack pocketed the plastic and inspected the lock: a heavy duty Schlage. A tough pick on a good day. Here on the sidewalk, with the clock ticking, in full view of the cars passing on the street, a very tough pick.

  He ran along the front of the building and took the alley around to the back. Another door there, this one with a big red alarm warning posted front and center.

  Two-D… that meant the second floor had been subdivided into at least four mini lofts. If Hollander was here at all, he’d be renting the cheapest. Usually the lower letters meant up front with a view of the street; further down the alphabet you got relegated to the rear with an alley view.

  Jack stepped back and looked up. The second floor windows to his left were bare and empty. The ones on the right were completely draped with what looked like bedsheets.

>   And running right smack past the middle of those windows was a downspout. Jack tested the pipe. This wasn’t some flimsy aluminum tube that collapsed like a beer can; this was good old fashioned galvanized pipe. He pulled on the fittings. They wiggled in their sockets.

  Not good, but he’d have to risk it.

  He began to climb, shimmying up the pipe, vising it with his knees and elbows as he sought toeholds and fingerholds on the fittings. It shuddered, it groaned, and half way up it settled a couple of inches with a jolt, but it held. Moments later he was perched outside the shrouded second floor windows.

  Now what?

  Sometimes the direct approach was the best. He knocked on the nearest pane. It was two foot high, three foot wide, and filthy. After a few seconds, he knocked again. Finally a corner of one of the sheets lifted hesitantly and a man stared out at him. Blond hair, wide blue eyes, pale face in need of a shave. The eyes got wider and the face faded a few shades paler when he saw Jack. He didn’t look exactly like the guy in the photo in Hollander’s apartment, but he could be. Easily.

  Jack smiled and gave him a friendly wave. He raised his voice to be heard through the glass.

  “Good morning. I’d like to have a word with Mrs. Habib, if you don’t mind.”

  The corner of the sheet dropped and the guy disappeared. Which confirmed that he’d found Richard Hollander. Anybody else would have asked him what the hell he was doing out there and who the hell was Mrs. Habib?

  So now Jack had to move quickly. If he had Hollander pegged right, he’d be tripping full tilt down the stairs for the street. Which was fine with Jack. But there was a small chance he’d take a second or two to do something gruesome or even fatal to the woman and the boy before he fled. Jack didn’t anticipate any physical resistance – a gutless creep who struck at another man through his wife and child was hardly the type for mano a mano confrontation.

  Bracing his hands on the pipe, Jack planted one foot on the three inch window sill and aimed a kick at the bottom pane.

  Suddenly the glass three panes above it exploded outward as a rusty steel L bar smashed through, narrowly missing Jack’s face and showering him with glass.