Much to the chagrin of his girlfriend, Gia, Repairman Jack doesn't deal with appliances. He fixes situations--situations that too often land him in deadly danger. His latest fix is finding a stolen necklace which, unknown to him, is more than a simple piece of jewelry.Some might say it's cursed, others might call it blessed. The quest leads Jack to a rusty freighter on Manhattan's West Side docks. What he finds in its hold threatens his sanity and the city around him. But worst of all, it threatens Gia's daughter Vicky, the last surviving member of a bloodline marked for extinction. At the publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied.
There are no customer reviews available at this time. Would you like to write a review?
March 01, 2011
Number of Print Pages*
* Number of eBook pages may differ. Click here for more information.
Excerpt from The Tomb by F. Paul Wilson
Repairman Jack awoke with light in his eyes, white noise in his ears, and an ache in his back.
He'd fallen asleep on the couch in the spare bedroom where he kept his DVD player and projection TV. He turned his head toward the set. A nervous tweed pattern buzzed around on the six-foot screen while the air conditioner in the right half of the double window beside it worked full blast to keep the room at seventy.
He got to his feet with a groan and shut off the TV. The hiss of white noise stopped. He leaned over and touched his toes, then straightened and rotated his lower spine. His back was killing him. That couch was made for sitting, not sleeping.
He stepped to the player and ejected the disc. He'd fallen asleep during the closing credits of the 1931 Frankenstein, part one of Repairman Jack's unofficial James Whale Festival.
Poor Henry Frankenstein, he thought, slipping the disc into its box. Despite all evidence to the contrary, despite what everyone around him thought, Henry had been sure he was sane.
Jack located the proper slot in the rack on the wall, shoved Frankenstein in, and pulled out its neighbor. Bride of Frankenstein, part two of his private James Whale Festival.
A glance out the window revealed the usual vista of sandy shore, calm blue ocean, and supine sunbathers. He was tired of the view. Especially since some of the bricks had started showing through. Three years since he'd had the scene painted on the blank wall facing the windows of this and the other bedroom. Long enough. The beach scene no longer interested him. Perhaps a rain forest mural would be better. With lots of birds and reptiles and animals hiding in the foliage. Yes ... a rain forest. He filed the thought away. He'd have to keep an eye out for someone who could do the job justice.
The phone began ringing in the front room. Who could that be? He'd changed his number a couple of months ago. Only a few people had it. He didn't bother to lift the receiver. The answering machine would take care of that. He heard a click, heard his own voice start his standard salutation:
"Pinocchio Productions ... I'm not in right now, but if you'll--"
A woman's voice broke in over his own, her tone impatient. "Pick up if you're there, Jack. Otherwise I'll call back later."
Jack nearly tripped over his own feet in his rush to the phone.
"Gia? That you?"
"Yes, it's me." Her voice sounded flat, almost resentful.
"God! It's been a long time!" Two months. Forever. He had to sit down. "I'm so glad you called."
"It's not what you think, Jack."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm not calling for myself. If it were up to me I wouldn't be calling at all. But Nellie asked me to."
His jubilation faded, but he kept talking. "Who's Nellie?" He drew a blank on the name.
"Nellie Paton. You must remember Nellie and Grace, the two English ladies?"
"Oh, yeah. How could I forget? They introduced us."
"I've managed to forgive them."
Jack let that go by without comment. "What's the problem?"
"Grace has disappeared. She hasn't been seen since she went to bed Monday night."
He remembered Grace Westphalen: a very prim and proper Englishwoman pushing seventy. Not the eloping sort.
"Have the police--?"
"Of course. But Nellie wanted me to call you to see if you'd help. So I'm calling."
"Does she want me to come over?"
"Yes. If you will."
"Will you be there?"
She gave an exasperated sigh. "Yes. Are you coming or not?"
"I'm on my way."
"Better wait. The patrolmen who were here said a detective from the department would be coming by this morning."
"Oh." That wasn't good.
"I thought that might slow you up."
She didn't have to sound so smug about it.
"I'll be there after lunch."
"You know the address?"
"I know it's a yellow townhouse on Sutton Square. There's only one."
"I'll tell her to expect you."
And then she hung up.
Jack tossed the receiver in his hand and cradled it on the base.
He was going to see Gia today. She'd called him. She hadn't been friendly, and she'd said she was calling for someone else--but she'd called. That was more than she'd done since she'd walked out. He couldn't help feeling good.
He strolled through the third-floor apartment's front room that served as living room and dining room. He found the room immensely comfortable, but few visitors shared his enthusiasm. His best friend, Abe Grossman, had, in one of his more generous moods, described the room as "claustrophobic." When Abe was feeling grumpy he said it made the Addams Family house look like it had been decorated in Bauhaus.
Old movie posters covered the walls along with bric-a-brac shelves loaded with the neat stuff Jack picked up in forgotten junk stores during his wanderings through the city. He wound his way through a collection of old Victorian golden oak furniture that left little room for anything else: a seven-foot hutch, intricately carved, a fold-out secretary, a sagging, high-backed sofa, a massive claw-foot dining table, two end tables whose legs each ended in a bird's foot clasping a crystal sphere, and his favorite, a big, wing-back chair.
He reached the bathroom and started the hated morning ritual of shaving. As he ran the razor over his cheeks and throat he again considered the idea of a beard. He didn't have a bad face. Brown eyes, dark brown hair growing perhaps a little too low on his forehead. A nose neither too big nor too small. He smiled at himself in the mirror. Not an altogether hideous grimace--what they used to call a shit-eating grin. The teeth could have been whiter and straighter, and the lips were on the thin side, but not a bad smile. An inoffensive face. As an added bonus, a wiry, well-muscled, five-eleven frame went along with the face at no extra charge.
So what's not to like?
His smile faltered.
Ask Gia. She seems to think she knows what's not to like.
But all that was going to change starting today.
After a quick shower, he dressed and downed a couple of bowls of Cocoa Puffs, then strapped on his ankle holster and slipped the world's smallest .45, a Semmerling skeleton model LM4, into it. He knew the holster was going to be hot against his leg, but he never went out unarmed. His peace of mind would compensate for any physical discomfort.
He checked the peephole in the front door, then twisted the central knob, retracting the four bolts at the top, bottom, and both sides. The heat in the third floor hall slammed against him at the threshold. He was wearing Levi's and a lightweight short-sleeve shirt. He was glad he'd skipped the undershirt. The humidity in the hall wormed its way into his clothes and oozed over his skin as he headed down to the street.
Jack stood on the front steps for a moment. Sunlight glared sullenly through the haze over the roof of the Museum of Natural History far down the street to his right. The wet air hung motionless above the pavement. He could see it, smell it, taste it--and it looked, smelled, and tasted dirty. Dust, soot, and lint laced with carbon monoxide, with perhaps a hint of rancid butter from the garbage can around the corner in the alley.
Ah! The Upper West Side in August.
He ambled down to the sidewalk and walked west along the row of brownstones that lined his street. Along the way he pulled out his Tracfone and dialed his office number, then a four-digit code. A recorded voice--not Jack's--came over the wire with the familiar message:
"This is Repairman Jack. I'm out on a call now, but when you hear the tone, leave your name and number and give me a brief idea of the nature of your problem. I'll get back to you as soon as possible."
After the tone a woman's voice started talking about a problem with the timer on her dryer. Another beep and a man was looking for some free information on how to fix a blender. Jack ignored the numbers they gave; he had no intention of calling them back. But how did they get his number? He'd restricted his name to the white pages--with an incorrect street address, naturally--to cut down on appliance repair calls, but people managed to find him anyway.
The third and last voice was unique: smooth in tone, the words clipped, rapid, tinged with Britain, but definitely not British. Jack knew a couple of Pakistanis who sounded like that. The man was obviously upset, and stumbled over his words.
"Mr. Jack ... my grandmother--was beaten terribly last night. I must speak to you immediately. It is terribly important."
He gave his name and a number where he could be reached.
That was one call Jack would return, even though he was going to have to turn the man down. He intended to devote all his time to Gia's problem. And to Gia. This might be his last chance with her.
He punched in the number. The clipped voice answered in the middle of the second ring.
"Mr. Bahkti? This is Jack. You called my office during the night and--"
Mr. Bahkti was suddenly very guarded. "This is not the same voice on the answering machine."
Sharp, Jack thought. The voice on the machine belonged to Abe Grossman. Jack never used his own voice on the office phone. But most people didn't spot that.
"An old tape," Jack told him.
"Ahhh. Well, then. I must see you immediately, Mr. Jack. It is a matter of the utmost importance. A matter of life and death."
"I don't know, Mr. Bahkti, I--"
"You must! There can be no refusal!"
A new note had crept in. This was not a man used to hearing no. The tone had never set well with Jack.
"You don't understand. My time is already taken up with other--"
"Mr. Jack! Are the other matters crucial to a woman's life? Can they not be put aside for even a short while? My grandmother was mercilessly beaten on the streets of your city. She needs help that I cannot give her. So I've come to you."
Jack knew what Mr. Bahkti was up to. He thought he was pushing Jack's buttons. Jack mildly resented it, but he was used to it and decided to hear him out anyway.
Bahkti had already launched into his narrative.
"Her car--an American car, I might add--broke down last night. And when she--"
"Save it for later," Jack told him, happy to be the one doing the cutting-off for a change.
"You will meet me at the hospital? She is in St. Clare's--"
"No. Our first meeting will be where I say. I meet all customers on my home turf. No exceptions."
"Very well," Bahkti said with a minimum of grace. "But we must meet very soon. There is so little time."
Jack gave him the address of Julio's bar a few blocks uptown from where he stood. He checked his watch.
"It's just shy of ten now. Be there at ten-thirty sharp."
"Half an hour? I do not know if I can be there by then!"
Fine! Jack liked to give customers as little time as possible to prepare for their first meeting. "Ten-thirty. You've got ten minutes grace. Any later and I'll be gone."
"Ten-thirty," Mr. Bahkti said, and hung up.
That annoyed Jack. He'd wanted to hang up first.
He walked north on Columbus Avenue, keeping to the shade on the right. Some shops were just opening, but most had been going strong for hours.
Julio's was open. But then, Julio's rarely closed. Jack knew the first customers wandered in minutes after Julio unlocked at six in the morning. Some were just getting off their shift and stopped by for a beer, a hard-boiled egg, and a soft seat; others stood at the bar and downed a quick bracer before starting the day's work. And still others spent the better part of every day in the cool darkness.
"Jacko!" Julio cried from behind the bar. He was standing but only his head and the top half of his chest were visible.
They didn't shake hands. They knew each other too well and saw each other too often for that. They'd been friends for many years, ever since the time Julio began to suspect that his sister Rosa was getting punched around by her husband. It had been a delicate matter. Jack had fixed it for him. Since then the little man had screened Jack's customers. For Julio possessed a talent, a nose, a sixth sense of sorts for spotting members of officialdom. Much of Jack's energy was devoted to avoiding such people; his way of life depended on it. Also, in Jack's line of work he often found it necessary to make other people angry in the course of serving a customer's interests. So Julio kept an eye out for angry people.
So far, Julio had never failed him.
"Beer or business?"
"Before noon? What do you think?"
The remark earned Jack a brief dirty look from a sweaty old codger nursing a boilermaker.
Julio came out from behind the bar and followed Jack to a rear booth, drying his hands on a towel as he swaggered along. A daily regime with free weights and gymnastics had earned him thickly muscled arms and shoulders. His hair was wavy and heavily oiled, his skin swarthy, his mustache a pencil line along his upper lip.
"How many and when?"
"One. Ten-thirty." Jack slipped into the last booth and sat with a clear view of the door. The rear exit was two steps away. "Name's Bahkti. Sounds like he's from Pakistan or someplace around there."
"A man of color."
"More color than you, no doubt."
Jack thought about seeing Gia later today. A nice thought. They'd meet, they'd touch, and Gia would remember what they'd had, and maybe ... just maybe ... she'd realize that he wasn't such a bad guy after all. He began whistling through his teeth.
Julio gave him a strange look as he returned with a coffeepot, a cup, and the morning's Daily News.
"How come you're in such a good mood?"
"You been a grouch for months now, meng."
Jack hadn't realized it had been so obvious. "Personal."
Julio shrugged and poured him a cup of coffee. Jack sipped it black while he waited. He never liked first meetings with a customer. There was always a chance he wasn't a customer but somebody with a score to settle. He got up and checked the exit door to make sure it was unlocked.
Two Con Ed workers came in for a coffee break. They took their coffee clear and golden with a foamy cap, poured into pilsner glasses as they watched the TV over the bar. Some guy was interviewing three transvestite grammar school teachers; everyone on the screen had greenish hair and pumpkin-colored complexions. Julio served the Con Ed men a second round, then came out from behind the bar and took a seat by the door.
Jack glanced at the paper. "Where Are the Winos?" was the headline. The press was getting lots of mileage out of the rapid and mysterious dwindling of the city's derelict population during the past few months.
At ten-thirty-two, Mr. Bahkti came in. No doubt it was him. He wore a navy blue Nehru-type tunic. His dark skin seemed to blend into his clothes. For an instant after the door swung shut behind him, all Jack could see was a pair of eyes floating in the air at the other end of the dim tavern.
Julio approached him immediately. Words were exchanged and Jack noted the newcomer flinched away as Julio leaned against him. He seemed angry as Julio walked toward Jack with an elaborate shrug.
"He's clean," he said as he came back to Jack's booth. "Clean but weird."
"How do you read him?"
"That's jus' it--I don't read him. He's bottled up real tight. Nothing at all out of that guy. Nothing but creeps."
"Sonthin' 'bout him gimme the creeps, man. Wouldn't want to get on his wrong side. You better be sure you can make him happy before you take him on."
Jack drummed his fingers on the table. Julio's reaction made him uneasy. The little man was all macho and braggadocio. He must have sensed something pretty unsettling about Mr. Bahkti to have even mentioned it.
"What'd you do to get him riled up?" Jack asked.
"Nothin' special. He jus' got real ticked off when I give him my 'accidental' frisk. Didn't like that one bit. You wanna take off?"
Jack hesitated, toying with the idea of getting out now. After all, he probably was going to have to turn the man down anyway. But he had agreed to meet him, and the guy had arrived on time.
"Send him back and let's get this over with."
Julio waved Bahkti toward the booth and headed back to his place behind the bar.
Bahkti strolled toward Jack with a smooth, gliding gait that reeked of confidence and self-assurance. He was halfway down the aisle when Jack realized with a start that his left arm was missing at the shoulder. But there was no pinned-up left sleeve--the jacket had been tailored without one. He was a tall man--six-three, Jack guessed--lean but sturdy. Well into his forties, maybe fifty. The nose was long; he wore a sculptured beard, neatly trimmed to a point at the chin. What could be seen of his mouth was wide and thin-lipped. The whites of his deep walnut eyes almost glowed in the darkness of his face, reminding Jack of John Barrymore in Svengali.
He stopped at the edge of the facing banquette and looked down at Jack, taking his measure just as Jack was taking his.
Kusum Bahkti did not like this place called Julio's, stinking as it did of liquor and grilled beef, and peopled with the lower castes. Certainly one of the foulest locations he'd had the misfortune to visit in this foul city. He was no doubt polluting his karma merely by standing here.
And surely this very average-looking man sitting before him was not the one he was looking for. He looked like any American's brother, anyone's son, someone you would pass anywhere in this city and never notice. He looked too normal, too ordinary, too everyday to supply the services Kusum had been told about.
If I were home ...
Yes. If he were home in Bengal, in Calcutta, he would have everything under control. A thousand men would be combing the city for the transgressor. He would be found, and he would wail and curse the hour of his birth before being sent on to another life.
But here in America Kusum was reduced to an impotent supplicant standing before this stranger, asking for help. It made him sick.
"Are you the one?" he asked.
"Depends on who you're looking for," the man said.
Kusum noted the difficulty the American was having trying to keep his eyes off his truncated left shoulder.
"He calls himself Repairman Jack."
"The name wasn't my idea." The man spread his hands. "But, here I am."
This couldn't be him. "Perhaps I have made a mistake."
"Perhaps so," said the American.
He seemed preoccupied, not the least bit interested in Kusum or what problem he might have.
Kusum started to turn away, deciding he was constitutionally incapable of asking the help of a stranger, especially this stranger, then changed his mind.
By Kali, he had no choice.
He seated himself across the table from Repairman Jack.
"I am Kusum Bahkti."
"Jack Nelson." The American proffered his right hand.
Kusum could not bring himself to grasp it, yet he did not want to insult this man. He needed him.
"Very well ... Jack." He was uncomfortable with such informality upon meeting. "Your pardon. I dislike to be touched. An Eastern prejudice."
Jack glanced at his hand, as if inspecting it for dirt.
"I do not wish to offend--"
"Forget it. Who gave you my number?"
"Time is short ... Jack"--it took conscious effort to use that first name--"and I must insist--"
"I always insist on knowing where the customer came from. Who?"
"Very well: Mr. Burkes at the UK Mission to the United Nations."
Burkes had answered Kusum's frantic call this morning and had told him how well this Jack fellow had handled a delicate problem for the UK Mission a few years ago.
Jack nodded. "I know Burkes. You with the UN?"
Kusum knotted his fist and managed to tolerate the interrogation.
"I suppose you Pakistani delegates are pretty tight with the British."
Kusum felt as if he'd been slapped in the face. He half started from his seat.
"Do you insult me? I am not one of those Moslem--!" He caught himself. Probably an innocent error. Americans were ignorant of the most basic information. "I am from Bengal, a member of the Indian Delegation. I am a Hindu. Pakistan, which used to be the Punjab region of India, is a Moslem country."
The distinction appeared to be completely lost on Jack.
"Whatever. Most of what I know about India I learned from watching Gunga Din a hundred times. So tell me about your grandmother."
Kusum was momentarily baffled. Wasn't "Gunga Din" a poem? How did one watch a poem? He set his confusion aside.
"Understand," he said, absently brushing at a fly that had taken a liking to his face, "that if this were my own country I would resolve the matter in my own fashion."
"So you told me on the phone. Where is she now?"
"In St. Clare's hospital on West Fif--"
"I know where it is. What happened to her?"
"Her car broke down in the early hours of this morning. While her driver went to find a taxicab for her, she foolishly got out of the car. She was assaulted and beaten. If a police car hadn't come by, she would have been killed."
"Happens all the time, I'm afraid."
A callous remark, ostensibly that of a city-dweller saving his pity for personal friends who became victims. But in Jack's eyes Kusum detected a flash of emotion that told him perhaps this man could be reached.
"Yes, much to the shame of your city."
"No one ever gets mugged on the streets of Bombay or Calcutta?"
Kusum shrugged and brushed again at the fly. "What takes place between members of the lower castes is of no importance. In my homeland even the most desperate street hoodlum would think many times before daring to lay a finger upon one of my grandmother's caste."
Something in this remark seemed to annoy Jack.
"Ain't democracy wonderful," the American said with a sour expression.
Kusum frowned, concealing his desperation. This was not going to work. He felt an instinctive antagonism between him and this Repairman Jack.