“Where’d you hear all this?”
“I’m not sure the individual would like me talking about him. Let’s just say you’ve had the benefit of an enthusiastic referral and leave it at that.”
Jack wondered who it might be. He didn’t know anyone in New Orleans. He shrugged it off. With the Internet, the source could be anywhere.
“Still, there must be a local guy who can–”
“You also have a reputation for not being afraid of violence. That is, if attacked, you will counterattack rather than run.”
“Oh, don’t go there. I’ve done my share of running. What else have you heard about me?”
Chastain frowned. “Very little. I made numerous queries. You don’t seem to have an official existence. Some sources even said you don’t exist at all. That Repairman Jack is just some urban legend.” His eyebrows lifted. “Interesting name, that.”
Jack had never liked the tag but things had progressed far past the point where he could do anything about it.
“Not my idea. Someone laid it on me and it stuck.”
As for the urban legend angle, that was fine with Jack. His favorite method was to play someone and leave them with no clue they’d been played. Those people never talked about Repairman Jack, just a terrible run of bad luck. But fixes didn’t always go as planned, of course, and sometimes things got dicey. Sometimes people got violent. Sometimes people died. Those people never talked about Repairman Jack either.
Chastain rose and stepped to a window that had to be a dozen feet high.
“Well, whatever,” he said as he stared out at the night. “The thing is, with a hit man after me, I need someone who can overcome any resistance, retrieve the artifact in question, and bring it back. Too many locals would forget about that last part.”
“With a hit man after me, I wouldn’t be standing at a window.”
Chastain stiffened, then ducked to the side.
“I am so stupid at times,” he said, drawing the curtains across the panes. “I’m not geared for this kind of situation. That’s why I need you.”
Jack still wasn’t buying.
“But the simple solution is to call this Medici lady and say it’s in the mausoleum and tell her to go get it.”
Chastain’s hands flew into the air. “I would if I could! I’ve tried but she’s gone off the radar! Incommunicado! And I fear the longer I wait, the shorter I’ll live. If I can just get the artifact back in my hands, I can eventually negotiate a settlement. But I’m afraid to set foot outside the door.”
Something not right here. Customers had tried to run games on him before. Was this another?
“How do I know you’re not setting me up to steal this from her?”
He laughed. “It is in the Chastain Mausoleum on the old Chastain plantation! It’s got my family name on it! I’ll show you a back way in–”
“Why do I need a back way in if it’s yours?”
“Take the front way if you wish. It’s just that I fear Madame de Medici’s hit man might suspect I’ll show up there and be lying in wait.”
Jack pulled his Glock from the small of his back – traveling armed was a sweet perk of a private jet – and aimed it at Chastain’s face. “No need to lie in wait when you had him driven in from the airport.”
Chastain’s eyes were fixed on the pistol as he backed away. “What? No!”
“Madame de Medici offered me twice your fee.” Jack shrugged. “You got played.”
“This is impossible!”
“Quite possible.” Jack returned the pistol to its nylon holster. “But not true… this time.”
Chastain sagged against the desk. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“Had my reasons.”
He’d wanted to see Chastain’s reaction, and it hadn’t been what he’d expected.
“That was cruel!” he said, dropping back into his desk chair.
“Naw. Just serving up a dose of reality. So, just what is this artifact?” Jack pointed to some huge Olmec stone head in a corner. “Not something like that, is it?”
Hysteria tinged Chastain’s twittering laugh. “Oh, goodness no! It’s a ring – an ancient ring. I’ve drawn a diagram of the interior of the mausoleum so you can find the hiding place.”
Jack didn’t like this, any of it. But Chastain had called while Gia and Vicky were back in Iowa visiting her folks and he felt the need for a brief change of scenery. A fat fee, round-trip transportation to New Orleans in a private jet… it had all sounded too good to be true.
And naturally that was how it was turning out.
Hit man…sheesh. He hadn’t bargained for that. But if he could sneak in and sneak back out of this mausoleum with no one being the wiser, everything would be cool. He’d stop by the French Quarter for a fried-oyster po’ boy and then be on his way.
“All right, let’s get this over with. Money up front – all of it.”
“Certainly.” Chastain reached for an envelope on a nearby table in the shape of an elephant. “Cash in hundreds, as agreed.” Another one of those Percy Dovetonsils smiles. “I take it Uncle Sam won’t be seeing any of that.”
Jack said nothing as he pocketed the envelope. He wouldn’t know a 1040 if it poked him in the eye.
Chastain said, “I was concerned you might not be armed, but no longer. I’ll have my man drive you over to the plantation and–”
“You’ll show me how to get there, then have your man drive me to where I can hail a cab.”
Arrive in a silver Maybach Landaulet. Right, that would work. No, he take the most beat-up cab he could find.
“Very well. But be prepared for deadly force.”
“Uh-huh. Got a map?”
After watching Chastain trace a path along the Mississippi to the location of his old family plantation on River Road, Jack let himself out onto the front porch to wait for the car. He stood between two of the massive columns, staring out at the misty night and listening to his forebrain playing the Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” while his hindbrain blasted “Go Now.”
Something definitely rotten in New Orleans. A guy with a contract out on him didn’t stand at a window. He’d have all the curtains drawn and all the doors barricaded. So Jack had pulled his pistol to see how he’d react. In the context having your name on a contract, “This is impossible!” was not a response that made any sense when looking down the muzzle of a gun.
But it made plenty of sense if the contract didn’t exist.
Chastain was lying – probably about many things. The smart thing to do was walk away. But Jack’s interest was piqued. What was the game here? He’d come a long way, the money was good, and he felt a need to see this through.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The air was different here. Heavier than New York’s. Manhattan was old, and he’d found ancient secrets in its hidden corners. But this place… the atmosphere was laden with the rot of dark mysteries with maybe even a touch of magic hovering on the edges. Jack had seen magic. He hated magic.
…be prepared for deadly force…
Jack was hoping to avoid that, but he’d be ready.
Be prepared indeed…the rest of the story in a Kindle Single.
April
Bloodline
(a wraparound cover variant by Harry Morris)
If we divide the mainline of the Repairman Jack saga into three acts, Bloodline kicks off Act III. Now we learn that one of the reasons Jack is the Heir lies in his genes.
Remember Jonah Stevens from Reborn? Well, he’s back… via his children. Hank Thompson and his Kickers burst on the scene. Hank plays a big part in Act III. Jack learns some unsettling things about himself.
But it all starts innocently enough. Here in an early scene Jack returns a call from Christie, a prospective customer, who’s worried about her daughter Dawn. He’s looking for a way to turn her down, but it’s a vulnerable ti
me in his life, and he agrees to meet with her. Big mistake…
BLOODLINE
(sample)
Jack stepped into his apartment and sniffed. The air carried a musty tang. Not all that unusual after being closed up for a while. The old wood and old varnish on his Victorian wavy oak furniture gave off subtle but pleasant odors. The must came from the other junk arrayed on the walls – treasure in his eyes, but he had no illusions that most other people would consider it junk. Or maybe junque.
He jammed his finger into the soil in the pink Shmoo planter as he passed. Nothing stuck. The little ivy plant was thirsty. Had to remember to add water before he left. He glanced at the framed official membership certificates in The Shadow and Doc Savage fan clubs and straightened the Don Winslow Creed on his way to the oak secretary.
Once there, he angled it out from the wall and removed its rear panel. An array of pistols adorned the top, side, and rear walls of the hidden space within. A rolled-up ten-by-twelve-inch flap of skin lay to the left, next to the Compendium of Srem. A Ruger SuperRedhawk chambered for .454 Casulls rested atop that.
Jack slipped the book free. Big and heavy, its covers and spine made of some sort of stamped metal.
With the secretary closed and returned to its original position, he placed the Compendium on the paw-foot oak table but did not open it. Something about the way the characters blurred and swam for an instant whenever he peeked inside made him queasy.
Instead he pulled his Tracfone from a pocket along with a slip of paper. He dialed the number Christy P had left. She picked up on the third ring.
“Yes?”
“Christy? This is Jack. You left this number on my website.”
A pause, then, “Oh, yes. Repairman Jack.” Her tone was hesitant. “Interesting name. Did your mother pick it?”
“No, and neither did I. But it gets the job done. You mentioned something about your daughter and a mistake?”
“I think I’m having second thoughts about hiring someone for this via the Internet.”
Smart lady.
“Consider having third and fourth thoughts while you’re at it. But my site isn’t the sort people find by accident. Someone must have sent you. Who?”
“Jeff Levinson. You know the name?”
“I do.”
Jack had hired on a few years ago to take care of a recurrent swastika problem at Jeff’s delicatessen.
“He speaks very highly of you. But still…”
“Your call, lady.”
“I don’t know…”
He could almost hear her chewing her lip.
“Maybe I can help you make up your mind if you tell me what you need done.”
“How’s that going to work?”
“Because maybe I’m not interested.”
A brief pause. “Interesting tactic, playing hard to get.”
“Not a tactic. I am hard to get.”
Especially these days.
“I like that. I suppose we should meet then. I want someplace public because–"
“You haven’t told me yet what you need done.”
“So you’re really serious about that.”
“Some fixes I can do, some I can’t. No sense in both of us wasting our time.”
Even this phone call was beginning to sound like a waste of time.
She sighed. “Okay. She’s involved with an older man.”
Hoo boy. Jack glanced at his watch. How much time had he just wasted?
“So?”
“He’s old enough to be her father.”
“So?”
“Can you say something else?”
“I’m waiting to hear something I can do something about. Affairs of the heart do not fall into that category.”
“Dawn’s eighteen and he’s in his mid thirties. Twice her age.”
Jack’s age.
He tried to imagine a relationship with an eighteen-year old. What the hell would they talk about? What could he have in common with someone who hadn’t finished her second decade, who was basically a high school kid? Sure, fantasy cheerleader sex and all that, but you needed something more to fill the down time.
Or did you?
He guessed coming so close to being a father – of a daughter, no less – could be affecting his perspective.
“I don’t see how hiring me is going to help, Christy. What are you looking for? Someone to break his legs? Shoot him? That’s not the way I work.”
At least not unless someone really had it coming.
“No, nothing like that! I want to get something on him. Something that’ll let my little girl see him for what he really is.”
“You already know what he really is?”
“Well…no. But there’s got to be something. There’s always something, right? Besides, I get a bad vibe from this guy.”
Time to end this.
“I suppose. But what you need is a private investigator. Someone who can–"
“I’ve already been that route.”
“And?”
“Long story. Look, Jeff said you were tops – pricey, but tops – and just the guy I need. Can’t we just sit down and talk over the details? I probably shouldn’t say this, but money isn’t an object. I’ve got money. It’s results I want.”
“I don’t think I’m your man.”
“If nothing else, maybe you can get my retainer back from the investigator I hired.” Out of the blue she sobbed. Once. The sound took Jack by surprise. He hadn’t seen it coming. “Please? I’m really, really worried about my little girl.”
Her little girl…she might be eighteen, but he guessed your little girl was your little girl forever.
Like Emma would have been.
“Okay. We’ll meet. I’ll listen. But I’m not promising anything.”
A sniff. “Thank you. Where? No offense, but I’ll feel safer if it’s a public place.”
Jack laughed. “So will I. Where are you located?”
“Queens. Forest Hills.”
Fairly ritzy neighborhood.
“That means it’s no big deal to get into the city.”
“I’m in all the time.”
He doubted he could help her, but he could hear her out and maybe point her in the right direction.
“Can you make it in this afternoon?”
He was testing. If she wouldn’t meet this afternoon, he’d know it wasn’t as important as she’d made it seem.
“Sure. Tell me when and where.”
Well, that settled that.
“There’s this bar I know in the West Eighties…”
Jack’s gonna regret this… Bloodline
May
By the Sword
(early scrapped cover for the
trade edition – that’s not a katana)
Remember Naka, Frank and Meiko’s son from Black Wind? Nagata’s katana, the famous Gaijin Masamune, has been stolen and he wants it back. The Kakureta Kao cult is back too, looking for the sword and a way to bring back the Kuroikaze – the Black Wind. And Hank Thomson and his Kickers want it too.
All these disparate groups after the same thing. How do I resolve this in Jack’s favor? I asked myself, WWQTD? (What would Quentin Tarrantino do?) Of course: a bloodbath.
But first, you bring Glaeken on the scene. (NB: This was Jack’s opening scene in the original Nightworld, but since I needed to put J and G together before that, I moved it here.) Jack doesn’t realize that this is the second time he’s meeting this old dude.
By the Sword
(sample)
1
They weren't making muggers like they used to.
After trolling for about an hour through the unseasonably warm May night, here was the second he'd found – or rather had found him. Jack was wearing a Hard Rock Cafe sweatshirt, acid-washed jeans, and his I ♥ New York visor. The compleat tourist. A piece of raw steak dangling before a hungry wolf.
When he'd spotted the guy tailing him, he'd wandered off the pavement and down into this leafy glade. Off to his right the mercury-vapor glow from Central Park West backlit the trees. Over his assailant’s shoulder he could make out the year-round Christmas lights on the trees that flanked the Tavern-on-the-Green.
Jack studied the guy facing him. A hulking figure in the shadows, maybe twenty-five, about six-foot, pushing two-hundred pounds, giving him an inch and thirty pounds on Jack. He had stringy brown hair bleached blond on top, all combed to the side so it hung over his right eye; the left side of his head above the ear and below the part had been buzzcut down to the scalp – the Flock of Seagulls guy after a run-in with a lawn mower. Pale, pimply skin and a skull dangling on a chain from his left ear. Black boots, baggy black pants, black Polio T-shirt, fingerless black leather gloves, one of which was wrapped around the handle of a big Special Forces knife, the point angled toward Jack's belly.
"You talking to me, Rambo?" Jack said.
"Yeah." The guy's voice was nasal. He twitched and sniffed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I'm talkin a you. See anybody else here?"
Jack glanced around. "No. I guess if there were, you wouldn't have stopped me."
"Gimme your wallet."
Jack looked him in the eye. This was the part he liked.
"No."
The guy jerked back as if he'd been slapped, then stared at Jack, obviously unsure of how to take that.
"What you say?"
"I said no. En-oh. What's the matter? You never heard that word before?"
Probably hadn't.
His voice rose. "You crazy? Gimme your wallet or I cut you. You wanna get cut?"
"No. Don't want to get cut."
“Give it or I stab you in the uterus.”
What?
Fighting a laugh, Jack said, “Wouldn‘t want that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. "I left my wallet home. Will this do?"
The guy's eyes all but bulged. His free hand darted out.
"Give it!"
Jack shoved it back into his pocket.