Infernal_ A Repairman Jack Novel Part 23

This guy was Valentin Vorobev but everyone called him Valya. He had no license to sell guns but that hadn't stopped him from supplying factions of the Russian mob in Brighton Beach for years. He'd agreed to meet with Joey, but only on his home turf. But as soon as Joey mentioned the Tavor-2, Valya had developed a sudden case of amnesia.

Joey had wanted to put a few into the cacchio cacchio right then and there. He didn't care who sold the guns to the Arabs- right then and there. He didn't care who sold the guns to the Arabs- All right, he did care. After 9/11, anybody who sold anything lethal to a f.u.c.king Arab ought to be redesigned so he could join a castrati choir. But Joey was willing to overlook that.

You made a sale. Fine. Okay. That's just doing business. I'm all for doing business. Just tell me who did the buying.

What he wanted more than life itself was the names of the s.h.i.ts who pulled the trigger on his brother.

He'd contacted three runners before his meet with Jack. Same old story: n.o.body was talking. n.o.body knew nothin'.

Then he'd called Pop. Soon as he got on the phone the old man went off on a ten-minute half-English, half-Italian rant. His folks had come over on the boat from Palermo, so he'd grown up speaking Italian at home and English on the street. Sometimes when he got upset he spoke both at once. Joey and Frankie had heard a lot of Italian growing up. Frankie had picked it up pretty good. The only thing Joey could do in Italian was curse and swear.

But he knew enough to hurt when Pop dismissed his efforts as minchia del mare minchia del mare. No f.u.c.king fair.

But Pop's att.i.tude did a one-eighty when Joey told him Jack's idea-except he'd said it was his own. The old man got right down to making calls to people who started making calls to other people, and finally one of those calls had reached out and touched good old Valya. Which had led to this second meeting-not, it was worth noting, at a place of Valya's choosing, but Joey's.

Others had called back as well. He'd be doing a round of new meetings during the coming days. Maybe one of them...

"Again, I am sorry for your brother," the Russian said in a thickly accented voice. "Terrible thing to lose brother."

He had a broad face, small dark eyes, and a jarhead haircut.

"You got that right."

Joey wanted a cigarette. Bad. But you couldn't light up indoors anywhere in this f.u.c.king city no more. Normally he might just fire one up and flip the old vaffanculo vaffanculo at anyone who ha.s.sled him. But the last thing he needed now was to draw attention to this booth. at anyone who ha.s.sled him. But the last thing he needed now was to draw attention to this booth.

So he tried to satisfy himself with coffee.

"I thought long and hard about your sorrow and decided that I, Valya, should share with you what little I know."

Yeah, right. You got a call telling telling you to cooperate. you to cooperate.

"That's very kind of you." Joey leaned forward. "What can you tell me?"

"Only that items you are interested in, they are easy to get, but not easy to sell."

"What's that mean?"

A big shrug. "No one wants. Or better to say, no one cares. Not well known. Everyone want other Israeli item. You know what I mean?"

Joey nodded. He knew: Uzis. Every g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger and cugine cugine l.u.s.ted for a Mac-10 or an Uzi. l.u.s.ted for a Mac-10 or an Uzi.

"Before this happened, who has heard of this item you seek? No one, I think. I have two of them for three years now and no one even ask. Not once." Another elaborate shrug. "If I have business where I could send back, I would send these back today."

Joey felt his voice rising with his temperature. "That's it? You meet with me and that's it?"

"I do this out of respect for your sorrow. And to save you from waste time."

Joey found himself talking through his teeth.

"Ay, puttana! puttana! Frankie was my brother! This ain't wasted time!" Frankie was my brother! This ain't wasted time!"

Valya held up his hands. "You do not understand. What I say is these items most probably bought not in States. If this Wrath of Allah connects to al-Qaeda, then guns most likely smuggle in."

That was what Joey had been afraid of all along. He didn't want to hear it. It meant he'd never track down the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

Joey stood, threw a five on the table to cover the coffee, and walked out. No good-bye. The mamaluke didn't deserve one. Not like Joey was ever going to see him again.

He lit up as he hit the sidewalk. Then his cell rang.

"Joey?" said a voice. "It's Jack. What's up?"

"Ay, goombah. Not a lot, man. Not a whole f.u.c.king lot."

"My idea work?"

"Like a charm as far as getting people to talk. But so far I got oogatz oogatz."

"Afraid of that."

"Hey, it ain't over. I'm still on it. Something's bound to come through sooner or later. And when it does, you gotta number I can reach you?"

"No. Just my voice mail. But I'll be checking that and I'll keep checking in with you."

"Good enough. We'll have something soon." I hope.

5.

"Sure you don't want a cigar?"

It was the third time Tom had asked.

"All right."

"Good man. Not often you get a chance to smoke a real Havana."

While Tom had gone cigar shopping, Jack had found a liquor store where he'd bought a prepaid Bermuda calling card. He phoned Gia to let her know he hadn't been lost at sea. She'd sounded relieved. All was fine back home, and Jack had promised to call her again in the morning. Then he'd called Joey.

So now Tom and he sat on the outside deck of Flanagan's, poised over Front Street and overlooking the quiet harbor. The pub seemed authentically Irish-even had a dartboard-with dark wood, subdued lighting, and lots of regulars calling and waving to each other through the smoky air. Jack knew half a dozen places exactly like it back home. Well, not exactly. Smoky bars were now a thing of the past in New York.

The "authentic" came to a screeching halt with the Korean maitre d'.

Tom had said the fish chowder was a must, so Jack had ordered that and fish and chips. He was looking forward to eating something a little more substantial-and warmer-than a sandwich.

He bit a small piece off the b.u.t.t end of the cigar and fired up the tip with Tom's lighter. He'd smoked cigarettes for a few years as a teen but the allure of tobacco, especially cigars, had eluded him.

He took a deep draw and let it out slowly. Tom was watching him with an expectant look.

"Well?"

"Tastes like roofing material."

It didn't taste that that bad, but it didn't taste good either. What was all the fuss about Cuban cigars? bad, but it didn't taste good either. What was all the fuss about Cuban cigars?

Tom sputtered. "B-but it's-it's a Montecristo!"

"I think you got gypped. It's an El Shingelo."

Tom muttered, "De gustibus," then glared and fumed and puffed while Jack rested his cigar in the ashtray and hoped it would go out.

"Was Dad ever here?" Jack said.

Tom blew blue smoke and looked at him over the rim of his third vodka on the rocks.

"Bermuda? Yeah. I think it was back in your freshman year. Mom had an empty-nest thing going and so Dad brought her here. Don't you remember?"

Jack shook his head. Something about that hovered on the edge of his memory, just out of reach. He'd done such a bang-up job of leaving his past behind for fifteen years that a lot of it had slipped away.

"Do you know if he liked it?"

Tom shrugged. "Never asked. But hey, what's not to like?"

Jack nodded. Bermuda might be one of the only areas where he and Tom were in agreement.

He was sure his folks had loved it. How could they not? Even in its cold season, with the deciduous trees standing naked here and there among the palms, it looked like paradise.

On the rare occasions when Jack had thought of Bermuda at all, he'd considered it little more than a newlywed destination-pink-sand beaches and all the rest of the honeymoon hype. But the ride across the Great Sound had shown him a different island.

Tom signaled for another vodka. "Speaking of Dad, have you any idea of the size of his estate?"

Jack sipped his pint of Courage and shook his head. "Not a clue."

"I got a peek at his finances last summer when I helped him add a codicil to his will."

Jack pushed away a sudden vision of Tom fixing the terms so that it all went to him.

"What did he change?"

"Don't worry. You're still in it."

Jack had already punched Tom. That remark deserved a head b.u.t.t. But he sat quietly.

Finally Tom said, "It was after Kate's death. A third of his estate had been slated for Kate. He'd never conceived of the possibility that she'd predecease him. He changed it so that Kate's third would be split evenly between Kevin and Lizzie-trusts and all that. He'd already set up an insurance trust to protect the benefits from the inheritance tax." He shook his head. "The old man knew finances and tax laws. Covered all his bases."

Dad's will... talking about it made Jack queasy. He felt ghoulish. He wanted off the subject.

"Well, he was an accountant after all."

Tom looked Jack in the eye. "How many accountants do you know who're worth three million bucks?"

Jack sat stiff and silent, stunned. "Three million? Dad? But how?"

"A major reason was Microsoft. He wasn't in on the IPO, but he got in shortly after. You know how he was about computers-way ahead of the crowd. He saw the future and bought into it. He was also one of the first home-computer day traders." Tom tapped his fist twice on the table. "Wish to h.e.l.l he'd clued me in."

"Would you have listened?"

Tom's drink arrived. "Probably not. Moot point, anyway. With kids and family and living high, who had spare cash?"

"You must have a retirement account."

He nodded. "Yeah, but I left that in the care of a reputed whiz kid who royally f.u.c.ked it up. s.h.i.t, if I'd wanted it to crash and burn, I could have done that myself." Tom stared into his drink. "What're you going to do with your million?"

A million... the number whacked him across the back of the head like a blackjack. Dad had left him a million bucks.

"I... I'll have to think about that. How about you?"

"By the time the estate's settled-and it'll be a while-I hope to be long gone." He gave a disgusted grunt. "Otherwise I'll be a rich jailbird. But even if I hung around I wouldn't see much of it. With two rasorial ex-wives-the s.k.a.n.ks from h.e.l.l are both well practiced at deficit financing-and a third who spends like the Hilton sisters, and three kids with college funds, what do you think?"

Jack had a sudden idea. "Is there any way to split my share between your kids and Kate's?"

Tom's drink stopped halfway to his lips. He stared wide eyed and open mouthed.

"You're s.h.i.tting me."

"Nope. Just made up my mind."

"No, you're out out of your f.u.c.king mind." of your f.u.c.king mind."

He couldn't accept the money. Not that it wouldn't give Gia and him a nice, fat financial cushion, but a man who doesn't exist can't inherit money.

"I have my reasons."

"What? You don't seem the superst.i.tious type. You think it's somehow tainted because Dad was murdered?"

That had never occurred to Jack, but he decided to run with it.

"Yeah. It's blood money. I don't want it."

Tom shook his head. "Well, as much as I'd like to see the kids get an extra half a mil, it can't be done."

"Why not? You're the executor, aren't you?"