The Tomb Page 2

  “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.

  2

  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.

  “Mr. Nelson—”

  “Jack, please.”

  “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.

  “Yes.”

  “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.

  “I believe I have made a mistake. Mr. Burkes recommended you very highly, but I do not think you are capable of handling this particular task. Your attitude is most disrespectful—”

  “What can you expect from a guy who grew up watching Bugs Bunny cartoons?”

  “—and you do not appear to have the physical resources to accomplish what I have in mind.”

  Jack smiled, as if used to this reaction. His elbows were on the table, his hands folded in front of him. Without the slightest hint of warning, his right hand blurred across the table towards Kusum’s face. Kusum steeled himself for the blow and prepared to lash out with his feet.

  The blow never landed. Jack’s hand passed within a millimeter of Kusum’s face and snatched the fly out of the air in front of his nose. Jack went to a nearby door and released the insect into the fetid air of a back alley.

  Fast, Kusum thought. Extremely fast. And what was even more important: He didn’t kill the fly.

  Perhaps this was the man after all.

  3

  Jack returned to his seat and studied the Indian. To his credit, Kusum hadn’t flinched. Either his reflexes were extremely slow, or he had something like copper wire for nerves. Jack figured Kusum’s reflexes to be pretty good.

  Score one for each of us, he thought. He wondered how Kusum had lost that arm.

  “The point i
s probably moot,” Jack said. “Finding a particular mugger in this city is like poking at a hornets’ nest to find the one that bit you. If she saw enough of him to identify a mug shot, she should go to the police and—”

  “No police!” Kusum said quickly.

  Those were the very two words Jack was waiting to hear. If the police were involved, Jack would not be.

  “They may well be successful eventually,” Kusum went on, “but they take much too long. This is a matter of the utmost urgency. My grandmother is dying. That is why I’ve gone outside official channels.”

  “I don’t understand this whole thing.”

  “Her necklace was stolen. It’s a priceless heirloom. She must have it back.”

  “But you said she’s dying—”

  “Before she dies! She must have it back before she dies!”

  “Impossible. I can’t…”

  UN diplomat or not, the guy was obviously a nut. No use trying to explain how hard it would be just to find the mugger. After that, to learn the name of his fence, find that fence, and then hope that he hadn’t already removed whatever precious stones were in the necklace and melted down the settings were beyond the wildest possibility.

  He shook his head. “It can’t be done.”

  “You must do it! The man must be found. She scratched him across the eyes. There must be a way he can be traced!”

  “That’s police work.”

  “The police will take too long! It must be returned tonight!”

  “I can’t.”

  “You must!”

  “The chances against finding that necklace are—”

  “Try! Please!”

  Kusum’s voice cracked on that last word, as if he’d dragged it kicking and screaming from an unused part of his soul. Jack sensed how much it cost the Indian to say it. Here was an inordinately proud man begging him for help.

  “All right. I’ll do this: Let me talk to your grandmother. Let me see what I’ve got to work with.”

  “That will not be necessary.”

  “Of course it will be necessary. She’s the only one who knows what he looks like.”

  Was he trying to keep him away from his grandmother?

  Kusum looked uncomfortable. “She’s quite distraught. Incoherent. She raves. I do not wish to expose her to a stranger.”

  Jack said nothing. He merely stared at Kusum and waited. Finally the Indian relented.

  “I shall take you there immediately.”

  Jack allowed Kusum to lead him out the front door. As he left, he waved to Julio, who was setting up his infamous sign, Free Lunch: $5.00. Right under the Free Beer … Tomorrow sign.

  They caught a taxi on Columbus Avenue and headed downtown.

  “About my fee,” Jack said once they’d settled into the back of the cab.

  A small, superior smile curled Kusum’s thin lips.

  “Money? Are you not a defender of the downtrodden, a crusader for justice?”

  “Justice doesn’t pay the bills. My landlord prefers cash. So do I.”

  “Ah! A Capitalist!”

  If that was supposed to rile Jack, it did not.

  “Plain old ‘Capitalist’ has so little color. If you don’t mind, I prefer to be called a Capitalist Swine or, at the very least, a Capitalist Running Dog. I hope Burkes didn’t let you think I do this out of the goodness of my heart.”

  “No. He mentioned your fee for the UK Mission. A rather steep one. And in cash.”

  “I don’t take checks or charges, and I don’t take physical danger lightly, especially when I could be on the receiving end.”

  “Then here is my offer … Jack: Just for trying, I will pay you in advance half of what the British paid you. If you return the necklace to my grandmother before she dies, I will pay you the other half.”

  This was going to be hard to turn down. The job for the UK Mission had involved terrorist threats. It had been complex, time-consuming, and very dicey at times. Normally he would have asked Kusum for only a fraction of that amount. But Kusum seemed quite willing and able to pay the full fee. And if Jack managed to bring back that necklace, it would be a bona fide miracle and he would deserve every penny of it.

  “Sounds fair to me,” he said without missing a beat. “If I take the job.”

  4

  Jack followed Kusum through the halls of St. Clare’s until they came to a private room where a private-duty nurse hovered near the bed. The room was dark—curtains pulled, only a small lamp in a far corner throwing dim light across the bed. The lady under the covers was old. White hair framed a dark face that was a mass of wrinkles; gnarled hands clutched the sheet across her chest. Fear filled her eyes. Her ragged breathing and the hum of the blower by the window were the only sounds in the room.

  Jack stood at the foot of the bed and felt the familiar tingle of rage spreading through his chest and limbs. With all he’d seen, all he’d done, he’d yet to learn how to keep from taking something like this personally. An old woman, helpless, beaten up. It made him want to break something.

  “Ask her what he looked like.”

  Kusum rattled off something in Indian from beside the head of the bed. The woman replied in kind, slowly, painfully, in a hoarse, raspy voice.

  “She says he looked like you, but younger,” Kusum said, “and with lighter hair.”

  “Short or long?”

  Another exchange, then: “Short. Very short.”

  “Anything else?”

  As the woman replied, she raked the air with clawed fingers.

  “His eyes,” Kusum said. “She scratched him across his left eye before she was knocked unconscious.”

  Good for you, Granny.

  Jack smiled reassuringly at the old lady, then turned to Kusum.

  “I’ll see you out in the hall.”

  He didn’t want to talk in front of the private nurse.

  As he stood outside the door, Jack glanced at the nurses’ station and thought he saw a familiar face. He walked over for a closer look at the Junoesque blonde—every man’s fantasy nurse—writing in a chart. Yes—it was Marta. They’d had a thing a few years back in the days before Gia.

  She greeted him with a friendly kiss and a hug. They talked about old times for a while, then Jack asked her about Mrs. Bahkti.

  “Fading fast,” Marta said. “She’s gotten visibly worse since I came on. She’ll probably last out this shift, but I’ll be surprised if she’s here tomorrow. You know her?”

  “I’ll be doing some work for her grandson.”

  As with most people Jack knew socially—and there weren’t many—Marta was under the impression that he was a “security consultant.”

  He saw Kusum step out of the room.

  “There he is now. See you later.”

  Jack led Kusum to a window at the end of the hall where they were out of earshot of patients and hospital personnel.

  “All right,” he told him. “I’ll give it a try. But I make no promises other than to do my best.”

  Jack wanted to catch up with this creep.

  Kusum exhaled and muttered what sounded like a small prayer.

  “No more can be asked of any man. But if you cannot find the necklace by tomorrow morning, it will be too late. After that, the necklace will be of secondary importance. But I still want you to keep looking for the assailant. And when you find him, I want you to kill him.”

  Jack tightened inside but smiled and shook his head. This guy thought he was some sort of hit man.

  “I don’t do that.”

  Kusum’s eyes said he didn’t believe him.

  “Very well. Instead, you will bring him to me and I will—”

  “I will work for you until tomorrow morning,” Jack said. “I’ll give you my best shot till then. After that, you’re on your own.”

  Anger flitted across Kusum’s face.

  Definitely not used to having someone say no to you, are you?

  “When will you start?”

  “Tonight.
”

  Kusum reached inside his tunic and brought out a thick envelope. “Here is half the payment. I will wait here with the other half should you return with the necklace.”

  Feeling more than a twinge of guilt at taking so much money on such a hopeless venture, Jack nevertheless folded the envelope and stuffed it in his left rear pocket.

  “I will pay you ten thousand extra if you kill him,” Kusum added.

  Jack laughed to keep the mood light but shook his head again. “Uh-uh. But one more thing: Don’t you think it would help if I knew what the necklace looked like?”

  “Of course!” Kusum opened the collar of his tunic to reveal a heavy chain perhaps fifteen inches long. Its links were crescent-shaped, each embossed with strange-looking script. Centered side by side on the necklace were two elliptical, bright yellow, topazlike stones with black centers.

  Jack held his hand out but Kusum shook his head.

  “Every member of my family wears a necklace like this—it is never removed. And so it is very important that my grandmother’s be returned to her.”

  Jack studied the necklace. It disturbed him. He could not say why, but deep in his bowels and along the middle of his back a primitive sensation raised warning. The two stones looked like eyes. The metal was silvery, but not silver.

  “What’s it made of?”

  “Iron.”

  Jack looked closer. Yes, there was a hint of rust along the edges of a couple of the links.

  “Who’d want an iron necklace?”

  “A fool who thought it was silver.”

  Jack nodded. For the first time since talking to Kusum this morning, he felt there might be a slim—very slim—chance of recovering the necklace. A piece of silver jewelry would be fenced by now and either hidden away or melted down into a neat little ingot. But an heirloom like this, with no intrinsic value …

  “Here is a picture,” Kusum said, handing over a Polaroid of the necklace. “I have a few friends searching the pawnshops of your city looking for it.”

  “How long has she got?” he asked.

  Kusum slowly closed his collar. His expression was grim. “Twelve hours, the doctors say. Perhaps fifteen.”

  Great. Maybe I can find Judge Crater by then too.

  “Where can I reach you?”