Cold City Page 3

  Down a narrow aisle a heavyset man looked up from behind the rear counter where he perched next to a dusty cash register. His eyes fixed Jack over the wire rims of his half-frame reading glasses.

  “It’s the boychick from Jersey. I find him an apartment and what does he do? Does he call? Does he write? Never. Deaf, mute, and illiterate he becomes.”

  Jack felt bad about that. He’d first met Abraham Grossman maybe seven or eight years ago as a kid while working at Mr. Rosen’s store. He’d come into USED one day and – without saying he was the owner’s nephew – tried to game Jack into gypping his boss. When that didn’t work, he’d left his card, saying anytime Jack was in town to look him up: “You got a friend in the big city, kid.” He never visited USED again but Jack kept the card and took him up on the offer as soon as he’d found a garage for his Harley.

  The man he’d found had less hair and a bigger waistline than he remembered, but the staccato patter was the same. Jack visited the Isher Sports Shop maybe a half dozen times in the first month he’d been here, and each time Abe was dressed the same: a half-sleeve white shirt with a black tie over black pants, sometimes belted, sometimes not. He stood maybe five-five or –six; he had twenty or so years and at least twice that many pounds on Jack.

  He needed either a bigger store or lots less stock. Bicycles hung upside down from the ceiling like bats; floor level was a post-tornado rat’s nest of rods and reels and clubs and racquets, hoops and nets and bats and balls of every imaginable size, color, and consistency.

  “Hey, sorry, Mister Grossman,” he said, approaching through the maze. “I got this job and–”

  “Job, schmob. And it’s Abe. I told you that. Mister Grossman was my father, alev ha-sholem.”

  Abe was always throwing weird expressions about.

  “What’s that mean?” Jack said as he arrived safely at the scarred counter.

  Close up now he could see that today was a not day for a belt. But Abe had accessorized instead with a rainbow of stains. Jack had seen the yellow of mustard and the red of catsup before, and those were in evidence today, but he’d somehow added green to the mix. Guacamole? The white specks that dusted his black pants might have been dandruff, but dandruff didn’t smear. Powdered sugar, no doubt.

  “What’s what mean?” Abe said.

  “Alev…something.”

  “Alev ha-sholem. If you grew up in Brooklyn you’d know already. But you had a deprived childhood in the wilds of New Jersey, so you’re forgiven. I know my uncle Jake had a tough life, but what made him settle there I’ll never know.”

  “I think he liked being alone. And I still don’t know what that alev thing means.”

  “It’s the Yiddish equivalent of ‘rest in peace.’”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. He’s long gone.” He fixed Jack again with a hard stare. “Nu? You got no phone?”

  “No.”

  He looked genuinely shocked. “Who doesn’t have a phone?”

  “Me?”

  “Well, you ought to get one of those new ones you carry around with you in a bag. What do they call them?”

  “Um, bag phones.”

  “No-no. Something else. They’re smaller now. Like a brick with a straw sticking out. I’ve seen them.”

  “Mobile phone?”

  “That’s it!” he said, pointing at Jack. “A mobile phone you should get so you can call your uncle Abe and let him know how you are doing out there in the world.”

  Uncle Abe? When did that happen?

  “Mostly getting fired.”

  He frowned. “Uncle Jake always said you were such a good worker. A nar you work for!”

  Jack explained the circumstances.

  “He told you to buy a gun?”

  Jack nodded. “So I came to you.”

  Abe seemed to freeze. Not that he ever moved much, but he’d suddenly become a statue.

  “Do I look like a gun dealer?” He gestured at the crowded aisles. “Do you see guns here?”

  “No. But that’s just it. I don’t really want to go to a gun dealer. I’m looking for someone with a gun to sell. You know, a private deal.”

  “Why on Earth would you come to me for a black market gun?”

  Jack noticed the Yiddishisms had disappeared and the accent had flattened into everyday New Yorkese.

  Jack wondered if he’d said something wrong. “I didn’t–”

  “Did someone say I could sell you one?”

  Was that it? Did Abe think that Jack thought he was a gun runner? No way.

  “No-no. Nothing like that. It’s just that you’ve lived in the city all your life and I figured you might have heard something and could point me in the right direction.”

  He seemed to relax. “Ah, so you mean during my lifetime of shmoozing I should have maybe come across at least one person who might be in that line of merchandise.”

  The accent was back.

  “Exactly.”

  He took off his reading glasses and, without looking, began to clean them with his tie. Jack noticed a bit of what appeared to be dried egg yolk on the tie smearing across the lenses but said nothing.

  “Let me ask you first: Are you experienced?”

  Jack had to smile. “Are you Jimi Hendrix?”

  “What?”

  “Sorry. If you mean with guns, no. Back in high school I plinked at cans in the Pines with a friend’s twenty-two rifle, but that’s about it.”

  “All right then. I’m not promising, but let’s just say I do find someone who can help you out, you must first promise me something.”

  Jack thought he was ahead of him. “To use it only for defense? Sure. I–”

  “No-no.” He wagged a finger. “If I can deliver, you must promise to go to a certain person – whose name I’ll give – who will teach you how to safely use your purchase.”

  He put the glasses back on, tried to see through the egg smear, frowned, and reached for a tissue.

  “Won’t he want to know if the gun’s registered?”

  “He won’t want to know from nothing except if you’ve got the hundred dollars he’ll charge for his course in pistolry.”

  “A hundred?”

  “Yes, and this is a deal breaker. I don’t want you out and about with a weapon you can’t field strip and keep clean and in perfect working order. So, you promise?”

  A hundred bucks… he had limited funds and nothing coming in, but could see the wisdom of knowing the proper care and feeding of something that could kill with a finger twitch.

  “I promise. But speaking of bucks, what can I expect to pay?”

  “Not that I have much experience with this, but for something used of good manufacture and in good working order, I’d say you’ll need three hundred American.”

  “ ‘American’?”

  He seemed momentarily flustered. “Well, as opposed to gold.”

  “Gold?”

  What was he talking about?

  “Oy. Enough with the parrot act. Three hundred already. And you’d better give it to me in advance, because I’ll need cash in hand to bring the price down. Like an Arab rug dealer he haggles.”

  Obviously Abe already had someone in mind, and Jack got the feeling the cash in advance was more a test of trust than anything else. Well, he’d brought cash in case Abe sent him somewhere, and for some reason he couldn’t fully fathom, he trusted this odd man, so…

  He counted out three hundred and handed it over.

  “When can I expect–?”

  “Stay home tomorrow. All day. A package will arrive–”

  “Mail?”

  “Don’t be a shmuck. Just be home and ready to sign.” He snapped his fingers. “I don’t recall your last name.”

  He’d never asked so Jack had never told him. He gave him the pseudonym he’d used on the apartment mailbox. Might as well be consistent, especially if he was going to get a delivery there.

  “Moore.” He spelled it.

  Shortly before
renting the place he’d passed a dinky little playground over on Tenth Avenue dedicated to Clement Clarke Moore. He doubted any of the kids playing there – or their folks, for that matter – knew its namesake was the guy who wrote “The Night Before Christmas.”

  “Okay. Remember, stay home and–”

  “Don’t worry. Like a hermit I’ll be.”

  Abe looked at him, then laughed.

  “Kid, you’re all right.”

  6

  Nasser al-Thani was surprised when a dark-haired young – very young – woman opened the door.

  “Ooh, look at you,” she said in a seductive tone, her gaze wandering up and down his long gray thobe. “I’ve never done one of you guys.”

  “I’m sorry.” He checked the number on the door – yes, suite 1201. “I was expecting–”

  “I bet you could teach me things. You know, like secrets of the harem and all that.”

  What was she talking about?

  “Danaë!” said a laughing, familiar male voice from somewhere beyond the short hallway. “Stop torturing the poor man and let him in!”

  She smiled as she jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “He’s waiting for you in the living room.”

  She moved to the side to let him pass.

  One of Trejador’s prostitutes, no doubt. Nasser had heard rumors of his preference for “professional” women, but this was the first time he’d encountered one. She was wearing a long, tan raincoat, so he had no idea of her figure. He turned for a better look at her face but she’d already stepped through the door and was closing it behind her.

  Nasser stepped into the living room and found Roman Trejador sitting in a bathrobe and sipping a drink. From the shape of the glass and the olive sitting in the clear fluid, Nasser assumed it was a martini.

  “Right on time, as usual.” Trejador held up the glass. “Make yourself a drink.”

  “I believe I will. But not like yours.”

  Nasser had grown up in Qatar. Unlike other countries on the Arabian peninsula, alcohol was legal there, but still frowned upon, so he’d never developed a taste for it. Even after his years at Oxford and his MBA studies at Stanford, nothing alcoholic appealed to him. He went to the kitchenette, found the refrigerator, and removed a bottle of club soda.

  “I was afraid I’d arrived early,” he said as he poured a glassful.

  Trejador laughed. “Oh, you mean Danaë. She’s one of my favorites. Quite the character. And quite skilled. We took longer than usual.”

  Nasser resisted a shake of his head. Most men would hide their proclivity for prostitutes to avoid the natural and inevitable questions: You have to pay for it? Can’t you get any on your own? Yet Trejador flaunted it.

  Perhaps because, with his dark good looks and smooth urbanity, he very clearly did not need to pay for it. Though nearing fifty – or already there, perhaps – he’d become the favored actuator of the High Council of the Ancient Septimus Fraternal Order. He’d grown up in Spain – survived a rough childhood, Nasser had heard – but his English was flawless.

  Nasser glanced around as he returned to the suite’s sitting room. Another of Trejador’s quirks: no permanent address. He lived in an endless series of hotels, staying in a given suite for a month or two, then moving to another. The only constants in his life were the Order and his mobile phone. He might not be living in the last place you saw him, but that phone kept Roman Trejador available at a moment’s notice.

  He seated himself opposite Trejador and watched him across the low, glass-topped table between them.

  “You said you had good news.”

  Trejador smiled. “Much to my surprise, the High Council approved the funding we requested.”

  Nasser barked a laugh of relief. “That’s wonderful! But why are you surprised? Didn’t you present it to them with your recommendation?”

  “Of course. But still, I’m only an actuator, and three million dollars is a huge amount. I thought they’d balk.”

  “But we’re only making a loan, not a grant.”

  “I think that was what swayed them.”

  “More than a loan. We’ll be returning a profit as well.”

  Trejador shook his head. “I didn’t bring that up. Profit isn’t the goal. You know that.”

  Nasser did know that. Chaos was the goal. “But profit must appear to be my goal if we are to sell this.”

  “I understand that. And you will make a profit.” He raised his glass and stared at Nasser over the rim. “A fact that might prove burdensome to the High Council.”

  Nasser stiffened. Was he hinting that they keep the profit? An interesting concept. The High Council was expecting only the return of its loan. Nasser had no need of extra money, but Trejador’s lifestyle… he imagined it could be costly.

  The success of this venture would elevate Nasser’s rank in the Order, but its success at this crucial stage depended in large part upon Trejador’s contacts and tactical support. Best be cautious here.

  “True,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “The High Council has much on its plate since the return of the One.”

  “Indeed it does. The major concern they voiced to me was the possibility that one of the Arab players would abscond with the funds.”

  Nasser shrugged. “I cannot guarantee that it’s beyond the realm of possibility, but these are zealots. I have dealt with their kind before. Their cause is everything. I don’t think cash will sway them from their holy course.”

  “My thoughts exactly, but never ignore the possibility of that amount transforming a zealot into a rogue. Con el dinero baila el perro.”

  Nasser nodded. “I come from a land that knows the seductive power of wealth.”

  “Then you’ll understand the need for some sort of safeguard.”

  “I’ll watch them like the proverbial hawk.”

  “See that you do. I’ve logged too many hours setting up these contacts and working both ends of this arrangement to have an attack of greed ruin it.”

  “No one wants this to succeed more than I.” Nasser lifted his glass. “To chaos.”

  Roman Trejador raised his martini. “To chaos.”

  FRIDAY

  1

  It took a moment for Jack to recognize the buzzing noise: his intercom. The only visitor he’d had since moving in was the landlord on rent day, and he knocked – hammered was more like it – on Jack’s door. Someone downstairs looking for him was a new experience. He found the plate on the wall and pressed the SPEAK button. He hoped that was the thing to do.

  “Hello?”

  Silence.

  He tried again, with the same result.

  He lifted the window over the entrance and shouted down. “Hey! Someone looking for two-A?”

  A heavy guy wearing a camouflage boonie cap backed out of the doorway and looked up. He hefted the large box in his hands.

  “Yeah. Delivery for two-A.”

  Figuring it would be a waste of time to try to buzz him in, he hurried down the two flights to the front entrance.

  “You Jack Moore?” the guy said as Jack opened the front door. He looked flushed and sweaty despite the cool breeze and overcast sky.

  “The one and only.”

  Jack saw his name scrawled on the top of the box but no address. A clipboard lay next to his name.

  “Got ID?”

  Uh-oh. What now?

  “It’s upstairs.”

  “Wanna go get it?”

  He put a hand over his chest. “Got a heart condition.”

  The guy put down the box and lifted the clipboard, glancing up at Jack after he’d read something there.

  “Okay. You look like him.” He produced a pen. “Sign here.”

  Jack complied and the guy turned to go.

  “No return address?”

  The guy glanced over his shoulder. “Real comedian.”

  That’s me, he thought. A laugh a minute.

  He guessed he was expected to know who sent it. He watched the guy get into a
battered, grime-covered white station wagon. Its rear compartment held a number of similar boxes.

  As it roared off, Jack turned his attention to the box. Only one thing it could be. Pretty quick service. He’d handed the money to Abe last night and here was the delivery. Not even noon yet. But why such a big box?

  He grabbed it – much lighter than he expected, judging from the size – and carried it upstairs. He locked his door, unfolded his jackknife, and cut it open. Among the foam peanuts he found a pink plush Care Bear.

  “What the–?”

  He pulled it out and fished among the peanuts but found nothing. Dumped them out, still nothing.

  Okay, what about the bear? He hefted it. Heavy for a plush toy. Which could only mean…

  He checked the stitching. Definitely a poor job along one of the back seams. He slit the thread, shook the bear, and a pistol dropped out, sealed in a Ziploc bag. A box of ammo, likewise bagged, followed. Abe had come through, and whoever he’d contacted had wasted no time filling the order. Well, black markets were usually free markets. Price and performance still counted.

  He pulled the pistol from the bag. Ruger GP100® was engraved along the blued steel of the barrel. And beneath that: .357 MAGNIM.

  Jack turned it over in his hands. So heavy… so solid… so totally cool. He realized he was grinning, most likely like an idiot.

  I think I’m in love.

  He noticed a slip of paper on the Ziploc. He pulled it out and unfolded it to reveal a note scrawled in a crabbed hand: Call for instruction – NOW! A number followed.

  Okay, okay. Will do.

  He grabbed some change and headed for the phone in the hallway. Now was fine with him. He wanted to fire this thing.

  2

  He said his name was Dane Bertel. Jack doubted that was true but didn’t much care. He might have been the guy who’d sold him the gun. Jack hadn’t given his real name either. The only for-sure real thing between them was the hundred-dollar bill Jack had handed him.

  He’d obviously taught pistol safety before. Maybe he did it for the NRA for folks with legal, registered weapons, and then freelanced on the side for people like Jack.

  Jack had driven his Harley to the Calverton shooting range at damn near the end of the Long Island Expressway, almost to Riverhead at the fork. Along the way he followed the speed limits like a Sunday-only driver. If he got stopped he’d be an unlicensed driver on an unregistered vehicle transporting an illegal handgun. Talk about a bad day.