Codename_Chandler_Fix Read online

  I needed more to go on.

  In training, I practiced disassembling and assembling all types of weapons until I could do it in a pitch black room, on very little sleep, under extreme pressure. Taking the Semmerling apart in the comfortable surroundings of a posh hotel took a few seconds. I repeated the routine with the kabuki brush and tape, and though I came up with only one additional useable print, the ridge detail was clear and the print couldn't belong to me.

  I pulled out my cell phone. Issued to me almost two years before by my handler Jacob, my phone was a bit more high tech than the latest consumer model. I held the screen against each of the prints, scanning them in, and sending them to my handler. Then I switched on the television, ate another protein bar, washed it down with the rest of the water, and waited for the results.

  The call came twenty minutes later.

  "Is Peter there?" The voice was male and sounded slightly robotic.

  "He just left for the Quickie Mart," I answered. "Would you like to leave a message?"

  "Tell him to call Robert."

  "Did the fingerprint scan come through okay?" I asked, now that the identification protocol was complete.

  "The Quickie Mart? Did you actually say the Quickie Mart? Isn't that from The Simpson's?"

  I'd never seen the Simpson's, but the name had stuck in my mind. "There aren't that many places that start with Q."

  "Queens comes to mind."

  I made a face. "Smart ass. How about the scan?"

  "You sent six readable partials, three were yours."

  "How about the other three?"

  "I couldn't find anything at all on two."

  "Not enough detail?"

  "Plenty of detail. Not in the system."

  Interesting. I had to admit that surprised me. There weren't many people with skills like his and even fewer who didn't have military training under their belts… or prison time. "And the third print?"

  "That belongs to a man named Abraham Grossman. Owns a place called Isher Sports Shop."

  "A sports shop?"

  "It's a front."

  "You know him?"

  "I know of him."

  I glanced at the Semmerling. "Let me guess, he sells more than soccer balls and tennis rackets."

  "And they say your best feature is your looks."

  "It just so happens I've come up short in the heat department." I filled Jacob in on the status of my stash at Shapes, and went on to tell him what happened in Central Park.

  "Was he cute?"

  "Who?"

  "The guy who kicked your ass in the park."

  "He didn't kick my ass. I stole his gun."

  "So he's cute. And you've got a thing for guys who can outfight you."

  "He didn't outfight me. And he's kind of cute. And now we're changing the subject. Geez, you dish like a girl sometimes, you know that?"

  After a short pause Jacob said, "A Semmerling is a good back up weapon, but this job may require more than that."

  Jacob didn't elaborate. I knew he'd give me more information on my target when I needed to know it.

  "So maybe I'll give this sports shop a visit tonight, help myself," I said.

  "I wouldn't advise that."

  "Why not? Because you know of him?"

  "Lots of people know of Abe. He's something of an eminence grise in the trade and respected by all. He's protected, and it would be inconvenient to mess with him. And inadvisable."

  "Okay… in that case, I'll see if he's got something to sell."

  "It's not a deli, Chandler. You can't simply walk in and place an order."

  I frowned, annoyed. "All right, so what is it – a private boys' club? Can't get in without knowing the special handshake or secret password?"

  "Worse. You're going to have to pose as a man. That includes wearing a fake penis in order to pass."

  I didn't say anything.

  Jacob eventually broke the silence. "I'll have someone who knows Abe call ahead and tell him to expect you."

  "I forget that sometimes you think you have a sense of humor."

  "Lots of people tell me I'm very amusing."

  "Yeah. I'm holding my sides from laughing so hard."

  "I don't suppose I have to tell you Abe's store is cash and carry."

  I dipped my hand into the pocket of my Armani jacket, pulled out the wad of cash, and tossed it on the bed. A couple of bills carried a spatter or two of blood, but all-in-all it should be enough.

  "Got it covered. I'll head over there soon. Where am I going?"

  He gave me the address. I ended the call and tucked the phone back into my boot. I hadn't met this Abe Grossman yet, but I hoped he sold Berettas.

  Rasmus

  After calling Gracie Mansion to make sure the mayor was still in his late-night meeting, Rasmus headed for the safe in the master bedroom. The 79th Street home was empty at the moment. The two cops stationed by the front door would keep out any undesirables. Rasmus had all five floors to himself.

  In a fit of nostalgia, the mayor had shown him the necklaces once. His daughters had been so taken with the film Titanic and the iconic Le Coeur de la Mer in the story, that he'd gone out and had one made for each of them – exact copies, with a huge, genuine blue diamond in each. They cost millions, but what was that to a guy worth north of thirty billion?

  After years of careful watching, Rasmus had learned the safe's combination. He'd take only one of the necklaces – only one had been demanded – and only for a little while. Not stealing. A loan. And if Jack played the part Rasmus had planned for him, this necklace would be back where it belonged before anyone noticed it missing.

  Yes… a loan. And for a good cause. An excellent cause.

  He stopped before a portrait of the man he admired so much. Michael Bloomberg, the right man in the right place at the right time. Not just a billionaire, not just a superb politician, but a man with a vision for the city. Rasmus shared that vision. The vision of a great man who truly cared for the city and everyone in it, who knew what was best for his people and was not afraid to anger those who couldn't or wouldn't make the right choices for their own wellbeing. Bloomberg knew the right choices, and the naysayers would have to get in line.

  But he needed more time. Two terms weren't enough to fulfill the vision, and the city charter didn't allow for a third.

  Well, we'll see about that, Rasmus thought as he tugged on the mayor's portrait to reveal the safe.

  I'm doing this for you, sir. All for you.

  Jack

  As Jack entered Isher Sports, he heard Abe talking at the rear of the store. Either he had a customer or was on the phone. Jack wove through the canyons of canting, overstuffed shelves until he reached the rear counter where the man himself spoke into a dark green trimline phone.

  "All right already. Before ten I'll be expecting. No later. I need my beauty rest." He hung up and looked at Jack. "Nu? Like an old man you walk."

  Abe had perched his portly frame on a three-legged barstool. He sat with his legs spread and his palms resting on his generous thighs. He wore his uniform of black pants and food-stained half-sleeve white shirt. A receding hairline and half-moon reading glasses completed the picture.

  "Had a disagreement with someone."

  Jack wore the same jeans as he had in the park, but had ditched the trucker cap and cowboy boots at home and switched to a flannel shirt and work boots.

  "You lost?"

  "Kind of a draw. I wound up with this." He slapped Chandler's wallet onto the counter.

  "A woman's? Kemfn? With a woman?"

  "Sweet. Or so I thought. Saved her from a mugging and she turned on me."

  "Women these days. So you took her wallet?"

  "Yeah. Just about the same time she took my Semmerling."

  Abe blinked. "Oy."

  "Yeah. Oy."

  Even though it wasn't a very practical backup, Jack loved that little pistol. He'd learned to work the slide with his thumb and could get off all five rounds fairly q
uickly. The recoil was a bitch but the hollowpoints he kept in the magazine made it unlikely he'd need more than one hit.

  "At least her wallet you got. You can find her."

  "Not so sure about that." He flipped it open. "She told me her name was Chandler–"

  "As in Raymond? She told you already?"

  Jack nodded. "Yeah, I thought she came across with that a little too fast. Now I know why."

  He handed Abe the wallet. He squinted at it.

  "Doris Weeblekeck? What kind of name is that?"

  "A fake name, I'm betting."

  "This ID, it looks real."

  "I called information. There's no Weeblekeck in Illinois, where the license was issued. There's no Weeblekeck anywhere in the country."

  "And this Chandler Weeblekeck has your baby?"

  "Yeah, dammit."

  Abe spread his hands. "Nu, I hope you didn't come here for a replacement, because I can't sell you what I don't got."

  Jack had figured it was a long shot, but he'd had to try.

  "What are the prospects of finding one soon?"

  "People don't part with them once get one. I should maybe lose ten pounds overnight first."

  If he'd said ten ounces the odds would have been equally nil.

  "Which means I'm in the market for a new backup."

  He jerked his thumb toward the rear corner. "The door to the basement is unlocked. Go down and browse. I've got a customer coming."

  "Anyone I know?"

  "New one. Didn't get her name but she's got an excellent reference."

  Her…the gal who'd called herself Chandler had been looking for a weapon…

  Nah. Chandler had one now – his Semmerling. She didn't need Abe.

  "Think about a nine this time," Abe added. "That way you won't–"

  Jack raised a hand as he headed for the door. "I know." They'd had the discussion numerous times.

  He'd already decided that the main criterion for the replacement was that it fit the same ankle holster. He'd broken this one in and was used to it.

  But then, he'd broken that Semmerling in, too.

  Damn it, Chandler.

  If he ever saw that woman again, he wouldn't hold back.

  Chandler

  An old-fashioned bell jangled as I entered the Isher Sports Shop. The place looked like some kind of dump on the outside – no doubt urban camouflage – and the motif carried to the interior. The shelves appeared to have been stocked by a chimp on acid. Bicycles hung from the ceiling, which was normal enough, but then hockey sticks and croquet mallets and swim fins hung from the bikes. The shelves had no order: fishing rods next to tennis racquets cheek by jowl with basketball hoops and SCUBA masks and balls of all shapes and sizes shoved in wherever they'd fit.

  "Hello?" came a voice from the rear. "You're maybe the person for whom I am waiting?"

  Humpty Dumpty sat behind a scarred wooden counter by the back wall. I noticed varicolored smudges on his white shirt. As I stopped before the counter I spotted yellow (egg yolk?), red (catsup? pizza sauce?), orange (juice?), brown (chocolate?) and a sprinkling of poppy seeds.

  "I'll assume I am if you're Abe."

  "I am. And you are…? You look familiar, in some way."

  "I'm the gal you're waiting for."

  He shrugged. "Okay. Your name I don't need. Question is: What do you need?"

  "I'm fond of Italians."

  He frowned. "Codes we don't use here. You're talking short or long?"

  "Short. I've had an ongoing affair with a Beretta M9."

  His eyebrows lifted. "The Army had some issues with that model."

  "I never did."

  "I can provide the M9A3 upgrade. Some nice extras: extended barrel threaded for a suppressor, removable front and rear tritium sights, seventeen-round mag, sand finish."

  "Extra price too, I assume."

  "Actually sells for less. I've got two in stock."

  "The suppressor as well."

  "Suppressors, oy gevalt! You know in New York, they are not legal." He kept a stoic face for a moment, then began to laugh. "I kid! They're in the stock room. Good ones."

  "Do they have a decibel rating?"

  "Depending on the round you use, up to 50dB off."

  "That is good." A 9mm fires at about 160dB.

  "The lady, she knows her hardware. Had a kid come in once, schmuck who was a friend of a friend of some other schmuck, wanted a silencer. A silencer! The only way to make a gun silent it to not fire it. And worse, it gets. He wants it for a revolver."

  Not only were silencers fictional, but revolvers couldn't be suppressed at all. Obviously that kid was a schmuck.

  "Can I see them?"

  "I've got someone there at the moment."

  "No problem."

  "Not for you maybe. If it's okay with him, we can go down now. If not, we let him leave, then we do business." He pointed behind me. "Go lock the front door."

  I liked the idea that he respected and accommodated his customers' privacy. As I wound my way to the front and turned the deadbolt, I heard Abe calling, "I need to bring someone down already. You okay with that?"

  I didn't hear the reply, but apparently it was a yes because I found Abe waiting by a doorway near the rear corner when I returned.

  "Down we go."

  Instead of another room, the door led to a narrow stone stairway. Neon words hummed on the staircase ceiling.

  FINE WEAPONS

  THE RIGHT TO BUY WEAPONS

  IS THE RIGHT TO BE FREE

  Well, I couldn't argue with that.

  "You recognize?" Abe said as they passed beneath the sign.

  I hadn't a clue. "Am I supposed to?"

  "Van Vogt." He sighed. "People these days… don't know bupkis."

  "I know that 'An armed society is a polite society.'"

  He grinned. "Ah! You quote Heinlein. All is forgiven."

  Heinlein? I was equally clueless about whoever that was. But I kept mum. I simply liked the sentiment of the quote. For some reason my knowing it had made Abe happy and, even though I'd only met him a few minutes ago, the guy was growing on me.

  We reached the bottom and I froze. Banks of overhead fluorescents poured white light on a dazzling array of death and destruction. Racks of rifles ranging from Marlins to Kalashnikovs, shotguns ranging from double barrels to autoloaders, derringers, machine pistols, crossbows, and… was that a bazooka? Knives from bowies to balisongs to switchblade stilettos, brass knuckles, even a studded mace.

  Had I died and gone to heaven?

  "The semi nines are over here," Abe said, pointing to the left.

  The other customer he'd mentioned stood in the same area, a flannel-shirted guy with his back to me. When he turned at my approach, I froze again.

  Jack.

  He didn't look nearly as surprised as I felt.

  "Well," he said, "this is awkward."

  I stepped back into a ready stance. This stank of a setup, but I couldn't see any way that could be.

  "Easy," he said. "This is neutral territory."

  In full light, with his mild brown eyes, he looked so ordinary and unthreatening, like he couldn't harm a fly. How the hell had he taken my wallet without me knowing?

  "You've met? Abe said.

  Jack nodded. "This is the lady I told you about."

  "No schtuss here," Abe said, "You have differences, you settle them elsewhere."

  "Oh, we have differences all right. But they can be easily settled with the return of my leetle fren." He said the last with a Hispanic accent.

  I shook my head. "You here, then I arrive… I don't like coincidences."

  "I'm here to replace my backup," he said pointedly. "I'd be somewhere else if I still had it."

  He was holding a four-barrel derringer I recognized as a COP .357. I'd considered one of those in the past, but they were as hard to find as the Semmerling. Liked the Magnum rounds.

  "You're going to replace it with that?"

  "Just browsing. No wa
y it'll fit my holster. But now that you're here… hey, you're already armed, so what's the story?"

  "I don't find a manual reloader very practical – at least not for my purposes."

  "Which are?"

  "To be determined."

  "Fair enough." He put down the COP and stuck out his hand. "My leetle fren, please?"

  "Okay, but only if you promise not to do that accent again." I dug into my pocket. "What is that, Cheech and Chong?"

  Jack looked hurt. "It's Al Pacino. Scarface."

  "Didn't see it. Is his accent that bad in the movie?"

  "Ouch. Steal my gun then insult my close-to-perfect imitation. If you saw it, you'd know."

  "Sure I would."

  I handed the Semmerling over butt-first and Jack examined it, checking the breech, sniffing the muzzle, popping the mag and counting the rounds.

  "I didn't fire it, if that's what you're wondering."

  "No, but you dusted it." He gave her a hard stare. "Which tells me a lot."

  "Yeah? Like what?"

  "Like you've got access to databases, which means you're connected to officialdom. You a fed?"

  He was getting warm, or at least warm enough.

  "If I was, would I tell you?"

  He snapped the magazine back in and pointed the Semmerling at my heart – which immediately picked up tempo as I imagined what a .45 hollow point would do to the inside of my chest. The ice in his eyes made it beat even faster. Jack had surprised me in the park, and this was a second unwelcome surprise.

  "My dear friend here," he said, nodding toward Abe, "has shared a secret with you. I hate the thought of him at risk."

  "Jack-Jack-Jack," Abe said, raising his hands. "Wait already. She's been vouched for by an impeccable source."

  "Somebody could be turning his screws."

  "Anyone able to turn screws on him would not be interested in me. If he says she's here to arm herself, that's what she's here for."

  Jack lowered the Semmerling and reexamined it.

  I let out a controlled breath.

  "Your dusting turn up anything interesting?" he said in a how's-the-weather tone.

  The abrupt shift in mood left me speechless for a moment. "Well, you're not listed anywhere, if that's what you're asking."

  He smiled. "That's nice. I'll leave you two to conduct business."