Repairman Jack [02]-Legacies

Jack had debated going home and changing, but Ernie had let him borrow a razor to shave and had made sure that his hair in the photo on the brand-new Ronald Clayton New York State driver's license was combed a little more neatly than Jack's usually careless look.

He'd passed the ID check, the bank officer had used her key along with Jack's on the double-locked safe deposit door, and now he was alone with box 137.

He flipped up the lid and found a stack of bulging manila envelopes, maybe half a dozen of them, each sealed with fiber tape. As much as Jack wanted to rip them open, this wasn't the place. It might take some time to sift through these and find the one that answered all the questions. Besides, he was double-parked outside. Better to bring them home and take his time.

He gathered them up, made sure he wasn't missing anything, then headed for the street. The car was where he'd left it—not something one took for granted in the city—but a meter maid had stopped her scooter at the corner and was working her way down the street toward the Chevy. Jack dashed to his car, hopped in, and took off.

He was just congratulating himself on how smooth the morning was going when he sensed movement behind him. Before he could react, something cold and metallic pressed against the back of his skull.

Jack stiffened in shock and gripped the wheel. He wasn't being car-jacked—he'd been followed, damn it! He raged at himself for being so careless. First getting caught flat-footed in the Clayton backyard last night, and now being in such a big hurry that he hadn't bothered to check the backseat. He cooled as he seined his mind for options.

An accented voice said, "Please keep driving."

Please?

Jack glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a thin Oriental face, clean-shaven, late thirties maybe, eyes hidden behind fashionably round lightweight shades.

"And please do not try to accident the car or attract the police. These are hollow-point bullets filled with cyanide. Even a scratch will murder you."

Despite his weird verbs, the gunman's English was pretty good. He had the L's almost right.

"Hollow points and cyanide," Jack said. "Kind of overkill don't you think? If you were a good shot, you wouldn't need all that."

"I am a very good shot. But I do not leave anything to chance."

Jack believed him!

He forced himself to relax. At least the guy wasn't one of the Arab's men—or didn't appear to be. And then something occurred to him.

"That wouldn't happen to be a small caliber job, would it?" Jack said. "Like a twenty-two?"

"This is correct."

"And did you happen to use it on Thirty-eighth Street last night?"

"That is also correct."

"And can I assume that you're not working for Kemel?"

"Correct again… although I do not understand how you are so familiar to use the first name of a man you should not even know about."

I'm so familiar with him, Jack thought, I've been assuming it was his last name.

He settled back in his seat as he turned onto Broadway and joined the downtown crawl. He'd wondered who Kemel had meant by "the wrong hands," and had assumed he'd meant Israel. But this guy was anything but Israeli. He looked Japanese.

"I tell you these things," the gunman went on, "because I do not wish to be placed in the condition where I must kill you. Condition—that is the correct word?"

Swell, Jack thought. He's got a gun on me and he wants me to help him with his English.. But then, he does have the gun.

"'Position' might be better."

"Position… yes, that is better. Because I am very admiring of how you disposed of your attackers last night. You are very clever."

That's me… Mr. Clever.

"Was that you following me to the Clayton house last night?"

"You saw me?"

He sounded offended. Time to repay a compliment in kind.

"No. Not once. Sensed you but didn't see you. You're very good."

Let's form a mutual admiration society, he thought.

"Thank you. What is your name?"

"Jack."

"Jack what?"

He thought a moment. "Jack-san."

Jack saw the gunman's eyes narrow, then crinkle as he smiled. "Ah, yes. Jack-san. That is very humorful."

"I'm a bundle of laughs."

"And now you will please give me the envelopes you brought from the bank."

So polite… but despite how "admiring" this guy said he was, Jack had no doubt he'd end up like the two corpses outside the Clayton house if he tried anything. Might end up like them anyway.

With that pleasant thought bobbing through his brain, Jack handed the envelopes over the seat.

The pistol muzzle was removed from his neck. Jack watched the gunman glance down at his lap as he fumbled with the envelopes. This might be his chance… but he vetoed the thought. No sense in precipitating something right now. Take it easy and see how this played out.

More rustling as other envelopes were opened.

That's what I want to be doing, Jack thought.

He kept glancing at the rearview trying to read the gunman's expression. His narrowed eyes, his grimace, as if someone had shoved a rotten fish under his nose.