![Repairman Jack [10]-Harbingers](https://fs.collectorofbookboyfriends.com/466539/thumbs/152x264/repairman-jack-10-harbingers.jpg)
visit.
"I'm going to borrow this for a while. Be cool. I'll get it back to you when you're in a better mood."
"Do not come back. You disarm me, you embarrass me, you loose my bowels, and you make fun of my teeth. You are a terrible man and I do not ever wish again to see you."
"Yeah, it's been a rough night, hasn't it," Jack said as he backed toward the door—couldn't see any reason not to take the stairs down to the street. "But we all have those."
He stopped as his fingers closed on the knob.
"At least tell me one thing, okay? Those curlicues that the jerk in the cellar was drawing all over the girl. What did they mean?"
Zeklos stared at him. "Was blueprint."
"Blueprint for what?"
"For cuts they would make."
Jack had been afraid of that.
16
As the credits began to roll, Jack stopped The Big Lebowski disc and turned off the TV. He was about halfway through a chronological Coen brothers festival. He'd seen them all before but had never realized how many of their films featured Steve Buscemi.
He rose, stretched, wandered to the window. He stared down at the still and silent street three stories below his brownstone apartment. Nothing happening down there. Too late and too cold.
But as he was turning away he saw what looked like a puff of smoke drift into the cone of light beneath one of the streetlamps across the street. It dissipated so quickly he wasn't sure he'd really seen it. So he waited. A few seconds later another faint white cloud drifted into the light, and he realized it wasn't smoke. It was breath.
Someone was standing in the shadow of the tree directly across the street from his apartment.
Jack squinted through the window, wishing it were cleaner. He made out a silhouette that looked male. But beyond that…
He couldn't say for sure what the guy was doing there, but Jack sensed he was watching… watching Jack's windows.
One of those guys in the black suits? Had he picked up another transponder at Zeklos's place?
He clenched his teeth. His apartment was his sanctum. Fewer than half a dozen people knew where he lived. If they'd followed him home…
No. Couldn't have. The only physical contact he'd had with Zeklos was a single gut punch. He'd stayed a couple of feet away during the rest of his visit.
And then the figure moved, turning and walking out of the shadow into the cone of light. Jack couldn't see his face but knew by the way he walked—he was using a cane but didn't seem to be leaning on it—and by the slight stoop of his shoulders that he was old. And big. Anything beyond that was hidden by his homburg and bulky overcoat—both dark brown instead of black.
Jack watched until he was out of sight.
What the hell? Jack had never seen that old dude before, but he knew—didn't know how, but sure as hell knew —that he'd been watching these windows.
SATURDAY
1
Jack felt pretty decent as he stepped through the Isher Sports Shop's front door. Livelier physically and lighter mentally than he had in weeks. The clear, bright morning sky and brisk air didn't hurt, but he had to give the credit to yesterday. It had been a tonic. Cost him a few thou, but well worth it.
Back in the game.
He wended his way through Isher's towering, overstuffed shelves where dust collected like snow on a glacier. Probably because the stock rarely moved and never turned over. Abe's real business was conducted from the basement, so he didn't spend much time prettying up the teetering farrago of objects to be struck and objects with which to strike them and protective equipment to protect the strikers from being struck.
He found Abe in his usual spot behind the rear counter.
"Brought you a surprise," he said as he approached.
With a flourish he placed a bag of chips on the scarred wooden counter.
" Nu? " Abe said. "Doritos? What for?"
Abe wore his unfailing attire: black pants and a bulging white half-sleeve shirt. Jack was waiting for the day when one of the buttons popped off. Be cool if a chicken
"I'm going to borrow this for a while. Be cool. I'll get it back to you when you're in a better mood."
"Do not come back. You disarm me, you embarrass me, you loose my bowels, and you make fun of my teeth. You are a terrible man and I do not ever wish again to see you."
"Yeah, it's been a rough night, hasn't it," Jack said as he backed toward the door—couldn't see any reason not to take the stairs down to the street. "But we all have those."
He stopped as his fingers closed on the knob.
"At least tell me one thing, okay? Those curlicues that the jerk in the cellar was drawing all over the girl. What did they mean?"
Zeklos stared at him. "Was blueprint."
"Blueprint for what?"
"For cuts they would make."
Jack had been afraid of that.
16
As the credits began to roll, Jack stopped The Big Lebowski disc and turned off the TV. He was about halfway through a chronological Coen brothers festival. He'd seen them all before but had never realized how many of their films featured Steve Buscemi.
He rose, stretched, wandered to the window. He stared down at the still and silent street three stories below his brownstone apartment. Nothing happening down there. Too late and too cold.
But as he was turning away he saw what looked like a puff of smoke drift into the cone of light beneath one of the streetlamps across the street. It dissipated so quickly he wasn't sure he'd really seen it. So he waited. A few seconds later another faint white cloud drifted into the light, and he realized it wasn't smoke. It was breath.
Someone was standing in the shadow of the tree directly across the street from his apartment.
Jack squinted through the window, wishing it were cleaner. He made out a silhouette that looked male. But beyond that…
He couldn't say for sure what the guy was doing there, but Jack sensed he was watching… watching Jack's windows.
One of those guys in the black suits? Had he picked up another transponder at Zeklos's place?
He clenched his teeth. His apartment was his sanctum. Fewer than half a dozen people knew where he lived. If they'd followed him home…
No. Couldn't have. The only physical contact he'd had with Zeklos was a single gut punch. He'd stayed a couple of feet away during the rest of his visit.
And then the figure moved, turning and walking out of the shadow into the cone of light. Jack couldn't see his face but knew by the way he walked—he was using a cane but didn't seem to be leaning on it—and by the slight stoop of his shoulders that he was old. And big. Anything beyond that was hidden by his homburg and bulky overcoat—both dark brown instead of black.
Jack watched until he was out of sight.
What the hell? Jack had never seen that old dude before, but he knew—didn't know how, but sure as hell knew —that he'd been watching these windows.
SATURDAY
1
Jack felt pretty decent as he stepped through the Isher Sports Shop's front door. Livelier physically and lighter mentally than he had in weeks. The clear, bright morning sky and brisk air didn't hurt, but he had to give the credit to yesterday. It had been a tonic. Cost him a few thou, but well worth it.
Back in the game.
He wended his way through Isher's towering, overstuffed shelves where dust collected like snow on a glacier. Probably because the stock rarely moved and never turned over. Abe's real business was conducted from the basement, so he didn't spend much time prettying up the teetering farrago of objects to be struck and objects with which to strike them and protective equipment to protect the strikers from being struck.
He found Abe in his usual spot behind the rear counter.
"Brought you a surprise," he said as he approached.
With a flourish he placed a bag of chips on the scarred wooden counter.
" Nu? " Abe said. "Doritos? What for?"
Abe wore his unfailing attire: black pants and a bulging white half-sleeve shirt. Jack was waiting for the day when one of the buttons popped off. Be cool if a chicken
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