Cold City (Repairman Jack - the Early Years Trilogy) by F. Paul Wilson Read Free Book Online Page B

thing.”
    Jack didn’t take too kindly to the idea of messing with an agency of the federal government.  So far he’d managed to stay off its radar.  This did not seem a good way to maintain anonymity.
    “And let’s be fair,” Bertel added, “I won’t be paying you a thousand bucks a trip for nothing.”
    Did he just say a thousand per trip?  Yes, he did.
    “Really?”
    Almost as much as Giovanni had been paying him per month working sixty, seventy hours per week.  By quick estimation he’d be jumping from four bucks an hour to about fifty.
    Jack heard a slap and a cry.  He turned and saw the woman bent over, clutching the side of her face.  He tensed.
    “Domestic dispute,” Bertel said. “Leave them be.”
    Jack had never seen a man hit a woman – well, on the screen, yeah, but never in real life. 
    “Guy shouldn’t hit a woman.”
    “Real men don’t.  Guys do it all the time.  Leave them to their business and let’s get back to ours.  I’ll expect you to do three runs a week until we catch up.”
    That snapped Jack’s head around.  Three thousand a week?  Just for hauling cigarettes?
    Bertel smiled.  “I see you doing the math.  The paper had an article the other day on the median weekly pay in this country last year. Any idea what it was?”
    Jack shook his head.  “Not exactly the kind of statistic that catches my eye.”  Especially since he’d been so far below it.
    “Well, check this out: The median American worker earned five hundred fifty-seven dollars a week in 1989.  Which comes to about twenty-nine grand a year.  This here is my busy time of year.  If we start you next week, and run you three times a week, you’ll make pretty much that amount by New Year’s Eve.  Sound good?”
    The amount was almost inconceivable to Jack.  Yeah, it sounded good – but the risks…
    “Hell, it sounds fantastic.  I just…”
    Another slap, another yelp of pain.  The woman was sobbing now as she clutched her face.  Jack rose from the bench and stepped toward them but Bertel grabbed his arm and pulled him back.
    “What do you think you’re doing?”
    Jack had to admit he hadn’t a clue.  But he couldn’t just sit here and watch that happen.
    “I–”
    “You’re going to what – brace that guy?  Look at those arms.”
    Jack had already noticed.  His chest and shoulders and biceps bulged under the yellow T-shirt, stretching the fabric. Tats snaked down to his elbows.
    “So what?  Those guys are always slow.”
    “He’ll tear your head off, Jack.”
    “Gotta catch me first.”
    “And he will.  You know how?  She’ll help him.  You do not meddle in domestic disputes.”
    Domestic dispute…the second time he’d used the term.  Had he been a cop?
    “But–”
    “Trust me, nobody wins.  And the guy who tries to help usually turns out to be the biggest loser.”
    Fucking old chickenshit coward! rose to Jack’s lips but Bertel tightened his grip.
    “Hey.  Eyes on me: I need you to make up your mind.”
    “Right now?”
    “No.  I can give you a day.  But I’ve got the Mummy hollering for more butts and–”
    “The Mummy?”
    “My Arab.  He’s an Egyptian.  He’s square, but he’s a tough customer.  If I can’t get the cartons to him, he’ll find someone who can.  I need another driver pronto.”
    Jack nodded.  “Tomorrow then. I have your number. I’ll let you know by the afternoon.”
    “Good.”
    “By the way, I need some ammo.”  He’d pretty much ran through the box that had arrived with the Ruger.  “Can you get me some?”
    “You don’t need me.”
    “No ID, remember?”
    “You’re kidding me, right?  You’ve got Abe.”
    What was he talking about?
    “Abe?  Abe sells–” 
    A choking sound.  Now the guy had his wife, girlfriend, whatever bent back over the picnic table.  He’d forced her mouth open and was pouring wine down her throat.  He was giggling as she gagged and struggled. 
    Bertel’s expression