18
"Nu? You're thinking maybe the Kozlowskis?"
The innards of the travel alarm clock lay spread out between them on Abe's work bench. The Isher Sports Shop was officially closed but a call to Abe had brought him back. Since disassembling a bomb timer was not something either of them wanted a curious passerby to witness through the store window, Abe had suggested they move to the basement.
"That's just it," Jack told him. "I don't think it. It's against all logic. But my gut keeps saying otherwise."
"So listen. A man shouldn't ignore his guderim."
They sat in a cone of light, surrounded by Abe's true stock in trade—things that fired projectiles or had points and sharp edges or delivered blunt trauma. Unlike the chaotic arrangement on the upper floor, these items were carefully shelved and neatly racked.
Jack watched as Abe's stubby but nimble fingers resoldered the tiny wires from the display to the circuit board. Jack was no good with electronics. He could use the equipment, but the innards baffled him.
"There!" Abe said as the display lit with the time.
"Neat," Jack said. "Now check the alarm."
Abe pressed a button and 3:00 appeared.
"Three A.M.," Jack said with a sick coil in his stomach. If he hadn't found this today, tomorrow he'd have awakened without a sister. "The son of a bitch."
"You have a next step in mind?"
"Not yet."
Abe stared at him. "You don't look so good. You feeling all right?'
Did it show? He felt tired and achy. Irritable too.
"I'm okay. Nothing that can't be cured by a good night's rest and finding the guy who made this."
"Well, while you're figuring how to do that, I should tell you that I ordered your new back-up pistol. Should be here in a few days."
"I don't know, Abe. I'm having second thoughts about giving up the Semmerling."
"Listen, schmuck, a .45 that small stands out too much for a guy who shouldn't be noticed. Like a signature, that pistol."
"Wait," Jack said as a thought detonated in his skull.
"What?"
"Just stop talking a minute." Realizing he'd snapped, he added, "Please."
Like a signature … like all his jobs, Jack had tried to work his fix on the Kozlowskis from the sidelines, looking to move in, cripple them by blowing their stash, and then take off without ever making direct contact. But it hadn't worked that way. They'd shown up at their farm when they were supposed to be in the city and he'd had to shoot his way out. He'd used his Glock mostly, but he'd needed the Semmerling at one point. The Kozlowskis had seen the Semmerling, and seen his face…
And if they read the papers… and saw mention of a tiny .45… and decided to follow the reporter who claimed he'd been in touch with its owner…
"Damn him!" Jack pounded the workbench with his fist.
"Who? What?"
"Sandy Palmer! He damn near got Kate killed! I ought to wring his scrawny neck!"
He explained to Abe.
"Possible," Abe said, nodding. "Very possible."
"What am I going to do about him?"
"The reporter? I think maybe you should worry about the Brothers K first, don't you?"
"Them I can handle—especially now that I know who I'm dealing with. But Palmer… I think he sees me as some sort of cryptofascist comic book character. He was quizzing me about Nietzsche today—can you beat that?"
"Nietzsche? Have you ever read Nietzsche?"
"No."
"Don't try. Also Sprach Zarathustra? Unreadable."
"I'll take your word." He pounded the bench top again. "What a nightmare. Palmer's like a junkie—he'll keep biting my ankles until I lose it and strangle him or he slips up and exposes me. He thinks he's got this idea that I can make his career. Thinks he wants to be a great journalist, but what he really wants is to be a famous journalist."
Abe shrugged. "A product of the Zeitgeist. But listen: sounds to me like he admires you. If he sees you as some sort of comic book hero, then maybe you should play to that. Comic book heroes have boy sidekicks, don't they?"
"You mean, if I'm Batman, let him think he's Robin?"
"More like that boy reporter who was always tagging along after Superman." Abe snapped his fingers. "What was his name? Timmy…"
"Jimmy Olsen."
"Yeah. Get Jimmy Olsen's focus off you and onto something else."
"Like what?"
Abe shrugged. "I should know? You're Repairman Jack. Me, I'm just a lowly merchant."
"Yeah, right."
At least it was an approach, a possible way out of this mess. But Jack didn't have the faintest idea how to make it work. Yet. This would take thought. In the meantime, he had to deal with the Kozlowskis.
"Okay, lowly merchant. Show me your wares. I've got a feeling I'm going to need some specialized equipment to help me through the night…"