Jack shrugged. "I've found two people in as many weeks with a beef against him."
"Be careful. He's a mean one. Not afraid to get his own hands dirty—likes it, I'm told."
"Dirty as in red and wet?"
"Exactly."
Jack blew out a breath. "Well, I wasn't thinking of getting in close."
"Good thinking. With that man, arm's length is too close."
Abe finished his bagel and brushed off his littered shirtfront. The parakeet raced around, gobbling up the cascade of crumbs.
"Look at my Parabellum," he said. "Better than a Dustbuster, that bird." He shook his head. "Listen to me. I'm kvelling about a parakeet."
"You've got to get out more, Abe."
"I should go out like a schnook so I can get roughed up by some middle-aged marauders? Feh! I read the papers." He waved a pudgy hand at his stack of newspapers; Abe read all the papers every day—the Times, the Daily News, the Post, Newsday, the Village Voice, even the pink-sheeted weekly Observer. "A jungle out there. I'm better off at home watching I Love Lucy reruns."
"Come on. The city's so safe lately it's practically a theme park."
"So the mayor and his minions say, but I see the shiny mantle slipping. I perceive a contrarian trend. And besides, if the city should be too safe, it could be bad for business."
"It's great for business—except maybe yours."
Abe didn't sell enough sporting goods to pay the rent, let alone make a living. His real stock was hidden beneath their feet: if it fired a bullet, Abe sold it.
"Sales falling off?"
Abe shrugged. "Falling off, no. Flat, yes. But that's not bad. It could mean I'm reaching my goal."
"The polite society?"
Abe nodded. His idea of the ideal society was one where everyone was armed at all times. He truly believed in the Heinlein adage that an armed society is a polite society.
"What about you? How's demand for Repairman Jack's services?"
"Strong as ever. Probably won't slack off till the system works."
Abe laughed. "Such a bright future you have. But seriously. Did you ever think that maybe the city is too safe and that's why so many people are going meshugge? Maybe they were so used to feeling threatened that now that they aren't, all that pent-up, unspent adrenaline is blowing their tops."
Jack stared at him. This was what he loved most about Abe: his crazy theories. But he'd never tell him that.
Abe stared back. "Nu?"
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
"Then how do you explain all those otherwise law-abiding middle-aged preppies going on a rampage last night? Or how about this?" He looked down at the New York Post that lay spread out on the counter between them. "Where was it? I just—oy, Parabellum!"
"Looks like your feathered Dustbuster left you a thank-you note."
Abe grabbed a tissue and wiped up the droppings. He pointed to a column of type. "Here it is. An article about this advertising firm's CEO who hears that their biggest account is being transferred to another shop. What does he do? He picks up a paperweight and starts beating on the account exec who was in charge. Kills him almost. This is normal?"
Jack thought of the murderous rage of the cab lady but didn't mention her. Abe would only say it bolstered his theory.
"It's a big city. Takes all kinds."
"This isn't an isolated incident. All over, I'm seeing it. A trend, I tell you. People flying off the handle for no reason—or for just a little reason maybe. And all because the city is too safe. Pent-up adrenaline. Congested spleens. Something must be done."
Abe was on a roll, and Jack would have loved to hang around and see how far he could ride this, but he had to go.
"Does this train of thought have a caboose?"
"Not yet."
"I know just the thing, then," Jack said, heading for the door. "Start passing a petition for a more dangerous New York. And while you're doing that, I'll go see a new customer."
"Be careful out there," Abe called after him. "Spleens exploding everywhere."
4
Nadia felt giddy as she entered the fashionably retro art deco lobby of the gleaming thirty-story office building on East Thirty-fourth Street, her earlier apprehensions swept away by a surge of anticipation: finally, after two weeks of orientation and acclimation, she would be introduced to the project she had been hired for.
But her euphoria condensed into a cold leaden lump in her stomach when she recognized one of the men sharing her elevator. He looked fiftyish, and his beige-and-charcoal glen plaid suit had to cost a couple of thousand dollars, maybe more considering the tailoring that must have been necessary for the perfect fit around his broad shoulders; his highly polished black shoes were made out of some sort of patterned leather—lizard, rattlesnake, or some other appropriate reptile—no tie, but a diamond stud secured the deacon's collar of his shirt. His gelled jet hair swept straight back from his ruddy face like a glistening pelt, accentuating his high cheekbones, strong nose, and thin lips. His cold dark eyes swept through the elevator cab, lingered briefly on Nadia, then moved on, a raptor cataloging the immediately available rodent population.
Milos Dragovic.
Nadia's mood sank even further when she saw him press the 16 button, already lit because she'd pressed it a few seconds earlier.
He was going to the GEM offices. Why? To shake down Dr. Monnet again? She couldn't stand this. It had to be stopped. She was suddenly glad she'd hired Jack. All lingering doubts vanished. She had done the right thing.
She watched Milos Dragovic out of the corner of her eye. No question he had a commanding presence, sort of what she'd expected from Repairman Jack. He radiated power, a true alpha male who didn't want anyone to forget it. Here was a man who needed to be noticed—demanded to be noticed—whereas Jack seemed to prefer invisibility.
Nadia could see why models and starlets and celebrities were attracted to Dragovic. Something primal about his features, his hair, his build, his bearing. If there was such a thing as animal magnetism, Milos Dragovic had it.
She sniffed. The elevator car quickly had become redolent of his musky cologne—probably Eau de Testosterone or the like.
He seemed to be alone. Nadia glanced around. The other half-dozen occupants of the car appeared to be average workaday souls like her. Didn't hoods like Dragovic travel with bodyguards and gofers?
Finally the car stopped at the sixteenth floor, the home of GEM Pharma's corporate offices. Dragovic stepped out ahead of her where he faced a wall of glass etched with the GEM Pharma logo. Claudine the receptionist spotted Nadia through the glass and buzzed her in with a wave and a smile. Dragovic pushed through behind her.
"Excuse me, sir—" Claudine began.
"I have meeting with your bosses," Dragovic said in a deep, sharp, slightly accented voice, never slowing or bothering even to look at her.
Claudine glanced down at her schedule book. "I have nothing about a meeting here."
"That is because I call meeting, sweetheart."
Dragovic kept moving. No hesitation—he seemed to know exactly where he was going, striding down the hallway toward the boardroom as if he owned the place.
"I'm not your sweetheart," Claudine said in a low voice.
"Call security," Nadia said.
Claudine shrugged. "What's the point? Nobody ever objects when he busts in."
Nadia watched Dragovic's back, furious. Where did he get off bulling his way in here like this? She was tempted to follow him and see if she could eavesdrop on this meeting. But that could be risky. If she got caught it might mean a one-way ticket back to the sidewalk.