Conspiracies

"Will do, but no promises. You should keep it, maybe."

"And what?" Jack slapped a hand over his heart in shock. "Replace my Semmerling?"

"I should suggest you abandon your favorite little baby gun? Never. But maybe consider replacing that Glock 19 you're using lately. After all, the Smitty's a revolver."

Jack rolled his eyes. "Not this again."

"It's a thought."

Abe never had trusted automatics. And he never stopped trying to convert Jack, who leaned toward them.

Jack said, "That thing's heavy and holds only six rounds—five if you keep it down on empty like I tend to do with revolvers. My glock's small, about as light as they come, and gives me a helluva lot more shots."

"With the kind of close situations you get yourself into, even a lousy shot like you shouldn't need more than three or four rounds. And a revolver will never jam."

"Call it a security blanket. And I've never had a cycling problem. Mainly because you sell me only the best ammo."

"Well, yes," Abe said, thrown off by the compliment. "Quality makes a difference. Speaking of which, how are you fixed for ammo?"

"Pretty good. Why?"

"Just got in some new stock." He pulled a box from under the counter. "Look. Those Magsafe Defenders you're using."

"Great. I'm running low on the .45s."

Jack had been using frangibles like Glaser Silvers and MagSafe Defenders for a while now—hollow point rounds packed with birdshot that released after impact.

"Forty-fives and nines, ready to go."

Jack shook his head, remembering how naive he'd been when he'd first started in the fix-it business. He'd thought all you had to do was buy a gun and some bullets and that was it.

Not by a long shot. Accuracy, chambering, weight, concealability, number of rounds in the magazine or cylinder, the safety mechanism, the weight of the single-action pull, the weight of the double-action pull, ease of maintenance—all had to be weighed and considered. Then came the ammunition: different situations required different loads. Did he want full metal jackets, jacketed hollowpoints, or frangibles? What size load? Choose from ninety-five to 230 grains. Medium compression or high compression? And don't forget, recoil is directly proportional to the compression of the load and inversely proportional to the weight of the pistol. A lightweight model with +P+ loads will want to fly out of your hand every time you fire.

Jack was still feeling his way.

"Frangibles are nice," Abe said. "But you should be carrying something with more penetration maybe?"

Jack shook his head. He felt safer with the frangibles. "Penetration doesn't equal stopping power in my book."

"Stopping power," Abe said, holding up one of the Defender rounds. "That they've got."

"I'll pick some up tomorrow. I don't want to be carrying them around with me the rest of the day."

"Big wounds," Abe said, speaking to the gleaming bullet in his hand. "Deep as a well and wide as a church door."

"They're good," Jack said, "but I think that's overstating it a little, don't you?"

"That was Shakespeare, sort of."

"Shakespeare? No kidding. I didn't know he used frangibles."

Jack backed toward the door as Abe cocked his arm to throw the bullet at him. "Got to go. By the way—Ernie's still in business, isn't he?"

"Sure. You need new ID?"

"I'm feeling the need for a new SSN."

"Another Social Security number?" Abe said. "You're trying to corner the market, maybe?"

"Just being careful."

"Always with the careful. I've used the same phony number forever. Do you see me getting a new one every couple of years?"

"I need a wider comfort zone than you," Jack said. "Besides, you've got a real one you can use. I don't."

"You're crazy, you know. What's it for?"

"A new credit card."

"Another card!" He slapped his hands to the sides of his face and rocked dramatically. "Oy! I never should have got you started. You've become an addict!"

Jack laughed. "And can I borrow the truck again? I've got to meet a customer in Elmhurst tonight."

"No one's going to be shooting at you, I hope. I don't want holes in my lady."

"No. This is just a reconnoiter. I'll rent something for the rest of the gig."

He wouldn't want Abe's plate reported near the scene of a felony.

4

"That him?" Jack said.

He crouched in the bushes behind a two-story, center-hall colonial in a middle-class neighborhood in Elmhurst. A guy named Oscar Schaffer hunkered next to him. This was their second meeting. They'd agreed to preliminary terms earlier in the week; now they were ironing out details.

"Yeah," said Schaffer, glaring through the French doors into the house's family room. The man of the house was a big guy, easily six-four, two-fifty; crew-cut red hair, round face, and narrow blue eyes. A bulging gut rode side-saddle on his belt buckle. "That's Gus Castleman, the no-good slimy rotten bastard who's beating up on my sister."

"Seems like there's a lot of that going around."

This wouldn't be the first wife-beater Jack had been asked to handle. He thought of Julio's sister. Her husband had been pounding on her. That was how Jack had met Julio. They'd been friends ever since.

"Yeah? Well it never went around in my family. At least until now."

A thin, mousy, brittle-looking woman whose hair was a few shades too blonde to be a natural human color entered the family room.

"And that, I take it, is your sister."

"That's Ceil, poor kid."

"Okay," Jack said. "Now that I know what they look like, let's get out of here."

They crept along the six-foot stockade cedar fence that separated the Castlemans' yard from their neighbors—one of the good things about this set-up. Also on the plus side: they had no kids, no dog, and their yard was rimmed with trees and high shrubs. Perfect for surveillance.

After checking to make sure the street was empty, Jack and Schaffer stepped back onto the sidewalk and walked the two blocks to the darkened gas station lot where they'd left their respective rides. They chose the front seat of Schaffer's dark green Jaguar XJS convertible.

"Not a great venue for a meeting, but it'll do."

The Jag smelled new inside. The leather upholstery was buttery soft. Bright, bleaching light from a nearby mercury vapor street lamp poured through the windshield and illuminated their laps.

Oscar Schaffer was some sort of big-time developer, but he didn't look like Donald Trump. He was older, for one thing—late fifties, at least—and fat. A round face with dark thinning hair above, and a second chin under construction below. One of the biggest land developers on Long Island, as he was overly fond of saying. Rich, but not Trump-rich.

And he was sweating. Jack wondered if Donald Trump sweated. The Donald might perspire, but Jack couldn't imagine him sweating.

Jack watched Schaffer pull a white handkerchief from his pocket and blot the moisture. Supposedly he'd started out as a construction worker who'd got into contracting and then had gone on to make a mint in custom homes. His speech still carried echoes of the streets, despite occasional words like "venue." And he carried a handkerchief. Jack couldn't think of anyone he knew who carried a handkerchief—who owned a handkerchief.

"I never thought it would happen to Ceilia. She's so ... "

His voice trailed off.

Jack said nothing. This was the time to keep quiet and listen. This was when he tended to learn the real deal about the customer. He still didn't have a handle on Schaffer. He did know he didn't particularly care for the guy. Maybe it was the Mr. Bigtime Success Story attitude.

"I just don't understand it. Gus seemed like such a good guy when they were dating and engaged. I liked him. An accountant, white collar, good job, clean hands, everything I wanted for Ceil. I helped him get his job. He's done well. But he beats her." Schaffer's lips thinned as they stew back over his teeth. "Dammit, he beats the shit out of her. And you know what's worse? She takes it! She's put up with it for ten years! I'm to the point where I'm thinking the best thing that could happen to Ceil was Gus meeting with some sort of fatal accident."