“I read you.”
Tram gave him the address of his laundry and a down payment in twenty dollar bills that were old yet clean and crisp – like he had washed, starched, and pressed them. Jack in return gave him his customary promise to deduct from his fee the worth of any currency or valuables he happened to recover from D’Amico & Co. during the course of the job.
After bowing three times, Tram left him alone at the table. Julio took his place.
“The name ‘Cirlot’ mean anything to you?” he asked.
Jack thought a moment. “Sure. Ed Cirlot. The blackmailer.”
A customer named Levinson – Tom Levinson – had come to Jack a few years ago asking to get Cirlot off his back. Levinson was a high end dealer in identities. Primo quality. Jack had used him twice in the past himself. So Levinson had called him when Cirlot had found a screw and begun turning it.
Cirlot, it seemed, had learned of a few high placed foreign mobsters who had availed themselves of Levinson’s services. He threatened to tip the Feds to their ersatz I D the next time they came Stateside. Levinson knew that if that ever happened, their boys would come looking for him.
Cirlot had made a career out of blackmail, it seemed. He was always looking for new pigeons. So Jack set himself up as a mark – supposedly a crooked coin dealer running a nationwide scam from a local boiler room. Cirlot wanted ten large down and one a month to keep quiet. If he didn’t get it, the FTC would come a knockin’ and not only close Jack down, but take him to court.
Jack had paid him – in bogus twenties. Cirlot had been caught with the counterfeit – enough of it to make a charge of conspiracy to distribute stick. When he’d named Jack’s coin operation as his source, no such operation could be found. He got ten years soft Fed time.
“Don’t tell me he’s out already.”
“Si. Good behavior. And he was asking around about you.”
Jack didn’t like that. Cirlot wasn’t supposed to know anything about Repairman Jack. The coin dealer who had stiffed the blackmailer with bogus was gone like he had never existed. Because he hadn’t.
So why was Cirlot looking for Repairman Jack? There was no connection.
Except for Tom Levinson.
“I think I’ll go visit a certain I D dealer.”
*
Jack spotted Levinson up on East 92nd Street, approaching his apartment house from the other side. Levinson spotted him at the same time. Instead of waving, he turned and started to run. But he couldn’t move too fast because his foot was all bandaged up. He did a quick hop skip limp combination that made him look like a fleeing Walter Brennan. Jack caught up to him easily.
“What’s the story, Tom?” he said, grabbing Levinson’s shoulder.
He looked frightened, and his spiked black hair only heightened the effect. He was a thin, weaslely man trying to look younger than his forty-something years. He was panting and his eyes were darting left and right like a cornered animal.
“I couldn’t help it, Jack! I had to tell him!”
“Tell him what?”
“About you!” His mouth began running at breakneck speed. “Somehow he connected me and that coin dealer you played. Maybe he had lots of time to think while he was inside. Maybe he remembered that he first heard about a certain coin dealer from me. Anyway, the first thing he does when he gets out is come to me. I was scared shitless, but he doesn’t want me. He wants you. Said you set him up for a fall and made him look like a jerk.”
Jack turned away from Levinson and walked in a small circle. He was angry at Levinson, and disappointed as well. He had thought the forger was a stand up guy.
“We had a deal,” Jack said. “When I took you on, you were to keep quiet about it. You don’t know Repairman Jack – never hear of him. That’s part of the deal. Why didn’t you play dumb?”
“I did, but he wasn’t having any.”
“So tell him to go squat.”
“I did.” Levinson sighed. “Jack...he started cutting off my toes.”
The words stunned Jack. “He what?”
“My toes!” Levinson pointed to his bandaged left foot. “He tied me up and cut off my fucking little toe! And he was going to cut off another and another and keep on cutting until I told him how to find you!”
Jack felt his jaw muscles tighten. “Jesus!”
“So I told him all I knew, Jack. Which ain’t much. I gave him the White Pages number and told him we met at Julio’s. I don’t know any more so I couldn’t tell him any more. He didn’t believe me, so he cut off the next one.”
“He cut off two toes?” Jack felt his gut knot.
“With a big shiny meat cleaver. You want to see?”
“Hell no.” He shook off the revulsion. “I took Cirlot for the white collar type. He never seemed the kind to mix it up.”
“Maybe he used to be, but he ain’t that way now. He’s crazed, Jack. And he wants to bring you down real bad. Says he’s gonna make you look like shit, then he’s gonna ice you. And I guess he’s already tried, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
Jack thought of the shot through the hotel window and the falling cement bag.
“Yeah. Twice.”
“I’m sorry, Jack, but he really hurt me.”
“Christ, Tom. Don’t give it another thought. I mean, your toes...damn!”
He told Levinson he’d take care of things and left him there. As he walked away, he wondered how many toes he’d have given up for Levinson.
He decided he could muddle through life without ever knowing the answer to that one.
*
As soon as the car pulled to a stop in front of the laundry, Aldo reached for the door handle. He felt Joey grab his arm.
“Mr. D. Let me go in. You stay out here.”
Aldo shrugged off the hand. “I know where you’re comin’ from, Joey, but don’t keep buggin’ my ass about this.”
Joey spread his hands and shrugged. “Ay. You’re the boss. But I still don’t think it’s right, know what I mean?”
Joey was okay. Aldo knew how he felt: He was Aldo D’Amico’s driver and bodyguard, so he should be doing all the rough stuff. And as far as Aldo was concerned, Joey could have most of it. But not all of it. Aldo wasn’t going to hide in the background all the time like Tony C. Hell, in his day Tony could walk through areas like this and hardly anyone would know him. He was just another paisan to these people. Well, that wasn’t going to be Aldo’s way. Everybody was going to know who he was. And when he walked through is was going to be, “Good morning, Mr. D’Amico!” “Would you like a nice apple, Mr. D’Amico?” “Have some coffee, Mr. D’Amico!” “Right this way, Mr. D’Amico!” People were going to know him, were going to treat him with respect. He deserved a little goddamn respect by now. He’d be forty five next month. He’d done Tony the Cannon’s scut work forever. Knew all the ins and outs of the operation. Now it was his. And everybody was going to know that.
“I’ll handle this like I did yesterday,” he told Joey. “Like I told you: I believe in giving certain matters the personal touch.”
What he didn’t tell Joey was that he liked the rough stuff. That was the only bad thing about moving up in the organization – you never got a chance for hands on communication with jerks like the gook who owned this laundry. Never a peep out of the little yellow bastard all the years Tony C. was running things, but as soon as he’s gone, the gook thinks he’s gonna get independent with the new guy. Not here, babe. Not when the new guy’s Aldo D’Amico.
He was hoping the gook gave him some more bullshit about not using his place for a drop anymore. Any excuse to work him over again like the other day.