"How come you're in such a good mood?"
"Why not?"
"You been a grouch for months now, man."
Jack hadn't realized it had been so obvious. "Personal."
Julio shrugged and poured him a cup of coffee. Jack sipped it black while he waited. He never liked first meetings with a customer. There was always a chance he wasn't a customer but somebody with a score to settle. He got up and checked the exit door to make sure it was unlocked.
Two Con Ed workers came in for a coffee break. They took their coffee clear and golden with a foamy cap, poured into pilsner glasses as they watched the tv over the bar. Phil Donahue was interviewing three transvestite grammar school teachers; everyone on the screen, including Donahue, had green hair and pumpkin-colored complexions. Julio served the Con Ed men a second round, then came out from behind the bar and took a seat by the door.
Jack glanced at the paper. "WHERE ARE THE WINOS?" was the headline. The press was getting lots of mileage out of the rapid and mysterious dwindling of the city's derelict population during the past few months.
At ten-thirty-two, Mr. Bahkti came in. No doubt it was him. He wore a white turban and a navy blue Nehru-type tunic. His dark skin seemed to blend into his clothes. For an instant after the door swung shut behind him, all Jack could see was a turban floating in the air at the other end of the dim tavern.
Julio approached him immediately. Words were exchanged and Jack noted the newcomer flinch away as Julio leaned against him. He seemed angry as Julio walked toward Jack with an elaborate shrug.
"He's clean," he said as he came back to Jack's booth. "Clean but weird."
"How do you read him?"
"That's jus' it—I don't read him. He's bottled up real tight. Nothing at all out of that guy. Nothing but creeps."
"What?"
"Something 'bout him gives me the creeps, man. Wouldn't want to get on his wrong side. You better be sure you can make him happy before you take him on."
Jack drummed his fingers on the table. Julio's reaction made him uneasy. The little man was all macho and braggadocio. He must have sensed something pretty unsettling about Mr. Bahkti to have even mentioned it.
"What'd you do to get him riled up?" Jack asked.
"Nothing special. He just got real ticked off when I gave him my 'accidental frisk.' Didn't like that one bit. Do I send him back, or you wanna take off?"
Jack hesitated, toying with the idea of getting out now. After all, he probably was going to have to turn the man down anyway. But he had agreed to meet him, and the guy had arrived on time.
"Send him back and let's get this over with."
Julio waved Bahkti toward the booth and headed back to his place behind the bar.
Bahkti strolled toward Jack with a smooth, gliding gait that reeked of confidence and self-assurance. He was halfway down the aisle when Jack realized with a start that his left arm was missing at the shoulder. But there was no pinned-up empty sleeve—the jacket had been tailored without a left sleeve. He was a tall man—six-three, Jack guessed—lean but sturdy. Well into his forties, maybe fifty. The nose was long; he wore a sculpted beard, neatly trimmed to a point at the chin. What could be seen of his mouth was wide and thin-lipped. The whites of his deep walnut eyes almost glowed in the darkness of his face, reminding Jack of John Barrymore in Svengali.
He stopped at the edge of the facing banquette and looked down at Jack, taking his measure just as Jack was taking his.
2
Kusum Bahkti did not like this place called Julio's, stinking as it did of grilled beef and liquor, and peopled with the lower castes. Certainly one of the foulest locations he had had the misfortune to visit in this foul city. He was probably polluting his karma merely by standing here.
And surely this very average-looking mid-thirtyish man sitting before him was not the one he was looking for. He looked like any American's brother, anyone's son, someone you would pass anywhere in this city and never notice. He looked too normal, too ordinary, too everyday to supply the services Kusum had been told about.
If I were home…
Yes. If he were home in Bengal, in Calcutta, he would have everything under control. A thousand men would be combing the city for the transgressor. He would be found, and he would wail and curse the hour of his birth before being sent on to another life. But here in America Kusum was reduced to an impotent supplicant standing before this stranger, asking for help. It made him sick.
"Are you the one?" he asked.
"Depends on who you're looking for," the man said.
Kusum noted the difficulty the American was having trying to keep his eyes off his truncated left shoulder.
"He calls himself Repairman Jack."
The man spread his hands. "Here I am."
This couldn't be him. "Perhaps I have made a mistake."
"Perhaps so," said the American. He seemed preoccupied, not the least bit interested in Kusum or what problem he might have.
Kusum turned to go, deciding he was constitutionally incapable of asking the help of a stranger, especially this stranger, then changed his mind. By Kali, he had no choice!
He sat down across the table from Repairman Jack. "I am Kusum Bahkti."
"Jack Nelson." The American proffered his right hand.
Kusum could not bring himself to grasp it, yet he did not want to insult this man. He needed him.
"Mr. Nelson—"
"Jack, please."
"Very well… Jack." He was uncomfortable with such informality upon meeting. "Your pardon. I dislike to be touched. An Eastern prejudice."
Jack glanced at his hand, as if inspecting it for dirt.
" I do not wish to offend—"
"Forget it. Who gave you my number?"
"Time is short… Jack"—it took conscious effort to use that first name—"and I must insist—"
"I always insist on knowing where the customer came from. Who?"
"Very welclass="underline" Mr. Burkes at the U.K. Mission to the United Nations." Burkes had answered Kusum's frantic call this morning and had told him how well this Jack fellow had handled a very dangerous and delicate problem for the U.K. Mission during the Falklands crisis.
Jack nodded. "I know Burkes. You with the U.N.?"
Kusum knotted his fist and managed to tolerate the interrogation.
"Yes."
"And I suppose you Pakistani delegates are pretty tight with the British."
Kusum felt as if he had been slapped in the face. He half-started from his seat. "Do you insult me? I am not one of those Moslem—!" He caught himself. Probably an innocent error. Americans were ignorant of the most basic information. "I am from Bengal, a member of the Indian Delegation. I am a Hindu. Pakistan, which used to be the Punjab region of India, is a Moslem country."
The distinction appeared to be completely lost on Jack.
"Whatever. Most of what I know about India I learned from watching Gunga Din about a hundred times. So tell me about your grandmother."
Kusum was momentarily baffled. Wasn't "Gunga Din" a poem? How did one watch a poem? He set his confusion aside.
"Understand," he said, absently brushing at a fly that had taken a liking to his face, "that if this were my own country I would resolve the matter in my own fashion."
"Where is she now?"
"In St. Clare's hospital on West Fif—"
"I know where it is. What happened to her?"
"Her car broke down in the early hours of this morning. While her driver went to find a taxicab for her, she foolishly got out of the car. She was assaulted and beaten. If a police car hadn't come by, she would have been killed."