Free Cold City (Repairman Jack - the Early Years Trilogy) by F. Paul Wilson Page B

looked like a tiny office and yammered something.  He emerged with a taller, heavier man following – thicker body, thicker beard, but wearing a white skullcap.  If this was the Mummy, he didn’t look like one.
    “I have never seen you before,” he said in a heavily accented bass voice.
    “Well, that makes two of us.”
    “We need the key to open the back.”
    “My boss has it.  He said he’d be here.”
    “He usually is but he is not.  Usually the driver has the key.”
    Was that so?  Interesting.  But it made sense in a way.
    “This is my first run.”
    The guy hesitated, then nodded.  He didn’t seem perturbed.  “I see.  Then we shall have to wait.”
    It didn’t take long.  Bertel showed up about ten minutes later and motioned Jack out of the truck as he handed the padlock key to one of the beards.
    “You made good time.  No troubles, I take it.”
    “None.”
    He clapped Jack on the upper arm.  “Easiest money you ever made, right?”
    Jack hadn’t seen the cash, so he didn’t feel he’d made it yet.  But he only smiled and nodded.
    The Arabs unloaded the props, then stacked the shrink-wrapped master cases of Marlboros against a wall.  Jack saw a couple of cases of Kools there when he arrived, but that was it.
    “Not much stock,” he said in a low voice.
    “Didn’t I tell you?  These Mohammedans can move cigarettes like nobody’s business.  That’s–”
    “Mohammedans?”
    “Yeah.  What do you call them?”
    Jack shrugged.  “Muslims?”  At least that was what they were called in the papers.
    “We called these oil-mongering, humus-slurping, camel-humping bastards Mohammedans when I was growing up, and I don’t see any reason to change.”
    “So, I take it you’re not drinking buddies.”
    “They don’t drink!  Never trust a man who won’t have a beer with you, Jack.”
    “Is that the real reason you bought us that six-pack the other day?”
    “Damn straight.”  He looked over at the office door.  “Speaking of Mohammedans, I’ve got to go jaw with the Mummy.  Looking for an exclusive here – become his only supplier.”
    Bertel disappeared inside the office, and Jack watched one of the Mummy’s men reload the props while another made a show of counting the cases.  Eight stacks of five, like that took counting.  He heard voices rise in the office but couldn’t make out what was being said.
    Bertel emerged from the office carrying a white legal envelope.  The Mummy followed.
    “I need more Kools,” he said.  “You can supply me many Kools?”
    “Sure can.  Full load?”
    “Forty cases, yes.  I need soon.”
    Bertel jerked his thumb toward Jack.  “I let this guy sleep some, he can be back here day after tomorrow.” He looked at Jack.  “Think you can handle that?”
    Jack didn’t see why not.  If he didn’t leave until six tomorrow night, he’d have nearly twenty-four hours to recoup.
    “Piece of cake.”
    Bertel smiled.  “Famous last words.  But I like your attitude.”  He turned to the Mummy.  “Forty of Kool, day after tomorrow.  Count on it.”  Back to Jack.  “Still got enough driving left in you to get us back to the city?”
    “Sure.”
    The door went up, they drove through Jersey City and Hoboken and back into the Holland Tunnel.  As soon as they entered the tiled gullet, Bertel pulled out the Arab’s envelope and counted out hundred-dollar bills.
    “Put those away,” he said, handing them over.
    Jack slipped them into a back pocket. 
    Okay, now this was officially the easiest thousand he had ever made.  In fact, the only thousand he had ever made in a twenty-four hour period.
     
    4
    Portly Riaz Diab swiveled back and forth in his office chair and shook his head.  “No,” he said in Arabic.  “This is trouble.”
    The unspoken rule was to discuss business in Arabic – the equivalent of a secret code here in America.
    Nasser al-Thani had expected the refusal.  Had been counting on it, in fact.