Free Repairman Jack [09]-Infernal by F. Paul Wilson Page B

gave him a baffled look. “Now you’re doing it too—what the hell are you talking about?”
    Jack repressed the reflex to stonewall his brother. Maybe if he started talking about Joey’s line of work it would divert Tom from what Joey had said about him.
    But he couldn’t seem too agreeable.
    He shook his head. “I don’t know if I should talk about Joey’s occupation. I mean, what with you being an officer of the court and all.”

3

    Tom wanted to hear about this Joey character. He didn’t look like he belonged on The Sopranos exactly, but Tom had seen enough louche types to spot one a light year away.
    “Don’t worry about that. I’m not a judge up here. Not even licensed to practice. Just another plebeian. And let me tell you, I’ve already guessed your pal isn’t a neurosurgeon. What’s he do—sell stolen hubcaps or something?”
    Jack hesitated, then, “He’s a bidonista .”
    “What’s that mean?”
    “Joey says it’s Italian for grifter.”
    “He’s a scam artist?”
    Jack nodded. “Family tradition.”
    Tom treated himself to a pat on the back. But this raised a number of troubling questions. The big one: Jack had told this scam artist he’d be “the first to know.” Know what?
    Maybe things were starting to add up, disconnected pieces beginning to form a picture. Jack’s leaving the family and hiding out in New York for fifteen years… everyone had wondered where he was and what he was doing. The word had come that he was an appliance repairman. Yeah, sure.
    Tom had a growing conviction that his little brother was living, as they say, on the wrong side of the law.
    It explained everything.
    Jack pointed to the traffic lights on First Avenue. They’d turned red.
    “Let’s cross.”
    Tom held back. “We’re walking?”
    “I’d rather not talk about this in a cab.”
    Now this was interesting. Tom weighed which he wanted more: a warm cab or a peek into his brother’s secret life.
    No contest. He hunched his shoulders against the chill and stepped off the curb.
    “Okay. Let’s go. Start talking.”
    “Well, Joey’s last name isn’t Castles.”
    As if I didn’t know, he thought.
    “Let me guess: It’s Castellano or something like that.”
    “Castellano—right. Very good. His older brother Frankie was killed along with Dad.”
    It shouldn’t have come as something of a shock that other people had lost family members too, but Tom had been focused on Dad.
    Not that that should surprise anyone, he thought.
    He was always taking heat for being self-centered. Privately he agreed—nolo contendere—but made a point of blustering about the unfairness of the charge whenever one of his wives brought it up.
    “Shit. Too bad. They were close, I bet. Not like us.”
    Jack gave him a long look. Was that regret in his eyes?
    “No. Not like us.”
    Tom didn’t want to get onto that subject.
    “So what were these brothers into?”
    “Their father, Frank Senior, used to run one of the original telephone booth scams out of Florida.”
    Florida…
    Tom shivered as they started up 29 th Street. A lessening of the wind here between the avenues made the air seem warmer, but not a whole hell of a lot. He could use a little Florida himself right now.
    “Connected?”
    “Yes and no. He wasn’t in the outfit, but he paid them a piece of the action to, you know, avoid trouble.”
    “Telephone booths… I’ve had a lot of scams come through my court, but that’s a new one.”
    “No, it’s an old one. It’s passé now. But back in the day Big Frank would take out ads in small town papers all over the South and in the Midwest offering to sell people phone booths.”
    “Phone booths? What would anyone want—?”
    “Just hear me out and you’ll know. The pitch was you could buy as many as you wanted; you could install them yourself or, for a small percentage, Big Frank’s company would handle installation, maintenance, and collect all those coins. Once you were set up you’d have a