F. Paul Wilson - Harbingers

Harbingers

A Repairman Jack Novel

F. Paul Wilson

Thanks to the usual crew for theirefforts: my wife, Mary; my editor, David Hartwell; Elizabeth Monteleone; and myagent, Albert Zuckerman. Special thanks to Steven Spruill for his perceptiveinsights and going the extra mile.

More thanks to:

Lisa Krause for the title. Thefolks in the www.repairmanjack.com Forum came up with many excellentsuggestions, but Harbingers hit the bulls-eye.

Ken Valentine and New York Joe forweaponry assistance.

Sandra Escandon, M.D., and PaulGilson, M.D., for neurological guidance.

Stu Schiff for the worlds mostamazing single malts.

And super extra-special thanks toEthan Bateman for lending me his sui generis metaphors.

Finally, a wink and a nod to thefew readers out there wholl know the Wauwinet Inns seasonal schedule.

Hey, Jack, can I bother you aminute?

Jack sat at his table in the rearof Julios. He looked up from his coffee and saw Timmy OBrien, one of Juliosregulars. A fiftyish guy, thin, hangdog face, watery eyes, and wearing aHawaiian shirt in January.

Julios, an Upper West Side barthat had fought the good fight and succeeded in holding on to its working-classroots through the neighborhoods decades of legitimization, rehabilitation,restoration, and gentrification, had been Jacks hang for years. Julio alwayssaved him a table where he could sit with his back to the wall.

Bother?

Well, yeah. I mean, I know aboutwhat happened last month, and Im really sorry for your loss. I know youvestill got to be bummed, but I could really use some help, Jack.

What kind?

Your kind.

Jack sighed. Hed been onsabbatical, ignoring e-mails and voice mails from prospective customers. Didntfeel he could focus enoughor care enoughto earn his fee. That was part of it.Truth was he was having trouble caring about much of anything outside hissmall, immediate circle. No interest, no energy, and probably drinking too muchthese past three weeks.

He didnt need a shrink to tell himhe was depressed. But a shrink would want to give him pills, and Jack didntwant pills. He preferred beerbut not before lunch.

He couldnt find the energy to getup and get out and get moving again. What was the point? Who cared? And when hegot right down to it, did any-thing he did, anything hed ever done,matter in the long run? Had he ever made a difference?

He wondered.

But Timmy looked so needy. Jackwasnt ready to venture outside his self-circumscribed world of Julios, Abes,Gias, and his own place, but maybe he could make a few suggestions.

He pointed to the seat across fromhim.

Shoot.

As Timmy settled his butt in thechair and his draft on the table, Jack reviewed what he knew about the man.

A dozen years ago Timmy had been anadvertising hotshot, near the peak of the copywriter heap. Lots of money, buttoo much of it going up his nose. His agency had been on the short list for abig Citibank account and he had this idea that he was sure would clinch it forthem. Hed once shown the Julios gang a mockup of the ad.

A big, neon-bright lettered crosswith tiny letters below it:

Everyone here at Julios hadthought it was way cool, but the new Timmy said he had no idea where his oldself had come up with such a stupid idea. The agency brass had told him toforget it, but coke-fueled grandiosity mixed with his own hubris had convincedhim that this was the only way to go. So against all advice and all orders,hed pitched it to the bank officers, telling them that though he knew it wouldbe controversial, that very controversy would make Citibank a household name.

The officers agreed, but figuredthe banks name would be associated with other words in those householdslikehell-bound and damned and sacrilegious.

The multimillion-dollar accountwent elsewhere. And soon after, so did Timmy.

After bottoming out a few yearslater, he put himself in rehab, joined NA, and cleaned up his act.

But the clean and sober Timmy wasnot the same man. The guy whod had his finger on the pulse of Americaswantswhod even created some of those wantscould never quite localize thatthrob again. He was still in advertising, but working far below the apogee ofhis heyday. Always a little out of steplike the Hawaiian shirtever functioningjust outside the norm. No longer big-time, resigned to be forever small-time.

In other words, a prototypicalJulios regular.

But Jack didnt remember everseeing him here before five oclock. And a morning beereven if it was latemorningwasnt like the new Timmy. Something had to be bothering him.

Its about my niece.

How old?

Fourteen.

Oh, man.

A problem with a fourteen-year-oldgirl. That could mean anything from promiscuity to drugs to being an all-aroundwild child. None of which Jack could help with.

Timmy held up a hand. Now, now, Iknow what youre thinking, but its nothing like that. Cailins a good kid. Shegoes to Mount Saint Ursula, scholarship and allstraight-A student, fieldhockey, the whole thing.

Then what is it?

Shes gone.

Ran off?

I told you, Cailins not likethat. But this morning, somewhere between her house and school, shedisappeared.

This morning? Jack shook hishead. Hell, Timmy, shes been gone, what, four hours? Shes probably off withher boyfriend.

Except her boyfriends in school.

What do the police say?

Same as you: Hasnt been gone longenough. If someone had seen foul play, thatd be a different story. But withkids running away all the time, theyre pretty blas about the whole thing. Like,Yeah-yeah, come back when its been a coupla days. So Im coming to you,Jack.

Jack sighed. He could see Timmy wasworried, but he had to lay out a few facts of life.

I dont do missing persons, Timmy,especially a hot case. And theres a very good reason for that: I cant. Idont have the resources. Im just one guy, and the cops are many. And theyvegot all those computers and databases and people from CSI: New York.

But theyre not using them!

The other thing is, Im not adetective. Im a fix-it guy.

Well, then, fix this.

Timmy

Damn it, Jack!

Timmy slammed his palms on thetable. His beer mug and Jacks coffee cup jumped. The midday regulars lookedover, then went back to their drinks and talk. He lowered his voice.

My sisters going nuts, Jack, andso am I. I never had kidstwo wives but no kids. Cailins been like a daughter.I couldnt love her more if she were really mine.

That struck a nerve. Jack knew thefeeling. He had the same relationship with Vicky.

What do you think I can do,Timmy?

You know people, and you knowpeople who know peoplepeople the cops dont know.

As in, Ive Got Friends in LowPlaces?

You know what I mean. Put the wordouta sort of street-level Amber Alert. Ill pay a rewardfive hundred, a thousand,my apartment, anything. His throat worked as his voice choked. I just wanther safe and sound. Is that too much to ask?

It might be, but Jack supposed hecould make a few calls. Timmy was a regular here, and Julios regulars tendedto watch each others backs. How could he say no?

Okay, Ill call some people. Hekept his phone list at home. A quick walk from here. But five hundred wont beenough.

Timmy spread his hands. I know youdont come cheap, but like I said: anything.

What Im trying to tell you iswere venturing into Whats-in-it-for-me Land. Some of the guys I call, andmost of the guys they call, arent going to pass the word around out ofthe goodness of their hearts. Theyre going to need incentive.