Repairman Jack 11 - Bloodline by F. Paul Wilson

Author:F. Paul Wilson [Wilson, F. Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror, Fiction, Thrillers, General, Fantasy fiction, Mystery & Detective, Romance, Repairman Jack (Fictitious character), Hard-Boiled, Mystery fiction, Private investigators
ISBN: 9780765356321
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2008-09-30T04:00:00+00:00

5

After a slow, frustrating trip uptown, mostly on First Avenue, Thompson's cab made a left on 39th Street and headed west.

Back to his publisher?

Could have a meeting, could be going out to lunch. That meant another lengthy wait. Jack wished he knew whether or not he had the book on him. If not, this was all a waste of time.

The cab pulled to the right and stopped, not before the Vector Publications building but a branch of the Bank of New York. Three words immediately tumbled through Jack's brain.

Safety deposit box.

Maybe Thompson had one, maybe he was about to rent one, but whatever the case, Jack couldn't let him stash the Compendium in a bank. He'd never see it again.

"Quick! Pull up behind him. Close as you can."

As Thompson paid the cabby, Levy eased to a stop and Jack crawled into the backseat. He lowered the rear passenger-side window and stuck his head out. Thompson was stepping out of the cab, swinging his backpack over his shoulder as Jack called.

"Mister Thompson! Hank!" Jack waved as Thompson turned. "Hey, buddy! Remember me?"

Thompson's curious expression morphed into a glare. "I remember you, you phony bastard!"

Must have done some checking up. Jack pretended not to hear.

"I'm so glad I ran into you. I have a couple of follow-up questions I'd like to—"

"You lying fuck!" Thompson was striding toward the car. Now that Jack knew they were brothers, he could see Bolton in his eyes. "What are you after?"

"Nothing. I—"

Closer.

"I mean, what's your game, man?"

"I just need to ask," Jack said, then let his volume fall. "Do you hang it to the left or right?"

Closer.

"What?"

"You deaf or something? Left or right? Does yours hang left or right?"

Jack eased back as Thompson pushed his face right up to the window opening, a definite Texas Tower look growing in his eyes.

"I want you out of my sight, scumbag! I ever see you again I'm gonna—"

Jack hit the window up button as he grabbed a fistful of his curly Morrison locks and yanked his head inside. Thompson tried to pull back but the rising edge of the window caught him under the chin, trapping him without quite choking him.

Thompson went wild. Red-faced with bulging eyes, he filled the car with incoherent screamed curses as he thrashed about like a trapped animal, twisting, kicking, straining, pounding his fists against the window and door and roof.

Jack slid toward the opposite side of the seat. He saw Levy's white face and wide eyes staring at him over the backrest.

"Dear God! What are you doing?"

"Only be a minute."

Jack slipped out the door on the driver side and stepped around the rear of the car. Few people were looking, and only long enough to nudge and point and grin. This was New York, after all.

Still, Jack hated this. He preferred subtle, preferred to operate shielded, from a distance, invisible. This was crude and it exposed him, but he couldn't stand by and watch the book sealed away in a bank vault. Sometimes you had to go with the most direct method.

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