The Tomb (Repairman Jack)

Canelli? Does she know about your mother? Does she know how you came to where you are?”

'Nope. Didn't wait to hear.'

'There! You see? She knows nothing! She understands nothing! And she's closed her mind to you. Someone like that you don’t need.'

'I do.'

Abe rubbed a hand across his forehead, leaving a white smear.

“Nu? You've never been ditched?'

'Abe...I can't remember ever feeling about anyone the way I feel about Gia. And she's afraid of me!'

'Fear of the unknown. She doesn't know you, so she's afraid of you. I know all about you. Am I afraid?'

'Aren't you? Ever?'

'Never!' He trotted back behind the counter and picked up a copy of the New York Post. Riffling through the pages he said, 'Look—a five-year old beaten to death by his mother's boyfriend! A guy with a straight razor slashed eight people in Times Square last night and then disappears into a subway! A headless, handless torso is found in a West Side hotel room! As a hit- and-run victim lies bleeding in the street, people run up to him, rob him, and then leave him there. I should be afraid of you?'

Jack shrugged, unconvinced. None of this would bring Gia back; it was what he was that had driven her away. He decided he wanted to do his business here and go home.

'I need something.'

'What?'

'A slapper. Lead and leather.'

Abe nodded. 'Ten ounces do?'

“Sure.”

Abe locked the front door and hung the Back in a Few Minutes sign facing out through the glass. He passed Jack and led him toward the back where they stepped into a closet and closed the door after them. A push swung the rear wall of the closet away from them. Abe hit a light switch and they started down a worn stone stairway. As they moved, a neon sign flickered to life:

Fine Weapons

The Right to Buy Weapons Is the

Right to Be Free

Jack had often asked Abe why he’d placed a neon sign where advertising would do no good; Abe unfailingly replied that every good weapons shop should have such a sign.

'When you get right down to it, Jack,' Abe was saying, 'what I think of you or what Gia thinks of you—will that matter much in the long run? No. Because a long run there won’t be. Everything's falling apart. You know that. Not much time left before civilization collapses completely. Meshugge Islamics are just the tip of the iceberg. It's going to start soon. The banks'll start to go any day now. These people who think their savings are insured by the FDIC? Feh! Such got a rude awakening they’ve got coming! Just wait till the first couple of banks go under and they find out the FDIC only has enough to cover a pupik's worth of the deposits it's supposed to be insuring. Panic you'll see. And that's when the government will crank up the printing presses to full speed to cover those deposits. Then runaway inflation just like Weimar Germany. Bushel baskets of —'

Jack cut him off. He knew the routine by heart.

'You've been telling me this for ten years, Abe. Economic ruin has been around the corner for a decade now. Where is it?'

'Coming, Jack. Coming. I'm glad my daughter's full-grown and disinclined toward marriage and a family. I shudder at the thought that a child or a grandchild of mine should be growing up in the coming time.'

Jack thought of Vicky. 'Full of good cheer as usual, aren't you? The only man I know who lights up a room when he leaves.'

'A comedian he’s become. I'm only trying to open your eyes so you can take steps to protect yourself.'

'And what about you? You've got a bomb shelter somewhere in the sticks full of freeze-dried food?'

Abe shook his head. 'I have a place, but built for a post-holocaust lifestyle I'm not. And I'm too old to learn.'

He flipped another wall switch at the bottom of the steps, bringing the ceiling lights to life.

The basement was as crowded as the upstairs, only there was no sporting equipment down here, The walls and floors were covered with every one-man weapon imaginable: switchblades, clubs, swords, brass knuckles, and a full array of firearms from derringers to bazookas.

Abe went over to a cardboard box and rummaged through it.

'You want a slapper or the braided kind?'

'Braided.'

Abe tossed him something in a Zip-lok bag. Jack removed it and hefted it in his hand. The sap, sometimes called a blackjack, was made of thin strips of leather woven around a lead weight; the weave tightened and tapered down to a firm handle that ended in a looped thong for the wrist. Jack fitted it on and tried a few short swings. The flexibility allowed him to get his wrist into the motion, a feature that might come in handy at close quarters.

He stood looking at the sap.