The Tomb (Repairman Jack)

Julio shrugged and poured him a cup of coffee. Jack sipped it black while he waited. He never liked first meetings with a customer. There was always a chance he wasn't a customer but somebody with a score to settle. He got up and checked the exit door to make sure it was unlocked.

Two Con Ed workers came in for a coffee break. They took their coffee clear and golden with a foamy cap, poured into pilsner glasses as they watched the TV over the bar. Some guy was interviewing three transvestite grammar schoolteachers; everyone on the screen had greenish hair and pumpkin-colored complexions. Julio served the Con Ed men a second round, then came out from behind the bar and took a seat by the door.

Jack glanced at the paper. 'Where Are the Winos?' was the headline. The press was getting lots of mileage out of the rapid and mysterious dwindling of the city's derelict population during the past few months.

At ten-thirty-two, Mr. Bahkti came in. No doubt it was him. He wore a navy blue Nehru-type tunic. His dark skin seemed to blend into his clothes. For an instant after the door swung shut behind him, all Jack could see was a pair of eyes floating in the air at the other end of the dim tavern.

Julio approached him immediately. Words were exchanged and Jack noted the newcomer flinch away as Julio leaned against him. He seemed angry as Julio walked toward Jack with an elaborate shrug.

'He's clean,' he said as he came back to Jack's booth. 'Clean but weird.'

'How do you read him?'

'That's jus' it—I don't read him. He's bottled up real tight. Nothing at all out of that guy. Nothing but creeps.'

'What?'

'Sonthin 'bout him gimme the creeps, man. Wouldn't want to get on his wrong side. You better be sure you can make him happy before you take him on.'

Jack drummed his fingers on the table. Julio's reaction made him uneasy. The little man was all macho and braggadocio. He must have sensed something pretty unsettling about Mr. Bahkti to have even mentioned it.

'What'd you do to get him riled up?' Jack asked.

'Nothin’ special. He jus’ got real ticked off when I give him my 'accidental' frisk. Didn't like that one bit. You wanna take off?'

Jack hesitated, toying with the idea of getting out now. After all, he probably was going to have to turn the man down anyway. But he had agreed to meet him, and the guy had arrived on time.

'Send him back and let's get this over with.'

Julio waved Bahkti toward the booth and headed back to his place behind the bar.

Bahkti strolled toward Jack with a smooth, gliding gait that reeked of confidence and self-assurance. He was halfway down the aisle when Jack realized with a start that his left arm was missing at the shoulder. But there was no pinned-up left sleeve—the jacket had been tailored without one. He was a tall man-six-three, Jack guessed, lean but sturdy. Well into his forties, maybe fifty. The nose was long; he wore a sculptured beard, neatly trimmed to a point at the chin. What could be seen of his mouth was wide and thin-lipped. The whites of his deep walnut eyes almost glowed in the darkness of his face, reminding Jack of John Barrymore in Svengali.

He stopped at the edge of the facing banquette and looked down at Jack, taking his measure just as Jack was taking his.

2

Kusum Bahkti did not like this place called Julio's, stinking as it did of liquor and grilled beef, and peopled with the lower castes. Certainly one of the foulest locations he’d had the misfortune to visit in this foul city. He was no doubt polluting his karma merely by standing here.

And surely this very average-looking man sitting before him was not the one he was looking for. He looked like any American's brother, anyone's son, someone you would pass anywhere in this city and never notice. He looked too normal, too ordinary, too everyday to supply the services Kusum had been told about.

If I were home…

Yes. If he were home in Bengal, in Calcutta, he would have everything under control. A thousand men would be combing the city for the transgressor. He would be found, and he would wail and curse the hour of his birth before being sent on to another life.

But here in America Kusum was reduced to an impotent supplicant standing before this stranger, asking for help. It made him sick.

'Are you the one?' he asked.

'Depends on who you're looking for,' the man said.

Kusum noted the difficulty the American was having trying to keep his eyes off his truncated left shoulder.

'He calls himself Repairman Jack.'

“The name wasn’t my idea. ' The man spread his hands. 'But, here I am.'

This couldn't be him. 'Perhaps I have made a mistake.'

'Perhaps so,' said the American.

He seemed preoccupied, not the least bit interested in Kusum or what problem he might have.

Kusum started to turn away, deciding he was constitutionally incapable of asking the help of a stranger, especially this stranger, then changed his mind.

By Kali, he had no choice.

He seated himself across the table from Repairman Jack.

'I am Kusum Bahkti.'