The Tomb (Repairman Jack)

With his thumb casually hooked in his left rear pocket, Jack stopped in front of a rundown office building. He rented a ten by twelve cubicle here—the smallest he could find. He’d never met the agent, nor anyone else connected with the office. He liked it that way.

He took the creaking Otis with the penny-studded floor up to 4 and stepped off. The hall was empty. Jack's office was 412. He walked past the door twice before pulling out the key and quickly letting himself in.

It always smelled the same: dry and dusty. The floors and windowsills were layered with dust. Dust bunnies clogged the corners. An abandoned spider web spanned an upper corner of the only window—out of business.

No furniture. The dull expanse of floor was broken only by the half dozen or so envelopes that had been shoved through the mail slot, and by an old vinyl IBM-typewriter cover and the wires that ran from it to the telephone and electrical outlets in the wall on the right.

Jack picked up the mail: Three were bills, all addressed to Jack Finch in care of this office. The rest belonged to Occupant. He stepped to the typewriter cover and lifted it. The answering machine beneath appeared to be in good shape. Even as he squatted over it, the machine clicked on and he heard Abe's voice give the familiar salutation in the name of Repairman Jack, followed by a man complaining of an electric dryer that wasn't drying.

He replaced the cover and went back to the door. A quick peek showed two secretaries from the shoe- importing firm at the other end of the hall standing by the elevator. Jack waited until the door slid shut after them. He locked his office, then ducked for the stairway. His cheeks puffed with relief as he started down the worn steps. He hated coming here and made a point of doing so at random intervals at odd times of the day. He did not want his face in any way connected with Repairman Jack; but there were bills to be paid, bills that he didn't want delivered to his apartment. And popping into the office at random hours of the day or night seemed safer than having a post office box.

Most likely none of it was necessary. Most likely no one was looking to get even with Repairman Jack. He was always careful to stay far in the background when he fixed things. Only his customers ever saw him.

But there was always a chance. And as long as that chance existed, he made certain he was very hard to find.

Thumb hooked again into that important pocket, Jack moved into the growing lunch hour crush, luxuriating in the anonymity of the crowd. He turned east on Forty-second and strolled up to the brick front post office between Eighth and Ninth Avenues. There he purchased three money orders—two in negligible amounts for the phone and electric bills, and the third for a figure he considered preposterous considering the square footage of office space he was renting. He signed all three Jack Finch and mailed them off. As he was leaving, it occurred to him to use the cash to pay the rent on his apartment too. He went back and purchased a fourth money order, which he made out to his landlord. This one he signed Jack Berger.

A short walk past an art deco building to the side of the Port Authority Building, then across Eighth Avenue, and he was in Disney World North. He remembered when Times Square and environs were Sleazeville, USA, a never- ending freak show that would have put Tod Browning to shame. Jack had never passed up an opportunity to stroll through the area. He was a people-watcher and nowhere had there been such a unique variety of Homo sapiens low-lificus as in Times Square.

The block ahead had once been Exploitation Row, an almost continuous canopy of grind house marquees touting either triple-X sex, kung-fu imports, or psycho-with-a-knife splatter films from the Emeril Lagasse slice- and-dice school of moviemaking. You could walk along here in the rain and hardly get wet. Stuck in between had been hole-in-the-wall porn shops, stairways to 'modeling studios' and dance halls, the ubiquitous Nedicks and Orange Julius stands, and sundry stores perpetually on the verge of bankruptcy—or so their window signs claimed. Mingling among the patrons of these venerable establishments had been hookers and derelicts of both sexes plus a startling array of epicene creatures who’d probably looked like boys when they were little.

All gone now, replaced by new legit theaters and outlets of the franchise factories. Donald would have no qualms about bringing Huey, Dewey, and Louie here.

Jack crossed Broadway behind the building that had given the Square its name, then turned uptown on Seventh Avenue. Set up on tables along the curb were chess and backgammon boards where a couple of guys would play anyone for a few bucks. Farther along were three-card monte setups on cardboard boxes. Pushcarts sold shish kebab, Sabrett hot dogs, dried fruits and nuts, giant pretzels, and freshly squeezed orange juice. The odors mingled in the air with the sounds and sights. All the record stores along Seventh were pushing the latest group du jour, Polio, playing cuts from their debut album onto the sidewalk. Jack stood waiting for the green at Forty-sixth next to a Puerto Rican with a giant boom box on his shoulder blasting salsa at a volume that would probably cause sterility' in most small mammals, while girls wearing tube tops that left their midriffs bare and satin gym shorts that left a smooth pink crescent of buttock protruding from each leg hole rollerbladed through the traffic with tiny headphones on their ears and iPods belted to their waistbands.

Standing directly in the middle of the flow was a big blind Black with a sign on his chest, a dog at his feet, and a cup in his hand. Jack threw some loose change into the cup as he slipped by.

Something about New York got to Jack. He loved its sleaze, its color, the glory and crassness of its architecture. He couldn't imagine living anywhere else.

Upon reaching the Fifties, he turned east until he came to Municipal Coins. He stopped in front and glanced briefly at the low-priced junk under the red and white We Buy Gold sign in the window—proof sets, Confederate paper and the like—then went in.

Monte spotted him right away.

'Mr. O'Neil! How are you!”

'Fine. Just call me Jack, remember?'

'Of course!' Monte said, grinning. 'Always with the informality.' He was short, slight, balding, with scrawny arms and a big nose. A mosquito of a man. 'Good to see you again!'

Of course it was good to see him again. Jack knew he was probably Monte's best customer. Their relationship had begun years ago, after Abe had told him to buy gold. Krugerrands, specifically.

It's completely anonymous! Abe had said, saving his most persuasive argument for last. As anonymous as buying a loaf of bread!

So he'd bought some coins for cash, and sold them for more cash. He was supposed to report his profits to the IRS, but the IRS didn't know he existed and he didn't want to burden them with the information.

Jack had been in and out of gold since, and was buying it now. He figured the numismatic market was depressed, so he was investing in choice rare coins, too. They might not go up for many years, but he was buying