Conspiracies

"Well, you could have—" Jack began, but suddenly Lew was leaning over the table, reaching across it with pleading hands, his Adam's apple bobbing like a piston.

"Please—she says you're the only one who can do it. Don't turn me away. If you want to think I'm crazy, fine, but humor me, okay? Something has happened to Melanie and I'll pay you anything you want to get her back."

Tears rimmed Lew's eyes as he finished.

Jack didn't know what to say. The guy didn't seem crazy, and didn't strike him as a put-on artist, and he did appear to be genuinely hurting. And if his wife was truly missing, whether through her own doing or taken against her will ... well, maybe Jack could fix it for him.

And beyond that was the nagging question: If Lew's wife had indeed contacted him—though Jack would never buy the through-the-TV story—why had she stipulated Repairman Jack and no one else?

Jack knew the question would go on biting at his ankles indefinitely if he didn't look into this.

"Okay, Lew," he said. "I'll probably regret this, but I'll see what I can do for you. I'll—"

"Oh, thank you! Thank you!"

"Just hear me out first. I'll give it a week, max. Five thousand cash up front, non-negotiable, non-returnable. If I find her, it's another five thou, cash, on the spot."

Jack was hoping the price might put him off, but Lew didn't bat an eye.

"Okay," he said without an instant's hesitation. "Fine. Done. When do you want it?"

Must be good money in the paper cylinder business.

"Today. And I also want to go through any papers Melanie might have left around your place. Where do you live?"

"Out on the Island. Shoreham."

Jeez, that was a haul—almost out to the fork—but Jack didn't have much else on the slate for the day, so ...

"All right. Give me the address and I'll see you out there in a couple of hours. Have the down payment with you."

Lew glanced at his watch. "Okay. I've got to move if I'm going to make it to the bank." He pulled out a card and wrote on the back. "There's my home address. Take the LIE—"

"I'll find it. Let's make it five o'clock. I want to beat the rush."

"Fine. Five o'clock." He reached across the table and grabbed Jack's right hand in both of his. "And thank you—thanks a million. You don't know what this means to me."

I'm sure I don't, Jack thought. But I got a feeling I'm going to find out.

Only Repairman Jack can find me. Only he will understand.

Why me?

4

"So why should you call them nuts?" Abe said. "We are surrounded by conspiracies."

Jack had swung by the Isher Sports Shop to say hello to Abe Grossman, a graying Humpty Dumpty of a man in his late fifties with a forehead that went on almost forever, and Jack's oldest friend in the city. In the world. They sat in their usual positions: Jack leaning on the customer side of the scarred wooden counter, Abe perched on his stool behind it, and around them, a gallimaufry of sporting goods tossed carelessly onto sagging shelves lining narrow aisles or hung from ceiling hooks, all in perpetual, undusted disarray. A Sports Authority outlet designed and maintained by Oscar Madison. One of the reasons Jack liked coming here was that it made his apartment look neat and roomy.

"You know the root of the word?" Abe said. "Conspire: it means to breathe together. The world is rife with all sorts of people and institutions breathing together. Just take a look—" He broke off and cocked his head toward the pale blue parakeet perched on his stained left shoulder. "What's that, Parabellum? No, we can't do that. Jack is a friend."

Parabellum tilted his beak toward Abe's ear and looked as if he were whispering into it.

"Well, most of the time he is," Abe said, then straightened his head and looked at Jack. "See? Conspiracies everywhere. Just now, right in front of you, Parabellum tried to engage me in a conspiracy against you for not bringing him a snack. I should be worried if I were you."

Usually Jack brought something edible, but he'd neglected to this time.

"You mean I can't drop in without bringing an offering?" Jack said. "This was a spur of the moment thing."

Abe looked offended. "For me—feh!—I shouldn't care. It's for Parabellum. He gets hungry this time of the day."

Jack pointed to the Technicolor droppings that festooned the shoulders of Abe's half-sleeve white shirt.

"Looks like Parabellum's had plenty to eat already. You sure he doesn't have colitis or something?"

"He's a fine healthy bird. It's just that he gets upset by strangers—and by so-called friends who don't bring him an afternoon snack."

Jack glanced pointedly at Abe's bulging shirt front. "I've seen where the bird's snacks usually end up."

"If you're going to start on my weight again, you should save your breath."

"Wasn't going to say a word."

But he wanted to. Jack was getting worried about Abe. An overweight, sedentary, Type-A personality, he was a heart attack waiting to happen. Jack couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to Abe. He loved this man. The decades that separated their birthdays hadn't kept them from becoming the closest of friends. Abe was the only human being besides Gia Jack could talk to—really talk to. Together they had solved the world's problems many times over. He could not imagine day-to-day life without Abe Grossman.

So Jack had cut back on the goodies he traditionally brought whenever he stopped by, or now if he did bring something, he'd sworn it would be low cal or low fat—preferably both.

"Anyway, I should be worried about weight? If I want to lose some, I can do it anytime. When I'm ready, I'll go to Egypt and eat from street carts for two weeks. You'll see. Dysentery does wonders for the waistline. Richard Simmons should be so effective."

"Im-Ho-Tep's revenge, ay?" Jack said, keeping it light. He didn't want to be a complete pain in the ass. "When do you leave?"

"I have a call in to my travel agent now. I'm not sure when she'll get back to me. Maybe next year. But what about you? Why are you so careful with your foods? A guy in your line of work should worry about cholesterol?"

"I'm an optimist."

"You're too healthy is what's wrong with you. If you don't get shot or stabbed or clubbed to death by one of the many people you've royally pissed off in your life, what can you die from?"

"I'm doing research. I'll find something interesting, I hope."

"Nothing you'll die of! And how will that look on your death certificate? 'Cause of death: Nothing.' Won't you feel foolish? Such an embarrassment. It will have to be a closed-coffin service to hide your red face. And really, how could I come to your funeral knowing you died of nothing?"

"Maybe I'll just die of shame."

"At least it's something. But before you pass on, let me tell you a little something about conspiracies."

"Figured you have something to say on the subject."

"Indeed I do. Remember that global economic holocaust I used to warn you about?"

For years Abe had gone on and on about the impending collapse of the global economy. He still maintained a mountain retreat upstate, stocked with gold coins and freeze-dried food.

"The one that didn't happen?"

"The reason it didn't happen is that they didn't want it to happen."

"Who's 'they'?"

"The cabal of international bankers that manipulates the global currency markets, of course."

"Of course."

Here we go, Jack thought. This ought to be good.

"'Of course," he says," Abe said, speaking to Parabellum. "Skepticalman Jack thinks his old friend is meshugge." He turned back to Jack. "Remember when the Asian and Russian markets went into free fall awhile back?"