Hardbingers

Peter and Lu

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to the usual crew for their efforts: my wife, Mary; my editor, David Hartwell; Elizabeth Monteleone; and my agent, Albert Zuckerman. Special thanks to Steven Spruill for his perceptive insights and going the extra mile.

More thanks to:

Lisa Krause for the title. The folks in the www.repairmanjack.com Forum came up with many excellent suggestions, but Harbingers hit the bull's-eye.

Ken Valentine and New York Joe for weaponry assistance.

Sandra Escandon, M.D., and Paul Gilson, M.D., for neurological guidance.

Stu Schiff for the world's most amazing single malts.

And super extra-special thanks to Ethan Bateman for lending me his sui generis metaphors.

Finally, a wink and a nod to the few readers out there who'll know the Wauwinet Inn's seasonal schedule.

FRIDAY

1

"Hey, Jack, can I bother you a minute?"

Jack sat at his table in the rear of Julio's. He looked up from his coffee and saw Timmy O'Brien, one of Julio's regulars. A fiftyish guy, thin, hangdog face, watery eyes, and wearing a Hawaiian shirt in January.

Julio's, an Upper West Side bar that had fought the good fight and succeeded in holding on to its working-class roots through the neighborhood's decades of legitimization, rehabilitation, restoration, and gentrification, had been Jack's hang for years. Julio always saved him a table where he could sit with his back to the wall.

"Bother?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, I know about what happened last month, and I'm really sorry for your loss. I know you've still got to be bummed, but I could really use some help, Jack."

"What kind?"

"Your kind."

Jack sighed. He'd been on sabbatical, ignoring e-mails and voice mails from prospective customers. Didn't feel he could focus enough—or care enough—to earn his fee. That was part of it. Truth was he was having trouble caring about much of anything outside his small, immediate circle. No interest, no energy, and probably drinking too much these past three weeks.

He didn't need a shrink to tell him he was depressed. But a shrink would want to give him pills, and Jack didn't want pills. He preferred beer—but not before lunch.

He couldn't find the energy to get up and get out and get moving again. What was the point? Who cared? And when he got right down to it, did any-thing he did, anything he'd ever done, matter in the long run? Had he ever made a difference?

He wondered.

But Timmy looked so needy. Jack wasn't ready to venture outside his self-circumscribed world of Julio's, Abe's, Gia's, and his own place, but maybe he could make a few suggestions.

He pointed to the seat across from him.

"Shoot."

As Timmy settled his butt in the chair and his draft on the table, Jack reviewed what he knew about the man.

A dozen years ago Timmy had been an advertising hotshot, near the peak of the copywriter heap. Lots of money, but too much of it going up his nose. His agency had been on the short list for a big Citibank account and he had this idea that he was sure would clinch it for them. He'd once shown the Julio's gang a mockup of the ad.

A big, neon-bright lettered cross with tiny letters below it: