Repairman Jack gets to go for a ride…

“No luck at the hospitals, Repairman.” Replied Lawrence Voelker. “They have six John Does. Three black, three Hispanic, none the right age. Your boy hasn’t been inside of a meat wagon lately.”

“Thanks for looking.” Jack replied. “I have a feeling I’m looking for a stiff.”

“Hell, you’ve been one lately.” Voelker jibeb. “You haven’t been in the game for several months.”

“You know what I think about sick puppies like yourself.” Jack replied and then hung up.

Repairman saddled up his old, beat up jeep. It was an antique model. The sort of thing the Marine Corps drove before Hummers came out. Repairman had a weakness for it. The old thing did its job and no one with an iota of taste would boost it.

He rode down towards Exposition to visit Senor Hernan Angusto. He didn’t expect the visit to be a fun affair. Jack still couldn’t help but wonder why a sleazy lawyer would pay his fee to hunt down a valueless document. The only thing adding up right now was his bill and Repairman was hurting for the money.

The 100 was surprisingly brisk until it hit I10. Then things slowed down and got bumper to bumper. The fumes distorted Repairman’s vision as the heat rose like a lament from the baked Stygian pavement. The next five miles took about 20 minutes and the needle noticeably moved towards The Big E on Jack’s old battlewagon.

Jack turned on the radio and flipped through a few stations. The music proved atonal and offended the ear. Jack wasn’t in the mood to pretend Progressive Rock and Hip-Hop didn’t suck. The jazz didn’t turn his crank either. He turned it back off in disgust, as he passed a couple of clogged exits that spit traffic out onto Vermont and Normandie Avenues; near The Martin Luther King Hospital. He wondered if he were near the part of C-Town where the LA Riot actually got started.

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Smallbone caught only a glimpse of the slight and effeminate man who put the plastic bags over his head and then quickly tore a hole in them so he could breathe. The bags were opaque, one white and the other a vaguely bluish color. He was uncomfortable, but after about one half hour of Shermy, he was willing to take painfully alive over the possible alternatives he’d been recently offered.

“Dude!” The new tormentor said to Smallbone. “I’m as close as you f—ing get to speaking with Good Cop. You’re still alive to provide me data. I’ll ask, you’ll tell, or Shermy gets to continue his dating techniques.”

Smallbone fought off unconsciousness. He didn’t want to tell. It no longer had anything to do with his loyalty to a bunch of sharks at a law firm. Smallbone now felt too proud to cough up what he knew.

He also figured that the second he talked, he would be disposed of. In the event that he didn’t end up with a cap in his dome or worse, Smallbone fought to remember what these sorry pukes looked like. He wanted any detail that could land Shermy in a cell with someone even more perverted.

“Who was the dime for, Slacker-Boy?” The tormentor asked. “Why would Glammen trust you?”

“He used me, because the PhD glut hasn’t reached down into the bike messenger business yet.”

“You’re a funny guy. I bet you’d sound like Shermy if I made you eat your scrotum.” He responded, without any seeming appreciation of Smallbone’s irony.

“No thanks, I’m vegetarian.”

“Shermy.” The man commanded. “Did you cut him for being rude?” The inquisitor asked.

“Bladd Boyy! Bladd!!” Shermy responded in a remorseful spray of spittle. “Shermy teach bladd boy vlesson, if you vannt.”

“Hmm, I’ll take that as a yes. He does seem to be getting blood all over my nice, recycled grocery bags.” The questioner remarked. “So once more, before you die filling the role of Shermy’s home entertainment center, who were you assigned to f—ing serve?”

“A little old lady from Pasadena.” Smallbone sneered.

“You were in the wrong part of town, son.” The man responded. “That answer won’t do. Hey Shermy.” He said with a sadistic cheer in his voice.

“Wait!” Smallbone pleaded. “It was Hernan Augustin. Hernan-f—ing Augustin, Man.”

Two more plastic bags were jammed over Smallbone’s head. These had no holes and were tightened about the bicycle messenger’s neck. “Shermy.” The voice said. “You play nicely. I’ve got an important phone call to make upstairs.”

The last words Smallbone heard for a long time, were “Bladd boy. Bladd boy.”

**********************************************************************

Culver Jake and his boyos didn’t particularly like Eponymous. The Son of a b—- gave them the creeps like watching The Texas Chainsaw Massacre on Nazi Crank. When he showed up, people always died. Eponymous carried finality in his pocket; he ended things.

They did, however, understand the extent to which he was a bad-ass. They were Double-A, Eponymous took the mound for game one of the Bad-Ass World Series. If Eponymous said it, they bowed down.

“This douche-bag lives down near the Colisseum.” Eponymous explained. “Somewhere on Exposition.” He continued, as he handed Culver Jake a sheet of paper with an address. “ He’s got a bolt hole and probably hires security. That’s all we know, and all we’ve got time to find out.”

Culver Jake had to do the job, but he wanted a few of his boyos left over when it was through. He just couldn’t quite think of the tactful way to ask Eponymous what he needed to know. “How many guards? What are they packing? How’s the dump wired?” These questions all sounded good to him, and seemed to be going unanswered.

That was the way with The Man and with Eponymous. They showed up, they gave orders. Culver Jake executed and hoped like heck he didn’t wind up like the cavalry in a Rudyard Kipling poem because he sure didn’t feel like wondering why. Eponymous had an answer for that question, and it hurt worse than death.

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Hernan Angusto cracked his knuckles and watched as the LA Dodgers held a tenuous lead in the bottom of the sixth. He had drained two of his six-pack and leaned forward to glare at the TV. He hadn’t gotten the letter yet, and wasn’t sure Ellsworth would bother appearing. “All the f—— better. I wish he’d never come back” His brain told him.

It was worse than the two years he spent with “Mr. Brownstone.” Angusto kept staring at the TV as Furcal grounded out 3 to 1 assisting. The pitcher trotted leisurely pack to the mound, the first baseman adjusted his cup and spat a big wad of leaf as if no one had ever considered putting Major League Baseball into America’s living rooms.

His nerves, the crude man-jack of an infielder and the beer combined made Hernan have to tap a kidney. He arose and walked to the john. A few minutes later he came back to see his beloved Dodgers trotting out of the dugout bearing their gloves. ESPN cut to commercials as Hernan Angusto dug for his baby cigars. It was a good time to walk outside and check his mailbox again.

Repairman saw Angusto coming from where he was parked across the street. He appreciated the fact that he had only had to hold the stake-out for about forty minutes. It had barely gone on long enough to get boring. Perhaps he would feel like ripping this guy’s lungs out of his chest.

He slowly got out of his jeep and muddled around with the stuff in his pockets. He pretended to not care who Angusto was and to be going about some other piece of business. His mark lit some sort of cigarette and ambled casually out towards his mailbox.

Repairman got the sense that Angusto was ambivalent about something. He either wanted or had to have something delivered to him, but some didn’t want it to show up. That would sure fit the profile of a legal summons, but then again, why would he have to check his box for it. Smallbone was hired to put those things right in the hands of people who had no desire to receive them.

Angusto checked his box and closed it quickly. It seemed Angusto was relieved to find an empty box. Repairman wondered if the man had expected to find a rattlesnake. He moved rapidly as soon as Angusto turned his back to head back inside.

Just as Hernan prepared to reach for the doorknob, Repairman jack grabbed him on the shoulder. “You looking for something?” He asked in a nasty tone of voice.

“Who the fuck are you?” Angusto asked as he spun around.

“I’m Repairman Jack and I need to know why an attorney named Glammen wants to hang paper on you.”

“You have two seconds to leave before I decide to shit down your neck.” Angusto responded as his face turned bright red.

“I hurt people like you for a living. You obviously still have amateur status. Is my time up?” Repairman asked as he stared an evil stare into the pits of Angusto’s eyes. “Are you really fucking stupid enough to try your ninja moves on me?”

Angusto took a step back and carefully reconsidered. He did the mental calculus regarding a fight with Repairman and decided the answer was beat down; with him on the receiving end. He still, however, wanted to appear tough enough to hold his own in a dual. “What do you fuckin’ want?” He said as he affected a pimp roll and tried to puff up and look hard.

“Right now, I’d kind of like to rip your eyeballs out and use them to garnish martinis.” Jack said thoughtfully. “However, that wouldn’t help me collect my fee, so we’ll have a friendly little chat indoors.”

Jack backed Angusto towards his porch the way a cobra would pin down a field mouse before spitting venom. He walked slowly and inexorably towards the retreating man with his senses alert for any type of chicanery. He wasn’t kidding about the ninja moves and he was only half-joking about the martinis.

Angusto quickly recoiled up his porch and tried hard to slam his front door in Jack’s face. Jack’s boot arrived preemptively on the threshold to prevent the door from shutting. He mocked Angusto. “You should hold your door open for guests.”

Angusto had almost resigned himself to the high probability of pain. He sure got the impression that Jack wasn’t here to kill a beer and BS about the LA Dodgers. This would hurt badly; it might end up with him getting killed.

However, there was that replica wouldn’t bat from back when Pedro Guerrero played 1st Base for the Boys in Blue. If only he could reach for old ‘Lucky 33’. It was three feet away from him and just around a corner where this Repairman Jack Honky couldn’t possibly see it.

Repairman noticed something a little wrong with how this weasel Angusto was retreating. It was a sixth sense he’d honed from years of dealing in dirt bags. His muscles told him to prepare for trouble. This would be real trouble, because Repairman still registered a big zero on the mojo meter. He’d have to use only his fighting ability to get out of this one.

Hernan shot around a corner; just inches from Repairman’s grasp. He raised his lucky baseball bat and prepared to play T-Ball with Repairman’s cranium. “Oh, Yeah!” He said as he stepped into it like he was taking a crack at a Tom Glavine curve.

Jack couldn’t grab the elusive man, so he did what good street-fighters do. He got as low as he could and raised his arms to protect his head. This was solid technique and served him well, as he felt the Louisville Slugger connect solidly with an adroitly raised forearm.

***********************************************************************

Culver Jake had his misgivings before he ever reached the address on Exposition. He and his four buddies had no particular desire to roll through the turf of The Rolling Sixty-Nines to begin with. It seemed like a fool’s errand. The type of thing Eponymous enjoyed sending him on with a malicious smirk.

They parked their van behind and old jeep that could have gotten its first flat tire in the early years of ‘Nam.’ It was about what you’d expect to find in this type of neighborhood. They looked until they saw the address they were after. It was right across the street and the front door stood open in an ominous fashion.

***********************************************************

Culver Jake and his Boyos packed a reasonable amount of heat. They spread out across the lawn and approached the house. “Eponymous wants him breathing.” Jake reminded his Boyos one more time.

The two thugs on the opposite ends of the group took up positions at each corner of the house. Two more flanked the porch and began moving towards the door. Culver Jake took the lead. He walked carefully up to the front door, like a mugger walking down a prospective mark in a dark alley.

Jake and his two henchmen were surprised to hear a struggle happening inside. The loud crash of heavy object striking furniture was followed by an angry, scared man’s string of unintelligible cursing. Another, more menacing voice spoke more quietly. Jake stood briefly confused.

“If you want him breathing,” An underling named Kurt told Jake. “We’d better not stand here and ring the bell.”

Jake realized this was accurate and yelled. “Get the bastards. Bring them both out.”

He and two of his Boyos rushed into the recreation room. They got their in time to hear one man crash through the window and to encounter another man who had just been distracted from seriously hurting the first. He held a shattered piece of a baseball bat in one hand and was bleeding from his lip.

Jake and his Boyos had the drop on Repairman. “Drop it, dipshit!” One of the thugs said as he pointed his weapon at Jack’s temple from a range of four feet.

Jack dropped the piece of bat with a studied nonchalance. “I was hoping you guys were showing up with the pizza.” He remarked sarcastically.

“No,” Jake replied. “We’re the garbage men. We’re taking your sorry ass to the nearest dump.”

“Buckle-up, Fucktard.” Kurt sneered at Jack.