“What about you? How’s demand for Repairman Jack’s services?”

“Strong as ever. Probably won’t slack off till the system works.”

Abe laughed. “Such a bright future you have. But seriously. Did you ever think that maybe the city is too safe and that’s why so many people are going meshugge? Maybe they were so used to feeling threatened that now that they aren’t, all that pent-up, unspent adrenaline is blowing their tops.”

Jack stared at him. This was what he loved most about Abe: his crazy theories. But he’d never tell him that.

Abe stared back. “Nu?”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Then how do you explain all those otherwise law-abiding middle-aged preppies going on a rampage last night? Or how about this?” He looked down at the New York Post that lay spread out on the counter between them. “Where was it? I just—oy, Parabellum!”

“Looks like your feathered Dustbuster left you a thank-you note.”

Abe grabbed a tissue and wiped up the droppings. He pointed to a column of type. “Here it is. An article about this advertising firm’s CEO who hears that their biggest account is being transferred to another shop. What does he do? He picks up a paperweight and starts beating on the account exec who was in charge. Kills him almost. This is normal?”

Jack thought of the murderous rage of the cab lady but didn’t mention her. Abe would only say it bolstered his theory.

“It’s a big city. Takes all kinds.”

“This isn’t an isolated incident. All over, I’m seeing it. A trend, I tell you. People flying off the handle for no reason—or for just a little reason maybe. And all because the city is too safe. Pent-up adrenaline. Congested spleens. Something must be done.”

Abe was on a roll, and Jack would have loved to hang around and see how far he could ride this, but he had to go.

“Does this train of thought have a caboose?”

“Not yet.”

“I know just the thing, then,” Jack said, heading for the door. “Start passing a petition for a more dangerous New York. And while you’re doing that, I’ll go see a new customer.”

“Be careful out there,” Abe called after him. “Spleens exploding everywhere.”

4

Nadia felt giddy as she entered the fashionably retro art deco lobby of the gleaming thirty-story office building on East Thirty-fourth Street, her earlier apprehensions swept away by a surge of anticipation: finally, after two weeks of orientation and acclimation, she would be introduced to the project she had been hired for.

But her euphoria condensed into a cold leaden lump in her stomach when she recognized one of the men sharing her elevator. He looked fiftyish, and his beige-and-charcoal glen plaid suit had to cost a couple of thousand dollars, maybe more considering the tailoring that must have been necessary for the perfect fit around his broad shoulders; his highly polished black shoes were made out of some sort of patterned leather—lizard, rattlesnake, or some other appropriate reptile—no tie, but a diamond stud secured the deacon’s collar of his shirt. His gelled jet hair swept straight back from his ruddy face like a glistening pelt, accentuating his high cheekbones, strong nose, and thin lips. His cold dark eyes swept through the elevator cab, lingered briefly on Nadia, then moved on, a raptor cataloging the immediately available rodent population.