The Man Who Fought Alone

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “And I’m sure you understand, Ms. Amity, I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t consider it important. I’m not rude by nature.” Then I shrugged. “Well, maybe I am. But I’m also housebroken. I would’ve made an appointment if I could afford to do things that way.”

  Unpersuaded, she faced me steadily and waited for me to say something reasonable.

  Floundering inside—and determined not to show it—I said, “If Mr. Viviter wants to know why I’m here, ask him why he spent the money to make it easy for you to do this job. That isn’t something you see every day,” despite the Americans with Disabilities Act. “Not in places like this, where the décor is sacred enough to worship.”

  Apparently this episode of “Adventures in Charm, with Mick Axbrewder,” was just like all the others. Sometimes even I wondered why I didn’t change the channel.

  “Mr. Axbrewder.” For all the mark I made on her, Beatrix Amity might as well have been cast in teflon. “I don’t need to ask him. I already know the answer. Now if you’ll please be seated?”

  I got the message. She wasn’t going to touch her intercom until I parked my ass somewhere else.

  Suddenly, however, I didn’t mind. For no particularly obvious reason, I found that I believed she played fair. Another intuitive leap. Despite my manners, she’d make an honest effort to get Marshal Viviter’s attention for me.

  Maybe Professional Investigations took the pain business seriously after all. Why else would Beatrix Amity work here, when she could’ve spent her time complaining about an employer who treated her wheelchair like a hindrance?

  Since I’d claimed to be housebroken, I retreated to one of the loveseats and lowered my aches into its embrace. From there, I watched her work her intercom. But some trick of the soundproofing prevented me from hearing what she said.

  I couldn’t relax anyway, so the absence of magazines didn’t bother me. I guess they weren’t necessary. Viviter’s clients weren’t people who waited around much. Within five minutes after I sat down, the other people in the lobby had been escorted to privacy through doors behind Ms. Amity. Their guides looked more like stockbrokers than rented snoops. But one of them walked with the kind of jerk you get when you’re wearing an artificial leg.

  Apparently hiring the handicapped was fashionable this year. Maybe I’d get lucky.

  While I waited, I tried to believe that Viviter would actually see me. But I couldn’t carry it off.

  Nevertheless I knew who he was as soon as one of the inner doors let him into the lobby. He had to be Ginny’s Marshal Viviter for the plain and simple reason that I hated him on sight. He was everything I wasn’t—fit, affable, good-looking as sin, and so sure of himself that you could’ve used his radiance to toast bread.

  He stood maybe three inches shorter than me, a couple taller than Ginny, but he obviously kept himself in a whole lot better shape. Every ounce he carried must’ve been muscle of one kind or another. And he knew how to dress. His tailored suit was businesslike without being formal, and expensive enough to suggest that he was good at his job without implying that he got paid more than he deserved. He wore his hair tousled, which gave his charm a boyish tinge. His eyes were so clear you’d think he polished them on the hour, and he smiled easily without seeming soft or diffident. When I thought back, I realized that I’d seen a picture of his chin in the dictionary under “rectitude.”

  Where I came from, no one looked that good unless they were too dirty to live. Ordinary innocence—not to mention honesty—had more flaws.

  He grinned at Beatrix Amity, then looked straight at me. “Mr. Axbrewder?” A couple of steps brought him close enough to stick out his hand. “I’m Marshal Viviter. You wanted to see me?”

  Graceful as a wounded bull, I heaved myself upright. Hoping to score a couple of points, I took his hand and squeezed. But his grip was strong and dry, and I suddenly had so much sweat on my palm that I might as well have shaken his hand with a used dishrag.

  No question about it, my whole life would’ve been simpler if I’d ever learned how to turn and run.

  Gritting my teeth, I managed to croak out, “Thanks for making time.”

  “No problem. I had a cancellation.” He said that so smoothly it must’ve been a lie. “Come on back to my office. We can talk there.”

  I’d expected him to say, I’m glad to meet any friend of Ginny’s. Maybe he planned to mention it later.

  A touch on my arm steered me in the right direction, just in case I was having second thoughts. I wanted to hack his hand off, maybe break his wrist on general principles, but he removed it almost immediately. Among his other virtues, he was too professional to touch his clients unnecessarily.

  Beyond the door, halls seemed to run here and there for no particular reason. Presumably they accommodated offices, file storage, rooms for conferences or interrogations, maybe even a law library. But none of the walls or doors had any windows. Professional Investigations kept everything it did private—at least as far as the paying customers were concerned. If Ginny was in the building, I could work there for a week without laying eyes on her.

  I couldn’t tell the difference when we reached Viviter’s office. If I’d been here on my own, I wouldn’t have found it without divination. He seemed to pick a door at random and open it for me. But as soon as I walked in, I knew this was his office, the real thing, not some convenient impersonal substitute.

  For one thing, it had enough space for volleyball practice—so much space, in fact, that a sculpted rosewood desk which could’ve slept three fit in perfectly. And for another, it featured one entire glass wall, giving anyone who wanted it an expansive view of the canyons between the skyscrapers. Venetian blinds managed the sunlight without defusing the impression that if you got too close you’d fall out. Dark wooden bookcases with glass fronts softened the other walls. Heavy frames held the full spectrum of diplomas, certificates, and licenses. But that window dominated the room.

  Viviter must’ve chosen his office to remind his clients that they stood on the edge of an abyss. Ergo they needed him.

  “Have a seat.” He gestured at a selection of armchairs while he crossed behind his desk and sat down in one of those executive chairs that looked like it floated on air and gave massages while taking dictation. When I didn’t join him, he added, “Please?”

  I needed the reminder because the window kept tugging at my attention. With an effort, I picked a chair facing away from the glass and eased myself into it.

  I assumed that he’d noticed the pain I carried around, but if he did his clear gaze didn’t give off any hints. “Now, Mr. Axbrewder,” he began, “what can I—?”

  I interrupted him. “Call me Brew.” I needed to do something to disrupt the effect he and his window had on me.

  He raised a manly eyebrow. “That’s your first name?”

  I shook my head. “It’s Michael. But I haven’t used it since I was born.” Actually since my brother was born. We were the Axbrewder boys, Mick and Rick. I hated the reminder—but it helped. Memories like that put calcium back in my spine. Sounding a bit stronger, I finished, “Brew suits me.”

  He was comfortable with that. “Fine. I’m Marshal.” He may’ve been comfortable with anything. Shifting gears smoothly, he remarked, “Beatrix tells me you’re interested in our employment policies.”

  Apparently nothing slipped past him. He even knew that I needed help getting started.

  “Indirectly,” I admitted. “What I want is a job.”

  He didn’t react. “And what does that have to do with why I put in a few carpet-covers and electric eyes for Beatrix?”

  “Nothing, really,” I said, hoping that the hole in my guts didn’t show. “I was just trying to get her attention.”

  This was what I’d come for, so I forged ahead.

  “I’m a private investigator,” I told him, taking the go-for-broke approach, “but I lost my license a few years ago on a negligent manslaughter charge. Since then I’ve been working for another i
nvestigator. I’m in Carner mostly because I don’t know where else to be. But I’m new here. I don’t have any contacts, and you might not recognize my references.” Before he could ask me why I’d picked him, I added, “I got your address out of the yellow pages. Your ad’s bigger than anyone else’s.”

  I did not want to reveal anything that Ginny hadn’t already told him.

  He grinned cheerfully. “Do you always leave that many gaps on your job applications?”

  No doubt women fell down dead when he looked at them like that. Since I hated him, I didn’t smile back.

  “Some days are worse than others. What do you want to know?”

  He still hadn’t mentioned Ginny.

  He spread his hands like a man who wanted everything. “If you don’t have a license, what are your credentials?”

  He made my position easier by reminding me to be mad at him.

  “This, mainly.” Glaring indiscriminately across the desk, I took out my .45 and thunked it down in front of him. “That I have a license for.”

  This time he raised both eyebrows. “That’s it? Your credentials are an old .45 heavy enough to break your foot if you dropped it?”

  “No.” I faced him head-on. “I’m also a really lousy shot.”

  For a second or two, I thought he might laugh out loud. But his laugh was probably as affable and self-confident as the rest of him, and I didn’t want to hear it, so I tried to distract him with a real answer.

  “I’ve been doing this for a long time, and I can watch out for myself.” While I talked, I retrieved the .45 and put it away. “When I’m on a case, I don’t take no for an answer. I’m not particularly smart, but I’m stubborn as hell. I’m good with secrets. I can follow orders. I don’t cheat—and I don’t sit on my hands while other people cheat. And I’ve told enough lies in my life”—mostly to myself—“that I’m starting to hate them.

  “Oh,” I finished grimly, “and I’m a recovering alcoholic.” Just in case he wondered how I felt about negligent manslaughter.

  He studied me hard enough to leave holes in my head, but he still sounded cheerful. “And you’re rude to receptionists. You should add that to your list.”

  This wasn’t an interview, it was a damn game. He didn’t like what he’d heard from Ginny about me, and now he was just entertaining himself while he waited for an excuse to throw me out.

  Or else I’d pissed him off by leaning on Beatrix Amity.

  Ignoring my stomach, I sat up straighter. “I forgot that one. But it’s trivial. I’m also rude to employers.”

  This time he did laugh. “And I guess you have a gift for it, too.”

  Then he leaned back in his chair, folded his arms behind his head, and lost his sense of humor.

  “I’m sure everything you say is true.” I couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t seem to sweat. “But from my point of view it isn’t much. Unless you want to fill in some of those gaps—?”

  Since he hadn’t asked a specific question, I didn’t volunteer anything. Without specific questions, I didn’t know how much I could tell him.

  “In fact,” he went on after a couple of moments, “from my point of view it’s worrisome. Experience tells me that lousy shots who commit negligent manslaughter have a tendency to repeat themselves. And recovering alcoholics don’t have a very good track record in this business.” By which he meant that sooner or later the pain got to them, and they started drinking again.

  “This is a clean, professional organization, Brew,” he explained patiently, like he wanted to be sure that I understood the problem from his perspective. “Around here we dot our i’s and cross our t’s. We play by the rules, and our clients get honest work for an honest buck. We guarantee discretion—we’re serious about it.” Just for a second he gave me a glimpse of steel. “But the last time an investigator who was ‘good with secrets’ worked here, he ended up homeless.

  “I’m willing to talk about this,” he finished, “but you haven’t given me much to talk about.”

  That sounded pretty final. Just because I was desperate didn’t mean that he had to help me. In any case, I didn’t think that I could stand working for a man who made me look like a pile of uncollected garbage.

  “Never mind.” I almost managed to stand up without wincing. “I get the message. Sorry I wasted your time.”

  Putting on a show of dignity, I headed for the door.

  He waited until I had my hand on the knob. Then he suggested casually, “Leave me a phone number, Brew. In case something changes.”

  I was primed to say, Fuck that. But before I got my mouth open, I remembered that I didn’t know my way out of here. If he didn’t escort me, I might never find the lobby again.

  I might stumble around until I ran into Ginny.

  That went way beyond acting like a fool. I still had enough sense to know that coming here put me on what you might politely call shaky moral ground.

  Awkward as a marionette, I walked back to the desk, picked up a pencil, and scrawled my number on a scrap of paper. Then I stood there stiffly with nothing to do while I waited for him to get up and guide me out.

  Glancing at the number, he started to his feet.

  And stopped abruptly. Still only half upright, he took another look at what I’d written.

  When he finished standing, I could tell by the look on his face that I’d made a mistake. He wasn’t angry, but he was scrambling inside. I could almost see him chasing implications behind his mask of mild surprise.

  “You didn’t tell me,” he remarked quietly, “you know Ginny Fistoulari.”

  I shrugged, mostly so that I wouldn’t compound this foul-up by swearing at myself out loud. That damn woman hadn’t told him anything about me. Anything he could use, anyway.

  Swallowing at the anger in my throat, I gave him as little as I could. “She’s the investigator I worked for after I lost my license.”

  With a sigh, he dropped back into his chair. “Sit.” The steel was back in his voice. “Start over again. How long have you known her?”

  I ignored him. Steel didn’t scare me.

  “I told you,” I said carefully, “I already got the message. You didn’t take me seriously when I walked in, and you still wouldn’t if you hadn’t made the connection. I do need a job. But if you change your attitude now, you’re doing it for the wrong reasons.

  “Get me back to the lobby, and you can forget we ever met.”

  Ginny hadn’t told him anything about me. She hadn’t so much as mentioned my name.

  His stare didn’t waver. “Wait a minute.” With one hand, he waved my indignation away. “You said you wanted a job. You asked for help.” His tone took on a flensing edge I hadn’t heard him use before. “You didn’t tell me that my attitude mattered. You didn’t tell me you’re qualified to evaluate my state of mind.

  “Put your damn crystal ball away, or your degree in psychoanalysis, or whatever the hell it is you think you’re using, and sit down.”

  For a heartbeat or two, I couldn’t move. I wanted to take a swing at him, but unfortunately the damn sonofabitch was right. I’d made about ten assumptions that I couldn’t justify, and most of them involved thinking that I knew what went in his head. Which was what usually went wrong when I tried to talk to Ginny.

  Hell, I didn’t even know this guy.

  I crumpled back into my chair and braced myself on its arms to ease the pain in my guts.

  “Listen, Marshal.” For a while I let the way I hurt do the talking. “She’s an old friend of yours. You’ve already given her a job. I may look like trouble, but I’m not trying to cause any.” Not anymore. “I came to you for help because I’m lost here. But I don’t want to tell you anything she hasn’t already mentioned.” Stiffly I concluded, “She has her own reasons for doing what she does.”

  I didn’t see him move a muscle, but somehow I could see his attitude shift again. He put his flensing knife away.

  “OK,” he said slowly, “fair enough. That e
xplains some of the gaps.” He touched his hair quickly, checking the tousle, then went on, “But there’s at least one I need filled in. If you don’t do it, I’ll have to get an answer out of her. That”—he paused to look at me hard—“might make your problems worse.”

  At least he was willing to be specific. That helped.

  “Which gap?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Why did the two of you leave Puerta del Sol? She doesn’t want to talk about that.” He glanced briefly out the window. “I thought she was settled there.”

  No shit she didn’t want to talk about it. She couldn’t explain without telling her old boyfriend about me. And she’d made her desire to keep me out of the discussion obvious.

  I suppose I should’ve kept my mouth shut. But I figured I had a right to answer that particular question. I was the one who got shot and couldn’t go home.

  Trying not to think about bullets, I asked, “You remember el Señor?”

  Unexpectedly Marshal grinned. “Remember him? I still have nightmares about him—and I never actually had any trouble with him. He used to make some of the cops I knew sweat shit.”

  That, as they say, was gratifying. Without meaning to, I relaxed a bit.

  “He sent one of his goons to cap a client of mine.” I caught myself. “I mean a client of ours.

  “I got in the way.”

  “So he shot you,” Marshal put in. “That’s why you have trouble moving. The wound hasn’t healed yet.”

  I shrugged. “I couldn’t think of anything else to do about it, so I broke his neck.”

  “Which ‘he’? Who did el Señor send after you?”

  I hesitated, then answered the question. “Muy Estobal.”

  Marshal laughed out loud. “Muy Estobal?” Amazement filled his face. “Christ on a crutch. You broke Muy Estobal’s neck? I didn’t know he had a neck. My God, Brew, you ought to proclaim yourself a hero. You should have placards printed up.”

  Then he gradually turned sober. After a moment, he drawled, “Makes you wonder why Ginny didn’t tell me, doesn’t it?”