Jon Fixx

by Jason Squire Fluck

  “Of course.”

  “That was his hangout.”

  “The Feds bugged that whole joint. It’s how they busted him.”

  Maggie lifted her eyebrows in mock surprise. “So, you know the story of John Gotti?”

  “Hard to miss. Remember, he was always in the newspaper. Growing up, I only knew two Mafia names: Don Corleone and John Gotti.”

  “I think that’s why Cranston did what he did. He knew the infamous attachment of the spot alone would bring business, but it’s his pizza that brings everyone back. Best pizza in Manhattan, and I’m a native New Yorker, so that’s saying something.”

  “I’ll have to check it out before I leave town.”

  I looked out the passenger window, watching New York life pass by. We were closing in on the Brooklyn Bridge. “Mind if I ask you some general background questions?”

  “Shoot.”

  Over the course of our ride, I learned Maggie was born and raised in Brooklyn. Every so often I heard traces of the unique, defining Brooklyn accent one expected when speaking to a native, though I hadn’t noticed it at the university. She obviously worked hard at dropping it. She attributed her desire for higher education to her father, whom she said was always pushing her academically. I was surprised to hear that Vespucci had a voracious appetite for books, especially history, and that Maggie had inherited her father’s love for reading. When she had declared her major in college, both her parents were disappointed she had chosen anthropology, hoping she would pick something more practical, like premed or business or prelaw—like her brother Michael, who was an attorney. When she went abroad to Italy as a junior to work on her first research project and returned speaking fluent Italian, both Vespucci parents warmed to Maggie’s choice. Now, with her teaching position, the Vespuccis were fully on board. Maggie stopped talking to point out the window at the East River. We were crossing the Brooklyn Bridge.

  “In 1883, at the time it was built, it was the longest suspension bridge in the world and considered one of the wonders of the world,” Maggie informed me.

  I gazed at the East River, spotting the Statue of Liberty in the distance. Dusk was settling in, the floodlights on the bridge highlighting the most famous Lady in the United States.

  “My first time crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. Now, I feel like an honorary New Yorker,” I said, and looked at Maggie.

  “Happy to be of service,” she replied.

  My discussion with Maggie had been no different from the multitude of other interviews I’d had with past brides-to-be, except that she seemed more intelligent and more down-to-earth than my average client, as well as more respectful when she spoke of her parents. At the same time, the Vespucci’s apparent desire for their daughter to succeed, and concern for the path she took, seemed in line with other American middle-class parents, at least according to the way Maggie described it. Nothing in her self-described biography so far intimated any connection to the dangerous, illicit sphere in which I presumed her father to be a controlling interest. Maybe I was wasting my energy worrying about who Tony Vespucci was or what he did for a living. Did it really matter to me that he was connected to the Mafia? I was not here to write his story. I was here for his daughter. I snuck a peek at Maggie looking off into the distance, her profile backlit by the streetlights. One aspect of Maggie Vespucci did set her apart from all my other clients, though. She was flawlessly stunning. There was no denying the fact. I quickly looked away, afraid she would catch me staring at her.

  We were well into Brooklyn now, traveling on the I-278. I asked her for more detail about where she grew up, whatever came to mind.

  “We lived in a brownstone in Bensonhurst, but when I was about sixteen, my father bought the current place. I love it, but the brownstone was my favorite. It was my first house. I guess that’s why. Childhood, you know?”

  “Where is your fiancé from?” I asked.

  “Marco? We grew up in the same neighborhood. Went to the same schools. My family has known his family as far back as I can remember. When we were growing up, people would make jokes about us getting married.” Maggie looked out the window at the passing brownstones as our taxi closed in on our location. I waited. Over the years of interviewing, I learned that the less I questioned and probed, the more I got. Maggie continued. “We sort of dated in high school, but it didn’t last long. More like a brief test run than a real relationship.”

  “He was your first love, then?”

  “I don’t know if I’d say that. But maybe.” She paused, looking at me intently. “My father told me you’d be perceptive.”

  I shrugged off the compliment. I was already finding my hook for their story: Childhood True Love Rediscovered. Maybe this would be easier than I thought. “So, what happened?”

  “We went our separate ways. I went to college and then graduate school. I dated but never met anyone else who came close to being the one. At least, not really. Then, last year I ran into Marco at a neighborhood party. I hadn’t seen him since high school, so it was a bit of a shock.”

  “I thought you said your families were really close? Why hadn’t you seen him since then?”

  “He went to Italy to help run his father’s business. He was there until last year.”

  “Was he in Italy when you were there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t cross paths?”

  “He wasn’t on my radar at the time. I was so focused on my studies that the idea never came up.”

  I wasn’t sure how to interpret that. “When you met again here in New York, did you still feel that spark?”

  “Yes. At the party, he told me he came because he’d heard I’d be there. I don’t know if that was just a line, but he insists to this day it wasn’t.”

  I had a nagging feeling. Something she said bothered me. They’d broken up in high school. There was more to that breakup than Maggie admitted. But that wasn’t what was bothering me. I looked out the passenger window. Tony Vespucci’s face loomed large in my mind. His words came back to me. “‘I love my daughter more than anything. Nothing is too good for her.’” How did he feel about his daughter marrying a guy who broke her heart once already? “Your father must be so happy you’re marrying your first true love,” I said.

  I could have sworn I saw her face darken, but the look was so fleeting that I couldn’t be sure. Maggie smiled. “My father is glad I’m getting married. He thinks I’m getting old.”

  We shared a laugh. Vespucci was not the first parent I’d come across with old world sensibilities who felt that an unmarried woman past the age of twenty-five was on her way to becoming an old maid. Suddenly, the taxi came to an abrupt halt. Living in Los Angeles, I never used a taxi, and given my experience so far, I was glad I didn’t have to.

  “We’re here, Jon.” She looked at me with a pretend concerned look. “You sure you’re ready for this? Old school Italian families can be loud and overbearing. My family is no exception.”

  By this point, I’d been around every type of family possible. I’d seen happy families, grumpy families, families that gossiped about one another in each other’s presence, close-knit families. But I had to admit I had never encountered the Family, so this definitely was a first. I hesitated. As long as the taxi was here, I could still leave. I took a deep breath, pushing myself out of the car. Before I’d even shut my door, the taxi driver was gunning the engine. I watched it speed away.

  “You get used to it. Taxi drivers are their own kind.”

  I turned toward the house. What I saw before me was like nothing I had seen in Manhattan. I was standing in front of an oversized, walled compound, large weeping willows and oaks towering high above the walls. I glanced up and down the street, noting that the other houses were single dwellings on large lots, all two or three stories, but Vespucci’s house was the only one with a stonewall guarding it. I followed Maggie thro
ugh the iron gate into the large courtyard, open and lush with trees and bushes. As we reached the landing front door, I felt a sudden, intense stinging on my left arm. I jumped sideways looking down at my arm. “Ouch!” I yelped.

  Maggie turned around. I felt like I’d just been stung by a bee or a spider, but I couldn’t see what had bitten me.

  “My nephew,” Maggie said, annoyed. In a sterner tone, she said, “Mikey, get out here.” Nothing. “Now!”

  I spotted a ten-year-old carrying a BB gun skulk out from behind some dense bushes. Slowly, he crossed over to us. He was small for his age, had dark hair and a round face. His piercing blue eyes almost glowed in the early evening light. Maggie pointed her finger to a spot directly in front of her without saying a word. Mikey blinked his blue eyes, weighing his options, but a shift in the look on Maggie’s face convinced him to stand before his aunt. She grabbed hold of his ear and pulled. “What did your father tell you about shooting your BB gun at people?”

  Mikey didn’t answer, though I’m not sure if he was being defiant or he couldn’t speak because his ear was being pulled off his head. Finally, Mikey forfeited, his pitch a couple octaves higher than I assumed was his normal ten-year-old voice. “That it’s dangerous.”

  Maggie wasn’t through. She pulled a little harder. “What do you say?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” he said, looking in my direction.

  Maggie let go of his ear. Mikey’s heels dropped back to the ground. I figured I wasn’t the first person Mikey had used for target practice. He was probably just preparing to join the family business. Covering his ear with his hand, Mikey hugged his aunt and Maggie wrapped her arms around him.

  “Are your mom and dad inside?”

  Mikey nodded. “Can I go now?”

  “No more shooting anyone.”

  “I know, Aunt Maggie. Please don’t tell Dad.”

  Maggie smiled, and Mikey picked up his gun and went off to hunt more, hopefully, nonhuman, prey.

  “Sorry about that. He’s already a handful. Can’t wait to see what he’s going to be like when he’s fifteen.”

  I couldn’t wait to see what kind of gun he’d be shooting at fifteen, but I didn’t say anything, just nodded my head in agreement.

  I followed Maggie into the Vespucci’s home. On my right was an office, a giant mahogany desk sitting in the middle of the room. To my left was a spacious living room filled with antiques, a vintage I didn’t know, and on the walls were outsized landscape oil paintings, obviously worth a lot of money. The fireplace was blazing, and I was struck by the nostalgic smell of burning wood.

  “Mikey is your brother’s son?” I asked Maggie.

  “My older brother Michael, yes.”

  “No other siblings, right?”

  “Just Michael. He’s seven years older. Got the marriage thing down quicker than I did. He was twenty-five when he settled down.”

  I followed Maggie along the hallway into the kitchen, and I was suddenly hit with multiple, savory aromas. The stove was alive with activity, differently sized pots and pans competing for attention. Two large saucepans emitted steam from their loose tops. Meat was sizzling in two frying pans, side by side. I started salivating. I noticed two women were preparing dinner. The younger one was of the post-World War II generation, and the older one was post-World War I. I guessed, correctly, that I was looking at Maggie’s mother and grandmother. Post-World War II grabbed Maggie and gave her a big hug. “Oh, good, Maggie, you made it in time for dinner!”

  “Hi, Mama.” Maggie exchanged kisses on the cheek with her mother, and then she turned to me. “This is Jon Fixx. Jon, this is my mother, Barbara.”

  “Good to meet you, Mrs. Vespucci.”

  “Don’t be silly, Jon. Mrs. Vespucci is for my mother. Call me Barbara.”

  “Sure, Barbara.” I liked Maggie’s mother immediately. She had a friendly energy about her. I was already being lulled into a sense of familiarity with the Vespuccis, and I had not been there even five minutes. I made a note to myself not to drop my guard.

  Barbara grabbed hold of my cheek. “My husband told me you were a good writer, but he didn’t tell me how handsome you were.” I was too busy blushing to say anything to her. “Maggie, have you been behaving yourself with this boy?”

  Now, it was Maggie’s turn to blush. “Mama, stop it!” Maggie turned to me. “Ignore my mother, Jon.” Maggie walked over to her grandmother, placing a kiss on each cheek. “And this is my Grandma Jean.”

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  “You too, young man.”

  “Is Marco here yet?” Maggie asked.

  “He’s in the back with everyone else,” Barbara said, as she scooped pasta into a large serving bowl. From where I stood, I couldn’t see much of anything in the backyard.

  “Here, Jon, can you carry this outside?” Barbara asked. I suddenly found myself holding a steaming bowl of spaghetti with meatballs.

  “This way,” Maggie said, as she followed her grandmother out the side door, me in tow, the three of us laden with different dishes of food including a large bowl of risotto, braciole, lasagna, and a huge multicolored salad.

  Around the outside corner of the house we went into a gigantic backyard filled with pines and maples brightly lit by overhanging lights running from the house to the trees and back to the house. An oversized picnic table was in the center of the yard. I spotted Joey first. He was throwing horseshoes in a horseshoe pit in the corner of the yard, flanked on either side by two younger guys.

  Maggie slowed her pace to fall in step with me. “Don’t be overwhelmed, they’re all friendly,” she said.

  Behind me, Barbara called, “Everybody sit. It’s time to eat.”

  I followed a step behind Maggie to the massive picnic table. Vespucci was reading to a young girl who didn’t look any older than five years of age and resembled Mikey Jr. minus the BB gun. When Vespucci spotted me, he picked his niece up from his lap, carefully setting her down beside him on the long bench.

  ”Jon Fixx, you made it in one piece. I’d like you to meet my beautiful niece, Sabrina.”

  Sabrina smiled up at me.

  “Hi, Sabrina.”

  Precociously, she responded, “Hi, Jon Fixx.”

  Vespucci chuckled. “This one, smart as a whip. Glad you made it in time for dinner.”

  Maggie leaned over her father, giving him a hug and kiss on the cheek. “Hi, Papa.”

  “You and Jon have a chance to get acquainted?”

  “We did.” She smiled over at me reassuringly.

  The family was closing in from all sides and behind me. Within moments, everybody was standing around the table, and I quickly picked out who was who. Maggie’s sister-in-law Caroline was standing beside her holding Mikey Jr.’s hand. Joey was to the left of Mikey Jr., flanked by the other two guys who’d been playing horseshoe. Maggie’s brother, Michael, tall and thin with an open, friendly face, stepped over to Maggie, giving her a kiss on the cheek. By process of elimination, that meant the remaining guy was Marco. The scowl on his face aimed in my direction told me everything I needed to know. Vespucci stood up, putting his arm around me. Awkwardly, I set the bowl of spaghetti down on the table.

  The family fanned out around the dinner table. Vespucci indicated I should sit in the seat on his right. Joey sat down across from me. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched my principal clients greet each other. Maggie exchanged a small kiss with Marco. He was still staring at me, probably wondering who I was and why I’d shown up with his bride-to-be. From the head of the table, in a friendly, authoritative voice, Vespucci bellowed, “Marco, Maggie, grab a seat. I’ll explain everything in a moment.”

  Reluctantly, Marco guided Maggie to the two remaining seats between Joey and Grandma Jean. I may have been mistaken, but I could have sworn the scowl on Marco’s face had deepened. To my left, Vespu
cci cleared his throat. “For Maggie and Marco’s upcoming wedding, I want to give you both a very special gift. I have to apologize to you, Marco. I kept this a secret from everybody because I didn’t want to spoil it. Maggie only found out yesterday, in fact.” Marco and Maggie exchanged looks. Vespucci looked down at his granddaughter, pointing at me. “Sabrina, who is this?”

  Sabrina responded, “Jon Fixx.” All eyes turned to her in surprise. No one else at the table had heard our initial exchange. Caroline and Michael smiled with parental pleasure. Sabrina reveled in the moment. Mikey Jr. squirmed in his seat, not appearing to enjoy the attention his sister was receiving.

  “That’s right, Sabrina. Everyone, this is Jon Fixx. He writes real-life love stories,” Vespucci announced, but it sounded like such an eccentric thing to do that I expected the men at the table to laugh at me.

  “So Maggie, Marco,” Vespucci continued, “Jon is my gift to you both.” There was silence at the table. Vespucci looked at me. The rest of the table followed suit. Everyone stared, waiting. I wanted to crawl under the table. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say. I looked at Tony for some help. He flicked his chin at the rest of the table. “Tell them what you do.”

  Unsure, I turned to the rest of the faces. “Uh, I write couple’s love stories.”

  Little Mikey piped up, “Grandpa said that already.”

  Sharp little kid. Unlike his sister’s comments, Mikey’s crack didn’t inspire laughter from anyone. In fact, his mother gave him a smack in the back of the head. Mikey Jr. closed his mouth tight, stewing in his seat, staring at me. I figured that his ten-year-old mind was envisioning various ways to end my life.

  I explained the best way I knew how. “I usually get hired to write the love story for a couple before they get married. I interview the couple and their family and friends, then I write the story and put it in a book with pictures and mementos and other items of a romantic nature.”

  The table was silent. “Think Bridges of Madison County, only personalized.” And with that, heads started nodding. I heard positive murmurs around the table. I hated that I had to compare my writing in that manner to get it understood.