Jon Fixx

by Jason Squire Fluck

  “That’s better.”

  He leaned over, getting close to me again. I noticed my other antagonist hanging back. “You won’t know when or where, but at any moment I could be there, ready to make your life a living hell. Eye for an eye, you hack piece of shit.”

  Living hell. Hack. Those phrases rang a bell in my cloudy mind. I’d gained my breath back. I figured I’d throw a dart and see if I hit a bullseye. “Gotta be careful in this day and age. Election year coming up and all. What would the press do with a story about an abusive son, obsessed with his sister—”

  I’d hit a bullseye! The kicks came in on my body hard and fast. The voice and foot bruising my body belonged to Nick Nickels Jr., I was sure. The other antagonist stepped in, trying to pull his partner off me. Nick Nickels Jr. shrugged his partner off, coming at me harder. Better prepared for the onslaught, I’d curled into a tight little ball, protecting my rib cage as best I could. The kicks hurt, but weren’t doing a lot of damage now. Headlights from the opposite end of the alley revealed a car turning down it in our direction. The kicks abruptly ended.

  “This isn’t over by a long shot,” Nickels Jr. yelled at me as the two attackers retreated in the opposite direction from the car, disappearing around the corner onto Woodman.

  Using my heels for leverage, I pushed myself up against the wall of the building. Taking a deep, jagged breath, I did a body check, surveying the damage. My body would be covered with bruises by morning. As I exhaled, I could hear a slight wheezing. Broken rib, most likely, probably the same one the man-boy from the funeral had started on. The headlights stopped halfway down the alley, long before reaching me and turned into a parking space. Hands on the ground, I shoved my back against the wall to stand up. The movement took more energy than I expected, so I stood there stooped over, my butt against the wall for support, waiting for my breathing to slow. After a few minutes, I gathered myself up and slowly stumbled back to my apartment. Climbing the one set of stairs to my apartment was exhausting. The attack had taken a toll.

  Once inside, I went to the medicine cabinet, popped four Motrin tablets, grabbed my jacket, and headed down to my car. A game plan had formed in my mind as I stumbled home. I was tired of getting my ass kicked. I needed an additional set of eyes on me at all times, at least for a while. I was going to tap my retirement savings and make an offer.

  But first I needed to take care of my damaged rib, or ribs. I couldn’t tell how bad it was. I climbed into my car, pulled out of the parking garage, and made a left turn in the direction of the closest emergency room. As I drove, I kept an eye on my rearview to make sure I wasn’t being followed. A well-earned paranoia had taken over. The possibility that someone could be following me no longer seemed far-fetched. Not spotting anyone or anything unusual, I drove directly to my destination. I checked in at the emergency room desk. The attendant said it would not be long because it was a quiet night so far. After sitting only a few minutes, I heard my name called out from the entry doorway. I stood up carefully and followed a tall, thin Asian male nurse back to a room. I told him what was wrong. He wrote down some notes, took my blood pressure, had me stand on a scale for my weight, then left, telling me the doctor would be in momentarily. As I waited, I caught a reflection of myself in a mirror in the corner of the room. A damaged version of Jon Fixx stared back at me. I hadn’t realized I’d sustained damage to my face. The black eye from earlier in the week was yellow, on its way to healing. But, now, the socket around my left eye was swelling and bruising, my right cheek was scraped, red and swelling, and my lower lip was cracked and bleeding. I looked a wreck. The doctor’s entry interrupted my self-analysis. She was in her early forties with cropped hair, thin cheeks, and swift, all business moves. She took one look at me, taking it all in, grabbing my chart as she did so and glancing at the nurse’s notes.

  “I hope the other guy doesn’t look worse.”

  I shook my head. “Surprise attack. I didn’t get any punches in.”

  She considered my answer as she inspected my face. “Too bad. Looks like he did a number on you. Please take your shirt off.”

  I did as she asked. She softly probed my ribs. When her fingers touched my right side just below my chest, I involuntarily winced, inhaling quickly, pain sensors shooting off signals to my brain. She stayed there with her hands, feeling all around my rib cage. When she was done, she grabbed my chart and wrote a few notes. “Are you having trouble breathing?”

  ”I feel a slight wheezing on my exhale.”

  “We’ll need to take x-rays.”

  Without another word, she disappeared into the hallway. Moments later, the nurse was back, asking me to follow him. I did as he said, and ten minutes later was sitting in the same seat, waiting for the doctor. A few minutes later, she walked in. I noted the efficiency of this hospital.

  “Nothing’s broken, just bruised. Looks like your left side took the brunt of it, three ribs affected. We’re going to wrap you up nice and tight. That’s all we can do. I’m going to prescribe no more fighting for a few months.” She stared at me pointedly. “Understand?”

  ”Yes, doctor.”

  “Do you want to file a police report?”

  “What?”

  “We usually report this kind of activity to the police. Shall I do that?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary.”

  Her pointed stare made me squirm in my seat. She looked down at her chart, pulling out a prescription sheet and filling it out. “Here. This will help with the pain. Those ribs are going to hurt for a couple of weeks.”

  I took the prescription and she turned to hang the chart back on its hook. Then she was gone. After a few minutes, the nurse returned with gauze and medical tape. He instructed me to sit up straight while he taped me up. Efficient and with a steady hand, he wrapped my torso tight in white gauze. The snug feeling around my rib cage decreased the pain a bit. When he was finished, he tended to my face, cleaning off the dried blood. Handing me a replacement set of gauze and bandages, he gave me instructions on how best to take the bandages on and off and how to shower. As it dawned on me that my normal day-to-day maintenance was going to be impeded, a fresh wave of anger for the Nickels clan washed over me. For the first time, I felt I wanted to take action against them. Enough was enough. I hadn’t liked Candy or Edward from the day I met them. They were vapid, spoiled, self-indulgent people. If they called off the wedding, they surely couldn’t blame that on me. Maybe Edward had smartened up, and the pull of the Nickels’ money wasn’t enough to keep him locked in after all. Maybe he saw the weird way Candy’s brother looked at her. Whatever it was, they couldn’t pin it all on me. What I owed them for the terrible job I did on their story I’d now paid back in spades. Next time Nick Jr. came around I’d be prepared.

  I finished the paperwork at the front desk of the emergency room, grabbed my bandage paraphernalia up in my arms, and walked back to my Regal. I unlocked the car and tossed the medical supplies onto the passenger seat. A voice spun me around in a defensive crouch. I was on my toes, hands up, fists clenched.

  “Hey, I come in peace.” Williams stood a few feet off, hands up in mock surrender.

  I needed to get better about spotting a tail. “What do you want?”

  “For a writer, you sure talk tough. I have to say, you impressed me last time we met. You never lost your cool. But it looks like you had a rough night.”

  I turned my back on Williams, climbed into my car, and pulled the door shut. I could think of no reason why I needed to listen to this asshole, and I was too tired to be polite. Plus, if he had witnessed my beating in the alley and done nothing, all the more reason to ignore him. “Unless you have official FBI business to discuss with me, which I’m sure you don’t, leave me alone.” I stuck my keys in the ignition. “I will not bother Sara and Michelle anymore.”

  “It’s Michel.”

  “Not to me.” I turned the key in t
he ignition, revving the engine as it turned over.

  “Fine. You want official business, Jon? Then let’s talk about Tony Vespucci.”

  My hands froze on the wheel. I definitely hadn’t seen this coming. Without turning my head, I asked, “What about him?”

  “I’m just trying to understand your connection to him.”

  My experiences of the evening had made me careless and loose, my answer to him curt. “That’s none of your business.”

  “Oh, I disagree, Jon. It’s very much my business. In case you were not aware, he’s what we affectionately call ‘Familia.’ Some colleagues and I have a great deal of interest in Tony Vespucci, and we’ve discovered that you seem to have an open invitation to his home.”

  “Wherever you’re going with this, I really don’t care.” I found myself wanting to defend Vespucci. If it ever came down to a choice of giving moral support to the FBI and Ted Williams or the Mafia and Tony Vespucci, there was no question in my mind where my loyalties lie. Williams could kiss my ass.

  “As far as I’m concerned, Tony Vespucci is a legitimate businessman. He hired me to write the story—”

  “We know. For the impending marriage of his daughter Maggie and Marco Balducci. You know the Balduccis are no lightweights themselves. Marco’s father Giancarlo came up with Tony.”

  I’d heard enough. Discovering that the FBI knew what I was doing with the Italians in New York brought that feeling of panic back to my gut. I gripped my steering wheel. “Are you finished?”

  Williams stepped toward the car, leaning down into my face. “Just be careful, Jon. If I were you, I wouldn’t mention any of this to Tony. I doubt he’d like knowing you’re intimately involved with an FBI agent.”

  I looked sideways at Williams with a grim look, holding his stare. He thought I was about to respond. Instead, I gunned the Regal, slamming the gas pedal and the brake to the floor. Over the years, I’d kept the car in tip-top shape. I took it back to Stan and Maribel’s on a regular basis for service. One thing Stan’s touch ensured was both the power and response time of the components. Even the slightest tap on the pedal made the car jump. My tires started spinning at breakneck speed. Williams involuntarily stepped back. I dropped my foot off of the brake, the Buick’s tires grabbing the cement and taking flight as they did so. I left Williams standing in a cloud of stinking, burning, rubber smoke. In my rearview mirror, I could see him raising his forearm to block his nose. I reached out the window with my free arm and gave him the finger.

  I drove to the closest freeway entrance, hopping onto the 101 South. While Nickels Jr. was beating on my body, I’d had an epiphany and wanted to put it into play as soon as possible. The unexpected visit from Williams helped to reinforce my decision. When the 101 hit the I-10 connector, I steered the car onto the eastbound side of the 10. I was returning to my favorite Howard Johnson’s. As I drove, the tightness around my chest reminded me how crazy my life had become. I didn’t place much belief in luck, good or bad. Rather, I believed people brought on their own destiny. Our actions day in and day out create the life to be, putting into play what happens around us and to us as our life unfolds. Everything happening to me now was a result of a choice or an action, or even inaction, on my part. I met Tony Vespucci because of the story I’d written for Judith and Cranston. The big kid at the funeral beat me up because I’d scared his girlfriend. Williams initially paid me a visit because I wouldn’t leave my ex-girlfriend alone. Nick Nickels Jr. was harassing me because I’d handed his sister and her fiancé the story I really believed to be the truth. So my plan on the third trip to New York was to get some control over my future.

  Tonight’s events made it clear to me that I needed to protect myself. I could defend myself in a fair fight thanks to Luci, but I was getting blindsided. As I sped east on the I-10, the second visit from Williams began to sink in, the dots gaining connection inside my dulled brain. How could he know I was working with Tony Vespucci? I guess Sara could have told him, but I doubted she even remembered who I’d gone to New York to see. September had been a month filled with silence between us. She seemed uninterested in my work, to such a point that each time I went to New York I told her I was working on a new story for clients who were on a rushed time frame. As far as I could gather, Williams had only learned of my existence about a week ago when Michel asked him to pay me a visit. Before that, I didn’t exist as far as Williams’ world was concerned. Maybe Joey’s recent visit after the memorial service sparked Williams’ interest in my current job. But that meant he was following me. Why?

  In August, I was just a guy who claimed to be a writer trying to salvage my relationship with the love of my life. A couple months later I was working for one of the biggest Mafia bosses in the United States. I had the California attorney general and his son looking for a quiet way to take me out. And a renegade FBI agent, whose cousin was sleeping with the ex-love-of-my life, had decided to take me on as his pet project.

  As my mind kept rolling over the different pieces of this troublesome puzzle into which I’d gotten myself, the Los Angeles sprawl sped by. I found myself checking the rearview to make sure I wasn’t being followed. I couldn’t spot any particular car hanging back, but then again I was on the I-10, and it was crammed with cars speeding along, so I doubt I could have spotted a car that was tailing me. In time, the Howard Johnson rest stop appeared before me. I pulled off at the exit, slowly rolling into the parking lot. I didn’t spot a tail. I drove the car close to the entrance, bringing it to a stop near the curb. Was he working? Was I crazy to ask? What would this guy say? Had I misjudged him? Maybe he had the night off. Visitors entered and exited, that look of travel on their faces, many of them on their way to, or on their way back, from Las Vegas, I was sure. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a large, black man walking across the parking lot, coming from the gas pumps. When he reached the entrance to the restaurant rest stop, I climbed out of the Regal. Spotting me, he stopped, turning in my direction.

  “Jon Fixx.”

  He remembered my name. That was a good sign.

  “You back to make another phone call?”

  I shook my head. “I’m here to see you.”

  “Me?”

  I crossed the distance between us quickly. “Can you take a break? I have a business proposition for you.”

  He stared down at me, curiosity reflected in his eyes. “Okay. Let me go punch out.”

  Five minutes later, we were sitting in a booth in the corner of the restaurant. I had just finished my pitch. Donovan was staring at me, trying to figure out if I was serious or crazy. “First, why me? You don’t know me at all.”

  I pointed to the Special Forces tattoo visible on his forearm. I’d noted it the night he had helped me. “You were in the army, right?” Donovan nodded. “So I’m assuming you can handle yourself in a fight?” After a moment, Donovan nodded again. “And you’re what, six feet two, about two hundred and thirty pounds, right.” I didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m assuming your size alone ends most fights before they get started.” He shrugged. “That’s the insurance I need.”

  Donovan stared at me, silent. I was sure my instincts were right this time. I saw intelligence reflected in his dark brown eyes. I wasn’t sure why he was working this dead-end job, but I was sure he had his reasons. He seemed lonely to me. He was considering my proposal because I could see the wheels turning. I noticed the wedding band on his left finger, realizing maybe he couldn’t make the decision without his wife’s approval. “If you need to discuss this with your wife, I understand.”

  He stared down at his ring. “No need. She’s been with the Almighty these last five years.” The tone in his voice said more than anything I could have learned in a full interview. “Cancer.”

  He was lonely.

  I stared down at the table, not sure how to respond. Looking back up at him, I said, “I’m sorry.”

  “That
’s all you need to say.” He studied my face. “So, how much trouble are you in, Jon?”

  I gathered my thoughts, not sure how to be honest without making it seem too bad. Finally, I figured honesty would be the best approach. “I’ve been hired by one of the top Mafia bosses in New York to write his daughter’s love story. The FBI has taken a great deal of interest in my activity, though I’m not sure why yet. And I’ve pissed off the attorney general of our state, whose entire family has vowed vengeance.”

  “You must have special powers to anger that many powerful people at once,” he said. “Do you plan on doing anything illegal?”

  “No.”

  His eyes inspected each damaged spot on my face, and then dropped down to my chest to the bandages peeking out just above the last button of my shirt. He nudged his chin toward my body. “That one of the reasons you’re talking to me?”

  “Surprise attack. If someone had been watching my back, this wouldn’t have happened. Don’t get me wrong, Donovan. I’m not afraid. I can handle myself in a fight. Generally speaking, my life is very boring. I’m a writer by profession and a loner by nature. Normally, I don’t get much excitement of any kind, but for some reason the last couple of months have presented a good number of firsts in my life.” I leaned forward, in earnest. “I want to put the odds more in my favor in case there’s another first.”

  Donovan sat back. “So, you want twenty-four seven protection for the next two months and you’ll pay me ten thousand cash?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m the first person you thought of?”

  “Yes.”

  “Based on this.” Donovan looked down at the Special Forces tattoo on his forearm, then back up at me. “And my size. That’s it?”

  “Donovan, I make a living studying people, ignoring their words and listening to their eyes, their movements, their character, what they’re thinking regardless of what they’re saying. I’m a very good judge of character. I know I picked the right man.”