Jon Fixx

by Jason Squire Fluck

  We spent the rest of the time in idle chatter, soon arriving at the hotel where I had booked reservations, only a ten-minute drive from the Vespucci’s. Maggie unloaded us in front of the hotel and said she would call if things changed but that Vespucci was expecting me for dinner. She would let him know that Luci and Donovan were coming as well. Then she was off, leaving the three of us standing on the curb watching her pull away.

  As the Mini Cooper disappeared into traffic, Luci looked at me. “You’re in way over your head.”

  Donovan nodded.

  I asked with more edge than I intended, “What do you mean?”

  “If you don’t know what I mean, you’re in way, way over your head. Donovan?”

  “Buried,” Donovan added.

  I looked from one to the other of them, choosing not to engage further. I just wanted to get up to our room. I was already thinking about what I would say to Vespucci to placate him. We picked up our travel bags, turned for the hotel in step, and disappeared inside. I reserved one room to keep the cost down and asked for an extra bed. We settled in for a few hours of rest. I didn’t have anything on the agenda until the early afternoon, and none of us had slept much on the flight, so a nap was the first order of business. I put my head on the pillow with thoughts of what I expected our trip to look like.

  Before falling into a troubled dreamland, Jim Mosconi’s face appeared in front of me. I realized there was no way I could come to New York without seeing him to find out what he’d meant by his cryptic warning text at the end of September. Curiosity made me want to know what he’d uncovered in Italy. Did he have information specifically related to my subject? I had sent him a couple of emails over the last few days; all went unanswered. As I dozed off, I realized Mosconi was the key, but I wasn’t sure what he had unlocked.

  I hadn’t been asleep long before I woke up to a scuffling noise, pulling me awake faster than I would have liked. Angry words were being tossed around the room, and then I heard someone pleading not to be harmed. I sat bolt upright, shaking my head to clear it of the sleep dulling my senses. As the room took shape before me, I saw a stranger of medium height and light weight strung over the back of a hotel chair on his stomach, his left arm bent at an excruciating angle behind his back, his toes barely touching the ground, his other arm pinned against the side of the chair. The back of the chair was sticking squarely into his guts, apparently impeding his breathing. Donovan had the stranger pinned in this uncomfortable manner. Luci was on his feet, going through the guy’s pockets.

  “What’s going on?”

  Luci and Donovan were too intent on their current task to respond. Luci took a step back with all of the stranger’s pocket possessions in his hands. In one he was holding a wallet and two small electronic devices no larger than earplugs. In the other he held a small handgun. He emptied the bullets from the gun, including the one in the chamber. Donovan looked at Luci. Luci gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

  Donovan leaned over, next to the intruder’s ear. “I’m less than an inch away from ripping your arm out of its socket. Do you know how painful that is?”

  From the squeezed, screwed-up look on the intruder’s face, he was already in a lot of pain. Donovan leaned forward, putting more pressure on the intruder’s arm, which, in turn, made our interloper begin to scream. Donovan backed off ever so slightly. The screams became whimpers.

  Luci stepped in front of the chair. Donovan lifted the man’s torso so he could look at Luci’s face. Calmly, Luci began to question him. The intruder looked at me, the whites of his eyes revealing his fear. He didn’t cut much of an imposing figure, though I’m sure I would have felt differently if he had been holding the gun. The guy looked to be of Latino descent.

  Luci asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “I was hired to plant those.” He nodded his chin toward the electronic devices.

  “What are they?”

  “Transmitters.”

  Luci raised his brows in a question mark.

  “Bugs, cabrón. Listening devices.”

  “What were you supposed to do with them?

  The guy looked at Luci like he was dense. Luci remained calm.

  “Well?”

  Donovan gave him a quick nudge on his arm to motivate him to answer.

  “I was hired to bug Sleeping Beauty over there.”

  This was definitely a new twist.

  “Hired by whom?”

  “I don’t know the guy’s name.”

  I raised my hand, stopping Luci from asking the next question. “How did you know I was here?”

  The intruder looked over at me. “The guy told me your room number.”

  The three of us exchanged looks. Luci and Donovan were asking me what they should do with him. I shrugged. Donovan looked to Luci. Finally, Luci motioned to Donovan that he should let him go. The intruder stood up, shaking his arms loose, trying to gain back some respect while also staying on guard.

  I said, “You’re free to go.”

  Surprised, the man checked Donovan’s face to make sure he wasn’t being tricked. Donovan stepped aside, giving the man enough space to reach the hotel room door. He glanced at Luci and asked for his gun. Luci handed the empty gun over to him. The man moved toward the door, trying to push his way past Donovan.

  Donovan leaned forward, crowding the intruder up against the wall. Donovan towered over him, staring down. “If I see you again anywhere near my friend here, I’ll break your arms and tie them around your neck.”

  The intruder squeezed past Donovan, disappearing into the silence of the hallway, the door closing behind him. Luci set the bullets down on the hotel dresser. Donovan stared at the door, then turned back to me. “You sure you’re just a writer? You’re not a government spy or something?”

  I shook my head.

  “Why’d you let him go? We should have called the police.”

  “I’m not sure how Tony Vespucci would feel about me having a visit from the police.” My words hung in the air, sinking in.

  Considering what I said, Luci added, “Whoever hired that guy has serious intentions.” He held the listening devices up to the light. “These are government grade.”

  “Not a spy, right?” Donovan asked again, only half joking.

  To Luci I responded, “You think Ted Williams? FBI?”

  “I doubt it. Wrong M.O. Plus, that guy was clueless. He didn’t even check to make sure we weren’t here. I don’t think he’s doing this for a living. But whoever sent him has access to good technology, technology they’ve acquired on the black market.”

  Taking a seat on the chair he’d used for his impromptu interrogation, Donovan said, “That guy was low-street level. Why would someone send him in here to bug you?”

  “Even more than that, who would be interested in what Jon has to say?” Luci added.

  “Before I left Los Angeles, Williams intimated that his colleagues in the FBI are aware of my involvement with Tony Vespucci,” I reminded them.

  “So? You were hired to write his daughter’s story about her marriage. They should know they’re not going to discover anything useful here,” Luci added.

  I considered that a moment. “But his daughter is marrying into another reputed Mafioso family. Maybe they think I’m deeper in than I am.”

  I couldn’t read the faces of either of my companions. I wasn’t sure what they were thinking. What had just occurred raised the stakes substantially for both Luci and Donovan as long as they were around me. I wondered how they felt about it. I pushed these thoughts aside.

  “Maybe they’re hoping to hear something useful in my discussions with Vespucci?” I asked.

  Luci responded, “Doesn’t seem all that plausible.”

  Donovan added, “That guy was clueless. You really think any federal agent would hire that guy to do their dirty work? He’s
working for somebody else.”

  “Maggie was the only person who knew my plans. I emailed her the change in the itinerary before we left so she would know I was going to stay in a hotel.”

  “You didn’t mention us?” Luci asked.

  “No.”

  We sat quietly, considering our plight. Finally, Donovan said, “Who else would want to track you?”

  “There are two possibilities. Nick Nickels Sr. is one.”

  Luci interrupted me. “Why would that guy go to the trouble of planting a bug on you?”

  I pointed to my face. “Did you think his family would go to the trouble they’ve gone to so far?” After a moment, I added, “The only other person I can think of is Marco Balducci.”

  Donovan asked, “Maggie’s fiancé? Why would he want to listen in on you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you’re considering that guy, why not consider the big guy?” Donovan countered.

  “Vespucci?” I hadn’t considered that. It scared me more than I wanted to admit.

  “Why would Vespucci bug him? He hired him to write this story,” Luci said.

  Donovan looked at me. “You said you don’t think he likes his daughter’s fiancé, right?”

  “But I don’t have anything solid to base that on. Only instinct.”

  “Your instincts are generally pretty good, Jon,” Luci added.

  “Maybe he wants to hear everything you have to say about the Balduccis. Plus, if Vespucci is who you say he is, he’d have the connections to get government stock.”

  I sat on the hotel bed, considering the possibility. “I don’t know, guys. Be a bit weird for Vespucci to bug me. Doesn’t feel right.”

  Luci, always the clear thinker, summed it all up. “The bottom line, gentlemen, is that we don’t have enough information yet to figure out who did this. However, someone carrying a gun did just try to break into your room and bug you. We need to be extra cautious now. Agreed? Jon doesn’t go anywhere by himself. Either Donovan or I will accompany you everywhere,” he said, looking at me, “including all your interviews. Understood?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. So what’s on the agenda today?” Luci asked.

  “I’m expected at the Vespuccis for dinner. But before that, I’d like to pay a visit to Jim Mosconi. See what he has to say.”

  “He’s the reporter?” Donovan asked.

  “He’s a key.”

  “Key to what?”

  “I don’t know yet. That’s why I want to talk to him.”

  Luci looked at me curiously. “Jon, as far as your story is concerned, Tony Vespucci’s Mafia life doesn’t really have anything to do with the story you need to write. I mean, there’s never going to be a mention of the Mafia or what Vespucci does for a living in your story, right?”

  “That’s true.”

  “So why is it so important for you to talk to Jim Mosconi? He’s not going to tell you anything about Maggie, or her relationship with Marco, is he?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Then talking to him only puts you in more danger, because he’s a reporter. How would Vespucci feel if you told him you were asking a reporter questions?”

  I already knew Vespucci wouldn’t like my talking to Mosconi from the conversation I’d overheard on my last trip between Marco and him. But that wasn’t enough to deter me. I felt a pang of guilt for not telling Luci and Donovan about my eavesdropping when I had given them a rundown of everything before we left Los Angeles. “I think it’s important. I can’t give you a better reason than that. Can you trust me for now?”

  Luci and Donovan stared at me, each nodding in turn after a moment’s consideration.

  That marked an end to the discussion. Donovan returned to his nap. Luci took the gun and bullets and stuck them in the drawer of the nightstand beside his bed. I lay back down, knowing I was too ramped up from what had just happened to fall back to sleep. I stared at the ceiling, falling into a shifty, restless, afternoon doze.

  At the tail end of the day, we piled into a taxi headed for Manhattan, Sixth St., officially named Avenue of the Americas—a sure way to let the locals know you were not one of them if you referred to the street as such. The offices for the New York Post were our destination. The morning adventures had taken their toll on the three of us, and in conjunction with our early morning flight, we all seemed drained. I knew I was not operating at full potential. The taxi pulled up to the high-rise housing the Post. We tumbled out of the taxi, our muscles protesting against any fast movement. A guard held us up at the front desk. The guard was heavyset, in his early twenties, not all that imposing, with a curly light-colored fro. When I told him I needed to see Jim Mosconi, he changed his demeanor.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Sorry, I can’t let you see him unless you have an appointment.”

  “Could you call up to his offices, at least?”

  “No, against building protocol. What’s your name?”

  “Why do you need my name if you’re not going to call him?”

  He seemed nonplussed by my retort. “Well, if I see him come out, I’ll tell him you were looking for him.”

  “So, he’s upstairs?”

  “I didn’t say that.” The guard suddenly seemed jumpy.

  Luci nudged me, “Let’s go.”

  I turned to leave, Luci and Donovan on either side. As I walked away, I said over my shoulder, “If you see him, tell him Jon Fixx was looking for him.”

  Back on the street, we exchanged puzzled looks.

  “That guy got weird when you mentioned Mosconi’s name,” Donovan said.

  “I know. I wonder what that means. If Mosconi—” Then, I was interrupted by my PDA ringing. I answered.

  On the other end, I heard a low voice, “Why are you looking for me?”

  “Jim?”

  “Answer the question.”

  I looked at Luci and Donovan, pointing to the phone, indicating Mosconi was on the line. “I just had a few questions for you about our last conversation.”

  “There’s a coffee shop a few blocks from where you’re standing.” He gave me the address. “You have it?”

  “Yes,” I said, as I mouthed the address to my friends.

  “I’ll see you in ten minutes.” He hung up.

  I hung up. “He wants us to meet him at that address in ten minutes.”

  “What’s with all the cloak and dagger stuff?” Luci asked.

  “I have no idea.” Mosconi’s nature had definitely piqued my interest. I was sure his caution had something to do with the warning text he’d sent me at the end of September. After several minutes at a fast clip, we came to a nondescript coffee shop situated on the corner of two small streets, set a block back from the main thoroughfare. There wasn’t much foot traffic and only an occasional car passed on the street. We stepped inside. A young man was working behind the counter, and a couple of people sitting at opposite ends of the shop were working on their computers. I didn’t spot Mosconi.

  We ordered coffee and took a seat at a table near the wall so I could watch the door. As the server placed the coffee cups on our table, Donovan excused himself to go the restroom. When he disappeared down the hallway, I caught Mosconi’s frame in the front door. He stood there, staring at Luci and me at the back of the coffee shop. Instantly, he pulled his PDA out and appeared to type on it. My PDA buzzed. I pulled my phone out to see what message had arrived. A text from Mosconi: “Who’s the guy beside you?”

  I texted back, “He’s my best friend and business partner. Harmless.”

  Mosconi responded, “Why’s he here?”

  I looked at Mosconi only forty feet away, thinking his actions bordered on absurd. He was clearly paranoid about something. “He helps me on all my projects. This is sta
ndard protocol for me to have him with me on my final trip.”

  Mosconi didn’t text back. He stared at us. From the corner of my eye, I could see Luci watching Mosconi and me communicating forty feet apart.

  Luci whispered, “He’s scared.”

  Finally, Mosconi took one step and then another, closing the gap between us in a few seconds. I didn’t stand up. “Jim, good to see you.”

  He didn’t respond, staring at Luci.

  “This is my best friend, Luci Gardner,” I said.

  “Good to meet you, Jim.”

  Mosconi nodded but didn’t sit down. “Are you sure you weren’t followed?”

  “Followed by whom?”

  Donovan appeared around the corner. Mosconi’s head swung in Donovan’s direction, alarm registering on his face. Donovan was only a few feet away from our table as Mosconi reached behind his back. I watched Donovan acknowledging both the look on Mosconi’s face and the motion of his arm, his steps speeding up exponentially.

  Trying to keep my voice low so as not to alarm anyone in the establishment, I said, “Jim, no!”

  Luci was out of his chair, jumping around the table to stop Mosconi from pulling his gun, but Donovan got to the reporter first. He wrapped Mosconi up in a bear hug, pinning his arms to his sides, the gun hanging limply in Mosconi’s right hand. A split second later, Luci had taken the small gun and hidden it away before anyone in the shop could see it. Donovan looked at me, wanting to know what he was supposed to do.

  I stood up, stepping close to Mosconi. “Jim, I don’t know what your deal is, but you’re overreacting. This is my other friend, Donovan. He’s with me, too. None of us means you any harm. We’re just here to get information. Okay?”

  Mosconi stared at me, his eyes bulging. I could smell his fear. I indicated to Donovan to let Mosconi go. Slowly, we sat down around the square table. Mosconi was the last to take a seat. He kept glancing at the front door. Mosconi’s eyes settled on Luci. “Can I have my gun back?”

  “When we’re leaving, you can have your gun back.”

  Mosconi didn’t like the answer, but he didn’t push the issue.

  “Why is a reporter carrying around a gun?” Luci asked.