Jon Fixx

by Jason Squire Fluck

  “Are you done?”

  Williams didn’t answer me. He looked at Donovan. “Can I have my government-issued Glock back?”

  Familiar with the gun, Donovan popped the magazine out from the handle of the Glock and handed a harmless gun back to Williams without saying a word.

  “Oh, c’mon, is that necessary?”

  Donovan stuck the magazine in his pocket. Reluctantly, Williams took the castrated weapon back, but before sticking it into the shoulder holster, he pulled a spare magazine from inside his jacket pocket and reloaded the weapon. Luci stepped aside to give him room to pass. Just as Williams reached the door, a thought occurred to me. “Ted, why did you guys send someone in here to plant a bug?”

  He turned around, having trouble hiding his surprise. “If we did, you wouldn’t be asking the question. And I wouldn’t be paying you a friendly visit.” Then he turned to go, but before allowing the door to close on his uninvited presence, he said over his shoulder, “Jon, stop digging. Go home.”

  The door closed on his back. We exchanged glances, the concern on my face registered on those of my companions.

  Luci spoke first. “What the hell was that all about?”

  “I think you’ve stepped on a pressure release IED,” Donovan said.

  Luci and I both stared at Donovan.

  “Improvised explosive device, with a twist. The Germans used them in World War II. Viet Cong in Vietnam. They’ve had a resurgence in Iraq and Afghanistan. Bomb’s buried in the ground and the pressure of your weight only starts the process. The actuating device for the bomb is a release of the pressure switch, so as soon as you remove your weight, take the pressure off, you’re blown all to hell.”

  Luci asked, “He should keep the pressure on?”

  “I’m saying it could be much worse if he takes the pressure off.”

  I looked at each of them, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. “Could you please tell me who I’m pressuring?”

  No one answered.

  “Why would the FBI want me to stop doing what I’m doing, when all I’m doing is writing a love story for Maggie Vespucci’s wedding?”

  Donovan added, “Why would someone try to bug our room?”

  Luci returned the query with another, “Why would Mosconi call you and warn you to be careful?”

  “And why is he scared? I could hear it in his voice. More importantly, who is he scared of?” But all three of us knew the answer almost before I was finished speaking. Given the information we had, Mosconi had only one person to be afraid of. The thoughts began to gel in my brain, and the beginnings of a plan started to form.

  Off the look on my face, Luci asked, “What?”

  “Nothing, nothing. Let’s table this for tonight. I’m not sure yet. Let me sleep on it, and we can talk in the morning.”

  With that, we decided to call it a night. The day had been exhausting. Donovan blocked the door with his body, and within minutes we were all asleep. I was so tired, I didn’t dream, which was good, because I knew I was going to need my rest for what was coming.

  11 Early November – New York – 3rd Trip

  I slept like a log that night. I was exhausted from all the excitement of the day, and with Donovan and Luci in the room, I wasn’t worried that anything would happen. But when I woke up, my mind was flooded with questions from the previous day’s happenings. Was what Mosconi told us about Marco Balducci true? Did Maggie or her father know Marco had a kid in Italy? Did Vespucci have an ulterior motive when he hired me? Were Maggie and Marco in love? Did any of this really matter for the job I was hired to do? Were my feelings for Maggie interfering with my ability to be objective? My Voice chose to answer the last question loud and clear.

  Of course, your personal feelings are interfering with everything!

  I looked around to see if Luci or Donovan was watching me. For a moment, I was sure I’d spoken out loud. Luci’s bed was vacant. No sign of Luci. I could hear Donovan’s even breathing coming from the cot near the door. I lay back down.

  C’mon, Jon, your inability to see yourself for who you truly are is gargantuan. Let’s start with the main problem: Maggie. How do you feel about her?

  I stared at the ceiling considering the question. How did I feel about Maggie? Well, she was beautiful, and intelligent, definitely sexy, unique and—

  Jesus, Jon, what is this, a dating game? Get to the point. I don’t have all the time in the world, and neither do you. If you got your head out of your ass, you’d see that.

  I raised my head off my pillow and shook it hard to try to silence my Voice, but to no avail.

  Are you really this dense?

  Fine, you’re right, I have feelings for Maggie. So what?

  So what! So what are you going to do about it?

  What can I do about it?

  Exactly! That’s my point. What can you do about it? Nothing, Jon. She’s getting married in a month. And that’s not all. Let’s add some color to this picture. Her father is one of the biggest players in the Mafia, and her soon-to-be husband is not far behind. Sounds like two guys I wouldn’t fuck with.

  I stared at the wall and saw images of Tony Vespucci in a tux, walking Maggie down the aisle, of Marco standing at the head of the church beside the smiling priest, of Marco and Maggie exiting the church and the guests throwing wedding rice on them, of Marco standing over a body holding a pistol and putting three quick successive bullets into the body underneath him! I blinked and the images were gone.

  These guys are the real deal. So guess what? Maggie is off limits. Period. Even if she wasn’t off limits, she’d be off limits. So this bullshit idea you have deep, deep down in your subconscious that maybe, just maybe, you and Maggie might, what, might end up together? Forget it. Okay, that’s the first thing. Second, Jon, is whether you think Maggie and Marco are in love, because, let’s be fair, you have a legitimate beef if you’re asked to write a love story about two people who aren’t in love. So, could you please outline for me the reasons you don’t think they’re in love? And remember, I have the added benefit of knowing your deepest, darkest secrets, because I own your subconscious, so don’t lie to me.

  My Voice was so damn irritating. I tried to list the reasons I’d uncovered for why I thought Maggie and Marco were a less than perfect match, but I quickly realized I didn’t have much of a list. Nothing in my interviews with either of the principals or, in fact, anyone in the extended group of family and friends gave me any solid evidence that my instincts were correct.

  Did you hear that, Jon? You’re basing all this on your instincts, nothing more. Therefore, big boy, time to stop all this nonsense, get the job done, and move on.

  But—

  You’re so damn stubborn!

  Why is Tony asking me to keep him informed about Marco?

  In the past, how many fathers have you met who had reservations when it came to giving their daughter away to another man? They all did, Jon!

  Good point. I rarely met a father who entered the unfamiliar position of father-in-law without some degree of concern and hesitancy toward his son-in-law. That could easily explain Vespucci’s reasons for asking me to give him any unusual information I discovered about Marco. Marco. Wait. What about what Jim Mosconi told me?

  What about it?

  Well, if it’s true, then—

  What does that have to do with him marrying Maggie, huh, Jon? If Marco has a kid, let Maggie and Marco sort that out. That’s no business of yours! Anyway, what gives you the right to be judge?

  I stared at the wall trying to gauge the overall picture with an objective eye. So far, I’d done nothing to damage Maggie and Marco’s relationship, but my Voice was paranoid, fearful I was on a self-destructive path that would create an irreversible flow of events that could only end in my, and his, demise. Over the years, there’d been quite a few grooms I didn’t
much care for, but I was sure that not one of them, with the exception of Edward Bronfman of Internet Love Affair fame, had even the slightest clue how I felt. In this case, if I let Marco know my personal feelings toward him, it would not only be unprofessional it would also be suicide. If I was reading Vespucci wrong as well, and he liked Marco more than I thought, I’d be in even deeper trouble.

  I lay back, focused on the blank canvas of the ceiling, wondering how I’d gotten myself into this mess. As I stared at the ceiling, the image of a man throwing fists hard and fast took shape before me. A second man fell, the attacker kicking him furiously without pause. The kicks came in a rush with no concern for where they landed. Blood was flowing from cracks in the downed man’s head. A baby’s cry filled my ears. I spotted a tiny pink bundle floating in the air behind the two men. The attacker’s foot lifted high in the air and came crashing down on the second man’s skull. The attacker slowly looked up from the body to stare at me with contempt, Marco’s dark scowl now focused on me. I was next. I shook my head to rid myself of the image, my heart pounding. This was the man marrying Maggie. Did she know? My Voice cut into the flow of my thoughts.

  Jesus, Jon! First and foremost, what Marco did before he and Maggie got together has nothing to do with the present or future, and it most definitely has nothing to do with your current assignment. You weren’t hired to write about all the bad things your principals have done. So stop thinking about it, get on track, and finish this up. Then get the hell out of here before something bad happens, do you hear me? I don’t care if you like Marco or not, and I surely don’t care if you have some misplaced, rebound-induced feelings for his fiancée. Keep your eye on the ball and get this over with. Need I remind you what happened with Candy and Edward? Oh, that’s right, I don’t need to remind you, because all you have to do is look in the mirror! Most of all, Jon Fixx, your judgment of Marco is based on nothing more than your gut instinct and the word of a drunk, disaffected reporter who would have done far better if he’d been writing in 1968 than now. So would you just do your final interviews this week so we can go home!

  I hated when my Voice made sense. Everything he said was right. Maybe I needed to get the job done as quickly as possible and move on.

  Maybe? Jon, c’mon.

  I know. Just finish it up and—wait! There was one piece of the puzzle that didn’t make sense. Where did the FBI fit into all this? Why did Williams have such a hard-on for me to leave?

  Silence. No response. There it was. That was the key. I’d shut my arrogant Voice up, because neither my conscious nor subconscious had any idea why Williams was working so hard to warn me off the Vespuccis. In fact, I would expect the FBI to want to recruit me since I had such open access to Vespucci’s home. Williams knew I had nothing to do with the Vespucci’s or the Balducci’s illegal activities. Why did he, and the FBI, want me out of the picture so badly?

  The sound of a knock on the door roused me from my mental gymnastics. I heard Donovan shifting his weight, getting up from the cot. From my angle, I could see him looking through the peephole, then moving his cot out of the way and opening the door for our third musketeer. Luci entered the room, his hair and face wet with sweat from training in the hotel gym, I guessed correctly. He stepped from the hallway into the main room, followed a step behind by Donovan.

  “What are we doing today, Jon?” Luci asked.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Donovan crossed the room to the window, lifted the curtain, and looked out. He asked, “Neither of you is involved in any illegal shit, right?”

  “No.”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Luci answered.

  “Right. So explain to me what it is, Jon, you’re doing that has the FBI on your ass?”

  “I’ve been wondering that myself.”

  Donovan turned away from the window, the sunlight glancing off the scar above his eye. “I’ve been thinking about that all night. You know what I think? The FBI must have something to lose.”

  I could not think of a single thing I was doing that the FBI would be interested in. I glanced at Luci to see if he had anything. He stared back.

  “Jim Mosconi is the key,” I stated. “We need to pay him a visit. Quietly.”

  “Agreed,” Luci and Donovan said in unison.

  I got up and stepped into the bathroom to take a shower and get ready for the day. Looking in the mirror at the yellowed bruises on my face, I noticed that the swelling had gone down. For less than a second, I considered packing up and heading back to Los Angeles, knowing as soon as the thought crossed my mind that it wasn’t an option. A quitter I was not. I was going to see this through. I vowed the Nickels project would be a category of one, leaving them the only dissatisfied client I’d had in my eight years of business.

  My official schedule didn’t begin until early evening. I had a dinner meeting lined up with Marco and Maggie to tie up any loose ends about their story. That left us the entire day to pay a visit to Mosconi. By midmorning, we were up and out. I’d left a message on Mosconi’s mobile that I had some information that might be useful to him and could we meet. I wasn’t sure exactly what information I had, but I figured I’d dangle it out there to motivate him to get back to me right away. We found our way down to the street and hailed a taxi to take us into the city. While we waited for Mosconi to get back to me, I decided a visit to Cranston Jefferson might be wise, hoping he could shed some light on the Vespucci clan and the FBI. I called his office to see if he was available. Cranston was the only person in New York I knew I could trust to be both honest with me as well as discreet.

  We didn’t talk much on the ride into the city. Luci and Donovan were both alert, keeping an eye on our surroundings and on the traffic around us, making sure we weren’t being followed. After about twenty minutes, the taxi started passing the high-rises of Manhattan. As directed, our driver dropped us a block away from the office building where the headquarters for the Jefferson’s large clothing empire resided. Before going in, we made sure we had not been followed. After a few minutes, we felt safe entering the glass doors to the lobby.

  We stepped inside the elevator and I pushed the button that said PH. The doors closed and the elevator sped up the shaft, the upward pull so fast it made my stomach lurch. The elevator slowed and stopped as quickly as it had started. The doors opened to a wide foyer. Across the open space, floor-to-ceiling windows presented Manhattan in all its glory. We stepped off the elevator, staring at the intimidatingly magnificent skyline.

  The secretary’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “Jon, Mr. Jefferson is expecting you.” She was in her mid-twenties, a natural blond beauty, petite, unflashy, with a warm, friendly smile. She’d been new to the job when I was working with Cranston and Judith. She remembered who I was and what I’d done for the Jefferson’s.

  As we passed the desk, she said, “I loved the story you wrote for Mr. and Mrs. Jefferson. It was so romantic.”

  “Uh, thank you,” I replied.

  “Maybe if I get lucky, someday you’ll be able to do the same for me.”

  “I would love to.” I gave her a small wave as we passed through the doors into Cranston’s inner sanctum and closed them behind us.

  Cranston sat behind his desk, staring at his computer screen. In frustration, he tapped his keyboard hard. “Damn computers! I thought they were supposed to make our lives easier.” At the sound of the doors closing, Cranston looked up. “Jon! I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon. What a pleasant surprise.” He stopped talking, appraising my friends. He came out from behind his desk, his slow shuffle betraying his age. His gaze fell first on Luci, then on Donovan, then back to Luci. Cranston put his arms out and gave me a strong hug. Releasing me, he stepped back, his hands on my shoulders, “How are you, son?”

  “I’m good, sir.”

  He studied my face, looking over the yellow bruises, then at my friends. “And who are
these fellows? They look like bodyguards. Did you suddenly become famous on me?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “Nothing worth discussing.” I brushed off his concern, knowing I had more important issues to talk about. “Cranston, I’m sure you remember Luci. He’s the man—”

  “I know, the man responsible for the image and look of our novella. We met only that one time.” Cranston’s eyes sparkled, taking Luci in. “Good to see you again. The novella gives my wife so much joy. I have to tell you two that she looks through that thing every week. I’ll come home and catch her flipping through it in the dining room, a smile on her face. You did something special with that book. I’ll always be indebted to you both.”

  “You don’t owe us anything, Cranston. We were just doing our job,” I said.

  “I’ve been in business long enough to know that when someone puts their entire heart and soul into their work for you, you become indebted to them. Employers often forget that.” He paused a moment, his weathered, wrinkled face looking us over, his eyes settling on Donovan. “Come here, son.”

  Donovan crossed the short distance between them. Cranston reached out, his wizened hands taking hold of Donovan’s arm, his eyes staring down at the tattoo on Donovan’s forearm, then back up to Donovan’s face. “How long?”

  “Twenty years. Retired.”

  “You saw some things. Did some things.”

  Donovan didn’t respond, staring into the old man’s eyes. An understanding seemed to pass between them.

  “World War II. It was a bit different in my time. The military was a hard place for a black man to be a professional.” He let go of Donovan’s arm. “How did you get linked up with Jon here?”

  “He needed someone to watch his back. I needed something to do,” Donovan answered.

  Cranston turned to me. “Is he because of the Vespucci’s?“

  “Funny you should ask that.”

  Cranston slowly stepped back around his desk, sitting down in his chair. Donovan returned to his spot beside Luci. “I hope those bruises aren’t related to the Vespuccis?”