Codename: Chandler: Fix (Kindle Worlds Novella)

by F. Paul Wilson

  Again Chandler looked away.

  "I don't believe in fate, Jack. Justice is subjective. But if anyone deserved a horrible death, it was this monster."

  "Sounds like it."

  "I don't believe in regrets, either. But this one, I regret." She traced a circle on the table with her finger. "I… I put something in his drink to simulate a heart attack."

  "You regret killing that asshole?" Jack asked.

  Chandler's stare bored into him. "I regret not setting that asshole on fire, and making it last all day."

  She took her hand back and lifted the beer, draining half the bottle in a few gulps. When she wiped off her mouth, something about her had changed. A slight sagging of the shoulders that wasn't there a moment ago. A softening of the lines in her face.

  "I never told anyone that before," she said. "It feels pretty good."

  The subject of torture kicked up a memory.

  "You ever hear of a woman who calls herself La Chirurgienne?"

  She stiffened. "The freelancer? Of course."

  Freelance torturer was more accurate.

  "How do you know of her?" she added.

  "Met her once. Just curious if she was still active."

  Chandler nodded. "She's still a go-to for many of the clandestine services."

  The memory of one of La Chirurgienne's signature procedures sent a cold wave down his back. Time for a change of subject.

  He said, "Don't take this wrong—"

  "Whenever someone says that, it's going to be an insult."

  "It's not. I just want to say that I've been through some pretty weird stuff, but this has got to be the weirdest first date I've ever been on."

  "Technically it's our second date. The first was in Central Park."

  "You call beating each other up a first date?"

  "I call it foreplay." She stroked the beer bottle with her fingers.

  "Then this is the weirdest second date I've ever been on."

  "Is weird bad?" Chandler reached for his hand again.

  "Jury is still out."

  A few seconds passed. They could have been just a man and a woman, on a date, holding hands. But they weren't. They'd both done some things that most people had never done. They both had wounds most people couldn't understand.

  Maybe opening up a little wasn't the worst idea of all time.

  "So is this your calling, Jack, or your job? Going out Robin Hooding?"

  "Robin Hooding?"

  "Stealing from the criminals to give to the Little Leagues."

  "That's just a seasonal thing. Call it spring training. Hones the reflexes."

  "Sports again?"

  "Hey, you asked."

  "You're avoiding my questions again."

  "You're moving pretty fast, here."

  "The last time I was in New York, I was with a man who was a lot like me. With him in the truest, biblical sense. He died of a horrible disease… he bled out of every pore in his body as his cells liquefied. And I had to watch it happen."

  Jack squeezed her hand tighter. "That's awful."

  "It was a biological weapon. Fifty-fifty chance it was him or me who died. When you go through that, you learn the value of an hour. Of a minute. At any moment I can get a call, and then I have to go. If we don't go fast, we may not have another chance."

  Jack wasn't sure how to reply. He simply continued to hold her hand.

  The silence stretched.

  "So what exactly do you do for a living?" she eventually said.

  Jack hesitated, then figured, why not. His name was around, people knew how to get in touch when they needed his services.

  "I fix, um, situations."

  "For a fee, I hope. Or is it all philanthropy with you?"

  "A fee. A hefty fee."

  "What situations are you talking about? You said earlier you don't do contracts."

  "I take on the stuff the system can't handle."

  "Like…?"

  "Blackmail, for instance." Which reminded him – he had a date with one tomorrow. "Or domestic abuse. Or getting back money that's been scammed away. Stuff like that."

  "Stuff where people are too embarrassed to go to the cops."

  "Right. Blackmail is sort of my bread and butter. I find the blackmailer and relieve him or her of the offending material."

  "Why not just whack the blackmailer?"

  How to explain this? She seemed too direct to get what he was about.

  "That would settle the problem, yes, but it's got no style, no... elan."

  "Okay. I'm getting it now. How you run your game is just as important as succeeding at it."

  "Yeah, I guess. The old 'It's not the destination, it's the journey' thing. I turn away lots of customers. You wouldn't believe how many people want someone killed, or a building burned or – oh, wait, I guess you would."

  "So, in the course of you… fixing things, you've no doubt run into some trouble."

  "I try to avoid that. If you're my target, I arrange things to make it seem like you've had the worst run of the shittiest luck that's ruined all your plans. I make a point of working behind the scenes. Confrontation is a last resort. My ideal fix is getting two targets mad or suspicious of each other. And while they're fighting, I slip in and do my thing, and slip out without being seen."

  "But sometimes it has to get rough."

  Yeah, sometimes it did. Very rough.

  "I try to avoid that."

  "Just like you try to avoid answering me? You've had to put someone down – yes or no?"

  Yes or no… the answer was yes. The first time he'd killed someone had been an execution, pure and simple. And a grisly one at that. Others he'd been backed into, but they'd all deserved it – no, needed it. He didn't think he could come right out and admit that though. Abe assumed, but adhered to a don't-ask-don't-tell policy. The words I had to kill someone tonight had never passed his lips. And never would. Not with a lover, not with a best friend, certainly not with this stranger.

  "It's important for you to know this?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay then, the answer is…maybe."

  She leaned back. Obviously frustrated. Good.

  "There is no maybe. So I'll take that as a yes."

  She seemed to think their occupations offered a lingua franca. It didn't.

  "This isn't something I discuss."

  "It isn't something anyone discusses."

  "So remind me why we're discussing it."

  "Because this may be our only chance. Who are you going to discuss these things with? Your girlfriend, the certified public accountant? Your mother?"

  Again Jack thought of his mom, of how her murder had put him on this road. He had a flash of snow, of a human piñata dangling from an overpass by his feet, the meaty thunks as it slammed against the eighteen-wheelers rushing by below

  "Maybe the beast is in the cage for a reason," he said. "Letting it out might not be a good idea."

  Chandler looked at him, hard. "Maybe you can live with the things you've done only by telling yourself you did them because you had no other choice."

  "Maybe you can only justify the things you do by believing I do those same things."

  She softened, her eyes widening. "Now who's the one with the psychological training?"

  Jack took a swig of beer.

  "Okay, here's a different question," Chandler said. "Do you live around here? Or is that too personal?"

  Chandler

  For a moment, I wasn't sure he would invite me back to his place. I liked to think I was a pretty good judge of guys, but this one confused me. Jack seemed interested one second, distant the next. I'd obviously knocked him off balance with my frankness, but had I scared him off completely?

  "I'm a short walk from here."

  I waited for the invitation. None came. Maybe he was simply too secretive. Had he been trained that way? I didn't think so. It seemed almost genetic with him. Like he'd have to make a real stretch to take me home.

  It concern
ed me how much I wanted him to make that stretch, though not enough for me to walk away. "We could have a drink at my hotel, if you'd prefer."

  Jack seemed to consider it. "I think you might like my place."

  This made me happier than it probably should have.

  He fished a few dollars out of his pocket, left them on the table next to our unfinished beers, and led me toward the door by the hand. His fingers were stroking the backs of mine, and I leaned in a little to smell him.

  Unfortunately, I only smelled Julio's. Stale beer and cigarettes.

  "Woo-hoo!" someone called from the bar as they passed it. "Jack just got lucky!

  "Damn Barney," he said under his breath.

  "Barney seems surprised," I said.

  "This isn't exactly a Looking For Mister Goodbar place. The women who come in here are usually regulars. Nobody hits on regulars."

  "Like that lesbian couple over there?"

  "They're regulars, too."

  "None of these characters gives them a hard time?"

  "Julio's is a family. Carole and Henni are part of the family."

  "Family, huh? Must be nice."

  We pushed out into the evening, the air smelling of exhaust with a hint of sewage that's always present in big cities, from Rome to Beijing to Rio de Janeiro. The surrounding buildings were dotted with lights, cars passing with nearly the same frequency as daytime. Some drunks were singing a short block over; doo-wop or old blues. I did my usual scan for tails, then hooked Jack's elbow and let him set the course through the West 80s.

  "The Museum of Natural History is around here, right?"

  He nodded. "One of my favorite places, along with the Met. They beat the hell out of the Museum of Modern Art. Did that. Once. I was especially impressed with the plastic guy on his hands and knees trailing a 10-foot turd."

  I pulled him closer, pressed my face to his jacket. He had that nice, male smell. "I need to stop in sometime."

  "MoMA? To see the turd?"

  "The Museum of Natural History. And the Met. I've got a thing for old weapons."

  Jack chuckled. "Doesn't surprise me."

  We continued down the sidewalk. Walking this way, arm in arm, taking in the lights and sounds of the city in a more relaxed way than I usually did, made me feel almost… well, normal. As if Jack and I were just regular people out enjoying an April evening. Not something I experienced often.

  "This is nice."

  "The Upper West Side? Used to be crummy. Now it's all gentrified. I wish I could have bought when I moved here."

  "Why didn't you?"

  "The same reason you couldn't track my prints."

  It clicked for me then. Jack didn't exist. No prints, no SSN, no 1040s. And you have to exist before you can buy real estate.

  But then, usually you needed to exist before you could sign a lease, too.

  "I know what you're thinking," he said. "I have a special rent agreement with my landlord."

  "Cash?"

  "Cash is king."

  "You should work for the government," I told him. "All the fake ID you could ever want. Except it isn't fake. It's all official."

  "Price is too steep for me. I got a guy who's pretty good."

  "As good as Doris Weeblekeck?" I asked, repeating the name on the ID in the wallet Jack had taken from me.

  "See, they looked good, but I knew they were fake."

  "How?"

  He gave me a small smile. "You couldn't be named Doris Weeblekeck."

  "Why not? I've always thought I looked a little like a Doris."

  "No. Chandler suits you, codename or not. Hey… isn't it dangerous to share your codename?"

  It was. And I never did it. But tonight… tonight was… different. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again. And what does it matter? It's not like you could find me if you tried."

  Jack stopped. I could see concern on his face. I'd tripped a nerve.

  I reached down, tugged the phone out of my boot, and called Jacob, holding the phone away from my face so Jack could hear.

  "I'm looking for Sam," I said.

  "Sam went to Tulsa."

  "Okay. I'll be in Ulster if he needs me."

  Jack eyed me, obviously curious.

  "Everything okay?" Jacob asked. "Did things work out at Abe's?"

  "Abe's a dear. But I need two favors. First, those prints I sent you. I need to make sure they never find their way into a database."

  "And the second?"

  "Turn off the phone's GPS for the next few hours. Until I tell you otherwise."

  "Chandler, that's not… wait, are you with the guy from the park? The cute one who kicked your ass?"

  "This isn't the time, Jacob."

  "Is the hottie there with you right now?"

  Jack raised an eyebrow and mouthed hottie?

  "I'm not answering that," I said, to both of them.

  "You don't have to." I heard the smile in Jacob's mechanical voice. "I know a booty call when I hear one. You go, girl."

  Only the tremendous control I had over my own body made me able to stop the blush I felt creeping up my neck.

  "Will you do as I asked?" I said, keeping my voice even.

  "Lucky bastard is in for the night of his life. I know all about your seduction training. Wasn't that one of your highest scores?"

  "Jacob…"

  "Sure, prints erased, GPS off. Have fun, girl."

  I hung up. Jack looked amused.

  "That's your handler?"

  "Yeah. Sorry about that. Sometimes he acts like he's my sister."

  "So what if I had a gun to your head? Forced you to make the call?"

  I put his arm around my waist and leaned into him. "First of all, it's unlikely you could make me do anything. Second of all, we have code words for everything."

  "What's booty call code for?"

  "If you're really lucky, you'll find out."

  We passed mom and pop stores and bodegas and restaurants and dry cleaners tucked in between brownstones. We stopped before one of those brownstones.

  "This is it. Still want to come up?"

  I stared up at him, pressing against his side. "It's cold. I'm a spy. I want to come in."

  "So you read Le Carre? I have a first edition of Call for the Dead."

  "Know of him. Never read him."

  "How about Fleming? Hammett? Forsyth?"

  "How about we go upstairs?"

  "It's third floor. Think you can handle the climb?"

  "Race you to the top."

  "You're on."

  I took the stairs two at a time, but Jack took three. By the second floor he was in the lead, and his cardio seemed to be as good as mine because I couldn't hear him breathing. I would have tripped him in order to win, but I wanted to get laid. So instead I let out a shrill whimper, faking an injury, loud enough for him to turn around with the cutest look of concern on his face, and then I put a hand on his shoulder, pulled past, and got to the third floor two steps ahead.

  "Cheat," he said, unlocking the door.

  I stepped into the mostly dark apartment – faint light from the street below filtered through the windows – and sniffed. Living spaces have an olfactory signature, a mélange of odors concocted of everything from the cuisine in the kitchen to the kinds of pets to how often the inhabitants showered and changed their kitty litter.

  I didn't expect Jack's place to smell like food – he didn't strike me as the chef type – but I didn't expect it to smell like wood. Old wood.

  When he flipped the light switch I knew why. The apartment was full of antique furniture. Crammed with it.

  "So, your second line of work is refinishing used furniture?"

  "Victorian golden oak – and it's mine all mine. I prefer to buy it already refinished, but I stripped that round oak table with the lion-paw feet myself."

  The wavy-grained furniture was everywhere. I stepped over to a shelf cluttered with memorabilia and old tchotchkes from times before either of us were born – from before our
parents were born, most likely. A Little Orphan Annie shake mug, a weird ring in a clear plastic bag labeled The Shadow, a Captain Midnight whatever. This wasn't a "permanent childhood" thing – this was someone else's childhood.

  "Your father leave you these?"

  "No." He looked almost sheepish. "I pick them up here and there around the city. Mostly Depression-era stuff."

  "Why?"

  He shrugged. "I wish I knew."

  "I'm sure there's a deep psychological reason. Maybe because life seemed simpler then? Purer?" Was there such a word as purer?

  "Why can't it be that I just like neat old stuff?"

  "Well, there's that too."

  Among all the ancient ephemera I spotted a dartboard hanging on a hallway wall – a Looney Toons bull's eye with Porky Pig at the center. Finally a character I recognized.

  "Beer?" he asked.

  "I'm good. You throw?"

  "Not darts."

  I moved closer, running my fingers over the dartboard. The cork was all chewed up, marred with deep grooves rather than the expected pinholes.

  "Knives?"

  "Shuriken."

  I'd never thrown a Chinese star. Truth told, I assumed they were the stuff of goofy kung-fu movies rather than real weapons.

  "Can we?"

  "Sure. 301?"

  "How about 501?"

  As I took off my jacket and folded it over a chair, Jack went to a shelf and opened an ebony box with a gold inlay of a dragon on the front. He removed three thin, metal objects, each the size of a cookie. They were shaped like snowflakes with their points sharpened. Jack walked to a spot a little more than two meters away from the board, toed a faded spot drawn on the floor with marker, and then let loose.

  Thwap! Thwap! Thwap!

  The stars stuck into the board, one in the triple 20, the other two in double 20. Jack had scored 140 points – a very solid first throw – apparently without any real effort. The game 501 was a race to zero, so by subtracting his points he had a score of 361.

  I removed the shuriken, surprised by their weight, and their sharpness. These weren't toys.

  "Want some pointers?" Jack asked.