Codename_Chandler_Fix

by F. Paul Wilson

  "Wait a sec," I said. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

  "What?"

  "My wallet?"

  "No worry, Miss Webblekeck," Abe said. "It's under the counter upstairs. I knew I saw you before. Let me say, if it isn't incorrect politically, that your DMV picture doesn't do your pretty face justice."

  I kept an eye on Jack, watching him tuck the Semmerling into his ankle holster and browse the assault rifles like a fourth grade schoolboy ignoring the cute girl in his class.

  "Thank you, Abe. You're a sweetheart."

  I gave Abe a kiss on the cheek, making sure the smack was loud enough for Jack to hear.

  "Oy, a kiss she gives me. Jack, how could you have any trouble with this angel here? Sweeter than rugelach, she is."

  "And he pointed a gun at me, Abe," I said, putting a bit of pout into it. "You saw the whole thing."

  "Jack is cautious to a fault, sometimes at the cost of manners."

  "Well, I don't feel very welcome," I said. "I'm sure there are other places in the city I could spend my money."

  "Unhappy customers I don't want. My gun shop, it is a peaceful place. But Jack…he's the devil, you know." Abe patted his ample – more than ample – belly. "This is all because of him. Svelte like a swan I was before he came along."

  I put on an exaggerated expression of concern. "Really? What did he do?"

  "Goodies he brings me! Entenmann's mostly, but also rugelach and kugel and bagels with lox and more Entenmann's. And, being a gentle soul who would not offend an ant, I partake."

  "Maybe Jack should apologize to you as well as me," I said.

  Jack stopped pretending to look at rifles and turned on me. "You gotta be kidding."

  "Jack, make nice. No apology for me – I know you're not responsible for the evil you do to my waistline – but to this gorgeous and empathetic customer. Do it for me."

  Jack's lips pursed, which was the cutest he'd looked so far.

  "I'm so, so sorry," he said.

  His eyes said otherwise. I winked at him.

  "Now let's see those Berettas."

  Abe showed me the weapons. The upgrades were just as he'd described them. I wasn't crazy about the sand finish but it had been designed for Army use in the desert, and that was all he had available. It had the same weight and balance as the older model. Felt right at home in my hand.

  Abe said, "Good for seventeen thousand rounds, I'm told."

  "Let's hope I never get near that number. Wrap it up with a suppressor and add a box of Hydra-Shoks."

  "Do you see, Jack? A 9mm. This lady, she's as smart as she is lovely."

  Jack muttered something under his breath.

  "What else can I do you for, Miss Weeblekeck?"

  "I need a blade."

  "Fixed? Folder? Spring?"

  "Balisong."

  I noticed Jack look at me when I said that. Then he tried to cover his interest by staring behind me at a large display of ammunition cans.

  "Those are nice cans," Jack said.

  "He's being rude again," I told Abe.

  "Jack! Farmach dos moyl!"

  Jack only shrugged. I sensed a warmth between these two that went far beyond the loyal customer dynamic. More of a nephew-uncle vibe, verging on father-son. I realized that Jack would die for Abe. With a pang I wondered who I'd die for. Couldn't think of a soul. I knew no one would die for me.

  As Abe and I went to the knife display, Jack sort of shuffled down the aisle closer to us.

  "The lady likes butterflies?"

  "She does," I told Abe, while watching Jack try to ignore us.

  "Three types, I carry," Abe said, pointing to various models. "BRS Alpha Beast – only one of those. The Microtech Tachyon Two and Bradley Mayhem I have in depth."

  I prefer a skeletonized handle so the Mayhem was out. The Alpha Beast. I'd heard of it but had never seen one. I loved the shape of the blade. I pointed to it.

  "Let me try that one."

  He handed it to me and I couldn't resist showing off. During my training days I'd been required to learn how to fan a knife like this open and closed every which way until I could do it in my sleep. The nifty thing about quick-fanning a balisong open is that if you do it right, with enough no-look nonchalance, the chings of the metal and the sudden, almost magical appearance of a gleaming blade are often enough to bring an end to the confrontation right then and there.

  So I put on a show, doing my fanning kata right handed, then left handed, then back again. This could be the best balisong I'd ever handled. I saw Jack nodding appreciatively until he saw me notice. Then he made an intense study of an end cap, which was stocked with speedloaders.

  "You know speedloaders are for revolvers, and you carry semi-autos," I said.

  "Maybe I have a bunch of revolvers," Jack said. "How would you know?"

  I eyed Abe. Abe shrugged. "He likes you, I think."

  "Not," Jack said. "She tried to beat me up. And failed, I'll add."

  "Like an old man you walked in here, all hobbly, with a limp."

  "She took advantage of my gentle nature."

  I fanned the blade closed one last time and slipped it into my pocket. "Sold. What do I owe you?"

  Abe pointed toward the ceiling and so we headed upstairs.

  It took all the cash I'd taken from the frat boys, some extra from my clothing, plus the ASP in trade to settle up, but it was worth it. Jack had come up behind me. I hadn't heard him, and that wasn't an easy thing to do.

  "You're pretty good with that balisong," he said.

  "Pretty good?"

  "Okay, very good. I'm not easily impressed."

  "Neither am I. I didn't even feel you lifting my wallet. And just now I didn't hear you come up behind me. Where did you get your training?"

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the door to the street. "Out there. Where'd you get yours?"

  "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

  He smiled. "I've never heard that before."

  I decided I liked him. I liked Abe too. Maybe it was the men, maybe it was the town, but I felt the need for some company.

  "Friends?" I said, offering my hand.

  "That's probably the safest bet."

  His hand was rough, but warm. When he relaxed to let go, I held on.

  "You know someplace decent around here where a lady can get a drink?"

  Jack said, "No, but there's Julio's."

  "Where's that?"

  He stared at me a moment, then said, "I'll take you. First one's on me. After that you're on your own."

  "You coming, Abe?" I said.

  He shook his head. "One drink and I'm shikker. You two go have fun."

  I let go of his hand and gave him a slow up and down.

  "I plan to."

  Farquart

  Colin Farquart leaned on the ferry railing and smiled at the Manhattan skyline ahead, city lights shining like diamonds. The warm day had morphed into a cooler evening, but he didn't let that chase him to the seating area inside. About to put the finishing touches on his plan, Farquart had to stay sharp, stay alert, and the slap of a cool breeze off the water was just what he needed.

  The ferry reached the dock, and Farquart debarked, pulling his carry-on travel bag behind him. He caught the subway at the Port Authority Bus Terminal, transferred once, and before long, the train had started and stopped all the way to the Upper East Side.

  He got off at 77th and headed northwest, toward the park, passing familiar shops, restaurants, and galleries. He didn't stop, not until he reached 5th Avenue. And there at the corner, he stood for a full minute to let what he was about to do sink in, to mark the moment.

  It had cost Farquart a lot in bribe money to set this up in advance, to make sure it would all go off without a hitch, but that was only part of his sacrifice.

  He had given up even more over the years. He hadn't seen his mother in forever. He'd neglected his girlfriend to the point where she'd left him. He'd never had children. Never felt what it wa
s like to live a normal life.

  Instead, he'd invested everything in his work.

  It had taken years, but now it was almost over.

  And Farquart would make sure nothing went wrong.

  Jack

  The cab ride hadn't been awkward, exactly, but Chandler wasn't the chatty type. They'd shared a comfortable silence, and Jack hadn't pushed it. He found her interesting. Sort of like a leopard or a panther at the zoo was interesting. Upon arriving at Julio's, Chandler's body language changed from full alert to brief hesitation—she didn't seem eager to go inside. The change had been so brief he'd almost missed it. That was the only time, since he'd met her, that she'd dropped her carefully controlled manner.

  Proof she was human.

  "It's not as bad as it looks," Jack said, glancing at the front door.

  She peered through the nicotine-yellowed windows, taking in the dead plants drooping over their pots inside.

  He shrugged. "Well, maybe it is. Sorta. But the ambiance is intentional."

  "Let me guess: Keeps away kids and yuppies."

  "On the nose."

  They stepped inside and were greeted with raised eyebrows from the regulars, and leering grins from Lou and Barney. Chandler did not look like one of Jack's customers. He led her to his table where she took his preferred seat. Keeping an eye on the front door, no doubt.

  Julio wandered over, his face impassive.

  "Chandler, Julio. Julio, Chandler."

  Her nose wrinkled as they shook hands. "Pleased to meet you."

  Jack said, "What are you drinking?"

  "I'll have a glass of 1990 Domaine de la Romanee-Conti."

  Julio eyed her. Jack snorted.

  "I'm fucking with you," Chandler said. "I'll take a Yuengling."

  Jack held up two fingers. Julio headed to the cooler.

  "This may be a delicate matter," she said in a low voice, "but does he always—?"

  Jack knew here this was going. "Smell bad?"

  "Well, yes."

  "It's his cologne. I don't know where he finds them, but they are uniformly foul. They can smell fine out of the bottle but the minute they hit his skin – skunksville."

  "You've told him?"

  "A thousand times. But he's sure women love it."

  "Free beer tomorrow. Cute." She said, reading the sign that hung behind the bar. "Anyone ever come back the next day, demanding free beer?"

  "Once or twice. They're told it's not tomorrow yet, and sent on their way."

  Chandler leaned in, her elbows on the table. She seemed ready to say something important, so Jack leaned in, too. He wondered if this was a date. Been a while since he'd been on a date.

  "I can do small talk," Chandler said. "I was trained for it, actually. It's an essential part of seduction. But–"

  "Wait, you were trained in seduction?"

  "Among other things. But I'd prefer to skip the social bullshit. I don't expect you to tell me anything about yourself. You're obviously freelance, but not the Blackwater type. I don't get a military vibe from you, either, even though you have skills. You're off the grid, even at high levels, and I have access to high levels. I find that… interesting. Are you some kind of vigilante? Like that old TV show, The Equalizer?"

  "I hated that show," Jack said. "It was really derivative."

  "I've never seen it. You didn't answer the question. Don't you want to talk shop?"

  "Shop?"

  "You've killed people."

  Whoa. There had been a few occasions in Jack's life—occasions that all young men dream about—when a woman came on really strong. But this was a different kind of strong, and not in a good way.

  "I think I'd prefer the small talk. Frank isn't a language I speak."

  "Me, neither. That's why this is perfect. We're not in the same circles, it's unlikely we'll ever run into each other again, so we can discuss things we never discuss with anyone."

  "Why?"

  "Why?"

  "Yeah. We can talk about people stuff. You like football?"

  "Hate it."

  Jack loved it. "How about them Mets?"

  She gave her head a shake. "Baseball? I’d rather gouge my eyes out with a spoon."

  "Macramé, then?" Seeing her dark expression he hurried on. "You like any sport – besides assaulting people in the park, that is?"

  Her mouth twisted. "I'm really into cock fighting."

  "Yeah?"

  "No. No sports, no hobbies. I don't watch movies–"

  "No movies?"

  "Or TV. I can fake enthusiasm for this stuff, if you want me to. I study it. Oooh, did you see that game where your sports team beat that other sports team? Or how about that last episode of that hit cable show? Or we can dish about what so-and-so wore to the Oscars. But I'd rather talk about what we do. The uncommon stuff."

  The uncommon stuff. If this was a date, it was the last thing in the world he wanted to discuss.

  "I get a feeling you come from a place that's a bit more organized than I do."

  "Well, I won't pretend to be a freelancer, since you've already sussed out I'm not. But I'm sure we can find some common ground."

  Jack managed not to squirm in his seat, but this was becoming about as comfortable as a visit to the dentist.

  "You mentioned killing people. I don't do that."

  Her expression didn't change. "You carry a Glock nine and a .45 backup. For show? I don't think so. And I saw you in the park. I saw your eyes. I know that look. Why not talk about it?"

  Talk about it. With this woman. This very attractive woman. He didn't think he could. Even if he wanted to, which he didn't.

  "I told you: I don't do that."

  "You may not set out to do that, but come on, work with me here. You really expect me to believe things have never gone into the shitter and you had to blast your way out?"

  He sighed. "Call me paranoid, but I don't talk body counts – assuming I have one – with someone I just met."

  "I bet you don't talk body counts, period. Neither do I. That's the opportunity here, see? No need to keep your guard up. It's like a free pass."

  Julio dropped off the beers. Jack took a long pull on his, considering the offer. When was the last time he confided in anyone other than Abe? How long had it been? The last woman he'd been really close to – closer than any other woman since moving to the city – was gone. Dead. And he'd never told her anything. Of course he hadn't had that much to tell back then. Things had changed in the dozen years since. Changed big time.

  "You don't know how much you're asking here, Chandler. You want to talk about some serious stuff, and I don't even know your real name."

  "I don't know yours, either."

  "My real name is Jack."

  "Jack what?"

  He stayed silent. One of the reasons Jack had been successful in the fix business was his ability to keep his mouth shut. Being asked to talk about things he never talked about was contradictory.

  "I can start. Chandler is my codename. I'm a spy. I kill people for Uncle Sam. I was trained when I was still a teenager. I have a handler who tells me where to go, tells me my target."

  Wow, can't get much franker than that. This was like being on a speed date with a hit woman.

  He slapped the side of his head in mock terror. "Oh, no! Does this mean you have to kill me?"

  "What?"

  "You said so, just before we left Abe's. When I asked who trained you."

  "Jack, if I wanted to kill you, I've had about a dozen chances so far."

  She was somehow able to make something so awful sound sexy. And Jack didn't doubt it was true.

  "Is this making you uncomfortable?" Chandler asked.

  "Short answer? Yes."

  "Want me to stop?"

  Under the table, her foot touched his. Jack knew he couldn't feel through his work boots, but he sensed her feet were warm. He'd been without real human contact for too long.

  "Go on," he said.

  "I'm on salary. I don't get
paid per job. I'm given a stipend to live on, and can do what I like, until I'm called."

  This woman just admitted to assassinating people for the government. Jack wasn't sure he was okay with that. In fact, it went counter to a lot of what he believed in, but confirmed a lot of what he'd assumed.

  "Can you turn down jobs?" he asked, choosing those words carefully.

  "Yes. My targets have all been scumbags. Crooked politicians, murderers, rapists, war criminals. I don't buy into that 'just follow orders' bullshit. I don't even like my elected officials. So I decide what I do and what I don't do. This is a job, not a calling."

  Jack took another sip of Yuengling. This was a lot to process.

  "Is it a calling for you, Jack?"

  "A calling?"

  He pulled his foot away from hers and leaned back in the chair, remembering how he got his start in the fix it biz. First, as a kid. Then, when he was older, when his mother…

  "Do you repeat what I said last to give you more time to consider a response? Or is it so I keep talking so you don't have to answer?"

  "Did you get psychology training as well?"

  "Yes."

  Chandler reached over and stroked his knuckles. Jack felt the hairs on his arm stand up.

  "Is this your seduction training?"

  "No. That's me showing you I like you. Do you like me?"

  "You scare the shit out of me."

  "No, I don't. I know I'm being forward, but if I was really scaring you, you wouldn't be sitting here anymore. I get the feeling that it takes a lot to scare you."

  "So… how about them Mets?"

  Chandler took her hand away, leaning back in her seat. She broke eye contact and stared somewhere into the ether. Jack knew he'd just blown it. You don't belittle a woman who is opening up to you. That was Dating 101. He reached out, gave her hand a tentative squeeze.

  Chandler squeezed back.

  "I had a mission in Tajikistan a few years ago."

  "Tajikistan? You're serious?"

  Chandler glanced at him, then spoke several sentences in what Jack assumed was Persian.

  "Okay. You're serious. Please continue."

  "My target was a very bad man. An interrogator for a country where power had changed hands, and he was in hiding. I met him at a party. Seemed ordinary enough. Not the type who would set children on fire to get their fathers to talk." She paused, as if giving that a chance to sink in. "That was a favorite of his. Kerosene, a lighter, and a fire extinguisher. From what I understand, the tricky part was to make sure the child didn't die from smoke inhalation after repeated burnings."