The Fixer in:
ESCALANTE
A Novella by Andrew Vaillencourt
Table of Contents
Title Page
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1
The bulky gray ground transport heaved and lurched over the tram lines that separated the Sprawl from Dockside. The six-wheeled truck rode perilously low, and the motors of each over-sized tire whined and wailed as if any moment might be their last. The suspension bottomed out with jarring bangs as each axle cleared the raised tracks and the cargo compartment swayed and wobbled on beleaguered springs too stubborn to die but too weak to suffer silently.
Squeaking and whirring, the tired vehicle meandered another seven blocks into the mass of warehouses that stood like fortress walls around the twelve looming docking towers. The spires started with a wide, 200-foot square base that narrowed as it raced seven-hundred-and-fifty feet straight up to disappear into the haze of the early morning drizzle. If the sky was clear, a person on the ground would be able to see four or five cargo shuttles docked at any given time to each.
The flow of all goods from around the galaxy ultimately found its way to one of these towers, and from the towers to the warehouses, and then from the warehouses to the distribution centers, and from the distribution centers to their final destinations. There were many warehouses, and there were many distribution centers. But there were only twelve towers. A whole cottage industry had grown around the forced ecosystem of these structures. This became evident to the single passenger of the whining truck as it navigated the maze of streets and alleyways that ran between each massive facility. A gradual increase in size and modernity of the buildings became evident as the big man in the old truck moved closer to the gigantic spires that marred the New Boston skyline like pale gray monuments to some forgotten god.
The truck pulled into a square at the center of Dockside and stopped. The vehicle again leaned and wobbled as the passenger shuffled and heaved himself to the back of the cargo area. When he hopped off the tailgate, the truck rose seven inches on its springs and the screaming of the hydraulic motors immediately settled to a more normal, less terrifying pitch.
It was early, and the sky hung gray and heavy with foggy drizzle. Very few people were on the streets yet, which suited the man in black as he looked around to get his bearings. He was aware that he was in the geographical center of Dockside because that is where he told the truck to take him. He stood on the sidewalk between Vonnegut and Farragut shipping’s respective warehouses, made apparent by the elaborate signage indicating such.
In crude graffiti scrawled carelessly across the back of a ride-sharing kiosk was the phrase, “Welcome to the Guts,” which the big man correctly surmised was what the locals called this little strip of asphalt. Multiple gang tags surrounded the proclamation, with so many crossed out and overwritten that none were clearly discernible as distinct markers of any kind. A cursory examination told the newcomer that at least eight different tags were battling for supremacy of the kiosk. The big man hoisted his duffel bag over a shoulder with a quick reminder to stay alert in any territory that had this many gangs competing for tags.
He did not understand exactly where he was going, so he simply picked a direction and walked. All commercial hubs followed the same basic rules, and he had been to many. The main industry would be the center. The secondary industries that supported the main would form a ring around that. After that would be commercial zones and entertainment areas. The outer ring would be where he would find the residential quarter. Nicer ones in the East and North, not-so-nice ones South and West. That was just how it always went.
The man walked southeast from The Guts, figuring he would hedge his bets and find a decent flat to rent without breaking the bank, but also not somewhere in a slum. He had money, but his had always been a utilitarian life. Even if he possessed the means for extravagance he would have still rented something reasonable and cheap. It was just the way he was. Starting in the center of town let him gauge the nature of Dockside as he walked through the various neighborhoods. He refused to call it ‘recon’ in his mind. But that was really what he was doing. Old habits died hard. Not as hard as bad memories, but hard nonetheless.
Dockside was everything he had been told it was. It was dirty, dark, and crudely functional. There was nothing that one might realistically call architecture nor was there any sense of art or style to it. Dockside was endless alleys and a few wide streets stuffed with black, gray, and brown concrete and steel buildings. Each edifice resplendent with garish signage proclaiming the products and services a brave soul might find within. Very little was open in the commercial sector, but the restaurants were doing a brisk business as longshoreman and truckers moved either to or from the warehouses in the greasy mist of Monday morning shift change.
The big man liked what he saw. He saw hard working men and women who weren’t offended by putting in a full day as long as payroll was on time and in the correct amount. They were hard-bodied and hard-souled folk. But they were happy, too. Workers coming off shift joked with workers coming on shift about the mess they’d left. Truckers traded war stories about transit cops and freight tariffs while bleary-eyed cooks slung plates of hash and eggs heavy enough to sprain a strong man’s shoulder. The big man smiled a small, personal smile. It was not a shining metropolis like Uptown, nor was it a bustling commercial success like The Sprawl, but Dockside was one of the great success stories that the advent of Anson Gates had produced.
What had started as a slum so poor that several members of the New Boston Legislative Authority actually supported evacuating and burning it to the ground, was now the only place on Earth where it was legal and easy to import interplanetary trade goods. Unemployment had fallen from nearly 50% in Dockside to four in less than ten years. Suddenly, thousands of blue-collar jobs had magically appeared and a mouldering slum became a boomtown nearly overnight. It was the perfect place for a man with nothing in his pockets to go and make a quiet living.
It was also the perfect place to hide.
A few heads looked up as the newcomer clumped past the windows of a greasy spoon called “Hash’n’Mash.” The man tried to convince himself that this was because he was a fresh face in an otherwise tight-knit community, but that wasn’t really the problem. The sun was beginning to beat its way through the stubborn drizzle and a few weak rays reflecting off the large front windows had illuminated the man well enough for anyone inside to see him clearly.
What the men at breakfast saw was more than just a fresh face. They saw a man nearly eight feet tall and wider than any man ought to be. An old black Army jacket and plain baggy fatigues painted the picture of a veteran, but the size and dimensions spoke of something more ominous. He was bald, with a pug nose and a lantern jaw. His eyes sat very deep under heavy brows and were so dark brown as to appear almost black. Hands like bear paws were covered by black gloves despite the warm spring air, and he moved with the stride of a man who had walked many miles in many places.
Eye contact was made through the window, and the big man gave a polite but curt nod to the men eating breakfast and kept walking. Less than two minutes after passing the diner, the giant sensed eyes on him that were more than merely curious. He had a lot of experience with that sort of thing, and he understood when he was being watched. He had expected this, but he wasn’t necessarily looking forward to it.
He ignored the tail for another block, just to see what it would do. Sure eno
ugh, the single set of footsteps behind his became double. Then triple. Finally, after another block, a fourth man joined the group and they began to close the distance. They were nearing the end of a commercial zone, and it looked like they were heading into a residential area. The buildings looked nice enough. Multi-story tenements held living quarters of all manner of sizes and configurations. It looked very promising, but quartering would have to wait until the four men following him were managed.
He stopped suddenly and without warning and turned.
The four men had closed to about twenty-five feet and were startled by the sudden maneuver. They paused, stunned for a moment and blinking like naughty children caught misbehaving.
The big man walked toward them with strides that spoke of violent intent. He moved fast, with his head tilted low and shoulders forward. The four men froze, unable to process the sudden shift in the paradigm, and the big bald man was on them before they moved to protect themselves. A gloved left hand slapped one and the right hand serviced another. Both toppled instantly as toneless muscles simply stopped resisting gravity, leaving their unprotected heads to bang on the sidewalk like falling coconuts. The two men in the middle each chose a different path at that moment. The first turned to run while his partner cocked a fist as if to strike the towering monster before him. Neither plan worked, of course.
The runner never even made a single step. A contemptuous backhand sent him into a deep sleep and he joined his partners in ungainly repose atop the sidewalk. The fighter got gentler treatment. The big man respected fighters, and fighters who fought even when they were outclassed were worthy of even more respect. The big man allowed the blow to land. He did not have to do that, but this was the only guy in the group to make a stand and he decided that the poor mook deserved to feel like he accomplished something.
What he accomplished, however, was a broken hand. Metacarpals snapped like twigs when the fist collided with the big man’s ribs and the fighter managed a short scream of pain before a gloved hand closed over his head and raised him kicking and gurgling from the ground.
The big man pulled the scrambling man close and spoke very clearly into his ear.
“My name is Roland Tankowicz, I’m new in town, and you are going to want to leave me alone.”
He let the man drop the two feet to the sidewalk where he collapsed in a limp heap.
“Please spread the word.”
Then he turned on his heel and stomped into the residential quarter without looking back.
2
Detective Sergeant Walter Bixby was cursed. He was cursed with a big mouth that spoke only truth. He was cursed with the idealism of a young man locked in the body of an overweight, balding sixty-year-old. He was cursed with a messy divorce and nascent alcoholism, which was bad enough. But even worse he was cursed with Dockside.
The New Boston Megalopolis was exactly that: a megalopolis. There were three incorporated zones and over a dozen smaller integrated boroughs. Each zone had its own legislature, and each borough was represented by elected selectmen. Most critically to Detective Sergeant Bixby was that Law Enforcement was a privatized affair, and such each zone had its own police department.
Uptown was rich as all hell, and their police department was modern, well-equipped, well-regulated, and more or less the envy of the civilized world. The Sprawl did alright. Mostly good cops with decent equipment and a disturbing if acceptable level of graft and corruption.
Then there was Dockside. Even though the slum’s fortunes were on the rise, the blue-collar zone’s selectmen were from local stock, and building a respectable constabulary ran counter to their natures. So Dockside cops were absolute shit. They were too few, too corrupt, and too incompetent to do anything other than steer the worst of the criminal element away from the Sprawl and Uptown and point them back toward the unsavory lands of their origin.
And Walter Bixby was one of that august assemblage. He had been an Uptown cop for most of his career, until overcome by a fit of ill-advised honesty he had cooperated with an Internal Affairs investigation that ultimately got a well-liked officer fired. Walter had crossed a line, and his fortunes fell faster than the affections of his peers. He landed in Dockside a fat divorcee with a career in an industry full of people that hated him. This might have broken a lesser man, but Walter Bixby ultimately became the rarest thing in all of Dockside: A good cop. It was a lonely and thankless existence, and he hated it.
But he just plain refused to be a bad cop. Something inside him would not permit him to become the thing that had destroyed him, and so his ultimate act of defiance was to remain the last good cop in a very bad place. This made him a pariah to both his fellow officers and the criminal element, but he was getting used to that. Even his ex-wife thought he was a stupid idealistic buffoon who wasn't smart enough to shut his damn mouth and play ball. He supposed she was right.
When his comm chirped that Monday morning, he presumed it was going to be yet another shit assignment that would lead him somewhere horrible and ultimately end up marring an uneventful day with the frustration of an unsatisfying resolution. That would have been a normal Monday call. This was not a normal call.
“Bixby!” his lieutenant spat over the comm, “we got an A&B over in the residential corner across from Farragut by the Smoking Wreck. Go take the statements and check it out. Caller says some new street muscle just rolled in and took out four of The Dwarf’s crew.”
“Sounds like every other Monday in Dockside, LT.”
“Over in the southeast quarter? That’s new,” the lieutenant said.
“Rodney’s been pushing back against Flint’s guys. This is normal gang shit, I promise.” Bixby did not want to go take statements about a street fight that no one would actually investigate or press charges over. He had been working hard on sorting out the escalating gang conflicts over the contraband trade surrounding the towers, and he had deep suspicions about exactly who and what might be driving the clashes. Spending all day talking to witnesses who wouldn’t witness and victims who wouldn’t press charges was a colossal waste of time. Time that was better spent actually getting to the bottom of the problem. But Walter suspected that the LT was aware of that, and this was exactly why this ridiculous assignment was being dropped on his desk.
“Are you a goddamn cop or not, Bixby?” The LT had that ‘you-are-cruising-for-a-suspension' tone of voice, and Bixby sighed.
“Yes, LT. I am a cop. But I think—”
“Then go do cop shit, Bixby!” The LT interrupted with a roar, “And cops investigate assaults!” The comm went dead, indicated clearly that the discussion was finished. Walter sighed again. He really hated Mondays.
“I’m going out,” he called to his receptionist, who was a cheap android that answered phones and directed emergency services calls. The android did not respond because the android did not care. Walter couldn’t fault the machine for that. He didn’t really care either. But he threw a light wool coat on to keep the damp off and grabbed his bead pistol. He looked at the tac vest hanging on his door for a long moment then decided against it. It was heavy and uncomfortable and in all honesty he was too damn fat to really wear it the way it was supposed to be worn. Uptown cops got custom fitted armor, but then again, they had regular fitness evaluations, too. Walter didn’t miss those.
He left the office and started walking. It was only six blocks to the site of the incident and his issues with the tac vest had him suddenly thinking about the benefits of getting more exercise. He regretted this decision almost instantly as the combination of walking and dampness rapidly began to make his not-so-youthful knees ache. Self-disgust overrode physical weakness, and he huffed onward anyway. It took him far too long to hoof the almost three miles, and he had already decided to ping a transport for the trip back. Best to start any new exercise plan slow, he figured.
He walked up to the corner and looked around. The only sign that anything had gone on there was the group of twelve or thirteen hoods milling about and
talking on comms. As he approached, Bixby was able to pick out which of them had been thumped by their bleeding scalps and the obviously injured hand of one of the men.
One of the group saw his distinctive silhouette as he approached and there was an excited rustle and whisper among them as each relayed the information to the next. All grew quiet and comm conversations ended as the portly policeman finally waddled up to them. This was standard procedure. This was a familiar drill: The senior member of the group would do all the talking and no matter what he said the rest would swear to it.
In Uptown, the group would be broken up and each member questioned separately to find the holes in the story. But this was not Uptown. Walter did not have a whole squad of backup and a precinct station to bring them all in. He had a thirty-year-old bead pistol and borderline diabetes, neither of which was going to help him in this.
“Mornin’ boys.” Walter opened the dialog, “We have a bit of fun here or what?”
“Sorry Detective,” the spokesman shook his head, “We don’t got nothin’ to say. Nothing going on here at all, actually.”
“Ahh,” Walter nodded amicably, “just here for your monthly community outreach program, then? Gonna pick up trash and help old ladies get their groceries?”
The spokesman was a tall, well-built specimen with shaggy brown hair and a nose that had been broken more than once. Walter recognized him from more than one Dockside indiscretion as Johnny Knox. Knox smiled back at the cop, “Got it in one, Officer Tubby! Gotta take care of our neighborhoods and all that.”
“That’s Detective Tubby, wise guy. I didn’t pass fourth grade math just so some junior enforcer could call me ‘Officer.’ Somebody already called in the tussle and the lieutenant says I have to act like a real cop today and take statements. You got a statement to make, Johnny?”
“Yes sir, I totally do.”
“I cannot wait to hear this. Go ahead and talk into the mic, Johnny.” Walter held up a small recording device and waited for the hood to speak with a face painted in shades of dry amusement.
Escalante Page 1