Jon Fixx

by Jason Squire Fluck

  “Put those on.”

  Just as quickly, he resumed his walk toward the bowels of the factory, briskly moving between the maze of dirty molding machines and leading me through an extra wide doorframe into a second workroom, this one even larger than the entry room. Gas torches illuminated the smoke-hazed room. From where I stood, I could see a large magnet moving raw metal from one large bin to another. An older man in dirty overalls, with heavy work gloves on his hands and large goggles covering his eyes, worked the controls of the magnet from a corner of the room. As we passed him, he gave us a curt nod, nothing more. If Marco acknowledged the nod, I missed it. Moments later, I followed him up a set of stairs leading to a catwalk that ran the perimeter of the room, leading off to all corners. I could see an orange glow coming from somewhere as I walked up the stairs, unable to spot its origin. I followed Marco silently. He seemed uninterested in talking. As we reached the center of the catwalk, Marco stopped, pointing down to a large furnace that was at least ten feet deep and five feet wide. The tub was filled with a molten liquid. Even high up above where we were standing, I could feel the heat emanating from the orange glow below.

  Marco turned to me. “Do you understand what we do here?”

  I shrugged, shaking my head.

  “We take raw metal, melt it down, and then pour it into castings. These castings in turn make car parts, airplane parts, military components, stuff like that. You’ve never been in a foundry before?”

  “No,” I answered.

  “Down there,” he said, pointing to the molten material in the pit below. “That’s the centerpiece of a foundry. It’s the power source. That metal bath is twenty-eight hundred degrees Fahrenheit. What I call raw power. Can be very dangerous.”

  He turned and looked straight at me, waiting to see my reaction. He stared at the red liquid, then reached down and grabbed a piece of cold metal twice the size of his fist and dropped it into the furnace. As the metal hit the molten bath, sparks erupted. Before I had time to react, tiny molten liquid balls flew up at me, burning small holes in my jacket and leaving tiny burn marks on my neck. I jumped back from the edge of the catwalk, slapping my neck in reaction, though it did little to take away the pain. Two thoughts immediately crossed my mind. First, I didn’t like Marco very much. Second, I needed to steer clear of him as much as possible because he could be dangerous. I’d been with him less than five minutes and that’s all the time I needed to reach this conclusion.

  His voice dropped a notch, conspiratorially. “Imagine what the pit would do to a human body.”

  I gave Marco a nervous, sideways glance, wondering why he was trying to intimidate me. Over the years, I’d had more than one future husband who felt threatened by my access to his fiancé, the misdirected jealousy leading the paramour to make sure I was clear about what he would do to me if I got out of line, usually after one too many drinks. This felt different. Why would Marco feel threatened by me? At the moment, I couldn’t figure it out, so I stored away the question for later.

  He continued with his intimidating act. “Only, you can’t just dump a body in the pit when it’s fired up. Since the human body is made mostly of water, the water component of the body would boil when it hit the liquid, and the body would explode. So, you’d have to turn the pit off, let it cool, and dump the body in. Then turn the pit on, let it heat up, and bam, the body disintegrates, bones and all. No sign it ever existed. Pretty ingenious way to get rid of someone without a trace, wouldn’t you say?”

  I nodded. That feeling of foreboding I’d felt when first meeting Tony Vespucci was coming back strong. I should have followed my instincts and turned Vespucci down for this job. I amended my earlier thought about Marco from “could be dangerous” to “is dangerous.”

  Attempting to change the subject from Marco’s successful murder scenario, I said, “Where would you like to do the interview?” Marco stared, assessing me. There was something going on in the bigger picture that I was unaware of. Maybe Marco didn’t want to do the love story and this was his way of letting me know. I figured I would discover more in the afternoon when I interviewed Maggie. Trying to keep my face as neutral as possible, I returned Marco’s stare with a mask of indifference and slight deference, a useful tool I’d developed over the years.

  Done scaring me for the time being, Marco turned and walked away. High above the floor, we crossed the length of the large workroom and descended a set of stairs on the opposite end, crossing through a dimly lit hallway into a set of office spaces. Marco led me through the reception area into an alcove office. A large metal desk sat near the back of the small office. A large picture of Marco and a man I assumed to be his father, Giancarlo Balducci, hung behind the desk. Based on the background of mountain and seascape, I assumed it had been taken in Italy. The desk was a mess, papers strewn about, pens, stapler, and scissors mixed in the piles, and a large laptop sitting atop all of it. I noted no pictures of Maggie anywhere. Marco motioned to me to take a seat in one of the two cushioned chairs in front of the desk. I pulled out my recorder, set it on the desk, and looked at Marco. He was staring at me, unresponsive.

  “Do you mind if I record our interview?” I asked.

  “Jon, let’s be clear on where we stand with one another. And this stays between us. Do you understand?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m doing this only because my fiancée wants me to make her father happy. I’m a very private person and don’t like sharing my life with anyone, especially a stranger.”

  This was not the first time I’d heard this speech, or some variation on it, but this was the first time I’d heard it from someone in the Mafia.

  “If you tell Maggie or Tony what I just said, I’ll make sure you pay for it.”

  I tried to take it in stride, responding with as neutral a tone as possible. “No problem, we’re on the same page.” My agreeable nature didn’t seem to placate him. I chose to ignore his malevolent stare. “So,” I said in my most chipper voice, “ready to do this?”

  “If I find out you’re sticking your nose anywhere it doesn’t belong, I guarantee you’ll regret it.”

  Mosconi’s warning suddenly rang loud in my ears. He said Marco was the one to worry about. Now, sitting before him without family around, alone, on his turf, my well-being began to take precedent over my desire to fulfill my job requirements. Doing my best to maintain eye contact with Marco, I inhaled slowly and centered my thoughts. I decided I was being foolish to think he would harm me, especially here. Everyone in the family knew where I was. The thought fortified my mental position, allowing me to push back. A little.

  I said, “Love is a serious matter, and I get paid to write about it. At the moment, your future father-in-law hired me to write about the love between you and Maggie. So I have to do what I’m doing. I’m sorry you’re an unwilling participant, and if I didn’t have to do this, I wouldn’t. But Mr. Vespucci cuts a rather imposing figure, as far as I can see, and I’d rather do everything in my power to make sure I satisfy his demands.”

  Sitting back in his chair, Marco was silent a few moments. Finally, “How long have you known Tony?”

  “I just met Tony this week when he asked me to write about your and Maggie’s courtship.”

  “Do you know what Tony does?”

  I wondered where Marco was going with this. Made men never discussed either the Mafia or their membership in it. The subject was taboo. I clearly could not trust Marco, and I didn’t know what his agenda was, so I chose the safe route. “Sure, he’s an entrepreneur, a businessman. Clothing, textiles, dry cleaning, internet sales, stuff like that.”

  Marco smiled in spite of himself. “Right, that’s Tony.” I sensed a sudden shift in his attitude. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

  And so it went. I started by asking him about his early years and his involvement with Maggie when they were children. I tailored all my questions around M
aggie only, and steered clear of any questions about the rest of her family, especially Vespucci. I got the impression from Marco that Maggie was more like a little sister to him when they were younger. Until she hit sixteen. Almost overnight, it was impossible not to notice her. And Marco wasn’t the only one. A lot of boys were vying for her attention. As he put it, Maggie signaled she was interested in him and they started to date. But before anything serious developed, his father sent him to Italy to help start the family business. As Marco put it, he “found his legs” there. Once his father felt comfortable with the budding ventures, he left Marco to oversee everything, a very heady position for a man in his early twenties, I thought. More than once, Marco mentioned the name of the Italian prime minister in relation to their business dealings.

  Marco gave a detailed account about Italy and his family’s growing involvement in Italian-American trade and the Italian political landscape, but I wanted to know about the more recent past. I’d already covered most of this material the night before. Having done these interviews for enough years, I knew that Marco’s time in Italy, though important to him, would be a paragraph at best in the final product, so I saw no point in spending any more interview time on it than was necessary. Nudging him toward the topic of Maggie, I noticed the timbre of his voice changed slightly, a subtle shift at best, but a shift nonetheless. I wasn’t sure of the significance of this, but he seemed on more secure footing when talking about business and Italy than when talking about Maggie and her family.

  I led him through their last two years together with my normal set of questions. What they did on their first few dates. What it was like dating her. After all, he had known her since childhood. At one point, I asked him what it was like to ask Tony Vespucci for his daughter’s hand in marriage. I assumed that given their culture and background, it was a foregone conclusion that Marco would do this. He gave me a guarded look of mistrust.

  “I didn’t ask Tony first. This is not the Old Country, Jon.”

  His answer provided insight into the possible tension I’d sensed between Vespucci and Marco the night before. I had no doubt Vespucci felt slighted Marco had not asked him for Maggie’s hand.

  After close to an hour of questioning, I had enough information from him to work with, figuring I could fill in the blanks with Maggie and the other family interviews. “I think that’s enough, Marco. I appreciate you taking time out of your day to see me.” I hit stop on my tape recorder and placed it in my pocket.

  Marco leaned forward in his chair, placing his hands on the desk and said, “We have an understanding?”

  I nodded, not exactly sure what the understanding was, but having no further interest in talking to Marco, I aimed for placation. “I’m sure I’ll see you again before I go,” I said, as calmly as I could.

  “Good. You can find your way out?”

  I stood up. “Sure.”

  I turned for the office door but Marco’s voice stopped me.

  “Be careful on the catwalk on your way back. We had a guy fall into the pit last year. It was ugly. Left little for his family to bury. Very tragic,” Marco warned.

  Not for the last time, I wondered what the hell I was doing here. “I’ll be careful. Wouldn’t want to fail you and Maggie and not finish your love story before your nuptials.”

  Without waiting for a response, I turned and quick-stepped it back the way I’d come. As I crossed over the pit on the catwalk, I slowed to take a good look at the orange molten liquid below. I shuddered at the thought of falling to my death in that pool of fire. If I needed to interview Marco again, it would not be here. I turned and moved even more quickly toward the exit and was momentarily blinded by the sun when I stepped through the door. I crossed the distance to the fence in seconds and found myself back on the street.

  I looked in both directions for a taxi, but the street was deserted. I started walking past tall warehouses and anonymous storage buildings toward a busier intersection. About halfway down the block, I passed a black Ford Taurus parked across the street. As I passed, I glanced over at the driver. A man not much older than me looked my way. I turned away, minding my own business. I walked a few steps before turning back, but he wasn’t paying attention to where I was heading. As I reached the intersection, cars were now passing at regular intervals. From the corner, I hailed a taxi and jumped in, giving the driver directions to NYU. As the taxi pulled away from the curb, I looked back down the street from where I’d come. I could just make out the fence line of the foundry. The Taurus was gone. As the taxi passed through the busy streets of Brooklyn, I called Sara on my cell, with no success. The phone rang several times and went to voicemail. I left a message, then hung up and texted her, just to be sure.

  A terse response came back. “In Meeting. Will call later.”

  I was beginning to feel the tinges of real panic about our relationship. I tried to look at it objectively, an impossible feat for me, I knew, but if I took a step back and began noting all the little things happening, and not happening, between us, it didn’t add up to a promising outcome. When I got back to L.A., I needed to sit down with her and do some serious talking. I didn’t know what the problem was, but I was going to figure it out and fix it. My thoughts were interrupted by the cab driver’s voice announcing our arrival and my fare in one breath. I paid him and climbed out of the car, back at the same building where I had met Maggie the day before. It seemed so long ago. I went inside and took the elevator to Maggie’s floor, finding my way back to her office without incident. Her door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open and saw her organizing paperwork on her desk. She gave me a welcoming smile, a far cry from her fiancé’s non-welcome earlier. It was impossible not to notice the flutter in my stomach and my increased heart rate. I felt my cheeks redden.

  “Hi, Jon. Found your way with no trouble, I hope?” Maggie asked.

  “Just fine.”

  “Everything go okay with Marco?” Sure, except your fiancé’s a psycho. “Went great. No problem.”

  She looked up from her desk. “Really?”

  “Yeah, gave me a tour of his foundry and everything.”

  That seemed to satisfy her. She finished up with the shuffling on her desk as she stuffed a few loose documents into her shoulder satchel. “Have you eaten yet?”

  I shook my head.

  “Mind if we grab some lunch while we do this? I’m starving.”

  “Not at all. That’d be great.”

  “Good.”

  Maggie crossed from her desk to the door. I couldn’t help but notice her outfit, a casual sleeveless formfitting dark print dress, elegant and attractive, sexy yet understated. I inadvertently took a step back to give her more room as she passed through the doorway and felt her breasts brush against me.

  “C’mon, Jon Fixx, I’m going to get you some of the best food in New York.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “It’s a surprise. Mind if we walk? It’s not that far.”

  “That’d be fine. I do enough driving in L.A.”

  As we walked, I reflected on the night-and-day difference between my interview with Marco and my time thus far with Maggie. Maggie was amenable where Marco was obstructionist. Maggie seemed like an open book, and her behavior was loose and relaxed with me, as if we’d known each other for a while, not the twenty-four hours it had been. As we walked down the streets of Manhattan, Maggie seemed to have Tony’s perceptive sense.

  “You’re wondering why I seem so comfortable with you?” she asked.

  Caught off guard, I started to protest but shifted gears immediately. “Well, yes and no, to tell you the truth.”

  “For starters, Jon, I can see why you are so successful in your line of work. You have an easy, friendly nature. It’s unassuming. Makes people comfortable to talk to you,” she said. I could feel the warmth in her smile.

  I shrugged.

 
“Oh, c’mon. I’m sure people have volunteered some of their deepest, darkest secrets during your interviews. Yes?” She looked askance at me.

  I smiled in spite of myself. “That has happened on occasion.”

  “Have you ever had to hide information you’ve discovered from one fiancé to the other?”

  “I don’t call it hiding. To me, the term “hiding” denotes a level of self-involvement that I don’t feel is accurate. I am a third-party neutral observer, nothing more, so I can’t be responsible for hiding information. My job is solely to report what I’ve been hired to report. It’s a subjective venture, and the outcome is predetermined,” I responded, as accurately as I could. “I write the love story the way the participants—and their families—want it to sound, not always the way it unfolded, or is unfolding in some cases.”

  “So you do hear all the juicy details?”

  I laughed. “Between the couple, their parents, the siblings, and the best friends, I almost always hear something I shouldn’t. And it never appears in the final copy. Because if it did, there wouldn’t be a final copy.”

  “Never?”

  “Ever.”

  “Tell me about one time.”

  “When I discovered something I shouldn’t?”

  She nodded eagerly. Rarely did my clients feel comfortable enough to ask me about my past clients, so I wasn’t sure what to say. “Well, remember, the confidentiality agreement I signed for you is something I do for every client,” I said. “I have to be careful discussing past clients’ indiscretions. I’m kind of like a therapist, or attorney, in that regard.”

  We walked on in silence. I glanced over at Maggie, noticing a mischievous look on her face. “Okay, Jon Fixx. Then tell me this. Hypothetically, if you found out something about Marco that would hurt me, what would you do with that information?”

  My insides froze. A client had never asked me a question like that fraught with such weighty implications. My work involved people’s feelings, the future of their lives, marriage, which was a ‘til death do us part type of experience. Secrets were sometimes better left unrevealed, at least better left unrevealed by me. But in this case, on the one hand, I had Tony Vespucci, who I was pretty sure had the means to disappear me, and, on the other hand, I had Marco Balducci, who had just shown me how he could disappear me, if necessary. I answered in the safest way possible. “I’m sure that scenario won’t present itself.”