Jon Fixx

by Jason Squire Fluck

  Sitting in the back corner, I felt some comfort that I had a wall behind me. At least Marco or one of his goons couldn’t sneak up on me. From my angle, I could watch the activity in the entire restaurant. As I waited, I thought back over the last ninety minutes as my plan had fallen nicely into place.

  After we left Cranston’s office, my phone buzzed again. Williams’ calm sounded almost apoplectic. He had received my package. “Jon, are you aware you are interfering with a federal case?”

  “So, Marco Balducci is working for you guys?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. I wrote it, remember? I wonder what Tony Vespucci would say if I showed it to him.”

  The eruption from the phone displayed the temper I knew was beneath Williams’ calm exterior. “You fucking little shit! When I find you, I’m going to strangle you with my bare hands.”

  I didn’t respond. The phone went silent. Finally, I said, “Ted, are you listening?”

  A pause, and then, “Yeah.”

  “I’m the one with all the cards here, in case you haven’t noticed. I’m innocent in all this. I was dragged into it by circumstances beyond my control, so I decided it was time to push back and get a little somethin’ for Jon-Jon.”

  Luci glanced at me, silently mouthing, “Jon-Jon?”

  I shrugged in response, as if to say, I’m just making it up as I go. Back to the phone, I added, “I’ve got the name of the girl in Italy and her dead father’s. I know about the baby. I know about the deal with the Italian government. I can guess the rest.”

  “You’ve been talking to Jim Mosconi too much.”

  “You mean the same Jim Mosconi Marco killed?”

  “He committed suicide.”

  “Right. And I’m black.” It was Donovan’s turn to throw a questioning glance my way. “How about this, Ted? Louisa Adduci. The name ring any bells?”

  Silence. I could hear Williams’ breathing. Several moments passed, then Williams asked, “What do you want?”

  “I want to make sure I don’t end up like Mosconi. I want to meet.”

  “Where?”

  “The Brooklyn Bridge. Center. 7:00.” I hung up.

  With a chuckle, Donovan said, “Jon-Jon. Nice touch.”

  “Where’d all that come from,” Luci said, more statement than question.

  “Stream of consciousness. I was just going with the flow.” My friends continued to chuckle.

  Minutes later, we arrived at the restaurant. We unloaded quickly from the limo, sending Cheryl off on a long leisurely drive through Manhattan back toward the Brooklyn Bridge. I tossed my mobile phone in the back seat before climbing out, hoping that would throw the FBI off track, at least for a while, if they were tracking it. We gave Cheryl Luci’s cell number so she could call us if she had any problems. Donovan handed his phone over to me so I wouldn’t be without one.

  I had trouble sitting still. I needed to stay focused. I leaned forward to see if I could spot Luci at the end of the bar near the kitchen doors. As planned, he was calmly sitting on the last bar stool, an untouched drink in front of him. He was doing his best to blend in, chatting with a young woman sitting next to him. If he saw me look over, he gave no sign. I glanced away from Luci toward the opposite front corner of the restaurant farthest from the door, spotting Donovan’s large frame looking more than a little uncomfortable in the two-seater table he’d been shown to. We were both sitting along the same wall at opposite ends of the restaurant. When we’d put the plan together, the three of us had decided these positions would provide us with the best vantage points.

  I looked at the clock on my computer screen. 6:47 p.m. Almost show time. I felt my stomach tighten. All around me, I heard multiple conversations, the ring of silverware on plates, occasional laughter. Servers hustled in between the tables. I’d ordered a plate of linguini to blend in but hadn’t taken a bite, getting more nervous as each minute passed. I glanced around the restaurant again, looking for thugs, unable to believe that Marco would actually show up by himself.

  6:55.

  I pulled my computer closer, checking to make sure everything was set up. I opened Skype, going full screen. I clicked the dial button, watching the dialing icon blink. After four rings, I saw Joey’s face pop up on the screen. I looked down at the lower left corner to see what the computer’s camera was focused on, spotting my yellowed, bruised, slowly healing face staring back at me. Quietly, I asked him, “Can you hear me?”

  He gave a thumbs up. The camera panned slightly, and Vespucci’s face came into view. I nodded to him, acknowledging his presence. I then hit the mute button on my computer and reduced the Skype screen to a minimum, leaving only my desktop visible. Now, all I needed to do was get Marco to admit to his transgressions and I was home free.

  6:58.

  A guy walked through the front door, an Italian thug without question. With shoulders as wide as Donovan’s but on a five-feet-eight-inch frame, he reminded me of a fire hydrant with legs and a potbelly. His eyes found mine and he froze at the door. He stared at me a moment, then walked over to the edge of the bar. It took every ounce of my self-will not to look at Donovan or Luci for fear of giving up their positions to Marco’s crony, but I wanted to be sure they saw what I saw. Seconds later, Marco sauntered through the front door. The restaurant seemed to get darker. If he was nervous or scared, he didn’t look it. I figured I was feeling enough of both for the two of us. At my side, Donovan’s cell phone started buzzing. I almost jumped out of my seat at the sound. I quickly pulled it out of my pants pocket.

  “Yeah?”

  “FBI pulled Cheryl over a few minutes ago. Hurry up.” Then Luci hung up.

  I put the phone back in my pocket. The maître d’ had just walked up to Marco as he spotted me. Even with the distance between us, I could see the hate in his eyes. Marco dismissed the maître d’ with a wave of his hand and headed in my direction. As he got closer, I could see a slight smile on his face. I figured he was thinking of how he was going to dispose of my body after he killed me. The complete absurdity of my situation made me start to laugh.

  What was I doing sitting in an Italian restaurant in New York attempting to pin down a hard-hitting Mafioso who was allegedly double-crossing his boss? The whole thing seemed hysterical to me at the moment. As Marco closed in on my table, my laughter had become an uncontrollable cackle. I knew I looked and sounded crazy. I was losing it. I could see the people around me shifting uncomfortably in their seats, taking sideways glances at me. From across the restaurant, Donovan’s concerned look was visible above the other heads. I could only imagine what Vespucci and Joey were thinking.

  Marco stepped up to the table, the sociopathic-like grin gone from his face. My own crazy-sounding laughter must have thrown him. Quietly, he said, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  The sound of his voice triggered a switch inside me and suddenly, just as quickly as it had come, the urge to laugh was gone. All business, I stared up at him with a straight face. I gathered my wits together, doing my best to ignore the feeling of dread and fear I felt throughout my body. “Join me for dinner?”

  As I spoke, I pushed my computer off to the side, apparently out of Marco’s way, but angling the computer screen slightly toward him. I doubted Vespucci could see him, but he would definitely be able to hear him.

  “This is not a social call, asshole.” Marco sat down. A server closed in on the table but Marco dismissed him with a shake of his head. The server turned away.

  “I asked you to come alone,” I said, indicating with a look at Marco’s goon standing at the edge of the bar.

  Marco’s head swiveled in the same direction. “Gino? Don’t worry about him. He’s just here to watch the door.” Marco’s gaze settled on my computer.

  I panicked, thinking he was already onto my plan.

  Instead, he asked, “Is i
t on there?”

  I realized he was focused on the story I sent him. “No, it’s here.” I pulled the thumb drive out of my pocket, holding it up for him to see.

  “What do you want?” he said, his voice a low growl.

  “The truth.”

  Marco stared at me, clearly assessing his options.

  “I’m going to finish what Jim Mosconi started.” Mosconi’s name elicited no response from him. “When reporters are about to break big stories, they will often visit the subject of the story the night before they publish to provide their subject an opportunity to respond to the allegations. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, that’s what we’re doing here.”

  Marco hissed, “You have no proof. That story you wrote is bullshit! If you pass it on to Vespucci, or Maggie, or anyone else, I’ll kill you.”

  I returned his stare, considering his threat, doing my best not to blink, not to show any fear. Funny enough, I’d been more afraid when thinking about the confrontation than I was feeling now in the confrontation. Watching Marco, I sensed the combination of panic and desperation under the surface. I figured the longer I remained calm the greater my chances of drawing him out.

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea because I really don’t want to die yet. There are so many things I still want to do with my life. I haven’t seen the Grand Canyon. I haven’t been to Europe. I feel the need to put my genetic stamp on the world, so I want to have at least one child. I’d like to learn calligraphy—”

  “Get to the fucking point!”

  “I am. You can’t kill me.” I paused, gathering my thoughts. Then, “From a logical standpoint, Marco, I’m at a bit of a loss. On the one hand, you’re telling me the story I wrote about you and Maggie is all bullshit, but your actions belie your words. If there’s no truth in what I wrote, why are you threatening me? What are you doing here?” I stopped, waiting, a small smile forming on my face. The smile had a greater effect than the words. I glanced down at Marco’s hands gripping the table, his knuckles white. I was definitely getting to him, but I needed him to say the words. “Just tell me one thing, do you even love her?”

  A wolfish grin spread across Marco’s face. “Oh, of course, so that’s what this is all about. You’re in love with my fiancée. Let me be the first to tell you she wouldn’t give you a second glance. Look at you! Look at what you do for a living. You call that a job?” He paused a moment, sitting back in his seat. “Let me tell you one thing, Jon. She’s amazing in the sack. That part’s been a lot of fun.”

  I had my answer. Any man truly in love with a woman doesn’t talk about his private sexual life to other men. I saw an opening. “What about Louisa Adduci? What was she like in bed?”

  I hit the bullseye. Marco’s bravado was instantly replaced with a look of fear. “How did you get her name?”

  “I do my homework. I want to make sure that if I’m going to extort somebody, I have all my facts to make sure I’ll get what I want.”

  “Is that what this is about? You want money?”

  I nodded.

  “How much?”

  “I was thinking somewhere in the range of one hundred thousand.” I could see his mind working. I was now on ground Marco felt comfortable with, discussing something he understood.

  “You want me to pay you to keep a story you wrote based on a bunch of hunches and lies under wraps?”

  “Hunches and lies? I know about Louisa. I know about your daughter. I know you beat her father to death. I’m pretty sure you killed Jim Mosconi when he started getting close to breaking that story.”

  Then I paused, about to throw Marco for a big loop. In the copy I’d sent to him, I had removed the pages that covered his alleged position as an informer. I wanted to spring it on him at the restaurant, hoping the surprise would throw him off balance. I knew if I didn’t break him with this revelation, I would fail at my task. I took a deep breath and jumped. “But what I don’t understand, and maybe you can help me with this, is why the Italian government arrested you, then suddenly released you. Can you shed any light on that for me?”

  As I spoke, Marco’s face darkened, an evil scowl spreading across his face. I was sure that if we’d been alone, Marco would have reached across the table and snapped my neck with his bare hands.

  “Want to hear what I think? Well, let me tell you anyway. I think you made a deal with the FBI to turn informer on Tony Vespucci so the Italian government would dismiss the charges. I think you came back here and saw an opportunity with Maggie. Or maybe you even planned the whole thing ahead of time, and your relationship with her was all a setup. How better to get in tight with the father than to marry his daughter. But that’s been a problem, hasn’t it? I mean, ever since Vespucci sent you away all those years ago when you almost did to Maggie what you did to Louisa Adduci, you’ve had a lot of trouble getting back into his good graces, haven’t you?”

  Marco reached under the table, his hand slowly reappearing with a Beretta outfitted with a silencer on the end of it pointed in my direction. He was going to kill me with a silencer! I was a mind reader. He placed it on the table, still in his hand, using his other hand to cover it up with a large, white napkin.

  “Smart boy, aren’t you, Jon Fixx? So smart, you’re going to get yourself killed. I’ll tell you what you want to know, because when I’m done, you’re going to leave here with me and I’m going to kill you.”

  I felt unclear about what to do next. I wasn’t sure what he would, or wouldn’t do. The gun on the table was real. All he had to do was point and shoot, which I knew he could do instantly. I inadvertently glanced around the restaurant trying to gather my thoughts.

  “Don’t get any ideas. I pull the trigger, the first bullet will tear your liver apart.”

  I took a breath, steeling my nerves. There was no going back, so I figured all I could do was forge ahead and hope for the best. “Before you kill me, just answer my question. Do you love her?”

  Marco chuckled. “Are you kidding? Seriously, talk about high maintenance. Tony spoiled that girl. She’s been such a pain in the ass since we got engaged. She called me a little while ago, so upset that you’re going back to Los Angeles. She wanted to know what our fight was about, why you were asking if I had a kid in Italy. I told her you were making shit up to cause trouble so you could have a shot at her.”

  My blood started to heat up, Marco’s incendiary dialogue having the intended effect, but I kept my mouth shut. From the corner of my eye, I was suddenly distracted by something off to my left. I glanced away from Marco toward the distraction, almost bounding out of my seat at the sight of Nick Nickels Jr. and a skinny blond being seated by the maître d’ only a few tables away. He was positioned such that he’d have to turn his head no more than forty-five degrees to see me. I froze in my seat. My eyes darted back to Marco.

  “The poor girl is wrapped around my finger. She’ll do whatever I tell her. Even when her father goes down, she’ll be dependent on me.”

  “So you are working for the FBI.”

  “I’m not working for anybody. I’m working for myself.”

  “I don’t think you’ll be very popular when everyone finds out what you’ve been up to.”

  “When the FBI takes Vespucci down, I’ve got everything lined up to handle business. My exit strategy is in place.”

  A commotion at the front door drew my attention away from Marco. At first, my brain couldn’t process what I was seeing, but as she crossed from the front door into the restaurant, making a beeline for our table, the fog cleared, putting Maggie’s name to her face. I glanced back at Marco to see if he had noticed my abrupt change in demeanor, but he was still talking, clearly relishing the fact that he could tell me everything because soon he’d be killing me. My eyes jumped away from Marco over to Nickels’ table. He appeared to be happily lost in a glass of wine and his date.

  “—Vespucci
thinks he’s so smart. I can’t wait to see him go down.”

  I sat back in my seat as Maggie closed in on us. From my left, I could see Luci leaning forward, beginning to stand up, doubt on his face. He wasn’t sure if this was part of the plan. From across the restaurant, Donovan was sitting up straight in his seat. Maggie strode up behind Marco. Over Marco’s shoulder, I saw Joey run in through the front door, stopping at the entrance and frantically scanning the restaurant. I started preparing my body for action. Maggie stepped up to Marco’s side, her face flushed, mascara smudges under her eyes, tears on her cheeks. At the sight of his fiancée, Marco froze. Maggie stared back, not saying anything for several seconds, and then everything in the room erupted into chaos.

  “You son-of-a-bitch!”

  Her hand flew through the air, palm connecting squarely on Marco’s cheek and jaw. Putting some hip into the swing, Maggie almost knocked him out of his seat. Marco crouched down to avoid a second swing. Over his head, I spotted Gino moving quickly down the bar aisle toward us. Donovan appeared beside him, throwing a right foot hard at Gino’s left knee. The fire hydrant faltered, swaying back and forth, trying to keep his balance while turning on his aggressor. A right cross came down on his jaw, dropping Gino to the ground.

  Maggie’s voice brought me back to what was happening in front of me. She was crying again. “How could you? I was in love with you.”

  Recovering from his initial shock, Marco’s glance darted from Maggie to me, then down to my computer, quickly putting it together. “You set me up.”

  Before I could respond, another voice joined the increasing maelstrom.

  “Jon Fixx.”

  Nickels was standing on the other side of Marco opposite Maggie, an impetuous, coyote-like look on his face. Ducking away from Maggie, Marco looked over his left shoulder to see who was standing so close to him. Nickels seemed to have tunnel vision, though, unable to notice anything but me.