“Captain, you got wonderful cooperation from the State.”
“You bet. Once I explained how Max and State Senator Joe Skinner had duped them. It was going to be embarrassing for them, no matter what. Only a full out effort to support us could take the focus off that embarrassment.”
“And Joe Skinner is…?”
“In custody.”
“Ouch!” It was Roee, suddenly unbuttoning his shirt and clawing at his breasts. “Petey, didn’t anybody remove these nipplephones?”
“Nope! Sorry! Forgot!”
“What the hell is a nipplephone?” the Captain asked.
Roee, painfully, peeled off then handed the two fake nipples over to the Captain as he scratched at his own, apologizing for the rudeness, but feeling much better.
“Miniature microphone-transmitter applications in the form of human male nipples,” Petey proudly declared.
The Captain stared at the two nipples in his hand. Then sudden disgust caused him to dropped them. “Petey, you’re one sick puppy, do you know that?”
“Yeah. Break those and it costs you ten grand per nipple.”
“Sick puppy he may be, Captain, but a brilliant sick puppy.”
“Ah—Fixxer!”
“The improvements you made to the satellite are amazing, but the fact that you could track us so precisely in the middle of storm clouds….”
“Easy, once I got a lock on the individual heat signatures of the planes, but did you really think he would go to this trouble to kill you? I mean, he could have just killed you on the ground.”
“No, again, not perverse and grand enough for his type. When Mike got back with the report that he had found ammo in the San Simeon hanger, it was obvious that Max was using it somewhere. If there was still a war going on in Central America, and he was still involved, that might have been the answer, but with no war, what’s a warped bastard to do? War games with live ammo. We’ve known of such things before. Bea being found in Alaska—especially on the frozen Bering Sea—gave me another clue. Such war games have to be played in very remote places. It was not much of a leap to figure somewhere in eastern Russia was a likely place. Why else would he have an airfield in Nome? He wasn’t in the business of giving tourist flights. He needed a private refueling station on the way there.
“So, knowing armed air battles were his pleasure, we gave him every opportunity to come up with the idea as a fun way to get rid of us. Simple human psychology took over from there.
“But on to other things. Hamo, have you and Lydia had time to review the tapes?”
“Yes, everything worked fine. Lydia has plenty of material. It will make quite a brilliant exposé.”
“And at any time, is either Roee or myself recognizable on the tapes?”
“Only twice. Once when Max covered you with the camera himself. That part we have, of course, erased. The other time was when George kicked you. He kicked your face into a full frontal view.”
“Not such an easy section to erase,” I said.
“That’s not a problem. We can easily replace your face digitally with the face of the cop who’s standing in for you.”
“Yes, those police officers will come in for quite a bit of glory. I hope you’ll play them up, Lydia.”
“Are you kidding? Where’s the glory for me if I do that? No, I think I’ll just portray them as competent undercover cops. That’s in the journalism, of course. In the movie version, I’ve got to have some hot sex scenes with the cop taking your role, so I’ll have to expand it a little bit.”
“I assume in the movie too, you’ll be kicking some groin?”
“Sure. I can justify it dramatically.”
“I’m sure you can. Now, what’s the end of the story? Was Max’s body recovered?”
“No,” the Captain stated. “Found lots of debris from the plane in the ocean, but no body. I think, though, we can assume that Maxwellton James is dead.”
“Can we?”
“Fixxer, don’t get melodramatic with me. He’s dead. Now what about this Enclave stuff. You buy any of it? Do you think it’s real?”
“I don’t know. Could be. The sentiments that Max claimed for it are certainly real among certain people. Some of them undoubtedly powerful people. Whether those sentiments have been organized into the Enclave is something, I suppose, for further investigation.”
“The question is,” Roee said, “who’s going to conduct that investigation?”
“No, the question is, who’s going to conduct it competently? Lydia’s story will demand some action. It will also feed the Millennium need for conspiracies. It will play well among the masses that Max and Sara seemed to have disliked. If it’s all real, are there then people in high places who can assure that it remains just entertainment? Not a question we can answer today.”
Mike, whose simple love for Bea Cherbourg was the author of the recent events we had been discussing, had sat during all this, quiet and still.
“Mike,” I said, “how do you feel?”
“Strange, Fixx. Displaced, somewhat, you know what I mean? Here but not really here. I’m glad Max and Sara are dead, I’m real glad of that, but that’s not very satisfying. I still don’t see why Bea had to die. It’s still, I don’t know, still a bit surreal.”
“Innocence harmed, always is,” I said, “or at least, Mike, always should seem so to us.”
Mike gave me a weak smile acknowledging my wisdom.
“Mike, I’m going to send you back East to talk to Bea’s parents. I want you to explain things to them. Share some grief with them, Mike. Share some, ‘Good grief.’ Once done, come back and get back to the newsstand and open those receptive ears of yours. I still need your valuable information.”
“You got it, Fixx. Anything, anytime, anywhere, you got it. There is one other thing that bothers me.”
“Speak.”
“Did you have to destroy the Hollywood sign?”
“Unavoidable, I’m afraid. By the way, was there any damage or loss of life in the crash?”
“One house,” the Captain said. “Empty at the time. The LAFD got there quickly and put out the fire before it could spread.”
“Who did it belong too?”
“Oddly enough, to one Maxwellton James.”
“You’re kidding”
The Captain smiled—a rare uplift for him. “Yes, I am, but we’ve been studying irony in my creative writing class.”
*
Everyone then left except Lydia. We had a couple of cold vodka tonics and a large plate of feta cheese and olives.
“You know,” I said, “for a moment I thought Max had gotten to you. That the whole idea of the Enclave was seductive enough to recruit you.”
“How could you think that?”
“Things said in the past.”
“Yeah, I know, but, once it was all articulated by that nut, I could see, well, I could see that it was nuts.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“No. Nuts is nuts, that’s all.”
“Oh.”
Lydia took a critical look at my face.
“You look worse than the first time you got beat up.”
“Sorry to abuse your sense of aesthetics.”
“Come back to Kassiópi, to my villa. To heal. I called Helen. She misses you.”
“I miss her. Especially her lamb.”
“Good, we’ll eat lamb; you’ll sit in the sun and heal; I can work on my expose; we can fuck. Maybe—maybe we’ll like it so much we’ll want to do it for a long time. Then maybe you’ll tell me your name.”
“My name is Nico.”
“Oh, sure.”
“For you, my sweet Greek, my name will always be Nico.”
“Then you will come?”
“No. No, thank you. Not this time. I feel like staying close to home.”
“Home? You call this slice of a high-rise box a home?”
“I do. It is.”
“You went through hell for this Bea Cherbourg. Wo
uld you go through hell for me?
“Depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“Depends on the outside forces.”
“You are—Fixxer—you are unfathomable.”
“Thank you. I work hard at it.”
“I’m going to kiss you now. I am not wearing Petey’s lipstick. Let’s see if we can conduct some electricity.”
She did.
We did.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Return of Gilgamesh Paul
After Lydia left and after we excused, and paid rather generously, our nurses, who then packed up their paperbacks and left, I turned to Roee and said, “Roee, wounded and recovering though you are, what’s for dinner?”
“Didn’t you just consume a rather large quantity of feta cheese and olives?”
“As Odysseus said to his host Alcinous, ‘The belly’s a shameless dog.’”
“Braised horse meat, then?”
“Roee?”
“Well, I suppose I could easily prepare some eggs and bacon.”
“Turkey bacon, right?”
“Of course. My god is—”
“Determined to keep me from the pig flesh of my fantasies.”
“How about the simplicity then of fresh pasta with olive oil and garlic, garlic toast and a fresh green salad.”
I thought about that for a second then said, “Sounds good.”
*
Which, of course, it was, and I even drank a wine recommended by Roee. He said it would be more restorative than the vodka tonic I had requested.
During dinner we discussed the adventure just concluded. It was Roee’s opinion that we had done some good.
“Good, as you know,” I said, “is so relative you would think Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principal applies.”
“Certainly bringing revenge to those culpable in the death of Bea Cherbourg was good.”
“Roee, you are so Old Testament.”
“I’ve never denied it.”
“Yes, I suppose it was good. It was, in any case, my desire. I thought, though, you were referring to the destruction of two soldiers of the Enclave.”
“No, I wasn’t. Although, assuming the Enclave does exist, that can’t be bad.”
“Can’t it? Maxwellton James was not wrong in this: The Twenty-first Century is going to be a bitch. You and I, as much as any two people on the face of the Earth, know that.”
“What century hasn’t been a bitch, Fixxer? Isn’t it a matter of how we handle the bitch?”
“Yes, I suppose so. Then it’s a matter of figuring out what’s good, as opposed to, possibly, what’s smart.”
“Must the two be in opposition?”
“Well—as I’m not being paid to answer such questions, I’ll be happy to leave it hanging in the air.”
“Speaking of which, while you were—saying good-bye to Lydia, I was going over the accounts.”
“A true Jew.”
“Fixxer!”
“Sorry. It’s the wine.”
“You want pork, you are perfectly capable of going out to a coffee shop and getting it.”
“I said I’m sorry. You don’t need to be disgusting.”
“I was going over the accounts and adding up what this little adventure is going to cost us.”
“A pretty penny?” I asked rather weakly.
“The backside of dollars leaving your accounts is never anything but ugly, Fixxer, but, if you’ll remember, I have set a deal with Jim Duncan to get him installed as the new president of Olympic. We just have to figure out a way to accomplish it.”
“Roee, I can do that in a phone call. Get me Larry Lapham on the line.”
*
“What the hell do you want?” came Lapham’s far from pleased voice. “Do you know Don Gulden’s family is trying to sue me for damages. His fucking brother’s a fucking lawyer.”
“He should be recovering any day now with no side effects.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Plus he’s going to go to prison for a while.”
“Oh, shit! You had something to do with this Sara Hutton thing, didn’t you?”
“Larry, how many times have I told you that I don’t answer questions? Now, do you know Jim Duncan?”
“Yeah, I know him, I’ve worked with him. He’s okay.“
“Good. Your deal at Universal is about up. Your exclusivity ends in three months.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Then I think the best home for you would be Olympic Pictures.”
“Olympic! Are you nuts?”
“I think you can get quite a good deal there.“
“I can get a good deal anywhere.”
“Better than good, then. They would want you badly. You should tell them that you would only feel comfortable at Olympic if someone like Jim Duncan was running the place, replacing the tragically late Sara Hutton.”
“What? You want me to take this deal just so Jim Duncan can get back into the executive ranks?”
“I guarantee that if you do this you’ll both see success.”
“God damn it Fixxer! If I knew that using your services—”
“You did know.”
“Not to this extent.”
“Larry, for the first time in your whole career the word, auteur is starting to accompany your name, and you’re still big at the box office. All thanks to me.”
“All?”
“All enough for our purposes, Larry. Don’t tell me you don’t agree.”
I made it sound like a threat. Which wasn’t hard.
“Yeah. Okay. I agree.”
“So shut up, pay attention to your ego, and do as I say.”
“Jim Duncan, uh?”
“Jim Duncan.”
“He’s a fine executive. I can work with him.”
“I thought you two were a good match.”
“You’re so fucking perceptive.”
“Yes, I am, aren’t I? Good-bye Larry Lapham.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Fixxer.”
I hung up the phone. “1.5 million. In the Bank.”
Roee seemed pleased.
The phone rang. Not The Phone, but rather the connection with the desk in the lobby of the building. This was odd for rarely did it ring unless we were expecting someone. The building staff was under strict orders not to call us in any other case.
Roee answered it. Spoke a few words. Then hung up.
“It’s Anne Eisley.”
“Anne? Well, yes, the film was wrapping.”
“Landed at LAX from Australia just an hour ago. She’s bringing up, uh, someone she found there?”
“What? Uninvited? She knows better than—”
“It’s Gilgamesh Paul.”
*
The elevator doors opened and Anne Eisley stood there, radiant and lovely and not at all harried. You would not have guessed that she had just flown in from Sydney. Behind her stood Joe, the young man from the garage. He had a dolly and on the dolly was a large cardboard box slapped silly with airport labels.
Anne rushed up to me and kissed me. It was long and generous. Upon pulling back from it, she noticed my face.
“You look horrible. Been having fun?”
“Anne, you know I don’t like uninvited visits.”
“Shut up. I come bearing gifts.”
“And you’re not even Greek.”
“No, but we could talk about it. Roee, how are you? Oh, I see. Not much better.”
“Oh, we’re worn, but not the worse for it, I hope,” he said
“Stop the chitchat. Is this my gift?”
“You’ll never believe it. I found them in a used bookstore in a small town in the outback. Seems a man who used to live there in the 20s ordered them by mail subscription. His grandson had just sold them to the store. A complete set.”
I stared at the box. Disbelieving. Excited. Scared.
“Well, go ahead, open it up,” Anne prodded.
Joe took out a knife and bega
n to slit the seal.
“Careful!” I said.
Joe was careful. Then he opened the box. I bent down, and folded back the flaps. There they were. Twenty volumes of “The Adventures of Gilgamesh Paul,” by S.Z. Sharpson, a long forgotten series of novels it had been my quest to find. I pulled the first one out. It was The Case of the Unnatural Predator. I pulled out another. It was The Case of the Shy Gun. And one more: The Case of the Malignant Rumor.
“All but one have their original dust jackets,” Anne said gleefully, excited, I think, to see my reaction.
I stood up. “Thank you,” I said in a near whisper, all the volume I could manage. It’s amazing, the silly things we expend our emotions on.
“Yes, thank you, Anne,” Roee said. “The torturous search for Gilgamesh Paul is now over. Care for something to eat? We have some pasta left.”
“No thank you, I’m tired, I think I’ll just go to bed.”
She then walked straight to my bedroom.
“Obviously she means your bed,” Roee said.
“Obviously. Give Joe a tip, will you, Roee?”
I then joined Anne in my bedroom. After all, the belly is not the only organ that is a shameless dog.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Steven Paul Leiva toiled for many years in the hills and valleys of Hollywood as a producer and writer, working with the great and the not-so-great, who were often one and the same. He produced the animation for Space Jam, pairing the witty Bugs Bunny with the sweaty Michael Jordan. His play, Made on the Moon, had its world premiere at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. His novelization, The 12 Dogs of Christmas, based on his own film adaptation of the best-selling picture book of the same name, won the Scribe Award for the Best Young Adult Adapted Novel from the International Association of Media Tie-in Writers. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife, Amanda, and his daughter, Miranda, who are known collectively as the Andas. Despite this being the Second Fixxer Adventure, you can contact the author at [email protected].
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