by Jon F. Merz
"Good to know."
I nodded. "Yeah, they deserve all the happiness they can get. Did the baby get returned to its rightful parents?"
"Sure did. And I got a nice commendation for it."
"Good for you."
"Yeah. I guess." McCloskey checked his watch. "Listen, you planning on staying a sweaty mess for the rest of the afternoon or what?"
"Why? You got something in mind?"
McCloskey nodded. "How soon you forget."
"Forget what?"
"It's Friday," said McCloskey. "And you promised me a shitload of beer at Guilfoil's."
"A shitload?"
"Yep."
"What would you have done if this whole thing finished up on a Sunday or something?"
McCloskey punched my arm as we headed toward the elevator. "I would have waited until the next week. After all, what's a few more days between good friends and cold beer?"
Turn the page for a special sneak-peek at
THE FIXER
A Lawson Vampire Novel
by
Jon F. Merz
Chapter One
I sat like I always did: my back to the wall, keeping a good field of fire. That kind of instinctual discipline has kept me alive a long time. Usually, it’s the only thing that does.
Neither of us spoke while our polyester-clad waiter slid bowls of steaming soup and a plate of appetizers on to our table. A quick bow and he was gone. Finally, McKinley cleared his throat, coughed up some phlegm, and dropped three words.
"Cosgrove’s in town."
Jack Dempsey might as well have shot his trademark uppercut into my solar plexus. Keeping the mouthful of hot and sour soup where it belonged took a lot of effort. I chased it down with a gulp of ice water and a healthy intake of O2. "Well…that’s just about the worst goddamned news you could spring on me."
McKinley’s yellow-toothed grin slithered across his face. He always saved it for particularly nasty stuff. I’d swear he enjoyed seeing me suffer. "It’s the little things that give me the most pleasure, Lawson. I knew your reaction would be worth coming out in this miserable rain for."
I wiped my mouth. "You really know how to ruin a good meal."
"Yeah, it’s a gift." He waved his chopsticks. "We think he touched down yesterday."
"So why tell me? You want me to be his fucking tour guide or something?"
"Not exactly."
I sucked down another piece of slippery tofu. "Glad to hear it. Only trip I’d ever give that bastard would be a one-way ticket to hell."
"You don’t have to be so sarcastic."
"This isn’t sarcasm. This is me pissed off."
"You’re over-reacting. It’s just Cosgrove."
I frowned. "What are you guys – poker buddies now?"
McKinley speared a pan-fried dumpling with one of his plastic chopsticks, the kind with the faded characters running down the side, and shrugged. "Maybe my viewpoint’s a bit more objective. After all, he’s not gunning for me."
"You know, you’re a lot of things. But Guardian Angel ain’t one of them."
Soy sauce dribbled down five miles of his chin. "Hey, I’m just a middle man. ‘Life Preserver’ wasn’t in the job description."
"Be like clutching a cinder block in an ocean if it was." I shook my head. "You’re off the diet again, aren’t you?"
He stopped chewing. "Give me a break, will you? We
can’t all look like we were built by the local bricklayers union."
"Taking care of myself goes with the job. You know that."
"Yeah I know that. So what. I like to eat. Fuck off, will ya? At least I’m not obsessing over some two-bit psycho job."
I leaned closer to him. "I don’t appreciate being dragged out on a crappy night like this. And I don’t like being told I’m overreacting by an out-of-shape-has-been who hasn’t seen the business end of a field assignment in a decade."
He pulled away, gulped and reached for another victim. "Yeah well, maybe I just don’t consider Cosgrove to be all that dangerous. Maybe I just think he’s a pushover. A ‘has-been’, to use your phrase."
"Maybe you weren’t on the receiving end of his last little killing spree here in town. Cosgrove is a dangerous bastard. For you to tell me otherwise is just plain stupid."
McKinley nodded. "I suppose I should bow to your extensive, if not obsessive, knowledge of the subject."
"Call it what you want. I know him. You don’t." I looked around the darkened interior of the restaurant. A quarter mile outside of Kenmore Square, they served the best Chinese food in Boston here. As usual, the place was packed, but McKinley and I had privacy, courtesy of the hostess who always gets an extra twenty bucks to keep a table for me at the back of the restaurant. Our only neighbors were stoic characters painted on the walls depicting scenes from the Ming Dynasty. Outside, the percolating drizzle we’d arrived with thirty minutes ago exploded into a cold November downpour.
I faced him again. "So. Where’s he holing up?"
McKinley yawned. "Guy like Cosgrove has more rocks to crawl under than a miner."
"Jesus, I could have stayed home and played this twenty questions bullshit over the phone. Are you going to tell me where he is or do I have to walk out on a good dinner? I’m not in the mood for games."
"He’s here."
I jumped out of my chair, instantly feeling a surge of adrenaline flood my bloodstream. I searched for Cosgrove’s face in the crowd. McKinley laughed.
"Whoa, cowboy. I mean he’s in town. In Boston."
I sucked in a lungful of air; waning adrenaline always left me queasy. It’d be a shame to puke a good meal. "How do you know?"
McKinley eyed me as he reached into the inside pocket of his muted plaid sport coat and withdrew a long manila envelope folded in half. "Everything okay? You seem a little jumpy."
"Now who’s being sarcastic?" I frowned and took the envelope from him. "I’m fine." But I wasn’t. I cursed Cosgrove silently for making me act like some goddamned amateur.
A single photograph spilled out of the envelope and landed next to the tarnished silver teapot. Even in the shadows I could easily make out the corpse on the gurney.
"Looks like the Boston City Hospital morgue."
"You should know, you’ve been there enough."
"Enough to know how easy it is to slip a body into the incinerator. Real convenient way to head-off some uncomfortable questions."
McKinley’s voice wafted over the scent of sizzling rice soup being served a few tables away. "ME made the time of death around two in the morning."
"Right after last call." I frowned. "That’s his MO, all right." I looked up. "What else?"
He pointed at the picture. "They took that upon receipt of the corpse. Look at the skin color."
I looked closer at the corpse. White: like somebody had used a correcting pen on every inch of flesh.
"No fluids," said McKinley. "Absolutely drained. The sick bastard bled him dry."
I looked up. "‘Bastard’? Christ, a minute ago you were telling me what a pushover Cosgrove is. Now he’s a bad boy? Damn, you flip-flop like a cheap whore." I passed the photo back to him.
McKinley looked at the picture. "Well, yes, but obviously I-we-can’t condone this kind of behavior, Lawson."
"You seem surprised. Admit it, you know the guy’s a certifiable maniac. He’s a freak. And he’s never been content with just killing his victims. He’s gotta make a statement. Stand out like some damned insane artist. One of these days he’ll probably mail me an ear."
I scooped out some white rice on to my plate and quickly hid it under a pile of beef, brown sauce, and red peppers. "That makes him easy to track, thanks to the trail of dead bodies. But it also makes him more dangerous."
McKinley used one of his chopsticks to pick a piece of pork out of his teeth. "Well, Christmas comes early for you this year, whether I agree with your assessment or not." He replaced the envelope in his jacket. "Carte blanche on how you want to do i
t, they passed the termination order down this afternoon."
"All right. First things first: I’ll need a fresh mug shot. Chances are good he doesn’t look a thing like he used to."
"A hundred percent good, in fact," said McKinley. "Rumor is he vacationed in Switzerland, got himself a new face. Problem is we don’t have a photo."
I put my chopsticks down. "You’re sending me out blind?"
"So it’s not an easy mark, you’ll improvise."
"Cosgrove and easy aren’t even distant cousins. You’re handing me a grenade with no pin."
"You’ve handled worse assignments before," said McKinley. "Remember Tokyo last year?"
"The only thing I remember about that operation is how much miso soup I ate. Stuff was like intestinal drain cleaner."
McKinley grinned. "Well, there’s no miso soup on this assignment. Your orders are simple and clear. The Council wants him gone. Get rid of him. This time for good."
"There wouldn’t be a this time if the Council had seen things my way before. If they’d listened, instead of dismissing me like some naive agent fresh out of training."
McKinley frowned. "What do you want me to say? They fucked up? Well, they probably did. But then again, hindsight’s twenty-twenty. I’m sure you’ve got a lot of decisions you regret making."
"Only one stands out right now: having dinner with you tonight."
"You’d rather find out by having him show up at your house? I’m doing you a favor here."
"By giving me a sanction with no picture?" I shook my head. "That’s some favor."
"Look, you want to stop your bitching and start doing something about it or what? Honestly, I’d have bet good money you’d be all over this assignment."
I hated it. But I didn’t have to like it. Or McKinley for that matter. A job was a job. And Cosgrove just happened to be another one. I wondered how long I’d be able to convince myself that’s all it was.
The odds weren’t good.
I looked at McKinley. "Guess I’ll have to beat the grass and surprise the snake."
He stopped chewing. "That another one of your infamous Japanese philosophies?" He shook his head. "Don’t know why you bother remembering that mumbo-jumbo kung fu stuff."
"Maybe if you had some appreciation for things other than what you can stuff down your gullet, you’d learn something. It happens to be a Zen saying and a sword fighting strategy. I’ll use it to find Cosgrove. Hopefully."
"Yeah? Enlighten me, oh mighty Zen master. How you gonna use that to get your boy?"
"Cosgrove loves nightclubs. They’re his hunting grounds. I hate nightclubs. Cosgrove knows that. But I’ll do what he doesn’t expect: I’ll make them my hunting grounds too."
"Whatever," said McKinley. "Just so long as you get him."
"I don’t really have a choice, do I? Sooner or later he’s going to finish his business here in town and, according to you, come looking for me." I sighed and reached for another piece of beef. "You’re right. With our past, he can’t afford to leave me alone. He’s got to assume we know he’s here. And that I’ll be hunting him."
"You want backup?"
"You don’t have any backup to give."
"I could pull some strings. Get someone transferred over temporarily if you think you can’t handle him alone. If he’s too much for you."
"Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence." I frowned. "I don’t want a partner. I work better alone." I took a sip of tea. "Besides, I know Cosgrove better than anyone else. I’ll handle it. My way. Just make damned sure the Council doesn’t jerk me back in. If I get a bead on him this time, he goes down. Like it or not."
"Trust me, Lawson. You can stuff him and mount him on a wall for all we care," said McKinley harpooning the final dumpling.
"If only it was that easy," I mumbled. "Killing him will be hard enough."
*** *** ***
Midnight found me skirting puddles from the earlier downpour as I crossed the Brookline Avenue bridge, over the traffic surging along the Massachusetts Turnpike. The night had blossomed into a crisp, clear sky with tendrils of rain clouds slinking to the North. My heated breath stained the air in front of my face as I dodged another pool of grimy water.
I love the darkness.
Most people are afraid of what they can’t see. To me, the shadows hold the excitement, the risk, and even the danger I need in my life. I suppose I’d have to feel that way, given my occupation.
Cosgrove.
The last time he came to my theater of operations, he killed fifty people. Of course, the cops had no clue. They never did. And the Feds? Well, if you knew how they operated, it was no mystery why they were as clueless as the local donut jockeys.
Back then, I told the Council Cosgrove needed to be eliminated. He brought too much attention on an area of this world most people don’t realize exists. An area most people think is reserved for old books and Stephen King novels. An area most people don’t want to believe in, because it tosses their reality the proverbial bird in a bad way.
The Council didn’t believe me. Not enough evidence, they said, dismissing the dozens of bodies Cosgrove littered the streets and alleys with. They told me to leave Cosgrove alone.
I disobeyed the order.
Not a smart move on my part. The Council acts as a government of sorts for us. They hand down the laws of our society. I work for them with McKinley operating as my Control. Albeit a crappy one. But even the respect I had for the Council didn’t stop me from defying them.
I tried to take Cosgrove out. I almost succeeded.
And I almost died.
Almost.
In this game, almost means about as much as two minus two.
Cosgrove vanished without a trace. I got a verbal warning for failure to follow orders.
That’s called getting off lucky. On both counts.
Ahead of me, Landsdowne Street – Boston’s nightclub Mecca - beckoned. And on a Friday night, it was packed with all sorts of people out to enjoy a night on the town. Most of them didn’t realize how much danger was passing them by. Like the sharks that swam all around people at the beach. Just because you couldn’t see them didn’t mean they weren’t there. It didn’t mean they weren’t just as deadly.
Especially when they were hungry.
Cosgrove may as well have been a poster child for Ethiopian famine.
His hunger for death rivaled only for his lust for blood. In the time I’d spent trying to track him down and waste his ass on a permanent basis, I’d learned a little something about him.
What made him different was an infusion of bad blood into his family line. His grandfather, lazy bastard that he was, chose targets of convenience rather than maintaining the dignity of the hunt. He lounged around insane asylums, morgues, anyplace where the dregs of society congregated. Where they were easy pickings.
Cosgrove’s dad said Grandpop did it so no one would ever miss them. So they wouldn’t know what had killed them. Cosgrove’s father didn’t want to believe the truth that Grandpop was just a miserable excuse for a hunter.
The mixture of blood he took in infected genes which were subsequently passed down to Cosgrove’s father and Cosgrove himself. Cosgrove’s father killed himself shortly after I paid him a visit to discuss his son’s aberrant behavior.
Odd thing, that.
But the infectious mix of lunacy swirling about Cosgrove’s bloodstream mutated causing Cosgrove to kill with the same kind of zest a fourteen year old boy has when he discovers how to jerk-off. I’d seen Cosgrove’s death lust first hand before. His behavior, at least according to McKinley and the Council, could no longer be tolerated.
God knew I’d been tolerating longer than most.
I made my way past the sausage vendors pedaling thick pieces of bloated meat by-products sizzling over the blue flame of sterno to drunken nightclubbers. I walked past the homeless veteran with the old Campbell’s soup can held outstretched in front of him looking for salvation in the guise of another quarter.
And eventually past the lines of limousines double and triple-parked in front of velvet cordons corralling long lines of supposedly beautiful people before herding them into the clubs.
I saw Simbik before he noticed me sidling through the five college girls attempting to bullshit him with fake ID’s. The son of a wealthy Turkish importer who lived outside of Istanbul on a huge estate, Simbik didn’t have to work for anyone. He could have spent his life mooching off dear ol’ dad. He didn’t. I respected that. Rumor was the big lug had a soft spot for animals and was putting himself through veterinary school.
"Simbik."
He smiled immediately. "Who you pestering tonight, Lawson?"
I moved past the girls, who frowned and walked further down the street to try conning another doorman. I scanned the area again. "Just out for a walk."
Simbik smiled. "Sure, and I’m just standing here farting for my health." He shook his head. "I got a better chance of seeing Istanbul and Athens become sister cities, fuhgeddaboutit." He glanced up the street as more patrons arrived. "Who you looking for?"
For a recent immigrant to the States, Simbik’s accent was thoroughly Brooklyn. He once told me he’d worked in a pizza joint in Bensonhurst before moving up to Boston. He learned part of his English drowning in tomato sauce, cheese and dough. He learned the other half wading through guys named Guido, Vinny, and Sal with his fists and an occasional headbutt. At six feet two inches and a shade under two hundred and a quarter, the few foes Simbik couldn’t handle could be counted on the fingers of one hand.
I watched him examine some more ID’s and wave through another group of clubgoers before responding. Simbik knew very little about me. But he knew some.
"Man named Cosgrove."
"Friend of yours?"
I looked at him, and he broke into a toothy grin. Simbik knew if I was looking for someone, they definitely weren’t a candidate for sainthood.
"So, what’s your boy look like?"
I looked further down the street. "Don’t know."
