Action: Pulse Pounding Tales Volume 2

THE FIXER By Dean Breckenridge

WOLF SAID: “This chair makes my ass hurt. What the hell, Gordy?”

Gordy O’Rourke blew cigar smoke out one side of his mouth and grinned, showing yellow teeth, from across the small corner table.

“That’s the point,” he said. “Make somebody’s bum sore and they leave and let another customer have the table which means I make money. We get guys in here on game nights order one beer and a plate of wings and they sit for four hours watching a game and you know what? I hope their ass is killin’ ‘em the next day because of all that sittin’ cost me maybe $1000 somebody else would have spent who ordered more than one beer and a bunch more food. You can bet those clowns stiff the girls on tips, too.”

“The seats in the casino are padded.”

“You bet.” Gordy puffed on his cigar and sipped black coffee. “People are dropping money in the back room. You bet I want them comfortable.”

“You’re a mercenary if there ever was one.”

Wolf ate another bite of his bangers and mash, aka sausages and mashed potatoes. Gordy’s cook spiced the meal just right.

Being Thursday, the place was packed. The noise covered their conversation. Gordy said: “You play where you want.” He puffed his cigar some more. “Wolf, I’m glad you’re here.” Gordy looked down at the tip of his cigar. He reached into his shirt pocket and handed Wolf a folded note.

Wolf pushed his plate away, opened the note, read: Remember Mona Frye.

Gordy said: “A fat guy with a big nose brought that today.”

“Who’s Mona Frye?”

Gordy puffed his cigar. He signaled a passing waitress, a cute blonde with purple-streaked hair, for a refill; after she poured the coffee he said: “She was an old girlfriend. Somebody murdered her a long time ago.”

“You?”

“Hell no.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Her throat was cut,” Gordy said. “I swear I blocked it out. It was twenty years ago.”

“What about the guys you were running with? Could one of them be doing this?”

“I haven’t heard from those bums in ages. I don’t even know if they’re still alive, in jail, or what.”

Wolf nodded. He pushed the note back across the table. He glanced across the bar as the purple-haired waitress in a black skirt served a bald man who averted his gaze, as Wolf looked his way. The bald man started eating, ignoring a Blackberry that sat beside his plate. The glow of the screen highlighted a silver chain around his neck.

Wolf turned back to Gordy. “So?”

“I hate to ask but-”

“You think I’m going to say no?” Wolf said. “I owe you, Gordy. That’s it. I owe you.”

“I never saw it that way.”

Wolf reached across the table and patted his friend’s shoulder. “Go home and get rested. Wolf’s on the job, right?”

“Okay.”

Wolf scooted his chair back against the wall. The A/C blast ruffled his shirt collar. He had a clear view of the bald man who was trying very hard not to look like he was watching them. “Go get me a glass of Jameson first.”

Gordy, half out of his chair, frowned.

Wolf smiled. “Trust me. And don’t worry, you still have plenty of tables.”

AN HOUR later Wolf followed the bald man, via car, to a home at the front of a cul-de-sac in the suburbs. The bald man pulled his Chrysler into the garage while Wolf stopped his BMW M3 at the opening of the court. Lights went on inside the house.

Up the street Wolf spotted a second car parked curbside, near the fence that blocked the bald man’s house from the street. Wolf left his M3 and strolled by the dark car. Nobody inside. On his reverse pass he saw the driver’s door open a crack. Wolf tootsied to the fence, listened for a dog, and hopped over. He dropped into a line of rose bushes and thorns pricked through his sleeves. He stayed put. The quiet back yard offered further assurance of no canines prowling for intruders. From his spot he saw the kitchen and dining room through patio doors. One of the sliding glass doors had been partially opened, and Wolf recognized one of the two voices engaged in a heated argument inside. He rustled the bushes as he traded the hiding spot for the open patio door. The voice he didn’t recognize shouted, “Wait!” and two pistol shots cut him off.

Wolf shoved through the patio door, ran from kitchen to living room and stopped short. The bald man lay on the soft carpet with two bloody holes in his chest. A young man standing over him with a still-smoking automatic spun around, pointing the gun at Wolf, but his shaking hand proved he wasn’t ready for a second kill.

“Put it down, Mike,” Wolf said.

Michael O’Rourke, Gordy’s youngest son, gaped at Wolf. Wolf closed the gap between them in one step and twisted the gun out of Mike’s grasp. He said: “What the hell are you doing?”

“This punk’s been watching Dad since he got that note,” Mike said.

“And he wouldn’t talk, right? Can’t blame you for tryin’ but you cooled a small fish. Doesn’t get us anywhere.”

Mike stepped back, his pointed jaw set tight. He had Gordy’s green eyes and his mother’s small nose. “I did-”

“Something stupid. Get out of here and leave this to grown-ups.”

Mike glared again but then rushed past Wolf and out the patio door. Wolf heard him thud up and over the fence. The other car started and tires screeched. Wolf shook his head. He tucked the automatic in his belt, and patted the bald man’s coat pockets. He found the Blackberry and pocketed it. Wolf took out a handkerchief, opened the front door, went out.

Back in the M3, he drove further up the street and pulled into a parking lot of a dark basketball park and let the Blackberry’s glow fill the car. The bald man had made a call about the time he left Gordy’s restaurant, and Wolf redialed. A woman’s voice said, “What is it?” and Wolf hung up. He put the device on the passenger seat and drove away. Presently the Blackberry vibrated but Wolf didn’t answer.

THE NEXT morning, back at his place, Wolf spooned poached eggs onto dry toast, sat at his wobbly kitchen table, and clamped a foot on one of the table legs to stop the wobbling. He ate quietly. His glance landed on the yellow spot on the tiled kitchen floor that no cleaner he tried could remove; the dark spots marking chipped tiles mocked him. The refrigerator clanked.

With his mobile phone he called Gordy.

“Michael tell you what happened last night?”

“Yes.” Gordy spoke with a heavy quietness.

“Give the boy a pat. He’s looking out for you.”

“Wolf-”

“Listen to me,” Wolf said. “You keep Mike locked in a closet if you have to because I better not bump into him again. Also, our dead friend called his boss before he left the club. A woman. He saw us talking and I’m sure they know who I am and they’ll also know I’m not hard to find.”

“If they come after my son for this I’ll cut them all down, I swear.”

“My eggs are getting cold.” Wolf hung up and finished his breakfast and then put water in a kettle.

THE FOLLOWING evening Wolf played six hours of Omaha Hold ‘Em at the downtown poker room and when he left the club two thousand to the good, a fat man with a big nose met him on the sidewalk.

The big man wore a dark suit, white shirt, thin black tie. Light from a streetlamp made one side of his face brighter than the other. No bulges showed beneath his coat other than what too many Big Macs had put there. He stood at the back door of a purring stretched Lincoln and said: “Let’s take a ride, Mr. Wolf.”

Wolf stared at the fat man a moment, shrugged, lifted his arms. The fat man patted him down, removed the thick envelope containing Wolf’s cash, and Mike’s pistol. Then the fat man opened the back door and Wolf slid across the warm leather bench seat. The fat man eased his bulk next to Wolf, grunted as he settled, told the driver to go. They went.

A second bench seat sat across from Wolf and the fat man. The woman who occupied the seat smiled. She wore a navy blue suit with a short skirt; long red hair flowed down her back and shoulders. The red hair contrasted with her pale skin. Pale, creamy skin. Looked good enough to eat off of. With her bare legs crossed, the hem of the skirt concealing just enough of what lay between her thighs.

Wolf didn’t have to raise his voice in the quiet confines of the vehicle. Hardly any road noise seeped in. He said: “Whose little girl are you?”

“You’re not very funny,” she said.

“You know me but I have no idea who you are.”

“Call me Monica,” she said. “My father was Patrick Frye, but he wouldn’t mean anything to you. You were on the other side of the world when he ran this town.”

“Mona Frye’s daughter, I presume?”

“And you’re the fixer O’Rourke has asked to solve his problem.”

“Everybody needs a friend.”

“You’ve picked the wrong one,” she said, “but we can talk about that later. I want to talk about you, Mr. Wolf.”

“Just Wolf,” he said.

“Fine. You have all of the talent and experience, but where it came from I have no idea. Now all you do is waste away in your crappy apartment, live on the fringes, eat dinner at Gordy’s a few times a week, and play cards all night. It’s not much of a life.”

Wolf said: “I exist.”

“I could use a man like you. Things are turning around in this town. Out with the old and in with the new and all that. Come work for me. We’ll have a great time. You’ll make a ton of money.”

“A man you can buy cannot be trusted.”

“You don’t really know Gordy at all,” she said. “There’s a side to him I don’t think you’ll like.”

“I’ve known him since we were in diapers.”

She paused, then: “He hasn’t told you the whole story, has he?”

“Tell me what you want,” Wolf said.

Monica Frye fixed her eyes on Wolf; her mouth narrowed. She said: “I want to show Gordy what it’s like to have someone taken from him.”

“He’s already had someone taken from him.”

“But I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

Wolf kept his mouth shut. The woman watched him. When the driver pulled up in front of the club, Wolf turned to the fat man and held out his left hand. “My money.”

When the fat man hesitated, the woman said: “He can have the money but not his gun.”

“I didn’t ask for the gun.”

The fat man returned the envelope and Wolf stowed it inside his coat. He stepped out of the car, leaned back in. He said: “No.”

Her eyes widened. “You son of a bitch!” She flicked the cigarette at him but he was already out the door, slamming it shut. She screamed something; the Lincoln peeled off, the tires screeching.

WOLF WATCHED the Lincoln drive away and fished keys from his pocket. He looked up and down the street. The late hour meant little to no traffic; he neither heard nor saw any vehicles coming his way. Monica had to have expected that; a response wouldn’t be far away. She didn’t want her own hands bloodied, though. He climbed into the M3 and reached under the dash. Removing a plastic panel, he took his nine-millimeter Browning Hi-Power from the hidden compartment, placed it on the passenger seat. He started the car and drove off.

He spotted the single headlight behind him right away. A motorcycle. Wolf powered down his side window and grabbed the nine-millimeter. Air rushed in but he could hear a little of the motorcycle’s whine. A series of green lights allowed him to drive at the limit; when the motorcycle’s whine increased and the driver swung into the neighboring lane, Wolf braced his arms against the steering wheel and stomped the brakes.

The rider flashed by, firing a pistol into the space Wolf’s BMW had occupied, striking only asphalt. The rider increased speed, the bike weaving. The light ahead turned red but he didn’t slow. Wolf hopped out of his car, leveled the nine-millimeter, and fired once.

The rider hunched over his handlebars, the bike swerved, struck and sparked against the pavement. The rider’s body rolled curbside while the bike slid into the intersection. A trio of oncoming cars screeched to a stop.

Wolf jumped back into his car, executed a U-turn, and drove the other way.

GORDY ANSWERED on the first ring. Wolf said: “Where are you?”

“The restaurant.”

“Where’s Mike?”

“At the house.”

“Are you sure?”

“What’s happening, Wolf?”

Wolf filled him in and heard Gordy suck in a breath at the mention of Monica’s name. Wolf said: “What haven’t you told me?”

Gordy waited a moment; then said: “She thinks I’m her father. I never believed it and her mother could never prove it and Monica probably thinks I killed her.”

“You should have told me before tonight, Gordy.”

“I said probably. How could I know that note was from her?”

“Make sure Mike is where you think he is,” Wolf said, “because I’m on my way to the house.” He hung up.

THE GATE guard let Wolf pass and he drove up the curving driveway to the front of the house. The porch light made it impossible to see any of the surrounding acreage; darkness covered the grass, trees, the far stone wall. Wolf shook his head as he exited the car. Not even a guard in sight. The front door opened as he reached it. The house guard, a stocky man shorter than Wolf, said: “Just you?”

“Yes. Gordy on his way?”

“Should be.”

“Where’s the kid?”

The circular front room of the house had black-and-white checkerboard tiles from which a trio of hallways and a staircase branched. The guard hustled up the stairs with a slight rocking motion and the pistol on his hip rattled. Wolf followed. They reached the second floor, advanced down a hall, and when they reached the last room on the right, the house guard put a hairy hand on the doorknob. They could hear a television on the other side of the door. The house guard turned the knob, shoved his bulk inside.

Empty. The television, facing a double bed, played to no one. The room’s chill came from the fully open window from which a screen had been removed; Wolf left the gaping guard in the doorway and looked out the window. A rope had been fixed to one of the bedposts and led down to the ground.

“How many guys on duty tonight?” Wolf said.

“Twelve. Usual crew.”

“Well Mikey must have skipped between yard patrols.”

“Gordy isn’t going to like this.”

Wolf said: “No kidding?”

GORDY PACED his office. “Guys have been out for two hours and nothing,” he shouted.

“I’m right here, Gordy,” Wolf said from the couch, legs crossed, scotch in hand. “Try his cell again.”

Gordy pulled out his own cell and dialed, waited, flipped the phone closed. “Voicemail.”

Wolf nodded and sipped his drink.

Gordy dropped into the chair behind his desk. The flesh of his face seemed to sag further than the rest of his body. “I don’t want to lose Mike the way I lost Bobby,” he said.

Wolf blinked. He shook his glass and watched the scotch swish.

Gordy said: “I’m sorry, Wolf. I didn’t mean that for you.”

Wolf nodded.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want you-”

“Forget it.” Wolf sipped his drink.

Gordy’s cell rang. He snatched it up. “Mike?” Gordy listened a moment and his jaw slackened. “Don’t hurt him. I’ll do whatever you want. Damnit, woman, I didn’t kill her!” He paused, then started scribbling on paper, then said: “On my way.” He flipped his phone closed and met Wolf’s gaze.

“Well?” Wolf said.

Gordy dropped his eyes. His body shook. “Will you drive?”

WOLF PULLED up in front of the address. His dash clock glowed 3:05 a.m.

“I want this over with,” Gordy said.

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

Gordy took a deep breath.

Wolf gave the house a look as he pulled out the ignition key. Wooden fence, one story, big yard. Neighboring houses spaced far enough apart that it wasn’t a home built within the last twenty years. He and Gordy exited the M3, walked up the stone pathway to the red double doors. Gordy kept his black briefcase close to his leg.

Wolf pressed the doorbell. The fat man, with a grimace, let them in. Monica Frye, red hair tied back, sat in the living room on a leather couch. Her driver, a blonde kid with chin fuzz, sat in a corner chair picking at his fingernails with clippers. He didn’t look up. He wore a shoulder holster and the pistol it contained dangled under his arm.

The fat man frisked Gordy first and removed a revolver; Wolf noted the fat man looked no further. Then he frisked Wolf and removed the nine-millimeter from the holster at his back. He didn’t check Wolf for a second weapon.

Gordy seemed not to notice the fat man. He stood frozen, eyes on Monica. The fat man, with the guns, left the room.

Gordy said: “You.”

“I look a lot different now, don’t I?” Monica Frye said. “You weren’t expecting me, were you, Dad?”

Gordy made a choking sound. “You can’t prove I’m your father. Your mother never could, either. And I did not kill her, I swear.”

“Yes you did,” she said. “That I can prove.”

“Now wait,” Wolf said.

“Quiet, dipshit. I said you didn’t know the whole story, remember?” To Gordy: “I tracked down your old gang. They were more than kind enough to tell me you stabbed my mother. Before I killed them myself.”

“You-”

“I have written statements.”

Gordy flexed his hands; the blonde kid with the shoulder holster made a tut-tut noise and took out his gun.

Wolf said: “Gordy-”

The fat man reentered, dragging Mike with him. Mike, gagged and tied at the wrists and ankles, made a noise when he saw his father. The fat man shoved the younger O’Rourke to the carpet, left him on his stomach. Mike rolled over. His nostrils flared as he breathed. The fat man planted a foot on the younger man’s chest and took out Gordy’s revolver.

“Now,” Monica Frye said. “Either admit you killed my mother, or I shoot your boy right here. You could bury him next to Bobby, wouldn’t that be nice?”

“I swear I didn’t kill her!” Gordy said. “You want the truth, don’t you?”

“Your men told me the truth.”

“A man says anything when there’s a gun to his head.”

“Except you.” She eyed the fat man. The fat man cocked the revolver. She looked back to Gordy: “Well?”

Gordy, panting, let his arms fall at his sides. Sweat trickled down his face. Wolf watched the fat man and moved his right hand to scratch his nose. The fat man jerked his head Wolf’s way. Wolf lowered his arm. The fat man looked back down at Mike.

“All right,” Gordy said. “All right.”

The fat man looked at Monica. Monica said okay. The fat man placed his finger on the revolver’s hammer, put pressure on the trigger. The free hammer lowered under the guidance of his thumb and he took a step back.

Wolf’s right hand moved again, this time to his right pocket. The fat man turned his body Wolf’s way, bringing up the revolver, but Wolf already had his two-shot.32 Derringer aimed at the big man’s right eye. Wolf fired once. The bullet puckered the fat man’s eye and he remained on his feet a moment, then crashed on top of Mike. The younger O’Rourke’s body folded under the impact and he screamed through the gag.

The blonde kid, on his feet, had to change positions as the falling fat man blocked his aim; Wolf, dropping to one knee while covered by the fat man, fired the second.32 slug up through the kid’s fuzzy chin.

Gordy lunged at Monica-“Damn you, bitch!”-while drawing a knife from behind his back. She screamed as he landed on top of her, blocking her swinging arms and pushing her head into the cushions. The arm holding the knife pumped like a piston, once, twice; Gordy pulled back, and with one last thrust buried the knife in her neck.

Wolf rolled the fallen fat man off Mike’s body, hauled him to his feet. “Should have stayed home, you damn child,” Wolf said. He didn’t remove the gag but instead hoisted Mike over his shoulders. He looked at Gordy. Gordy turned to him. Blood had splattered on part of his face and the front of his shirt.

“Let’s get out of here,” Gordy said.

GORDY MOVED some of the paperwork on his desk to one side and poured two drinks and sat behind his desk. He gulped down his drink. Wolf, legs crossed, seated on the other side, left his untouched. He said: “This didn’t turn out exactly how I imagined.”

“Well it’s done. I’m glad you were there.”

Wolf said: “She was right about one thing.”

Gordy frowned.

“She told me,” Wolf said, “about a side to you I wouldn’t like.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Did you tell me the truth?”

Gordy gave his friend a wide-eyed look. “What did you say to me?”

“You heard me.”

“I had no idea it was her,” Gordy said.

“Gordy.”

“What?”

“I’m not going to ask you again. You started to tell a story back there.”

“You know a man will say anything when there’s a gun pointed at him. Or at his kid.”

“Nobody innocent goes off like you did.”

“She was threatening my boy.”

“I dropped the fat man and the kid. It was over.”

“You think we should have just let her go?”

“Your friends didn’t exactly warn you somebody was after them,” Wolf said. “She didn’t take them all by surprise.”

“You gonna drink that or just sit there and insult me?”

“Are you going to tell me the truth?”

Gordy sucked in his breath.

Wolf stood up, left the glass on the desk, and started for the door.

“Wolf.”

Wolf looked back.

“You believe me, don’t you?”

Wolf said: “I’m not a fool. Don’t play me for one.” He went out.

Gordy clutched his glass and stared at the closed door.

GORDY WANDERED the club. Every seat was full. The bar packed. But his mind wasn’t on business. Did Wolf really think he had murdered Mona Frye? He hadn’t. But he knew who did, and that was a secret that had to stay a secret. He had to keep the secret.

He wandered back to his office. The paperwork still waited on the desk. There was no flash or glamour in being a connected guy. You still had a stack of paperwork to sort through just like the rest of the schmucks. Every night.

But there was a new piece of paper on the desk. Folded. Left in the center of his blotter.

It hadn’t been there when he stepped out.

With his hands shaking, Gordy picked up the paper and unfolded it. Somebody had written three words. His heart skipped.

Three words.

Remember Mona Frye.

BIO:

DEAN BRECKENRIDGE isn't his real name.

He has wasted his first forty years as a matter of course and principle; wandered all over California; been a broadcaster, salesman; and many other ill-sorted what nots. Dean likes: fast motorcars, peanut butter, Coke, cigars, red meat; whatever alcohol you got. Dean dislikes: the color pink, sopranos, backgammon; a great many men, women, and children.