The Fixer
by Edward C. Lynskey
The panic stricken mother darted from the
Post Office lobby, screaming. Her outburst
left ears bleeding.
"My daughters!" she repeated. "Where
did they go?" Turning at the waist toward
the double doors, her eyes swiveled left,
right, left.
Slouching in line, fighting the
ravages of
brown bottle flu, Frank Johnson
had espied
them a few moments earlier.
The blonde
twin girls were dawdling in the
adjacent
lobby. Maybe seven and
clad in matching
green culottes, they were plinking
coins
into a stamp machine. Their
mother,
a tanned and curvaceous brunette
in her early
thirties, craned
her neck to check on them. The
twins
brandished stamps stuck on their
thumbs and
spoke in Slavic accents. Waving,
she ordered
them to hurry along.
Her turn next, the mother had
twice snapped
her fingers. Frank smiled
at how she
couldn't compete with the stamp
machine.
When she sidled up to the clerk's
cage, Frank's
interest petered out. Instead,
he scowled
at a chart trumpeting new postal
rate hikes. Hells
bells, he fumed, when was the
last time I
jacked up my fees?
Right then, through acres of
plate-glass
window, from the corner of his
eye, Frank
snagged the blur of a dark sedan
with a white
roof accelerating from the parking
lot.
Fleeting details lodged in his
mind. A
full-blown gumshoe, Frank relied
on his powers
of observation, perhaps of late
not as keen
as once during his 30 years in
Homicide.
"Where are my girls?"
the hysterical
mother shrieked, knuckles pilled
into fists.
She prowled the lobby; eyes pinned
to the
stamp machine as if it were an
oracle. It
remained mute as a post.
The other
patrons exchanged alarmed expressions. A
couple of grandmotherly types
shuffled toward
the lobby, scanning its dimensions.
The mother
collapsed into hacking, convulsive
sobs.
Frank knew the earliest minutes
after any
child abduction were ripest for
culling clues.
He tugged at the frantic mother's
elbow,
affirming soothingly. They perched
on a bench.
"What's your name, mam?"
Frank
asked. He exuded gruff
empathy and
concern she responded to.
The red-eyed mother sniveled
into her loose
sleeve. "I should
notify the authorities,"
she sputtered between the lessening
sobs. "Provide
them a description, photos, or
something."
With the air of someone used
to being in
charge, Frank's withering glance
checked
off the gathering gawkers. "Yes,
we can shortly," he agreed. "My
name's Johnson. I'm a retired
Bay City
detective. Are you up for
questioning?"
Snatching a Kleenex from her
beaded purse,
the mother, to Frank's delighted
astonishment,
composed herself on the spot
before she dared
to reply. "I'm Margie
Sinclair. My
girls are Sheila and Shannon."
Wincing, Frank extended his right
leg, trying
to alleviate the fresh jabs of
sciatic pain.
Seeming to understand, she wanly
smiled. He
patted his jacket pockets for
a memo pad
he habitually forgot to carry.
"And
your husband?" he followed
up.
"There is no husband today." Distracted,
Margie gripped her beaded purse
closer, preparing
to stand. "I'm a single
mother
of two." She gazed
over his shoulder
through the double doors at the
ruthless
world teeming outside where her
daughters
floundered.
"Sheila and Shannon. They're
not
your biological daughters,"
Frank abruptly
conjectured. "Judging
by their
fairness, I'd deduce they are
adopted from
Scandinavia, possibly Russia."
"Why yes," Margie gasped,
flush
suspicion clouding her face. "They
arrived three months ago. How
did you guess
that much?"
"Please, Ms. Sinclair, bear
with me
a whit longer." Frank's
earnest
expression and opaque blue eyes
had allayed
her acute waves of panic. When
he wished
to, like currently, Frank projected
the earthy,
elemental mien of a Dutch uncle. "Think
hard and fast. A dark sedan
-- maroon
or a like color -- with a white
roof cut
dirt out of here. Do you
recognize
it?"
Margie's sagging chin quivered
a bit. "No,
Detective, my auto is a turquoise
Dodge." She
then looked past him.
Two uniform policemen strode
up to Frank
whom they recognized and greeted
with curt
nods. The tallest, touting sergeant
chevrons,
clipped his stream of words.
"News of a ruckus blasted
over the radio.
What gives, Frank?"
Arising sluggish and unsteadily,
Frank grimaced
to distribute any weight on his
right leg.
He smoothed down his tousled
jacket. "This
lady -- Margie Sinclair -- had
her twin daughters
nabbed ten or so minutes ago.
I'm interviewing
her."
"Did you witness the alleged
abduction?"
the second, a peach fuzz-lipped
rookie, quizzed
Frank.
"I was stuck in line over
yonder,"
Frank explained, pointing.
"But,
sad to say, nope I didn't."
Behind a cupped hand, the sergeant
stooped
and muttered aside Frank's hearing
aid.
"Look Frank, I'm short-staffed
and breaking
in this new bruno. I have
12 calls backed
up. My lieutenant has a
hard on for
me. Can you handle this?
I'd wager
my next week's paycheck that
it's an irate
ex. File a missing person report
in 48 hours,
if need be."
After Frank rolled his one good
eye, the
sergeant rewarded him with a
thumb up sign.
He leaned over the bench. "Mam,
since Frank has fielded your
case, he'll
proceed. He is the best
in the biz. Your
girls are OK." He nudged
Margie's petite
shoulder. "I just know
it.
Don't fret. You're in superb
hands."
A jiffy later, the two policemen
had departed,
their cherry top skirling its
murderous warning.
Outside, Frank limped at Margie's
side, the
sidewalk bustling with Saturday
errand-goers.
In a zombiesque daze, at the
next street
corner, she was oblivious to
the traffic
light winking to amber. Frank
snared
her forearm just as she stepped
off the curbstone.
Margie meekly halted, the breeze
shaking
loose a slant of hair across
her eyes blank
as a saucepan.
"If I'm to help you, and
I want to,
I need more details," he
urged Margie. He
was absolutely aware of her sandalwood
scent.
His late wife Irma, also a brunette,
wore
a similar perfume on those special
yet all
too rare occasions they haunted
the jazz
clubs. That was ages ago. "Is
there a nook where we might talk?"
he
inquired.
Without a word, Margie shoved
into a coffeehouse,
Frank right behind directing
her to a secluded
back booth. A waitress fetched
Frank's order
for two coffees, non-fat cream,
no sugar
or saccharine.
"Give me a run down on Sheila
and Shannon's
adoption process," Frank
prompted.
Margie, emerging from the trance,
scrutinized
her scarlet fingernails. "It
was long
and tedious and expensive. Very
expensive.
I dealt through a Russian agency
run by Vladimir
Paladin. That's P-A-L-A-D-I-N. When
the twins became available, I
fell hopelessly
in love with their portfolio
that he showed
me."
Frank admired her softening,
orchid-delicate
beauty, her ardor over remembering
the event. "Bottom
line, what did you fork over
to Paladin?"
he wondered.
"Hmmm. Well, I drained
my life
savings," Margie revealed. To
cover
her embarrassment, she took a
sip of coffee.
"The final tally at tax
time was in
excess of $40,000. Last
year was half
that much."
"Do you have a current address
on this
Vladimir joker?" Frank growled.
Margie dug out a business card
from inside
the beaded purse. "This
is all
I have," she answered. "Do
you suspect him?" Embers
of hope
flared in her jasper-flecked
eyes that Frank
right down to his woebegone soul
wanted to
please.
"Starting this morning,
he wears a bull's-eye
painted on his shoulders,"
admitted
Frank. His tongue lapped
the good,
bitter coffee. "You
see, I never
trust a Cossack. Maybe it's a
generation
thing, stemming from the Cold
War. The world
-- or so I'm told -- is different
nowadays. No
matter. I'll be in touch. Let
me
go."
Frank patted her shoulder after
easing out
from the booth. "And
before it's
too late," he added under
his breath. Back
on the mean street, the gimlet
stabs of sunlight
blinded him. Clean jags
of pain flogged
his leg nerves.
Lord help me, he soon groaned,
bumping his
forehead on the steering wheel
and massaging
his sore knees. Physically,
I'm a walking
wreck. I'm not sure I can take
many more. Is
this to be my last hurrah? All
for a
beautiful woman, too. With
a flourish
of chivalry, I'll bow out, a
last curtain
call. Else, go down, both
bazookas blazing.
* * *
The business card's street address
was in
a rundown jurisdiction of Bay
City where
middle-class clans harboring
big ideas and
high hopes had once slept and
dreamt. At
present, wine flasks and ribbed
condoms littered
the curbs. Backed up sewers oozed
the poisons
of death and decay. Cars
once the bees'
knees, now down on their rims,
rusted in
tribute to wealth and flight. Every
man was a king. Frank tooled
up in front
of a Cape Cod that no self-respecting
cockroach
would be caught dead inside.
He killed the ignition.
From the glove
compartment, he removed a Glock
.40 caliber
semi-automatic pistol, his retirement
gift
from the precinct guys. It was
fully loaded. A
double rap on the lauan door
roused no response. He
crept inside, the shaky Glock
leading the
way. Envelopes addressed to a
Vladimir Paladin
lay strewn across a warped coffee
table.
Frank crunched on busted vodka
bottles underfoot. A
black-and-white portable TV was
tuned to
a Hollywood Squares rerun. Blanketing
his
nose with a paisley handkerchief,
Frank lurched
down the sour-smelling corridor.
Tipping a fat mattress, Frank
snatched out
matching green culottes. Cursing,
he pressed
the search. Nothing else turned
up. Wheezing,
he leaned against the doorjamb,
his mind
aflame, his thoughts jumbled.
As if on cue,
his street smarts kicked in.
On his
last big case, Frank working
with the F.B.I.
had gleaned a lot of dope about
illicit adoption
rings operated by international
thugs. That
scenario fit Sheila and Shannon's
situation
to a tee. They swirled in
grave peril. He
felt helpless and hapless.
Sucking wind, Frank tucked the
Glock into
his waistband, rolled up a men's
magazine
into a baton. Duct tape held
it together.
In his salad days, he breathed
easier knowing
an alley-savvy partner had his
back. Today
the odds were lopsided. Typically
outnumbered
and outgunned, a P.I. grew eyes
in the back
of his head, a hairy finger snugged
on a
hairpin trigger. Last sucker
left standing
won. So how much muscle
would it take
to cap the mad Cossack? Flipping
off
the TV, Frank debated the merits
about rousing
Homicide for aid. Not nearly
enough
time, he grumbled aloud. He was
flying solo.
A rail-thin lady, old as Aesop's
aunt and
wizened inside a floral print
housecoat,
was walking a Pekinese on an
orange leash
that complimented her dyed pin
curls. Her
hunched shoulders resembled angel
wings. She
repeated a singsong rhyme to
the miniature
hairball, "Step on the crack,
break
your mother's back." Frank
accosted
her, his query direct.
"The gonzo who camps in
that Cape Cod,
did you see him peel out?"
Beguiling him with a quirky smile,
the lady
heeled her pet. "Mercy
me, yes. He
very nearly bowled us over. Two
girls were huddled up front with
him. Poor
dears were balling their eyes
out."
"Headed which way?"
Frank pressed.
"Toward the old torpedo
factory,"
she purred. "One block
over, on
your right. You can't miss it. Here.
You'll need this, shamus."
Scrounging
under the pleats of her housecoat,
the odd
old woman extracted a pearl-handled
switchblade
knife to offer him. Its
grim power glowed
in her youthful if not shapely
palm.
"Thanks I think," a
baffled Frank
muttered.
Executing a blistering doughnut,
Frank wheeled
around. He sniffed the burned
tire rubber,
blinked at her exaggerated coughing
fit,
beating her concave chest for
oxygen.
He mashed on the gas. The
old woman
vaporized and rode on the hood
nestled behind
the nickel-plated Argus ornament. A
shot of adrenaline and a burgeoning
rash
of goose bumps bucked up Frank's
blue funk.
At the end of the next block,
Frank was pleased
to discover the parking lot's
obstruction
bar had been raised. The lot,
hemmed by a
chain link fence crowned by loopy
razor wire,
was crammed with panel trucks,
cherry pickers,
and mulch shredders. "MANTIS
TREE
SURGEON" was discernable
beneath the
clay-streaked windows.
Skidding in a puddle of pebbles
by a demolition
trailer, Frank sure-handedly
piloted the
Olds, its deep-throated V-8 engine
heralding
the 7th Cavalry's entrance. His
eyes
narrowed on Vladimir's dark sedan,
its white
roof shot-torn, nudged under
a lemon yellow
awning. He shuddered. Through
an
oval window in the trailer, Frank
observed
the
twins staring out, taut-faced
and pale.
One girl vehemently pointed her
finger. Frank
motioned at them to duck down.
After securing the Glock, Frank
popped the
car door open, hauled himself
out into a
defensive crouch. He could
smell Vladimir's
rancid savagery approaching even
before he
pivoted to deal with the seven-footer.
Vladimir's hair, black as a tar
pit and braided
into dreadlocks tied off with
red ribbons,
framed his swinish leer like
a gladiator
helmet. He easily eclipsed Frank
by 200 pounds
and 12 inches.
Weaponless, Vladimir charged
straight ahead,
his sealskin boots chewing gravel. Frank
dodged the Russian's paws swiping
to rip
off his head. For a strapping
goon, Vladimir
was slyly agile, a dancing bear
free of his
chains.
From the hip, Frank fired the
Glock, its
snappy recoil in his grip reassuring. Again
he tugged the trigger. Both
shots, though
squarely inflicted, didn't faze
Vladimir. Roaring,
he swatted Frank's pistol hand. Dislodged,
the Glock sailed over Frank's
shoulder, landed
with a disheartening thud.
Shoving the magazine baton upward,
Frank
jarred the big man's chin, his
teeth clacked
together, his eyes glowered. There
was
no time for a second chance. Vladimir
knocked the baton away, waltzed
into Frank's
flimsy and bent body, his enormous
might
grasping around a birdlike throat. Frank
choked, felt his vertebrae crackling
in agonizing
protest.
Fumbling at his back pocket,
Frank grasped
for the pearly handles. Out of
thin air,
an extra hand slapped the switchblade
into
Frank's palm and engaged its
tight spring.
Already white stars were studding
Frank's
squished eyelids. His lungs ached. His
feet dangled like a floppy marionette
doing
a jig. Vladimir grunted,
gleeful to
squeeze warm
mortality from the annoying old
geezer.
Frank, just a heartbeat before
hearing the
voices and moving toward the
white light,
planted the knife to its hilt
into the giant
man's midsection. The twisting
point
pierced Vladimir's pleura and
ruptured his
beefsteak heart. The giant
moaned once,
ponderously toppled to the ground. Death
was quick.
His rage surging at its whitest
heat, Frank
wrenched at the starter cord.
On the third
try the diesel engine cranked,
noisy and
dirty. He checked the oval
window. The
twins remained hunched down,
hidden from
view. Dragging Vladimir
over by the
chunky ankles, he paused, breathless
but
jaws locked. He elevated
the black boots
to prop on the
beveled chute, then shoved from
the shoulders
forward. The entire seven-foot
frame,
once snagged, chugged through
the tree mulcher
slick and swift. Little
pieces of Vladimir
ended up in the same wood chip
piles sold
to generate electric power. There
was
some good in everyone.
* * *
The twins, Sheila and Shannon,
stayed home
with Frank several weeks later
when Margie
went out to run her errands which
included
getting through her apprehension
to make
a pit stop at the Post Office. When
she returned home, both girls
were contentedly
playing with the elaborate dollhouse
Frank
had constructed for them.
After setting out two coffee
cups, one in
front of Frank seated at the
kitchen table,
Margie measured out the ground
coffee into
the filter. "Frank,"
she asked,
her back turned to him. "What
ever
happened to Vladimir?"
"The Bay City P.D. believe
he returned
to Vladistok," Frank hastily
replied.
"Yes Frank, but what do
you believe?"
Margie plugged in the coffee
maker.
Frank watched the first amber
drops splat
into the glassware coffeepot.
"No need
to worry," he assured her. "I
fixed things so he won't ever
bother you
again." Table of Contents
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