Jimmy the Fixer - short story

July 2001

The Dragon's Club was smoky and loud. Jimmy "the Fixer" grimaced inwardly as he flashed his driver's license at the Neanderthal bouncer in the cramped entryway. The hulk briefly glanced at it and looked Jimmy over once before disdainfully turning his attention to the chatty pair of college-aged women standing next in line outside the dance club. Jimmy quickly stepped down the two steps to the main dance floor, feeling the dull thumping of the bass-intensive dance music throughout his six-foot tall body. The Operator's Club is a hell of a lot classier than this dive, even if there is camo netting on the ceiling.

He waded through the crowds of partiers, ignoring their curious looks at his unusual dress. Most of the people in the bar wore the latest streetpunk trends - leather jackets, chains, ripped jeans, trendy combat boot knock-offs, and hair styles and colors that looked like a barber had a seizure. Jimmy's well-pressed gray suit and neatly cropped hair stuck out like a black sheep on a glacier in the middle of an Arctic summer. Yeah, kids, you can look like street trash all you want. Some of us like having a roof over our heads that doesn't leak and a car that isn't missing on half its cylinders. Money doesn't come free, as much as you wannabe socialists like to pretend otherwise.

There was a brief lull in the thumping as the DJ switched to a new CD. Jimmy shook his head as a bass line identical to the previous one started shaking the walls. Not even thirty yet, and I can't stand the dreck they call music now days.

After an eternity, Jimmy reached the bar. A pair of neo-punk girls sized Jimmy up.

"Dude, the yuppie club is downtown!" one shouted over the bass line.

Jimmy ignored them as he leaned over the bar and flagged down the barkeeper. The punk girl on his left reached out and pushed at Jimmy's side. "Hey, man! I'm talkin' to ya! What, you too good to talk to us, you corporate yuppie sleazebag?"

Jimmy could feel the hard pressure of his nine millimeter pistol as her hand pressed against his shoulder holster. He swiftly reached across with his right hand and grasped her wrist tightly, applying enough pressure to make her wince.

"Little girl, I am not here to amuse you. Go find some friends to play with elsewhere."

Jimmy noticed for the first time that the girl's face beneath the lime-green and cherry-red mohawk was almost as white as the three silver studs projecting below her lower lip as she finally realized what her hand was pressing against. Jimmy released her wrist as she pulled her hand back. She grabbed her friend's arm and they quickly disappeared in the dance floor crowd.

"Yeah, man, whatcha want?" the bartender shouted from behind him. Another mutant. Great.

"I'm here to see Dragon."

"So what. Everyone wants to see the Dragon."

"Look, son. I'm a busy man. I don't have time to play these little games with you. Your boss called me and said he had a job. Give this card to him and tell him I am here to talk. If he doesn't want to see me right now, tell him to find a different broker. Capiche?"

"Yeah. Okay. Whatever, man. Just chill. I'll give him the card."

The bartender walked away. Jimmy noticed the two-tone, amorphously-patterned buzz-cut on the back of his skull. Christ, is this a halfway house for beauty school practice victims?

The bartender returned after several minutes. "Uh, Mr. Fixer. I am very sorry for that misunderstanding. The Dragon will see you in his office. It's over there, by the back wall under the DJ. The Dragon also told me to give you a drink on the house."

"Thank you. I'm not thirsty."

Moments later, Jimmy walked into the office. It was tastelessly decorated like a bad 1970's sitcom. A disco ball hung from the middle of the room, casting wedges of light all around the fire truck red walls and cherry red deep shag carpet. Behind an oversized desk, in an overstuffed faux leather executive chair, sat the Dragon. Jimmy suppressed the urge to laugh as he sized up his potential client. Jimmy guessed he was five-eight, about 150 pounds, and part Japanese. He was wearing a black vest that looked like some sort of martial arts costume. To either side and behind him was a pair of bodyguards wearing black combat fatigues. They both had pistols strapped into holsters on their sides. Behind the guards was a large pane of glass looking back onto the dance floor - a one way mirror, Jimmy recalled.

"Ahhh, Mr. Fixer," the Dragon began, spreading his arms expansively and looking at Jimmy like a patriarch regards a menial servant. "So good of you to come. I've corrected Slash's manners. I am sorry for the inconvenience."

Great, he's trying to do a Japanese accent. He's been watching way too many ninja flicks. "Not a problem, Dragon. Good hired hands are hard to find and harder to keep."

"So true. Now, we have business to discuss. First of all, the formalities. I have many enemies, and I don't like having armed strangers in my office. Please, I know you're packing. Hand it over and we can get down to business."

Jimmy slowly withdrew his H&K P7 from its holster and placed it, grip first, on the desk.

"Very nice, Mr. Fixer. Guards, step outside so we can discuss private business."

The guards stomped out of the office, trying their best to intimidate Jimmy as they passed. Jimmy paid them no heed. Amateurs.

"Mr. Fixer. I have a problem, and you have a solution. There is another bar in town - New Rave - that has been affecting my business. I have made several offers to buy them out, but they do not want to sell. This is unacceptable. I want your people to, shall we say, persuade my competition to get out of the night club business."

"Fine. I have a team I've put together. Our standard rate is thirty-six hundred up front, thirty-six hundred at the end, and eleven hundred a day."

"No, Mr. Fixer. You will be doing this as a favor to me."

"I don't work gratis, Dragon."

"Oh, but you will for this one. I'd hate for the public to get the truth about why Millennium Technologies failed. I am sure you would hate it even worse."

"Really, Dragon. Why is that?" Jimmy realized he was still standing. A quick glance told him the only seats in here were the ratty sofas along the wall and the WalMart Special from which the Dragon was arrogantly beaming. Stop it. Cool down. This little shit couldn't know.

"Mr. Fixer, your real name is James Scarpelli. You graduated from CU Boulder with a business degree. You went to work straight from college for an Internet startup firm, Millennium Technologies. You didn't think you were moving up fast enough in the business since you were overlooked for several key promotions. You started skimming the funds."

"Dragon, this is getting really old. What is your point?"

"Scarpelli, that company failed because you were chewing up the profits they were making. If you don't want to wind up on trial for your embezzlement, you are going to have to do a little work for me."

"You don't have any proof."

"Is that a gamble you are willing to make?"

"I've had enough of this shit. Good night, Dragon."

"Scarpelli, if you walk out that door, my guards will stop you and you will be in a great deal of pain before sunrise."

Dammit, I didn't want to work for this punk, anyway. Jimmy slowly started turning towards the door, feeling his pulse quicken. He took a couple of deep breaths to clear his head.

"Is that your final offer, Dragon?"

"It is."

"I decline your offer, asshole."

In a fluid movement, Jimmy reached back with his right hand to grab his backup .357 derringer from its holster in the small of his back. At the same time, he turned back towards Dragon, bringing his left hand around to brace his right. His right eye focused on the end of the quad-barreled pistol as the sight blade passed across the center of Dragon's chest. He could still remember that weekend of intensive drilling he went through with the Front Range Practical Shooting Association a couple of years ago. It was a simple drill, and he repeated it often enough that weekend that his muscles would probably be able to instinctively run through it when he was in his coffin. Front sight, bam. The sudden roar of the .357 Magnum in the small office overpowered the incessant thumping of the music outside. Several dancers near the office window turned in shock as the windowpane shattered, the bullet missing Dragon by several inches. Jimmy had already adjusted and fired a second round that found its mark, sending the back of Dragon's head into the crowded dance floor. Shit. I am really out of practice. I guess I know what I need to be doing on the weekends.

Jimmy was already moving towards the side of the desk when he heard the office door behind him violently swing open. He dropped to one knee as he span around, again bringing the derringer into a firing position. The small pistol erupted twice again, belching a pair of meter-long flames as some semi-legal hollowpoints ripped into the first guard. Jimmy dropped the emptied pistol to the floor with his right hand while his left reached across the desk to his autopistol. As the second guard was stepping into the doorway Jimmy rolled behind the desk. Several blasts rang out as the guard started firing indiscriminately into the desk, hoping vainly that a blind shot would find its mark.

Jimmy could hear that the music had stopped, but the ringing in his ears kept him from hearing anything else. Jimmy carefully pulled himself to the edge of the desk and peered around. The guard was looking at someone on the dance floor and making gestures with his free hand. Must be evacuating. Great. The guard then started reaching for a spare magazine. You gotta be kidding me. It never works like this in the movies. The guard released the empty magazine from his pistol. Before it hit the ground, Jimmy had popped up to his knees and had squeezed the trigger on his pistol. Three fast follow-up rounds ensured that the guard was falling down. Jimmy scooped up his derringer, dropping it in a jacket pocket on the way to the office door. He looked out the door quickly, making sure no one else was approaching. Dozens of panicked twenty-something neo-punkers were running for an emergency exit several meters away. Jimmy fumbled his autopistol back into its shoulder holster and quickly joined them. He got to his Corvette and was leaving the area when the first police car pulled up to the front of the bar.

"You did what?" Ellen asked incredulously from across the table. She, Michael, and Martina had met Jimmy at The Bunker, the private mercs-only section of the Operator's Club in north Denver.

"Hey, the punk was threatening me. You think you mercs get all the fun? Being a fixer isn't all that it's cracked up to be, ya know. Hey, guys. Sorry the job fell through. I gotta be getting back to the pad before I crash for the night. I'll drop you an e-mail in the afternoon."

"See ya," Martina said.

"Yeah, watch your back," Michael added.

After Jimmy was out of sight, Martina turned to Michael.

"Hey, Miguel" "Michael" "Whatever. I think we need to get Jimmy a tattoo - 'I am not a solo.'"

"Yeah. That would be cool. What's a solo?"

"You know, a lone wolf, a soldier. One of us."

"Oh, yeah. He's definitely not a solo."

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Last Updated 13 Dec 1999

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