The Fix Read online

  Praise for Steve Lowe & THE FIX

  “THE FIX floats like a butterfly and stings like a sledgehammer to the face. This fast-paced, loving homage to its crime fiction forefathers swings like pure pulp magic.”

  — Jeremy Robert Johnson, author of Skullcrack City and We Live Inside You

  “Lowe is one of those authors who reinvents himself with each book and yet somehow maintains his voice intact.” —Verbicide

  A Broken River Books original

  Broken River Books

  103 Beal Street

  Norman, OK 73069

  Copyright © 2014 by Steve Lowe

  Cover art and design copyright © 2014 by Matthew Revert

  www.matthewrevert.com

  Interior design by J David Osborne

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Where the names of actual celebrities or corporate entities appear, they are used for fictional purposes and do not constitute assertions of fact. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-940885-11-7

  Printed in the USA.

  THE FIX

  by

  Steve Lowe

  BROKEN RIVER BOOKS

  NORMAN, OK

  As always, as will be forever,

  this is for Michele

  THIS

  MORNING

  Nichols sat on the Caprice’s bumper and pulled his boots from the open trunk. Not that his scuffed, off-the-rack Cole Haans were worth much, bought on sale at Nordstroms, but they were his only pair of dress shoes, and that’s what the boots were for—walking through the muck of a crime scene. He tucked his slacks inside the ankle-high boots and walked across the street to the burned out shell of the body shop carrying a legal pad and pen. Had to hold the pad close to shield it from the water dripping off the blackened rafters overhead. He wished he’d thought to bring a different shirt, but too late for that now.

  Hot spots smoldered and the building’s corrugated metal cladding, expanded by the heat of the inferno, creaked loudly as it contracted, twisted into new shapes. Cargill, the medical examiner, waited for him in the middle of the charred mess. Nichols didn’t bother to stop and look at the two bodies just outside the building. They were barely burned but filled with bullet holes, lying under sheets in the gutter. At the top of his note pad were their names:

  Sims, Henry, 56, Caucasian male.

  Dudek, Michael “Mick”, 40, Caucasian male.

  These two he knew. Shady characters, bookmakers. A dying breed in Chicago with the proliferation of Indian casinos and online sports books. Both dead as hell, and not from the explosion. Forensics already had more than a dozen 7.62 casings from the street. Somebody opened up on those boys with an assault rifle, two connected types ventilated by a machine gun. Just like in the good old days. That made Nichols smile. At least some things didn’t change.

  The four inside, he did not know. Not yet, not officially. He would soon enough, but for now, he had a few educated guesses. He picked his way through the tangled, burned mess on the floor until he stood next to Cargill, who said, “Hey, Ray.”

  “Find any ID on these guys yet?”

  Cargill shook his head. “If they have ID on them, it’s probably melted to their asses.”

  “Looks like arson?”

  “That’s not my call. I’ll let the Cook County Arson Unit handle that.”

  “You see that over there by the door?”

  Cargill looked and said, “What?”

  Nichols pointed. “Look like a charcoal grill to you?”

  “I don’t know, could be.”

  “The blast definitely happened up front. Hunks of shrapnel from an oil drum all over the street out there. This place went up quick. Responding units said it was totally engulfed when they arrived on scene.”

  Cargill just nodded, looked vaguely interested. Nichols said, “What do we know about these crispy critters in here?”

  Cargill pointed them out to Nichols. “We have a total of four. One right here on the floor, looks like this was the entrance to a back office. That right there is a desk. You have victim number two still sitting in a chair there, victim three on the floor in front of the desk, and victim four crouched down behind the desk. You can see his arm still stuck to the top? That’s because somebody nailed it there with a spike.”

  “I’m guessing not his number one fan.”

  “Someone definitely had a beef with these guys. And I have a feeling the cause of death will not be from smoke inhalation.”

  Cargill crouched and gently lifted the first victim’s scorched head, pointed with a pink-latex-gloved finger. “See that?”

  “Big hole he’s got there.”

  “The other three have one as well.”

  “I’d say that looks like something a three-fifty-seven would do to a skull.”

  Cargill nodded, gently set the corpse’s head down. A uniformed officer out on the sidewalk called for Nichols.

  “You find some neighbors willing to talk?”

  The uniform looked around the demilitarized zone of a neighborhood and back at Nichols, who laughed and said, “Just kidding. What about the Cadillac parked up the street?”

  “I tried. It’s locked.”

  “But you have a key.”

  “I do?”

  Nichols pointed at the officer’s baton. “Hanging on your belt.”

  “You want me to break into the car?”

  “No, the window blew in from the blast. You follow me?”

  The officer thought about it a minute and said, “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Get the registration out of the glove box. I want to know the dumbass who parks a brand new XTS in the middle of niggertown and leaves it.”

  The cop’s face reddened as he headed off toward the Cadillac and Nichols wondered if the kid was angry or embarrassed by his hate speech. That phrase made him laugh, all the political correctness and bullshit these days. A second later, he heard the sound of breaking glass. Nichols grinned at Cargill, who said, “What’s your guess they were shooting each other over? Money? Drugs? Both?”

  “Probably I’d say money. If those two assholes out front were involved, my guess is it’s a bet gone bad.” His eyes flicked over to Cargill, waited for his reaction.

  After a minute, Cargill said, “So if it’s money, my guess is we’re not going to find it in here anywhere.”

  “No, I don’t suppose we will.”

  “Wasn’t there a fight last night?”

  “Yep.”

  “You watch it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Not a boxing fan?”

  “What was it Capone said in The Untouchables?” Nichols slipped into a bad DeNiro impression. “You got an all-out prizefight, you wait until the fight’s over, one guy is left standing. That’s how you know who won.’”

  Cargill looked around. “So who was left standing?”

  “Good question.”

  Nichols picked his way through the mess, looked at each corpse a little closer. Faint smell of gas beneath the musk of barbequed flesh. The guy still sitting in the chair was probably welded to it. Nichols looked at the hole in his forehead, at the cooked lips curled away from yellow teeth. By his tally, everyone that was supposed to be there was accounted for, pending dental record confirmation. All of them were dead, and none of them had the money.

  That meant somebody showed up who hadn’t been expected. Find the par
ty crasher, find the cash.

  He nudged the corpse.

  “What do say fella? Tell me a story. Who was left standing?”

  PART I:

  MEAN RIGHT HOOK

  Buster pulled the stall door closed behind him, sat on the stool, and placed his boots between his feet. He stopped for a second and listened, waited. Voices from up the hall, the last undercard getting ready to start. An entourage pumping their guy up, stuff in Spanish that Buster didn’t understand, but knew intimately anyway.

  You the man.

  You got this.

  Ain’t no thing.

  Punk bitch is goin’ down.

  Buster dropped them a year ago. Having your boys around helps some guys. Not Buster. He didn’t need anybody around, just Uncle Mitch. All that other shit was distraction. Motherfuckers hanging on, trying to snag a piece of you. Suck the life out of you, drain you. Every hour of the fucking day, man.

  That’s what he told himself. That wasn’t the real reason his boys stopped coming around. One thing a loser can spot is another loser. Rest is just talking up in your head with yourself. Rationalization was more abundant than reality these days.

  Buster waited for the voices to trail away down the hall before he moved again.

  Had to hurry.

  He reached into his bag and pulled out his rig. Had it ready to go so he didn’t have to fuck around with cooking right there in the bathroom. It was just one hit, a tenth of a gram, not a lot, but enough to get him through the fight.

  It wasn’t going past the fourth round, anyway.

  Buster crossed his right leg on top of his left and tied off a length of rubber tubing just below the knee. He rubbed his calf down toward his ankle and slapped at the veins crisscrossing the top of his right foot. They popped up like fat worms under his skin. He didn’t bother with the left foot anymore. Waste of time.

  He hated doing the foot, but no way he could bang it into his arm. Can’t get into the ring with tracks. Might as well paint that shit on your forehead in big ass letters.

  Buster flicked the rig and poked it into the vein, worked it around, pulled it out, tried again. Nearly dropped it. Fingers stiff like burned sausages poking out of the layers of white medical tape. His foot hurt like hell and he stopped and leaned back against the toilet. Stared up at the ceiling. Listened to the crowd somewhere off in the distance. Boos, probably for the spic fighter. Puerto Rican dude, Buster couldn’t remember his name, a welterweight. Good fighter. Buster watched him spar. Quick, lots of power behind his punches. He’d hit you three times before you threw one. Fight wouldn’t go past round two. Buster had to hurry the fuck up.

  “Come on, man.”

  He leaned forward and tried again, forced himself to slow down. Got it that time. Drew some blood into the murky brown mix, oily mud inside the rig. Sent it down, drove it in, leaned back again and felt it slide through him. Just needed a minute now. Just set there and wait, let it ride.

  “Buster, the fuck is you doin’ in here?”

  Buster flinched, yanked the rig out of his foot. Balled up some toilet paper and blotted the hole in his vein. Flushed the toilet and grabbed his boots.

  “Yeah,” he said, tried hard not to slur his words. “Comin’, man. Takin’ a shit.”

  Uncle Mitch didn’t say anything, just grunted. Buster waited for the door to click shut again and stuffed his works back in the bag, set about putting on his boots. Couldn’t get his stiff fingers to lace them up right.

  “Goddammit, come on, man.”

  He tried again, couldn’t. Said fuck it and shoved out of the crapper, hustled back down the hall. Uncle Mitch stood next to the table, tapped Buster’s gloves together. Motioned with his eyes to the corner. Buster looked.

  “Buster, my man.” Sonny sat on the bench in front of Buster’s locker, hunched over, drumming on the worn wood between his legs. Playing some college fight song, tapping out the beat. Annoying motherfucker. His boy, Ricky, behind him, leaned up against the lockers, about a foot taller than any of them. Head practically scraping the low-hanging pipes and ductwork in the ceiling. Ricky didn’t look at him. Stared at his fingers, picked at the nails, like he couldn’t be more bored. But he was watching. Buster knew better.

  “Mr. Porter.” Buster looked at Uncle Mitch, real quick, back to Sonny. “Want to thank you for settin’ this fight up.”

  Sonny looked down and laughed, shook his head. Stood up and swung his leg over the bench and walked up to Buster. He looked down at the bag in Buster’s right hand. Arched his eyebrows. Patted Buster on the shoulder and said, “I come to wish you good luck in tonight’s contest.”

  Sonny smiled and Ricky crowded in on the other side of Buster.

  Sonny said, “So, good luck in tonight’s contest.”

  “Thank you. ‘Preciate it.”

  Sonny nodded and headed for the door, Ricky a step behind. They passed into the hall and Buster looked over his shoulder, watched them go. Sonny turned back, smile still plastered on. He held up his right hand and flashed four fingers at Buster. Turned his hand around to show him front and back. Buster just watched, waited for them to go, for the door to swing shut. He looked back at Mitch. The old man’s face was blank. Stared him down. The crowd up the tunnel jeered, booed the lightning fast little Puerto Rican carving up their neighborhood boy. Almost done out there. Main event up next.

  Mitch blinked first. He looked down at Buster’s boots, at the untied laces. Shook his head. His shoulders dropped, almost imperceptible. He set the gloves on the table and shuffled over to cinch the laces up for Buster.

  They didn’t exchange a word while Uncle Mitch knotted the boots and moved on to the gloves. Buster looked at him until his uncle finally met his eyes. Buster saw the hurt there. Knew what he was doing to the old man, who raised him up from a boy when his own father wouldn’t. Taught him how to fight. Showed him everything. Killing him with this shit and Buster knew it. But it was too late to think about that. Because this shit was already in motion. No turning back now.

  “Uncle Mitch, it’ll be alright. I got this.”

  Mitch read his eyes, looking at one back to the other. Buster wondered if they were bloodshot, figured they probably were by the pained expression on Mitch’s face. The old man always was smarter than he wanted you to think.

  “Is you stupid? What’re you doin’ fooling around with this mess?”

  Buster looked down at his gloves, couldn’t bear up under that gaze any longer. Breaking his uncle’s heart was what he was doing, but he was doing it anyhow.

  Mitch grunted, shook his head.

  “I’d like to say I hope you know what you doin’, but I already know that you don’t.” He pulled hard on the laces, biting into Buster’s wrists. He barely felt it.

  Out in the hall: loud voices, shouting and singing in Spanish. The Puerto Rican was done. A minute later there was a knock at their door and a head poked in, said, “Alright y’all, time to go.”

  Mitch walked to the door, went through. Didn’t wait for Buster. He sat there another second, sweating already, drenched. Heart thumping against his ribs. Numb and mad, getting madder. For what he was doing to Mitch. For what he was doing to himself. For what was going to happen in that ring. He smacked his gloves together and hopped off the table, jogged up the tunnel after his uncle.

  Buster hardly heard the intros, just zoned out and bounced around, tried to get loose, throw a couple uppercuts when the guy sings your name out and then get through the ref’s spiel about low blows and stay on your toes. Buster didn’t even bother to touch gloves, just turned and walked to his corner. That drew a lusty jeer from the crowd, which he hardly heard.

  He shuffled in his corner waiting for the bell. He wiggled his arms, bounced from foot to foot, up on his toes. Tried to be loose but it wasn’t working. That first shot will get him going. Always did. One good smack to his jaw got him into a fight. Endorphins and shit wake you up. He waited for Mitch to say something but he just stood there, looking over his
shoulder at Buster’s opponent, Ronnie Piccolo.

  He shook his head and said to Buster, “You used to spar this fool. Now you gonna take a dive for him.”

  “Ain’t like that, Uncle Mitch.”

  “Bullshit it ain’t. What is it then?”

  Buster watched Ronnie who watched him back. Smug sneer on his face. Buster looked out at the crowd, found Sonny and Ricky two rows away from ringside. Sonny on his cellphone, smiled and gave him a thumbs-up when they made eye contact.

  The referee pointed to both corners and then at the timekeeper at ringside. Mitch shoved Buster’s mouth guard in and climbed through the ropes as the bell rang for the fight to start.

  Buster slide-stepped forward, hands up. Ronnie Piccolo sauntered out of his corner, hands near his waist. Buster had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from dropping that fool right then. A buzz in the crowd when he cocked back that right hand of his, like they saw it coming too, just waiting for a Buster overhand right to destroy Ronnie Piccolo eleven seconds into the fight. He threw a left jab instead and went for the body. Tied the prick up and leaned into his ear and said, “Stop prancing around and fight you faggot.”

  He pushed Ronnie away and skipped back, rolled his head around on his neck but couldn’t feel it. He was still too stiff, felt like a wooden board out there. He needed that first punch, craved it like a loaded rig. Ronnie’s cheeks burned and he stepped in with a wild right hook that Buster didn’t bother to block. The punch was weak and he knew that tomato can would never be able to knock him out for real, probably wear himself down trying. Everybody packed around that ring knew it too, that Buster had more talent and power is his right hand alone than a dozen bums like Ronnie Piccolo put together. And that was the problem. Only one didn’t seem to give a shit was Sonny Porter.

  Ronnie caught Buster with an uppercut that loosed bees in his ears. Buster danced back, shook his head, and just like that, his whole body went fluid. Flip of a switch and the electrodes clamped on his muscles let go. Now he could fight. But he didn’t, not just yet. He finished the round with three punches thrown. The bell rang and he walked back to his corner.