His name is Ace. He’s wealthy, secretive and dangerous. He lives in the shadows and makes people’s problems disappear. He’s known as ‘The Fixer.’
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Ace is not his given name. But it fits him. It’s short, memorable and has an air of mystery. His business card is a black domino marked with two white spots. That’s all; no phone, no fax, no address.
I met him about ten years ago. It was Christmas. He had delivered a gift to my door at night. Inside was a note and a small slab of concrete streaked with splashes of colored graffiti. Taped to it was a crisp Ace of hearts playing card. The note simply read: Berlin Wall, 1989. I lit the fuse. We became friends after that.
He was younger, considering retirement. He’d had a long career as a CIA operative, and an explosives expert. Men of such ilk tend to withdraw from overt social interactions, possibly out of concern for reprisal from the dark side of their past. But he’s older now, dapper in a white suit with his signatory hickory cane.
I ran into him recently at a party. He stood alone at the end of a long bar, nursing a glass of scotch.
“Whatcha say, Ace, drinking alone?” His smile telegraphs nothing.
“Safer this way,” he says.
“Being followed?”
“Always.” He adds nothing. Laconic as ever.
“You working these days?”
“You might say that.”
“Doing what, some sordid, top-secret assignment? Or should I ask?”
“Well, you might say I’m an amalgam, a cross between a surgeon, a janitor and a repairman. I fix things.” Only ice cubes remain in his glass. He orders another one.
“Quite a combination. What things?”
“People things. Stalin’s formula. Where there are people, there are problems. I help patch things up, restore equilibrium, so to speak.” He glances over my shoulder into the crowd. His left eye winks, his head twists slightly indicating a ‘No’ response.
“Interesting. Can you elaborate? I’m curious what ‘fixers’ do since I read about the President’s lawyer.”
He laughs. “Yeah, some lawyers are clowns, bumbling fools, flashes in the pan. They give our profession a bad name. First-class fixes require delicacy and finesse.
I’m a surgeon in a world of butchers, thugs, criminals and the general refuse of humanity. Fixing things takes all types. Think of me as a master general contractor. I filter through the appropriate functionaries to perform necessary but unsavory tasks. It’s a savage world.”
“What kind of things do you ‘fix?’”
“You name it. Just sort through the possibilities that a debauched, gutter culture produces: Greed, power, sex, money, ego and such, they all play out in various ways. Things can easily go sideways.”
“What are the tools of this disgusting trade, Ace?” He orders another scotch.
“Everything has its price. Most respond, shall I say, ‘favorably’ with money. With others, its fear. Enlivening the imagination lets loose legions of demons.
It’s easy to do. Mere subtle hints, or ‘suggestions,’ can be more effective than actual threats. A few late-night phone calls, maybe a photo of someone where they should not be with someone they should not be with, some anonymous letters, maybe being tailed in a black van will do it.
Then there’s the sleazy media. They’re prostitutes for salacious innuendo. Advertising money rolls in. The digital world seethes with false news, Twitter feeds, Facebook postings and such stuff as this. And don’t discount the on-line lawyers. These crude shysters come cheap and are ferocious as pit bulls on speed.
I operate on the psychological principle of ‘rewards.’ Intimidations are for rubes. It appeals to the greed in all of us. My ‘people’ cover all bases.”
“I’ve heard you use codes to communicate. True? Tell me a few.”
He laughs. “You read too many LeCarre spy novels. But yes, we have our codes. Take Dr. Lech. His career is about to explode. He’s been messing around, as they say. We call him a ‘Peanut,’ an active ingredient in dynamite.
Then there’s Senator Slapback. He’s an ‘Ostrich.’ Why? Because an ostrich’s eye is bigger than his brain. Don’t forget Judge Slipshod. He will be a ‘Dragonfly’ when we finish with him. They only live 24 hours. We have others.”
A man approaches. It’s Col. Tecumseh. “Excuse me. We’ll talk later. Seems the colonel’s ‘ostrich’ needs some help.”
**********
The Fixer…what an occupation. Where there are people, there are problems. Imagine the opportunities.
Bud Hearn
June 20, 2018