“Mr. Fix it?” this voice says in my ear. It’s a high pitch and a bit too feminine. He’s my boss. I told him once he comes across like his balls are permanently stuck in a vise. He wasn’t amused, and I was out of work for two months. That’s when he hired some Chicano from Texas who couldn’t speak a word of English. Got himself arrested on a vagrancy charge, and I had to go down and muff the guy. So now I’m known as Mr. Fix It, in my small circle of friends, that is. I get all the shit jobs; all the botched up jobs and fix them for the boss.

“Yea, this is he.”

“Are you enjoying your vacation?”

I hate when people mickey around with me. Boss or no boss. And he knows it. “Get to the meat.”

“I have a very delicate, very personal job for you.”

I wait for the punch line, but all I can hear is breathing. “Go on,” I say.

“I want you to go to Hong Kong,” he says, as if he’s asking me to go around the corner and pick him up a pack of cigarettes.

“You’re kidding, right. This is a joke, right.”

“Have I ever joked with you?”

He’s right; I don’t remember him ever joking with me. “But why me? Why not send your new guy from Boston, Mr. Keys.”

“I did, and he hasn’t returned. Three weeks and we haven’t heard a word from him. That’s why I need you to fix whatever is broken.” He gives me the dope and a lead. Her name’s
Grace Chang.

Once I get to Hong Kong, it only takes me a couple of days to track her down. When you’re white, tall as a signal light, and as wide as a telephone booth, word gets around fast.

The trail leads me to a TV repairman. I have to put a little physics into him. I grab his neck and lift him several inches off the floor. He spits the address out real quick, and I leave him shaken but not stirred.

It’s no trouble finding her place. All it takes is a taxi and a cab driver with more than soft noodles for brains.

I knock and this pale chick answers the door.

“Grace Chang?” I ask.

She looks up at me and smiles. “New York Giants?”

“Good guess.” Then I ask for the goods, the Mandarin movies.

She smiles again and bows, and with a quick lightning speed move she gives me one of those kung fu flying kicks and hits me in the groin. When I grab for my balls, she flies out the door. As my knees hit the ground, I hear the cab driver laughing his ass off.

“Follow that bitch,” I scream, as I stagger toward the cab.

I lose her at a market square. I step out of the taxi, pay the laughing hyena and do my best to look like a tourist.

By chance, luck, or fate, as I step out of the shadow of the arcade surrounding the Hong Kong market, I see Grace Chang. She’s holding a headless duck. Blood splashes from the twitching body onto the paving stones. As I walk toward her I sweep off my sunglasses with one hand; I want her to see my eyes. She turns to me, and smiles with rotten teeth. "Duck, Honored Sir?" she says, holding it aloft.

I grab the dead duck and wrap it around her neck. She starts spitting out chow mien words at me. I feel like a blind man with a pair of chopsticks pecking at fried rice. When her eyes begin to bulge out of her face, I let go of the duck. By then half of Hong Kong is breathing down my neck. I pull out my Smith and Wesson and wave it in the air.

"Okay guys and dolls, what we got here is a serious case of a pissed off hit man for the south-side mob. Comprende?" I think for sure I lost them after guys and dolls, but they stop on a dime, except for this elderly guy wearing a long yellow dress, and a long thin white beard. I swear that chin hair is down to his knees. I figure some serious parley, so I bring the pistol down to my hip, and keep it pointed at his chest.

"Okay snow white, what's the guff?"

"You seek Mandarin movies," he says with a calm, suave voice, and a razor thin smile. "If you will follow me." He bows gracefully and turns his back on me. I might as well have been holding a wet noodle for all he cares.

The crowd parts like the Red sea. Damn he’s suave.

We walk for a ways and then he stops in front of this video store. He points at the front door, and then disappears

As soon as I walk in, this young girl with spiked black hair starts buzzing around me with a wide smile wrapped around a smudge of red lipstick. Flat chest, but a good looker.

“I want Mandarin movies. You got some, Miss?”

"Me Ling. Me Ling," she says, stabbing her chest with a long fingernail.

"Me Tarzan. Me Tarzan." I laugh. But she’s not laughing. Instead, she angles her head like a rooster, and gives me a queer stare, like I was a bowl of uncooked rice.

I ignore her and take a quick gander at the fliers on the counter advertising this and that, and finally I find what I’m looking for. "Okay, Miss Lee. It says here in the flier that you have Mandarin movies for sale. Is that right?"

"Me Ling. Me Ling."

"Yeah, later kid. Right now I want to buy some goddamn movies. You think you can handle that?"

"Oh, you tough guy, huh?"

"Listen lady, you want tough, I can show you tough."

Just then this little skinny guy with pink cheeks, slides out of the backroom, and starts bowing like I'm the Queen Mother or something. His whole face is one big smile.

“No Mandarin movies. No for sale.”

I shove the flier in his face. “It says right here. In English. Mandarin movies for sale.”

“No Mandarin movies. Old flier. No for sale.”

I rip the flier up and throw it at him. “Wise guy, huh?”

He smiles and bows. When his face comes back up, I fill it full of metal. Just then as his mind registers the threat with big, bulging black eyes, ten jokers file out of the backroom, like some line-up back in the Bronx, and I get this flashback of standing in the floodlights sweating, and that ghostly voice on the intercom calls my number. “Number three. Yes you, number three. Please step forward. Turn to your left side. Turn to your right side.” But this ain’t no line-up and these guys don’t look like bums off the street. They’re all dressed in neon black monkey suits with neon red ties and sunglasses and holding shiny new AKA 47's in their hands, the weapons aimed at my chest. I’m not stupid. I know when I’m outnumbered.

Slowly, I back up a step and point the barrel of my gun at the ceiling. I snap open the cylinder and let the bullets drop to the floor. “See no bullets.” I smile and back up a little further. I nod. The skinny man with the pink cheeks glares at me. I bow as low as I can and back up toward the door. Asshole.

Suddenly, Me Ling runs toward me. Instinctively, I reach for my balls and wait for the blow, but instead she whips out a pen and pad and asks for my autograph. I look at the skinny guy. He smiles and nods his approval. Asshole.

The first thing I do when I get back to my hotel is call the boss and give him the bad news. I serve bad news immediately. It don’t pay to stew about it because next thing you know you start thinking up excuses why the job got botched, and bosses always know when your lying.

"And that's it," he says.

"Yeah that's it,” I say. “You want that shit, come and get it yourself." Then I give him the punch line. “And bring about a dozen of your best.”

I wait for some kind of reaction, but the line goes dead.

About three minutes later I’m out on the deck of my hotel room smoking, when the phone rings.

I answer it. “Yeah?”

“How’s the food out there?” It’s him.

“If you like roosters. Raw. It ain’t bad.”

“Thank you Mr. Bruno for all your help,” he says. “I’ll be in touch.” He hangs up and some nerve in my stomach kicks my lower intestines. You see, that’s the first time he ever called me by my first name, so I figure that’s the kiss off. But hey, a demotion ain’t so bad really. It gives a guy a chance to do things around the house, sorta speak. So that didn’t bother me much, but the more I thought about why...Christ, you might think those damn movies were made out of gold. Curiosity kills the cat, right? Well I’m a big cat. I call down to the hotel desk and ask for a bell boy who understands good English.

A few minutes later there’s a knock on my door. I open the door and there’s this white dude dressed in a Chinese jumpsuit, smiling and bowing like the natives. I guess I haven’t seen it all yet.

He looks at me all goggle-eyed. I have to laugh. “Nah, I don’t play for the New York Giants. I’m a hit man.”

He laughs, and then sobers up real quick. “Are you really?” he says in a pure British accent.

“Just kidding, boy”

He relaxes and steps into the room.

I take my roll out and hand him a hundred dollar bill.

He puts his hand out and hesitates. “But I haven’t done anything yet, sir.”

“That’s for speaking good English.”

He grabs the bill and stands at attention, and gives me a sharp salute.

“At ease, boy. Now, how would you like to triple that money?”

He winks like I just propositioned him or something.

“Damn, kid,” I growl, “it ain’t nothing like that.”

He stumbles back to the door and reaches for the doorknob.

“Stop. Wait a minute.” He turns around and looks down at my shoes. “I think we got our antennas crossed.” He peeks up at me. “I need you to go somewhere for me, that’s all.”

I wait for the words to register. Finally, he straightens up. “Oh?”

“There’s a video store at the market.”

“Which one?”

“I thought there was only one.”

“There’s several,” he says.

“The one I had in mind has a girl that works there sporting a black spiked hairdo and her name is Me Lee. You know the one I’m talking about?”

“Me Ling. Sure, I know it. But we have a video kiosk downstairs and you can buy them for half the price.”

“I’m looking for specific movies. Mandarin movies.”

I see a muscle twitch below his left eye. I glance around half expecting to see the ten Matrix clones to pop out of the walls.

“Oh...you want...Mandarin movies?”

“Is that a problem?”

The boy shakes his head.

“Then you can get them for me, right?”

“Yes, but it will cost you a lot of money.”

“What’s a lot of money? Hundreds, or thousands?

“Five, six hundred dollars.”

“For one movie?”

He nods.

“You’re joking, right?”

“No sir. And that’s with a ten percent discount.”

“What the hell is so special about these movies?” I invite him to sit, but he shakes his head and says he better get back to his station.

“When can you do this for me?”

“Tomorrow night. Call the desk and ask for me, Jimmy.” He bows, opens the door and leaves. And just as I was going to call the boss, the kid opens the door and pokes his head in. “And please, tell no one. No one.” Before I can protest, he slams the door shut.

The next night, just as the sun does its disappearing act, I call down to the front desk and ask for Jimmy. The clerk says for me to call back in an hour. I tell the clerk when Jimmy arrives to send him up to my room.

I’m sprawled out on the couch working on my second dream when I hear a loud rap on the door. I tell the woman in my dream to wait.

“Come on in,” I shout. The door’s locked, you idiot, the woman says in my dream.

Another rap on the door. “Hold your horses, I’m coming.”

I throw my jacket on and unlock the door. I take a couple of steps back and palm the handle of the Smith and Wesson under my coat. It pays to be cautious. The door opens wide enough for a medium size box to squeeze through. I didn’t move or say anything. I figure if this is the way the kid wants to handle the transaction it’s fine with me. As soon as the box is cleared of the threshold, the door closes. I walk up to the box and there’s a manila envelope on top of it. I pick it up and open it. There’s a note inside. It says, “Place six hundred dollars inside of this envelope and slip it under the door. Thank You, Jimmy.” I peel off six big ones, place it in the envelope and slip it under the door. In a second it vanishes.

I lug the box over to the coffee table and open it. There’s a package inside wrapped in newspaper, and another envelope. This one’s long and white and says OPEN FIRST. Just as I was about to open it, there’s another knock on my door.

“Scram!” I shout.

“Hong Kong Metropolitan Police.”

“Who?” Panic. My heart is in my throat. When you’re not expecting the cops and they show up, it can make the hair on your neck stand at attention, and send small tremors up and down your spine.

“It’s the police, Mr. Caprissi. Open the door.”

“Hold your horses. I’m still in my pajamas.” Nothing like getting the kiss off twice in one day. I figure the kid stuffed the box with contraband. Maybe drugs, or diamonds, or else funny money, and used me as the go-between. I grab the box, scamper into the bedroom, and try stuffing it under the bed, but it’s all blocked up with boards all the way around. I hate these fake beds.

I throw the box in the closet and drop my suits on it. I whip my belt off, pull my shirt out, unbutton it, take my tie off, scuff my hair up, and shove my gun and holster in the miniature refrigerator.

I open the door and there’s this tall, rather distinguished looking guy with salt and pepper hair, wearing a black derby hat, and shoving a badge in my face. He reminds me of Michael Rennie, the actor.

“May I come in,” he says, in a quaint cockney accent. He doesn’t wait for my reply. He takes his hat off and steps into the room. “Do you mind if I sit on your couch?” He asks and takes the couch without my say so. “It’s been a harrowing day, and I’ve been on my feet for more than eight hours. You know how it is, old boy.”

“Yeah, sure, have a seat.”

Just as he’s about to sit, I spot the OPEN FIRST envelope on the floor near the coffee table. I must’ve of dropped it. I give my best nonchalant walk, and just as I’m about to step on it, Michael Rennie picks it up.

“Ah! OPEN FIRST. What a novel way of starting a conversation.” He stares at it and flips it over a couple of times. “I must say, you Americans have such, shall we say, panache.”

‘Yeah, in Chicago we call them pancakes.” I show a grin not worth a spit.

“Is that a stab at humor, Mr. Caprissi?” He tries the absentminded professor gag and reaches for his coat pocket.

“I’ll take that, if you don’t mind.” I say, reaching for the envelope.

“Oh of course, this belongs to you,” he says, and hands it to me.

Damn, why did he have to say it like that? “Just drop it on the coffee table.”

“Finders keepers.”

I snatch it out of his hand and slam it down on the coffee table. “Losers weepers.”

“Then it does belong to you?”

“Technically, yes.” This cop is starting to get on my nerves. I’m not saying I can stand any cop on the best of days, but this one is irritating me, like a piece of meat stuck between your teeth. “Can we get down to brass tacks, now? I’m a busy man. I ain’t got time for all this fluff crap.”

“We know you happen to have in your possession an illegal, shall we say, product.”

“Shall we say, Get to the punch line.”

“Mandarin movies, Mr. Caprissi.” Bingo!

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I could get a search warrant, Mr. Caprissi. And unlike where you come from it would only take a minute. One phone call and I’ll have this room look like Hiroshima.”

“Drop all the bombs you want. I got nothing to hide.” Be bold, give the big lie, and talk like you gotta pair. My father taught me that before they sent him up to the Big House for life.

He picks up the phone.

It doesn’t work all the time.

He dials one number.

I’m sweating my balls off.

He dials another number, and then looks at me.

I give him a grin he can take home with him.

He dials another number.

I take a corner of the couch and cross my legs.

He hangs up the phone and gives me this fierce, calculating look, and says, “Do you know what Mandarin movies are, Mr. Caprissi?”

I shake my head.

“First, they’re not really Mandarin movies, and secondly, they’re not movies.” He lets the statement hang in the air for effect, and then continues, “It’s child pornography, Mr. Caprissi.”

I don’t get it. Why send me half way round the world for something he can easily get back in the States? Christ, if I had known the boss was a pervert.

“I don’t get it,” I say.

“Mandarin movies, in this case, Mr. Caprissi, is a euphemism for sick, depraved minds. The product you have in your possession, advertises the sale of children. Contemptible, wouldn’t you agree?”

My mouth falls open. Knocking scumbags off is one thing, but this weirdo stuff leaves a bile taste in my mouth, like drinking sour milk. Then I get this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. It shakes me to the core.

“You had no idea, did you?”

I shut my mouth and shake my head.

“Can we count on your cooperation in this matter, then?”

Nothing like dangling a guy out on a limb, but, when it comes to this sick crap, I’ll stay out on the limb and hope to land on my feet again. I tell him where the package is and who sent me.

I say, “He’ll be here tomorrow with his goons. You can pick them up at the airport.” I know they got nothing to stick the Boss with, but maybe it’ll send the bastard a message that I won’t dance.

“I can’t promise you anything,” he says, “but I will put a good word in for you.”

Yeah, where have I heard that before?

A few weeks later I'm back in the States at my hotel having breakfast: a pile of toast, a stack of blueberry pancakes, and six eggs. It could be my last. When you turn your boss over, it's just a matter of time before someone finds you in an alley humming a tune through the holes in your chest.

The kid in the monkey suit strolls quickly toward me. He tips his cap back and says, "Mr. Caprissi.” Me and the kid are chums now, see. “There are two men," he wipes sweat from his forehead. "waiting in the lobby." He rubs his hands on his trousers.

"Get to the punch line, kid."

"They said they're friends of yours."

"Thanks, kid," I say, and tip him.

Let them wait. I'm in no hurry. I wash the food down with black coffee, burp, and a waiter walks up to me and says, "Excuse me, sir, if you have a minute, there's a blonde in the next booth who wishes to make your acquaintance."

"Yeah, I got plenty of time, send her over." I figure I'm a lucky guy, a nice tumble in the sack with a beautiful twist and I'm ready to spit in the devil's eye, but instead this bleach-blonde pretzel waltzes over to my table carrying a napkin and a pen.

She leans over the table and I take a quick peak, but they're the size of Vanilla wafers. Of all the luck.

She says, "My, er, husband would like your autograph."

"No shit?"

"Excuse me?"

"What's your husband's name?"

"Harold."

It figures.

I sign it:

To Harold,

Love,

The Dead Man.