A Fixer Yuletide: A Lawson Vampire Collection (The Lawson Vampire Series Book 1) Read online

  A Fixer Yuletide

  A Lawson Vampire Collection

  Jon F. Merz

  Contents

  Foreword

  Have Yourself A Deadly Little Christmas

  The Snitch Who Stole Christmas

  Rudolf The Red Nosed Rogue

  Frosty The Hitman

  Do You Kill What I Kill?

  Here Comes Santa Claus

  Also by Jon F. Merz

  Foreword

  As I write this, the first flakes of the season are coming down, coating the area with a delicate blanket of white. The Christmas lights are up and I always love the season for what it represents. When I was a kid, one of the biggest highlights of my summer would be when the Sears Christmas catalog would arrive sometime around the end of August. I would pore over each page, getting more and more excited at the cool Micronauts toys, Star Wars action figures, playsets, and so much more.

  My father always enjoyed giving gifts more than receiving them. As a kid, you’re all about getting the presents, but as I grew older, I found myself emulating my father. I really did get a lot more joy out of giving gifts to people. Seeing the happiness, the smiles, the joy they got out of a simple gift has always warmed my heart. I have some truly precious memories of shopping with my father at the Boston Music Company in downtown Boston, picking out some nice gifts, and enjoying the season. I didn’t know at the time that I had only a few more years with him, so these days, those memories are even more treasured than they were back then.

  Personally, I’m not a very religious sort. I’m spiritual, however, and I love the magic of the season. I don’t really care what holiday you choose to celebrate - but I do think that choosing to celebrate something - anything - really, is important. This season gives us a reason to pause, give something back, and remember that we are all connected on this planet, no matter the extent of our differences. Our commonality as one people will always elevate us over petty divisiveness and coming together during this season is a good way to remember that, to try to put some good out into the world, and hopefully look forward to what the next year might hold for us.

  I initially started writing these Lawson Christmas stories as a thank you to my fans. Just a little token of my gratitude that I have people who love reading all of Lawson’s crazy adventures and I get to create more of them. I thought it would be fun to see how a vampire spy handles the season given his job and his past. So these tales sprang forth and I thought that titling them after Christmas songs (with a twist of course) would make them all the more fun.

  This year, I thought I’d put them out as a collection. Have Yourself a Deadly Little Christmas is the new tale for this collection. But then, a few days ago, I decided I wanted to add another new tale to the mix and Here Comes Santa Claus sprang out in relatively fast fashion. So, six tales in this and when I have another six in a couple of years, we’ll turn that into the next collection as well.

  For now, I hope you enjoy this volume. Like many people who work in covert operations, or the military, or in some sort of first responder occupation, Lawson has seen an awful lot of the bad side of people and of life. This naturally produces some odd expectations around this holiday season and I always marvel at how he works through things to end up hopefully not having a crappy holiday.

  In any event, I hope you enjoy this collection. Thank you for reading Lawson and thank you for your support. I wish you and yours a very Happy Holidays. May the season bless you with happiness, abundance, and love.

  - Jon F. Merz

  12 December 2016

  Have Yourself A Deadly Little Christmas

  December 1986 - South Boston

  For some reason, I have a real problem with Christmas. It’s not that I don’t like the holiday, because I guess I do. But whenever I think that things ought to quiet down and people should spend some quality time being good to each other, some asshole comes along and fucks up my dreams of a utopian Bing Crosby white Christmas.

  I was nursing a cold beer at one of the few watering holes that had its doors open on Christmas Eve. At eight o’clock at night, there were only a few of us inside the wood-paneled establishment. Band Aid was playing over the stereo juke box, singing about hungry kids in Africa, while the strings of multi-colored lights twinkled through the alcohol-induced haze of the joint. Jimmy Bats worked the bar, a stocky Irishman who’d gotten his nickname because he kept an assortment of bats under the bar as a way of dealing with any punks who tried to start trouble.

  I’d only just returned from Oslo, where it was colder than Pluto. On my way home, I decided a frosty brew sounded about right. I had no plans; no family to speak of that I was going to be around this year. Just me and the gentle snowflakes drifting down from on-high as the world prepared to celebrate another Christmas.

  On my way in, Jimmy gave a me a quick nod and drew a beer from the tap. I sat down, shucked my coat and took a long drag. “Thanks.”

  “Merry Christmas.” Jimmy eyed me. “You look…well, damn, you look like shit.”

  “Exhausted, actually, but thanks for noticing. If it’s that bad, I guess I’m not getting laid tonight.”

  Jimmy smirked. “Look around you, my friend. There ain’t much choice in here.”

  He was right. Aside from me, there were three old guys scattered about, nursing bourbons and fading memories. A lone couple sat in the back of the bar at one of the few tables Jimmy kept. There were a lot of empty glasses in front of them. Celebrating hard, it appeared, although the girl looked young enough to be anything but legal. Her significantly older beau wore his hair slicked back with enough gel to bulletproof a car. He was big, fairly bursting out of his leather jacket with muscles that looked like they’d been made with injectable fitness.

  Otherwise, the joint was empty. I nursed the beer, content to lose myself rethinking my final days in Oslo. The Council had sent me there to deal with a potential mole. Took me five days to ascertain that the attractive secretary to the local Council outpost was trying to sell secrets to anyone who would listen to her. The problem was, she was peddling information about vampires. Not exactly the sort of thing either the Americans or Soviets wanted. At least until I stepped in and played the role of a buyer. She met with me and produced a thick sheaf of papers detailing Fixer operative placements throughout Northern Europe. Not the sort of thing that the Council wanted floating around. And it certainly wasn’t something I wanted anyone human seeing.

  We arranged a buy. She brought along a briefcase filled with secrets about the race of vampires living among humans without their knowledge.

  I brought along a suppressed .22 Beretta.

  I asked her why she was selling out her people. She shrugged and gave me a sob story about needing it for her drug addiction. But vampires don’t really get addicted to drugs - at least back then they didn’t - so that didn’t wash. In the end, I got nothing out of her that I could use.

  So I shot her. I dumped the pistol into a deep fjord and caught a flight home. Case closed.

  It didn’t sit well with me, though. The longer I stayed around the business, the more I realized that it was entirely possible for people to be total shits without any sort of decent reason. Why would a secretary making good money throw it all away for no real cause? Damned if I knew, but she had. And by doing so, she’d risked her entire race’s security. That sort of shit wasn’t tolerated. And now she was dead.

  “Makes no sense,” I said into my drink. Then again, a lot of other shit didn’t make any sense, either. I finished my beer and Jimmy dre
w me another.

  “Talking to yourself, Lawson?”

  I shrugged. “The beer’s a good listener. Never offers any advice. Just sits there quiet. I appreciate that.”

  He smirked and moved off to pour another bourbon for the old guy down at the other end of the bar. I sat there sucking at my suds and thought about how much I hated Christmas these days. I’d never had the sort of storybook Christmas as an adult. Growing up, I’d had plenty of great memories of times spent with my family and relatives. Christmas Eve was always at my grandmother’s house and Christmas Day was with my father’s side of the family. Between the two days, I figured I had three or four chances to get gifts and loved every minute of it.

  But as an adult? Well, just try being an undercover operative around the holidays and see how well it works out for you. True, I was done with Norway and could have found my way to going back home, but I didn’t have any family left. My father had died early on and my mom not that much later. I lived at my family’s house in Jamaica Plain, but somehow, going back there right now just didn’t seem like fun.

  So instead, I chose to hang out in a seedy bar in South Boston, where IRA propaganda pamphlets hung from the bulletin board and a collection jar to help the boyos in Belfast sat at the end of the bar.

  It wasn’t much, but it was all I had.

  Needless to say, when I heard the door open and two more guys came in looking every bit as greasy as the fat dude with the jailbait sitting at the back of the bar, I wasn’t particularly keen on sharing my time.

  As soon s they came in, Jimmy’s frown lengthened considerably. He came over to me and shook his head. “Look at these fucks. Like they even belong here? I should just chase ‘em out. Tell ‘em to go find a place in Chinatown or some shit. Choke on a fuckin’ spare rib.”

  “You screening clientele now, Jimmy? How the hell did I pass muster?”

  He smirked. “I know you, Lawson. You’re a worker. I don’t know what the fuck you actually do, but I can tell you put in a good day’s work and earn the pay. These guys? They look like a couple of Euro pimps. That girl can’t be any older than thirteen. What the hell is she doing with them?”

  I shrugged. “Runaway? Addict? Who knows? Not my business. Maybe it’s his daughter.”

  “Lawson, he’s been squeezing her left tit for about ten minutes. If that’s his kid then he’s even more fucked up than I thought.”

  “Your bar, Jimmy. Your rules.” Except I knew while it technically was his bar, it was also protected by Billy Dinkins and his Summer Hill gang. That was one of the reasons I came in here. I wouldn’t be bothered by punks. Only a damned fool would start shit in a mob-controlled bar.

  “Fuck it,” said Jimmy. He came around the bar and headed toward the table in back.

  I swiveled on my seat so I could keep an eye on him. Jimmy was hard as tacks but he was also pushing sixty. I knew he could fight, he had the bruised knuckles to prove it. But a couple of young guns might prove troublesome.

  I watched as he leaned over the lead fat guy and spoke quietly to him. I saw fat boy nod and Jimmy stood up, turned and came walking back to the bar.

  “Piece of cake.”

  I turned back as Jimmy came around the bar. He nodded at my beer. “Anytime you want a real drink, you let me know.”

  I smiled. “And what would that happen to be? Just saying if I so happened to be in that sort of mood.”

  Jimmy reached behind the bar and drew over a blue bottle. He set it down in front of me. “You see this?”

  “Yeah. It’s gin. That shit tastes like turpentine.” I didn’t tell Jimmy that turpentine and I didn’t make a good mix because it would kill me in seconds.

  “Not this gin. This is Bombay Sapphire. Classy shit. Not that cheap garbage most places peddle.” He opened the bottle, got two glasses and poured a measure into both over ice. “The ice is key. It’s gotta be cold. Warm gin is awful. But cold? That’s the way to go. Like how the Russkies drink vodka. You ever hear about that?”

  “Yeah. They keep it in the freezer, so it burns all the way down. Hot and cold.”

  Jimmy nodded. “A man of the world. I like it.” He popped open the fridge under the bar and drew out a bottle of tonic water. “Here’s the other secret: tonic water. Not seltzer. That stuff ruins the drink.” He poured it in to the gin and ice and waited for it to fizz up slightly.

  “I’ve never seen you so excited about a drink before, Jimmy. Who knew you were a softie at heart?”

  “I’m educating your ass, Lawson. Consider it a Christmas gift if you want. But a man can’t go through life drinking only beer and think he’s cultured. That’s like marrying a chick who only drinks Bud Light: she might be fun for a little while but eventually you’re gonna realize that she’s cheap, has no taste, and looks like a bloated old cow.”

  “Ouch.”

  Jimmy reached back into the fridge and brought out a fresh lime. He set it on a cutting board, produced a knife, and sliced the lime into wedges. “This is the topper. You need some citrus to cut the bite of the gin. This comes down to personal preference, of course, but this is how you make a statement. This is how you say to the bartender that you know your shit and you expect the drink to be well made. Not just some sort of fruity nightmare that those fucking yuppies suck down.”

  “How many wedges do you use?”

  “Me?” Jimmy put a hand over his heart. “Two. One for me and one for Linda Savage.”

  “Linda Savage?” I grinned. “You make that name up?”

  Jimmy leaned across the bar. “Hey, you and me are cool, Lawson. But don’t ever make fun of Linda. Best lady I ever knew. Stole my heart when I was a younger fella.”

  “Whatever happened to her?”

  Jimmy squeezed the wedges into his drink and slid the cutting board toward me. “Don’t know. Moved out west or something. As much as I wanted it to work out, sometimes you just can’t force love. But I still got the flame burning for her. Don’t know I’ll ever forget her.”

  I took three lime wedges and squeezed them in, stirring the drink with one of the rinds. I held the glass up and the green of the lime edges looked quite festive dancing about the fizzy clear concoction. “Well, here’s to Linda then.”

  Jimmy clinked his glass against mine and we drank. I set the glass down a moment later and smiled. “You know what? That’s a damned fine drink.”

  Jimmy hoisted his glass again. “You see? Culture. That’s the only thing the elevates us as a people. You can’t surround yourself with mediocrity and think you’re going to excel in that environment. You won’t. You’ll become just as mediocre as everyone around you. You gotta break free, Lawson.”

  “I wasn’t aware I was trapped in the mire of mediocrity.”

  Jimmy nodded. “Most people aren’t. It’s a sneaky bitch, that. But it’s always there, sucking at your feet like a deep bog. Dragging down your spirit, your willpower. Until you’re just…average.”

  I took another sip of my drink and Jimmy fell silent for a few moments, presumably thinking about Linda.

  Then he blinked. “Those fuckers haven’t left yet.”

  I looked behind me, but the table of three greasy dudes with the young girl didn’t look like they were getting ready to leave anytime soon. “Maybe they misunderstood you.”

  “I don’t speak eloquently,” said Jimmy. “There’s no chance of making a mistake at what I said.” He reached under the bar and brought out an old Louisville Slugger that was full of dents along its length. I wondered how many skulls he’d cracked with it during all his years here.

  “You sure?”

  He eyed me. “I don’t like their look. It’s my bar. They’re gone.” He walked around the edge of the bar and started toward the back table when the gunshot rang out.

  Jimmy stopped moving, frozen in place. Then he dropped the bat and slumped over the closest stool to him, clutching at his abdomen. By the time the gunshot had registered, I heard the telltale clicks of two other guns being cocked and I
turned around slowly.

  Really slow.

  The greaseballs had the place covered. I was armed, but I made no move to draw. Not yet. I didn’t know who these guys were and while I felt reasonably certain they weren’t my kind, if one of them happened to be and they had Fixer rounds, moving now when they had their fingers on the triggers would be suicide.

  The fat greaseball stood up, the barrel of his pistol still smoking. He walked over toward Jimmy. “Why is it you don’t want us in your bar?”

  Jimmy’s color had gone pale. He was losing a lot of blood. “Don’t like the way you guys look. And…that girl don’t look old enough to be with you.”

  The fat greaseball looked around with a grin on his face. “My friends, my name is Pappas. I regret that it has apparently become necessary to involve you all in our business on this night. Tragic, really. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

  I cleared my throat and Pappas turned to look at me. “You have something to say?”

  I nodded at Jimmy. “You going to keep him alive?”

  “For now.”

  “All right, you’ve gotta let me treat him. Otherwise, he’s gonna bleed out on the floor.”

  Papas eyed me. “You a doctor?”

  “Not even close, but I can keep him alive. For now.”

  “All right. Do it. No funny business or I’ll shoot you next.”

  I reached behind the bar and grabbed a towel and then stuck it into the hole in Jimmy’s belly. He swore at me, enraged by the amount of pain, but I tucked the towel in and put pressure on the wound. I knew abdominal wounds bled a whole lot but didn’t necessarily mean they were fatal. If I could manage the loss of blood, I could conceivably keep Jimmy alive until we could get proper help for him.

  Jimmy grabbed at my hand, slick with blood. “Don’t let me die, Lawson.”

  “Shut up you old fucker,” I said. “All I can do is make sure you don’t bleed out.” I put his hand over the towel. “You’ve gotta keep pressure on this.” I felt around his back but didn’t find an exit wound. “The bullet’s still in you somewhere. I can’t do much more until we can get you to the hospital.”