Life Is Like Shit - Not Chocolate

His eyebrow raised a bit. "Proof?" he asked.

I reached into my pocket, retrieved my phone, and showed him a video. He watched my championship match and handed me my phone back. He was impressed, though he tried not to show it.

"Got any more?" he inquired.

"This is me with my Dad at home training," I flipped on the following video of a vigorous sword workout around my eighteenth birthday and shared it with him as well. It was an ambidextrous, two-handed workout session against four others using practice swords and padding. I kicked their asses. Then I showed him another workout with actual blades against several trees and Halloween pumpkins. I tend to empathize with the trees in that one every time I review it.

"I also have a degree in forensics accounting, if that helps," I added - as an afterthought, to point out that I wasn't just all slice and dice - I had smarts, too.

"Think you could put on forty pounds and stay in shape with that weight?" he asked with a damn straight face.

I was crestfallen. What the hell? Did he really expect that kind of crap? But then my Dad's advice came to mind, "You are who you are -- be that and proud that you do it to the best of your abilities."

"Fuck, no!" was my emphatic answer. I said as politely as my Navy job interview skills could muster.

"I can live with that," his sardonic laughter responded, "and I can train you for the rest. Eat your lunch. You need those four ounces!"

It took a second to realize he was joking about the forty pounds of added weight remark. That was the day I first met Jack Wilson, an imposing, oak tree-sized man, skilled with numerous tools of his intelligence background trade. His mind is as sharp as a razor wire and combat-ready. He wouldn't hesitate to spring into action -- if it was required. That meeting was the same day he changed my name to Jackie Wilson and nicknamed me 'The Fixer.'

If you are wondering about the names, I don't know his real name even four years later or if he is the top man -- just get my orders via his words. But I know at least three other Jackie Wilsons are in the organization doing what I do. All are pseudonyms to protect our true identities. None of us work together. One mission - one woman.Our mission: Identify and fix problems that fall outside of normal investigative parameters.

I don't ask who foots the bill. That's not my concern. Working within my parameters is the only thing that concerns me. I still try not to harm anyone, critically anyway; just a few broken bones and teeth sometimes, but they get to live. I hang on to that philosophy from my Dad's point of view, but someday I know that's bound to break given the bucket of shit that hits the fan in some of my assignments.

There was no doubt in my mind that Alice Turner, a fledgling news reporter, would turn this into major self-promotion. She would work the angles with the police and get exclusives to the investigation -- in return for the photos of Rita and her new aerial yoga instructor/boyfriend. The images show the arson scene at the house for which Danny was paying. It had been Rita's for a while, by deceptive divorce means! It was a wild month in which she used it to entertain her move-in boyfriend, Terrance. Rita fucked him like a feral cat and fucked over Danny figuratively as well.

Miss Turner, cub reporter, would dig up all that dirt. Eventually, I knew. It would be prime time reporting as Rita and Terrance would, finally, stand stone-faced before the criminal docket judge. I watched that, from the back row, with smuggle satisfaction.

From what Danny spilled his guts about her, I knew she was a gold-digging bitch. I knew, too, that the insurance policy she had him take out for half a million dollars was a dark and dangerous plot just waiting for the right time to explode. So, I didn't wince a bit about conning her and her fucking weasel-lover to bite into a scam to torch the place. Sometimes you must set fire to a buck of shit to get rid of the stench! I gave them instructions on how to stage a foolproof, delayed ignition. I assured them it would look accidental and allow them to be elsewhere when it went up. Suckers, both.

I was at the vet with Humpy waiting for the doc to call us in for his shots. The news hour was on the lounge television when a breaking news story about a new home fire erupting in massive flames was announced by an on-the-scene reporter. I found myself smiling as Humpy tried to mount my leg. Not because of Humpy - just the address of the fire.

Arson investigators contacted me the next day. My name was on the deed, as well as Rita's. They found a probable source of the fire: a lawn mower gas can nearby the water heater. Fumes, they figured, had gotten into the pilot light and set off the explosion - or someone made it look that way.

As instructed by Jackie, I told the investigator I didn't live there. Just my Ex and her new boyfriend. The investigator's eyebrows went up. Jackie had said that would happen. It would take me off the probable suspect list since I added that I was at the vet with Humpy at the time of the fire. I offered to show him Humpy's bill. He just looked at Humpy with a grin and asked Humpy, "A man who takes care of his dog - can't be an arsonist, can he, Humpy?"

A police investigator came calling next. He wanted to know my whereabouts for the day before. I laid out my day for him: insurance beneficiary changes, a trip to my lawyer, the post office with cameras undoubtedly, a stop by my Ex's place to pick up Humpy, and then I was at the vet's office when the fire started. Consistent with my report to the arson investigator. However, I let him know my ex had a new live-in boyfriend. That raised his eyebrows just like the arson investigators.

I called the insurance company and the mortgage company to tell them about the sad and heartbreaking news. As for me, they had both good and bad news. The bad news was that the insurance didn't have replacement value premiums. I wasn't getting enough money to rebuild the house without coming out of pocket for the balance.

The good news was that the amount covered the mortgage balance, just as Jackie stated. It also covered the damage to household items clause for $10,000. I smiled at that. Rita had over $30,000 of goods I had paid for, but she was only going to be able to collect the $10,000. Pissy, I know, but that felt a little bit good to me. At least ass-hole wouldn't be wearing any more of my clothes!

The news of the day only got better!

I was in contact with my lawyer again. Jackie's instructions were to confirm that the divorce settlement stated that Rita only got the proceeds from the sale at the loan payoff.

Bingo!

The insurance company would pay off the loan. The home's sale value would be -nothing! It was gone! Nothing in the settlement said I had to replace the house if it was lost. Her lawyers hadn't thought of that; neither did mine, but demur Jackie did!

She told me to offer a 'damn dollar' to take back the property after explaining to Rita that she would have to pay for the demolition of the site and haul-off of the fire debris plus the fire department services cost of putting out the fire! Rita went ballistic when she found out I didn't have to pay those charges since the burnt shell was hers now - free and clear - as the saying goes, that golden nugget felt good to deliver!

Rita took the bait without contacting her lawyer. She was royally pissed. My lawyer delivered the offer and picked up the paperwork from her temporary living quarters — her momma's single-wide trailer over by the campgrounds.

My lawyer said the dollar offer was crazy when I picked up the quick-claim deed.

"Why do that? You know you're now responsible for that clean-up shit?" He asked quizzically.

I said, "Crazy like a fox - is only half of it! I own the land now free and clear -- for one dollar! The foundation is fine. I can clear the site for around $1,600 and put up a new house for less than paying a builder to do it - I'm in the business, you know? I have a 'silent partner' to help foot the bill." I said with a grin as wide as the Rio Grande!"

I was onsite clearing debris when the arson investigator, Humpy's friend, drove up. That was about a month after Jackie disappeared. I was damn surprised when he opened the door, and Humpy scrabbled out and into a dead run toward me. Grabbing him up, he washed my face like a bowl of vanilla ice cream. I looked at the detective with raised eyebrows.

He smiled and answered my raised eyebrow question, "He's yours now. It seems the judge downtown at the criminal division decided your Ex wasn't fit to have him — seeing how she's locked up and all."

I could have shitted a brick when he said that.

"How the fuck did that happen?" I practically screamed with joy.

His bemused, loquacious voice answered, "The police department got an envelope with timestamped photos of Rita and her asshole sidekick together in front of the house from a television news reporter. She got it in the mail from an anonymous source."

He pulled open an envelope and showed me copies of the evidence. The asshole held a gas can in his hand while kissing Rita and laughing next to the water heater. Another showed the fucker pouring gas on some newspapers and putting both next to the water heater while she watched with a big shit-ass grin. The time stamps were forty-five minutes before the explosion.

"Holy Bucket of Shit!" I exclaimed, genuinely surprised.

For the last month, I was confident Jackie Wilson had set that fire! But she disappeared that same day without a trace before I could ask. I'd even gone down to her parent's place to check with them when they returned from their second honeymoon Gulf cruise. At least that was the house I went back to where she drove her Maserati out of the garage the next day. Damn nice Maserati -- not gold, though, thank God.

It turns out they didn't have a daughter named Jackie. No kids at all!

So ... who the fuck was the beautiful, sloe-eyed angel that turned my life around?

"Yeah, go figure." The investigator said, "They claimed some Asian woman conned them. They claimed they could make a lot of money by burning down your house and get double the insurance money if it was declared accidental. Your Ex claimed the woman belonged to some mysterious organization and that she was 'The Fixer' who helped people make a lot of money in this kind of stuff. Fucking goofy story. I can't believe your Ex and her yogi-lover thought we would fall for that bucket of shit. Damn glad someone got those pictures of the two of them in the garage!"

"I can ... I mean, you gotta know my Ex, detective. She always went for the gold!"

"Guess now she is in a deep bucket of shit — not chocolate?" I asked, not giving a damn about it. I was feeling a bit of relief, too. I thought it was Jackie, but she fixed it, so Rita was the source of the fire. Rita and her live-in aerial yoga lover! It served them right!

"I can see you're all kinds of broken up about that, Danny," he replied with a broad golden grin perfectly matching his gold shield. Oh! By the way, the criminal judge said to tell you that you don't have to send any more alimony checks to your Ex. She's not going to be needing them for the next sixty years.

Good luck with the new build. It looks like you will make out like a bandit on this 'Fixer' Upper!"

"Hello, Jack! Yes, it's Jackie Wilson, the realtor in El Paso! I spoke with the fellow interested in buying your property. I gave Mr. Sanchez my usual sales pitch, and he understands the terms and conditions. He is highly motivated and gets the point about the sharp competition he faces. I expect he will close quickly. Good luck with the sale!"

That was the message board drop that I left for JW. All code speak for informing Jack Wilson that 'The Rat' understood what would happen to his 'cajones' if he didn't come clean at the deposition: a sharp sword would be looking for his family jewels.

I had made a jail visit to his cell and served him lunch two days after the safehouse location went belly up. I stood at the cell door, just staring for any sign of recognition. It's funny how the dawning look of recognition spreads across someone's face as fear instantly follows it. I just watched and reached over my shoulder to pull the hilt of my sword up from under the collar of my police uniform and then slid it back down. I heard the tray clatter to the floor as I walked away. He got the reminder; loud and clear.

I would track the case for another two months before the Feds turned Gloria Moreno loose on the streets for lack of an indictment. She had no job, skills, or funds alone on the streets. I watched her from down the road. She couldn't make up her mind to walk left or turn right. She just stood on the corner in a daze outside the Federal lock up. That's how the system works.

I rolled up next to the curb and looked at her through the window. She seemed to recognize me even though we only met twice, and I was wearing a police officer's uniform at the time of her arraignment. I motioned for her to get in the Maserati. It didn't take a genius to see she was broken, fragile, and susceptible to being picked up standing on street corners. Time to get her grounded in a new identity and new life before she gets sucked back into the Mexican-Cartel world again. She knew the cartel's inner workings and knew the ropes. Perhaps as a 'Fixer,' I could use that to my advantage somewhere down the road ...

Time to fix Gloria Moreno's situation for good -- she needed to rendezvous with her lost family and put her past life behind her.

As for Danny, I check in on him from time to time. No actual contact -- just electronically, to see that he is doing okay. His social media tells me he started his own construction company. Rebuilt the house he and Rita lived in and sold it for seed money. I had arranged a construction loan for him from a local mortgage firm -- he didn't have any credit -- but the loan officer who arranged for it wasn't exactly unaware that I knew he had a dalliance with Rita for a while. He had met her a few times to arrange for signatures on their burnt to a cinder home -- at a local motel for several days the week of their signing. Amazing how a short blade sword scratching your balls in the middle of the night as you wake up can be so damn persuasive.

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