Tod Goldberg - The fix

"I was going to tell you," I said. It came out sounding a lot like I was going to kill you, so Fiona let go of my face. An expression of eager anticipation glossed over her. I swiveled my head around and reset my jaw. I have to admit, she did look pretty cute when she was ready to really hurt you. "First," I said, "I want to remind you that when Natalya and I had our… summit… you and I were not you and I. And that you and I are not you and I."

"Oh, yes, I recall," she said. "That was one of your sabbaticals." She picked up my plate of food, which I wasn't finished with, walked over to the sink and scraped it all into the garbage disposal.

"Fi, do you want to know what's going on, or do you want to fight about things that happened in the last century?"

"I'm listening," she said. "I am also passing judgment, but don't let that stop you from spinning your little yarn." I told her everything there was to know. I didn't even leave out the part where Natalya told me I was looking good… except I tweaked that a bit to say she'd just complimented me on my suit and asked where I got my sunglasses. All the while, Fiona kept her back to me and pretended to clean her kitchen. As I neared the conclusion, I saw that she'd actually taken out several guns and was lining them up in an orderly fashion aside the drain board. The way the sun cut through the windows in her place made them shine across the room, so that I was nearly blinded by Fiona's passive-aggressive nonchalance.

"What do you propose to do?" Fiona asked.

"Well, first thing, I guess I need to find out why someone in our government is trying to get the Russians to kill me or have me tried for treason, or just pegged as a drug kingpin, none of which seem like great outcomes. And then figure out how to get Natalya to accept that I haven't done what I'm accused of. And, then, if all else fails, see where to get my hands on whatever vig she's in for. Or…" I paused and thought about it. "Or I guess I figure out how to get rid of her."

This brightened Fiona's mood considerably. "Why don't we just jump to the last choice?"

I explained, again, to Fiona that this was a person with kids. With a husband. With a life. That I couldn't just leave a trail of bodies around me wherever I went. Plus, I had the impression that Natalya had… changed. At least incrementally. I told Fiona, "When I said get rid of her, I didn't mean via a bullet to the back of the head and then a watery grave."

"I envisioned a threshing machine. No bullet at all. Very little residual evidence."

The truth was that I was prepared to do what I had to if she came at me.

Or my family.

Or Sam.

Or Fiona… again.

"Let's see where the Gandhi approach takes us first."

"It's nice you could have such humanistic feelings for a person who would have had me killed had I not been ten times more intelligent than she is," Fiona said. "Does she still have that awful hair? I recall her having awful hair and a very sinewy body. Or at least that's how she looked through my rifle scope. Terrible hair and truly repugnant taste in men."

When you're planning to infiltrate a hostile environment, it's important to take into consideration important factors: topography, weather, special equipment needs, disposition of the enemy, need for air support. You want to know the mind-set of the people you'll be dealing with so that you won't be surprised by the choices in logic they make. You want to know how to escape if everything collapses.

You want to avoid Coral Gables.

Specifically, the Alhambra Plaza, home to a pink stone Hyatt Regency and a complex of high-end office spaces and busy courtyards designed to make you feel like you're in Italy on the muggiest day in history. Coral Gables was one of the first planned communities in Florida, which means there are plenty of places for tourists to walk around with wall-eyed wonder at the shops and restaurants, for college students from The U to ride their bikes drunkenly down the wide paseos, and for four-way stops that bottle traffic while drivers consult their maps. A simple clue: Home is to the north. When you hit Canada, stop.

Palm Life's offices occupied the top floor of the Alhambra Plaza and were a testament to the power of pink. Pink marble on the ground. Pink sofas and chairs-all stuffed to the point of cotton explosion- in the lobby. Pink roses in towering vases placed in every corner. If I followed the receptionist home, I'm sure she'd have a little pink house.

As it was, she was young, beautiful, lithe and tanned to the point of crispness. I suspected that her name was probably Star, too, and that if I looked over her resume it would indicate a booming career updating her MySpace page and a degree in Face-book. Unlike the reservation clerks at the Oro, the receptionist here was actually allowed to sit behind a desk, albeit one made of pink marble, too. There were back issues of Palm Life fanned out around her, but I noticed she had an issue of US open on her lap. Didn't anyone read Soldier of Fortune anymore?

"Can I help you?" she asked. I noticed she had her fingernail pierced. Very classy.

"Yes," I said. "I'm Jay Gatz and this is Daisy Miller. We have an appointment with the photo editor concerning our upcoming charity event."

The receptionist raised her ears and eyebrows up at the same time. I guess the look she was going for was surprise followed by deep thought. It was a neat trick. If only more cocker spaniels could do it, the world would be a different, more introspective place. "Why do I know your names?" she said to me.

"He's exceptionally rich, darling," Fiona said. "He's in your magazine nearly every month. Maybe you don't recognize him without his oxygen tank."

This seemed to satisfy the receptionist. She made a few clicks on the computer and then picked up her phone and called someone, presumably the photo editor. Before we'd left Fiona's, I'd checked the masthead and hadn't found a single person listed in that capacity. I figured, best-case scenario, we'd get an editorial assistant who'd just give me whatever I asked for. Worst-case scenario, Fiona would hold the entire place under siege, and I'd get whatever I asked for.

I was hoping for a little uncontested middle ground.

"Hi, James? I have Jay Gatz and"-the receptionist pulled the phone away from her mouth and whispered to Fiona-"I'm sorry. What was your name?"

"Daisy Miller," Fiona said. It didn't matter. The receptionist was already back on the phone.

"Someone here to see you about their charity event." The receptionist nodded, scribbled something down on a Post-it, made a he's so crazy face at Fiona, just two girlfriends sharing the moronic intricacies of the male sex with each other and then hung up. "James says he doesn't have you down in his Crack-Berry, but since it's you, Mr. Gatz, he's happy to get you in." She ripped off the Post-it and handed it to me. "That's Mr. Dimon's office number. His name isn't on the door yet."

"What happened to…?" I began.

"Gunther? Bailed to a younger-skewing magazine in Dallas. Said that was going to be the next hot place. Lots of clubs and stuff. Did you know that Lindsay Lohan bought a place out there? It's about to jump off."

"Darling," Fiona said, "don't you own an oil field there?"

"Two," I said.

"Oil is cool," the receptionist said.

"Like black gold," I said.

The receptionist got up and walked us over to a twelve-foot-tall smoked-glass door and flashed an ID card to unlock it, then held it open as we walked past. Used to be the only places with decent security actually had something to protect. What were they protecting here? The good life?

"I just love your nails," Fiona said, tapping her finger on the ring dangling off the girl's right pinky. "That style is ready to jump off."

James Dimon's office was decorated in Bekins- boxes stacked up in every corner, a desk covered in packing popcorn-but the walls were covered in framed covers of Palm Life, some dating as far back as the eighties. The weird thing about the 1980s is that even though that's when I grew up, I don't actually remember everyone looking like they'd just been cut out of a Nagle painting. I also don't remember seeing so many people wearing shoulder pads. But there they were.