'Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy
Leslie Langtry
Published by Leslie Langtry at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Leslie Langtry
(This ebook is part of the author's backlist and was originally released in mass market paperback)
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Chapter 1
“On a large enough time line, the survival rate for everyone will drop to zero.” ~Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club
No one really liked family reunions. I got that. But when I listen to people complain about it ’round the water cooler, I couldn’t help rolling my eyes. I mean really, try it when you come from a family of assassins. Kind of gave “avoiding Aunt Jean’s potato salad” a whole new meaning.
That’s right. Family of assassins. I came from a line of murderers dating back to ancient Greece. Mafia? Puhleeeese. Ninjas? Amateurs. Illuminati? How pedestrian. My ancestors had invented the garrote, ice pick, and arsenic. And Grandma Mary insisted that the wheel had actually been devised as a portable skull crusher. I’d tell you the names of some of our famous victims through history, but I’d had to sign a confidentiality clause in my own blood when I was five. So you’d just have to take my word for it.
I turned the engraved invitation over in my hands and sighed. I hate these things. We only held them once every five years, but for some reason, this time, the reunion was only a year after the last one. That meant someone in the family had been naughty. That meant one of my relatives was going to die.
As I stroked the creamy vellum paper, for a brief moment I thought about sending my regrets. But only for a moment. After all, it wasn’t an option on the R.S.V.P. card. Unlike most family reunions with sack races, bad weather and crappy
T-shirts, where to refuse to go only meant you weren’t in the ridiculous all-family photo, to turn down this invitation was death. That’s right. Death. Any blooded member of the family who didn’t show was terminated.
Now, where had I put that goddamned pen? I rattled through the “everything” drawer, looking for the onyx pen with the family crest engraved in gold on the side. It may sound pretty calloused to throw a centuries-old family heirloom in with tampons, fishing hooks, batteries, and ten-year-old packs of gum, but I didn’t exactly have the usual family sense o’ pride.
I found it behind some broken cassette tapes and dusted it off. The coat-of-arms practically glowed on the cold, ebony surface. Crossed sabers entwined with an asp and topped off with a vial of poison. Lovely. Really sent that warm, homemade chicken-soup kind of feeling. And don’t forget the family motto, carved in Greek on the side which translates as, Kill with no mercy, love with suspicion. Not exactly embroider-on-the-pillow material.
The phone rang, causing me to jump. That’s right. I was a jumpy assassin.
“Ginny?” My mom’s voice betrayed her urgency.
“Hey, Mom. I got it,” I responded wearily. Carolina Bombay was always convinced I would someday skip the reunion.
“Don’t use that tone with me, Virginia.” Her voice was dead serious. “I just wanted to make sure.”
“Right. Like I’d miss this and run the risk of having my own mother hunt me down.” For some reason, this would be a joke in other families. But in mine, when you strayed, your own family literally hunted you down.
“You know it makes me nervous when you don’t call the day you get the invitation,” Mom said, whispering the words the invitation. It was a sacred thing, and to be honest, we were all more than a little terrified every time we received one. (Did you ever notice that the words sacred and scared differ only by switching two letters?)
“I’m sorry,” I continued lying to my mother. “I just popped the R.S.V.P. into the mailbox on the corner.” And I would too. No point taking any chances with my mail carrier losing it. That would be a stupid way to die.
“Well, I’m calling your brother next. I swear, you kids do this just to torment me!” She hung up before I could say good bye.
So, here I was, thirty-nine years old, single mother of a five-year-old daughter (widowed – by cancer, not by family) and still being treated like a child. Not that my childhood had been normal, by any means. You grew up pretty quick with the ritualistic blood-oath at five and your first professional kill by fifteen.
To be fair, Mom had a right to be nervous. She watched her older sister, also named Virginia, get hunted down by Uncle Lou when she had failed to appear at the 1975 reunion. That really had to suck. I’d been named after her, which kind of jinxed me, I think.
In case you hadn’t noticed, my immediate family members were all named after U.S. states or cities (Lou was short for Louisiana, much to his dismay, and Grandma Mary was short for Maryland). It was a tradition that went back to our first ancestors, who thought it would be a cute idea to name their kids after locations, rather than actual names. My name was Virginia, but as a kid I went by Ginny. Of course, that had changed in college when everyone thought it was a real hoot to shorten my name to Gin. That’s right. Gin Bombay. Yuck it up. I dare you.
Bombay had been the last name of my family since the beginning. Women born into the family weren’t allowed to change their names when they get married. In fact, the husband had to agree to change his name to Bombay. You could guess what happens if they refuse.
Non-blooded Bombays were allowed to miss the reunion, as were children under the age of five. Bombays had to let their spouses in on the “family secret” by the time the first reunion in their marriage rolls around. It wasn’t exactly pillow talk. And of course, you weren’t allowed to leave the family once you know, or well, you knew what happened.
Most of us didn’t even tell our spouses until the first five-year reunion. I guess I’d been lucky, if you could actually call it that. My husband, Eddie, had died of brain cancer four years into our marriage. And even though I’d seen the lab results, I still eyed my cousins suspiciously. And while I’m fairly certain we haven’t figured out a way to cause cancer, with my family, you never know.
Roma, my daughter, had been born one month after Eddie died. I’d given her the traditional place name, but rebelled against the state thing. I called her Romi. I smiled, thinking about picking her up from kindergarten in a few hours. She was my whole life. All arms and legs, skinny as a stick, with straight, brown hair and big blue eyes, Romi had given me back my laughter when Ed passed.
My heart sank with a cartoon boing when it hit my stomach. Romi was five. This would be her first reunion. She would have to be drawn into that nest of vipers that is the Bombay Family. Her training would begin immediately after. And in a couple of weeks, she’d go from playing with Bratz dolls, to “icing” them. Shit.
Chapter 2
“We are all dead men on leave.” –Eugene Levine, comedian
The doorbell rang and I automatically checked the monitor in the kitchen. Yes, I had surveillance monitors. Hello? Family hunts us down! Remember?
“Hey, little brother.” Despite my weary voice I gave Dakota a vigorous hug.
“You alright?” he asked more with mischief than concern.
“You’re joking, right?” And I knew he was. Dak loved Romi almost as much as I did. He just found the whole family of assassins thing amusing most of the time.
“Well, we went through it and survived. Besides, the training is pretty harmless for the first few years.”
“Harmless? That’s an interesting way to describe turning your kindergartner into a cold-blooded killer.”
“Maybe you could write the guidebook! The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Turning Your Kindergartner into an Assassin.” Dak laughed in that easy way he had about him. Single and thirty-seven, he was handsome and funny. And I should mention that he was single by choice. Dak, like most of the people in my family, had “commitment issues.” Personally, I thought they took the family motto a little too seriously.
I rolled my eyes, “Yeah. That would work.” Hey! Was he calling me a complete idiot?
“Look, Ginny, it’s not like you can refuse to go.” He looked sideways at me. “You are going, right?”
“Duh! Do you think I’m stupid? Like I’d let you raise and train Romi!”
I loved my brother. We were close. We even collaborated on jobs. He had taken this whole Prizzi’s Honor lifestyle in stride. After three millennia of contracted kills, the family was extremely wealthy and we all lived off of huge trust funds. In the past seventy-five years, after some smart investing, no one has had to do more than one or two hits a year. So we all lived comfortably. And we got Blue Cross and dental.
Dak eased back in the kitchen chair, rudely devouring my Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies. Bastard.
“Look Ginny, it’ll be fine. Romi can handle it.”
I shook my head, “That’s not all I’m worried about.”
He stopped eating and for a moment I thought I might have a few cookies left. “Oh. The other thing. What’s up with that?”
“I don’t know. You hear anything?”
Dak shook his head, “I heard Uncle Troy almost got busted in Malaysia last year. But he’s on the Council and they don’t bust you for almost fucking up.”
I snatched the Milano bag from him. There was only one left. “Yeah, I haven’t heard anything either.”
“I guess we just see who shows up and. . .” He gave a dramatic pause a la Christopher Walken, “ . . . who doesn’t.” (Insert creepy, “dun, dun, dun,” music here.)
I looked at him, and not just as treacherous cookie thief. “How can you be so cold? We’re talking about our family here!”
“And there’s nothing we can do about it until it happens. I just hope it isn’t someone we like.”
Dak was right. If it had to be someone, I hoped it would be one of the more assholish relations. Everyone has someone like that in their family. Right? There are definitely some folks I wouldn’t miss too much.
I picked up my cup of coffee. “We didn’t mess up in Chicago, did we?” My mind raced to remember the details.
Dakota shook his head, but seemed disturbed, “No. It was a clean kill. Nice work, by the way.”
“Thanks.” Our hit had been screwing so many married women that there were plenty of suspects in his death, of course, we’d done such a good job, the police didn’t even consider murder. I smiled, remembering painting the inside of the chain smoking son-of-a-bitch’s condoms with pure nicotine (which of course, killed him). That was fun. Rolling each condom up and putting them in the bags so they didn’t look “tampered with” on the other hand, was not.
“Maybe it’s nothing,” I murmured. “Maybe they’re going to give us an earlier retirement age.” Who was I kidding? Bombays are allowed to retire at fifty-five, although most don’t. I mean, Grandma’s pushing eighty, and just last week she rubbed out a made man in the Sicilian mob. There’s definitely something to be said for loving what you do.
Dak laughed. Pushing a stray lock of sand-colored hair off his forehead, he replied, “Could be Uncle Lou has found a new poison.”
I perked up. Poison was my specialty. Everyone in the family had a favorite way of killing people, even though we were required to cross-train. With my brother, it was asphyxiation and/or strangulation. And while I should probably worry about that, it made us a good team because we both liked to make each job resemble death by natural cause. Of course, occasionally we ran out of time and had to leave the scene of the crime with a plastic bag still on the victim’s head, but that happened only once when I’d been running late from picking up Romi from preschool. And Romi always came first. I had to have my priorities straight, after all.
Most gigs took place in other parts of the country. We had to maintain discretion. But occasionally, the job had to be local. We were supposed to get more time to plan those. Oh well, Murphy’s Law, blah, blah, blah.
“I haven’t heard any gossip,” I said absently.
“Maybe with Delhi turning fifteen, and Alta and Romi turning five, they just want to focus on the ritual?” Dak offered, albeit not helpfully.
“I don’t know. . . they’ve never done that before.” And there it was. My baby would learn about the family. She’d start practicing with the chemistry set and sniper rifle that came standard with the blood oath. Ooooh, I hoped she would get the new, tricked-out Remington with laser sites! What? It wasn’t different from first communion, a bat mitzvah or quinceanera. Right?
Dak slapped the table, startling me into spilling my coffee. “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it until we get there.” He rose and kissed me on the cheek. “I gotta run. I need a new swimsuit for the trip.” He punched me in the arm and left with a wink.
I guess I’d have to start packing soon. The reunions were always held at Santa Muerta, a private island the Bombays owned off the coast of Ecuador. Hmmm, the weather would be hot. And as beautiful as it was there, I wasn’t sure I wanted the family to see me in a swimsuit.
Who was I kidding? Everyone was going to be way too paranoid to notice I’d put on a few pounds. And then, I thought about Romi.
Picking up the phone, I called my cousin Liv (short for Liverpool, if you’re keeping tabs on the place-name thingy. And if anyone had a right to hate her name, Liv took first prize). She answered on the first ring. The Bombays practically invented caller ID.
“You got it?” she asked breathlessly.
“Yup. You?”
“Yeah. I’ll be over in five.” On that, she hung up.
Actually, she made it in four minutes flat. Assassins really know how to kill time. (Sorry. I couldn’t resist.) I let her in and we went into the kitchen, where I poured her an iced tea.
I loved my kitchen. I hated cooking, but I loved the kitchen. Considering that I dealt in death so much, I had filled the room with bright, cheery colors. The paint was yellow, and the curtains and potholders were citrus green. It was the room of my denial. And for me, sometimes denial was better than most orgasms. Not that I had been on the receiving end of an orgasm in a while. Try years.
Liv sipped her tea, then set it down, “I hate this.”
I nodded. “Me too.”
“I’d say it’s not fair, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Well, we went through it and survived,” I mused, realizing I was parroting Dak’s words.
Liv shook her head. “I never wanted this for Alta.”
“Woody took it in stride . . .” I started.
She raised her right eyebrow. “I know, but he’s a boy. I don’t mean to sound sexist, but they’re different.” She wisely avoided looking at me (I hated that “boys are different” crap). “So you’re okay with it?”
“Not really. But there’s no alternative.”
And there wasn’t. Things are pretty black and white when your options are either live or die. And as far as I knew, no one had ever tried to get their kid out of the ritual.
Liv tapped her fingers on the counter, her eyes a million miles away. She was gorgeous, kind of in an earth mother/cold-blooded assassiny sort of way with long, black hair, soft brown Bambi eyes (that could turn you into stone when she was pissed off), and no makeup necessary. Who else would name her kids Woodstock and Altamont? She specialized in political kills. Especially neoconservatives. I kind of envied her that. Lately, I’d just been getting crooked lobbyists and tobacco execs. Booooorrring.
Liv and I had always been close. Being the same age will do that. Her husband, Todd, was one of my best friends. He was a great guy, funny and smart. He was laid back, not minding the “family business” at all. Marrying a Bombay hadn’t changed him.
“What does Todd think?”
Liv smiled, “He’s spent years preparing for this day - the day his baby girl becomes a professionally trained killer. He’s more interested in her survival than anything else.”
I nodded, “Since we have to do it anyway, maybe we can train them together. . .you know. . .ease them into it gently?”
She perked up. “Okay. Maybe we can work something out.”
While most women sitting in a kitchen might discuss the weather, local schools and Oprah, we chatted for about an hour about a new garrote Liv had come up with that didn’t leave telltale lines on the victim’s throat. Earth-mother beauty or not, that girl was as strong as an ox when it came to throttling someone. We avoided the “other issue” of which family member had a target painted over his or her picture in the Portrait Hall of Santa Muerta. It wasn’t really coffee klatch material.
“Let’s have lunch tomorrow,” she suggested as she ran out the door.
Sure, I thought as I rinsed the glasses in the sink, she had a husband to help ease the guilt. I had to make the decision myself.
What was I thinking? Of course Romi would go and take the blood oath. I wasn’t going to risk her life for a simple bloodletting and do-it-yourself murder kit. (Especially if it included the new Remington S-2000. Yum.) Besides, it would be ten years ’til her first kill. So I had some leeway there. I shoved these thoughts aside.
I had something more important to worry about. The reason for the quickie reunion, basically. I did a mental head-count of the thirty-five blooded members of the Bombay clan. But nothing remotely resembling an idea came to me, so I gave up.
I resigned myself to waiting. Well, and mapping out the basement to prepare for Romi’s training. I made a list of things I would need; fifty-pound heavy bag, strong piano wire, archery set, mannequins, and night-vision goggles. They were put on the shopping list next to potatoes and milk. I could stash the chemistry set in the corner, near the windows for ventilation. But I didn’t have a room long enough to shoot a .22 sniper rifle.
With a sigh, I opened the phone book to find shooting ranges. I had a lot to do today, and finding a swimsuit that would take off twenty pounds simply wasn’t on the list.
Chapter 3
“You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.”
- Vladimir Nabokov
Borders Books was, as usual, crowded. I tried the search computers to find a book in the children’s area on assassination, but came up blank. I guess that shouldn’t have come as a surprise. What did I expect? Titles like, Harold and the Purple Silencer, Good Night Moon. . .Sleep with the Fishes, or Dick & Jane Poison the Federal Witness?
I ducked into political science and scanned the titles, looking for something simple, like a pictorial guide to assassination. I found one book, but it was all amateur hits like John Lennon, President Ford, and Abraham Lincoln. Oh well, I guess that would have to do. The photos weren’t too gory, and they had the Rasputin story (one of my personal faves) in there, so I thought it might work.
“Excuse me,” purred a male voice with a thick Australian accent.
“Oh, sorry. I’m in the way.” I turned to see who had the delectable, come-hither voice and found myself face to face with the most gorgeous man I had ever laid eyes on.
“No, you’re okay. I just wondered what time it was.” He smiled, and I melted into an embarrassing, oozing puddle.
“Um,” I looked at my wrist, “Eleven-thirty.” How’s that for sparkling conversation?
He grinned, his eyes wrinkling in the outer corners, and I thought I was gonna die. “Thanks.”
Look for a ring! Look for a ring! I had the ability to observe things so discreetly no one knew I existed. Unfortunately, hot Aussies tripped up my mojo. I was convinced he saw me look at the ring finger of his left hand.
“Sure. Anytime.” Anytime? What the hell does that mean? I wouldn’t mind running into him anytime, but I was making no sense. Mental note – don’t accept jobs where you have to hit men who have accents.
The God-Among-Men (I had the habit of giving people names with a Navajo kind of ring to them) laughed and walked away. I just stared with my jaw open until he disappeared. Grace Kelly, I was not.
An hour later, nestled in the corner of the café with a huge slice of Death by Chocolate cheesecake (I love that name) and a large mocha latte, I found myself wondering if I really could kill someone with chocolate cheesecake. No, that would be a waste of perfectly good chocolate. Most of my hits didn’t deserve to die so richly.
“Interesting books you have there.” The Aussie was back.
I looked around. No, he was definitely talking to me!
“May I join you?” he asked, “There are no other open tables, and I’m intrigued by your reading list.”
I nodded like a bobble-head doll, and he pulled up a chair.
“Diego Jones.” He held out his right hand, and I took it.
“Ginny Bombay.” I returned his shake, and felt my cheeks go hot as he examined my boobs. . .I mean books.
“Political Assassination, Assassination through History, Encyclopedia of Assassins,” he read through the titles casually, “and Assassination Vacation?” He held up one book.
“Oh, that’s by Sarah Vowell. She’s one of my favorite writers.” It was true. I’d loaned my copy to Dak, and he promptly lost it. It was a very funny book about her pilgrimages to presidential assassination locales. I liked funny.
“So,” Diego began, “Ginny Bombay?”
I braced myself to hear the same joke I’d heard for the past. . . well hell, all my life.
“Would that be short for Virginia?”
What? A real conversation with no joke regarding the implied alcoholic content of my name? I should jump him before he realized what an idiot I was.
“Wow. You’re good. Most people come up with something far more lame when I introduce myself.”
Diego laughed again. “Not me. My mum was eccentric in choosing her kids’ names too.”
“Oh, really?” I tried to act casual as I unwittingly sprinkled salt into my latte.
Diego raised one eyebrow. I casually set down the salt shaker as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Mum was an artist back in Sydney. She had a thing for the Mexican muralist, Diego Rivera. My sister got it worse. She’s Frida Kahlo Jones.”
I laughed. “My family is hung up on place names. My brother is Dakota and my mom is Carolina.”
He chuckled, with those delightful wrinkles at the outer corners of his eyelids. I tried very hard not to swoon. At least, not obviously. He was perfection. Dark, wavy hair, cool James Dean sideburn slivers, smiling blue eyes and the most gorgeous white teeth.
Diego took a forkful of salad and I fantasized about being that fork – especially having his tongue slide over my tines.
“So why this particular subject?” He gestured toward my tower-o-terror.
Fortunately, I wasn’t too distracted. I went into cover mode, telling the story I’d used for years. “I’m in executive protection. Just occupational curiosity, I guess.” Claiming to be a bodyguard had worked well for me over the years. It explained my bizarre reading habits and chaotic work schedule. Yep, my cover had always been 100% reliable and unshakeable.
“No kidding? That’s what I do!” Diego grinned.
Okay, not so unshakeable. “Really?” I asked, hoping he was teasing me. I’d never met any bodyguards in person before. I usually just had to slip around them unnoticed. Well, there had been that one time when Dak and I had gotten jobs protecting our hit. That had been hysterically ironic.
Diego nodded. “Absolutely. Who do you work for?”
Calm down, Gin. Just use the patented answer. “A motivational speaker on the East Coast. You?” Nice transition.
“I’ve worked for political clients mostly.” He went on to name a number of senators, mayors of major cities, and the like. He seemed legit. I was just grateful none of the names had been on my list in previous years. “So I understand your area of interest.” He pointed to the books. “I’m kind of an assassination nut myself.”
I leaned back in my chair, appraising the situation. That was what we did, by the way – appraise situations. You didn’t think we just barged in and gunned people down, did you? No, that’d be soooo Squeaky Fromme. I decided that Diego was definitely safe to talk to, and certainly a candidate for some killer sex.
“So what’s your favorite assassination in history?” I asked. I never got to ask civilians this question. This could be fun.
Diego looked to his right, deep in thought. “I guess it would have to be Kennedy. All that conspiracy stuff is pretty interesting.”
I smiled. I knew who had been on the grassy knoll that day. Assassination tales had been my bedtime stories.
“Too recent for me,” I responded. “I like the questionable cases too, but further back. I prefer Philip of Macedon.”
“Ah.” His gravelly accent sent shivers down my spine. “Murdered at his daughter’s wedding reception. I thought they knew who did that.”
No one knew that. Well, except the thirty-five members of the Bombay family. It had been on a test we had to take when we turned ten. Let’s just say that another guy took the fall for that particular assassination. Rule #1: If you can make it look like someone else did it, go for it.
“That’s what some historians think.”
“And you know the truth?” Diego-My-Love responded. I pictured myself licking every square inch of his body.
“Of course not,” I said. “That’s what makes it my favorite.”
“I like you, Ginny Bombay.” Diego leaned back in his seat, “You’re not like other women.”
You have no idea. “Sure I am,” I said. “Just like all the other female bodyguards you meet at Borders.”
Diego shook his head. “No. You actually eat.” He pointed to my dessert. “And I’ve never seen anyone salt their latte before.”
My mind scrambled for purchase on slippery thoughts, “Oh, that. I do that to counter all the sweet stuff.” Nice try. But the latte was terrible with salt in it. Really, don’t try it. Assassin fun fact #1: Did you know you could kill someone with a simple overdose of table salt?
“I hate it when women eat only salads and fruit. It’s not right,” Darling Diego continued.
“Well, you know what Erma Bombeck said,” I responded. “Never turn down dessert. Think of those poor women on the Titanic who waved away the dessert cart.”
Diego laughed. It was amazing. I made him laugh. It was the most incredible feeling of euphoria, and I wondered how I could get him to do it again.
“Just one thing,” he asked. “Who’s Erma Bombeck?”
I rolled my eyes. “A woman writer. She was very funny.”
“I don’t care who she is,” he said, “I’m just happy to see a woman who enjoys her cake.”
I chose not to be offended by the remarks of the future Mr. Ginny Bombay. “Good. Now prove you’re not a hypocrite and go get yourself one.” I pointed to his salad and whole grain bagel with veggie cream cheese. “Cuz that is not food.”
He leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “Only if you will wait for me.” I think I nodded or something because he laughed and walked to the counter. I’m pretty sure it took all my faculties not to be naked when he returned.
And so for the next two hours, Diego and I had a great time. We talked about nothing really, and yet the conversation seemed so profound. At least, I think it was. It was all I could do not to hit him over the head and drag his unconscious body to the nearest hotel. Not that I’d ever done that.
Imagine my horror when I looked up at the clock (the only time I took my eyes off him, I might add) and saw I had only ten minutes to pick up Romi from school.
“Shit! I’ve gotta run!” I said gracefully, as I shoved my books back into the bag.
“Wait,” Diego protested. “Here’s my card. Call me and I’ll take you to dinner.”
“Deal!” I shouted behind me as I ran from the store. I slipped the card into my pocket, threw my things into the minivan and raced to Kennedy Elementary.
Romi ran from the door of the building into my arms. She weighed next to nothing but always managed to knock me back a few steps. I didn’t mind. In fact, her strength would be a benefit to her training. Did I really just think that?
“Virginia!” A booming contralto filled the air. I watched as the other parents scattered as soon as they heard the woman’s voice. Cowards.
Great. Vivian Marcy. I really hated that bitch. President of the PTA, member of the School Board, and for some reason, Romi’s Room Mom. I had grown up with Vivian Marcy. We’d been in the same class in school, she’d been an evil witch there too. For YEARS I’d prayed she would turn up on my hit list.
Unfortunately, Vivian still hadn’t pissed off anyone enough to warrant a death contract. On several occasions, I thought of taking one out on her myself, but figured I’d get busted. Bombays aren’t allowed to come up with the targets, unless it’s family. Still, hope springs eternal.
I knew I wasn’t the only one who hated her. Since childhood she had spread her withering gaze like a thick layer of rancid mayonnaise. (Hey! That kinda rhymes!) The bitch dominated everyone around her. I had stood up to her once, early in my elementary school years. She’d managed to spread the rumor that I had syphilis cooties. None of the other second graders had known what that was, but they were convinced they’d catch it if they talked to me. So I’d punched Vivian in the nose at recess. The next day, she came down with a raging case of chicken pox, or as my classmates insisted – syphilis cooties.
While I’d enjoyed the fact that kids had been afraid of me, let’s just say I didn’t get a lot of play dates. Fortunately, I’d had Dak and Liv.
My dream hit would be to give Vivian syphilis cooties. A real mean, permanently scarring kind that would give her eternal body odor and halitosis. Of course it doesn’t exist, but I keep the candle of hope burning.
“Well,” Vivian said as she closed in, “if it isn’t Virginia. Just who I was looking for.”
Chapter 4
Martha: “Well, dear, for a gallon of elderberry wine, I take one teaspoonful of arsenic, and add a half a teaspoonful of strychnine, and then just a pinch of cyanide.”
-Joseph Kesselring, Arsenic and Old Lace
No one, and I mean no one, called me “Virginia.” Even my family respected that. Well, except for Mom. And if you saw her practicing with her throwing knives, you’d let it slide too. Somehow, Vivian had zeroed in on this when we were kids and did it just to piss me off.
“What do you want, Vivian,” I said in clipped tones, hoping she would get the point.
She didn’t. “I need you to bring four dozen cookies to the Halloween party.”
Inwardly, I groaned. Outwardly, I think I smiled, kind of like a dog when you can’t tell if it’s smiling or snarling. “But that’s six weeks away. Why not tell me later?”
Vivian arched her right, perfectly waxed eyebrow. “I just wanted to make sure you bring home-baked cookies, not just something you pick up at the last minute at Hy-Vee.”
“What?” My fingernails carved into my palms. I toyed with hitting her in the nose again. Maybe she would get chicken pox this time too.
Vivian Marcy crossed her arms over her St. John velvet jogging suit. “It just seems more homey and personal when you actually put in the work, that’s all.”
Put in the work? “Vivian, they’re five. They don’t know or care if the cookies are homemade.”
“Really, Virginia.” She actually rolled her eyes, “I’m not asking for much. Just some cookies decorated like ghosts. That’s all!” She glanced down at Romi, who was eyeing her with suspicion. Good girl. “I have to go. The PTA’s executive officers are meeting in a few minutes. Don’t forget. Homemade cookies.” With a departing smirk, she turned on the heels of her Prada sneakers and headed back into the school.
“Mommy?” Romi asked. “Is it okay if I don’t like her?”
I took her hand and squeezed it lightly. “Yes, honey. In fact, I think that’s just fine.” Okay, maybe not the most mature response, but I didn’t care.
Back at home, my super-intuitive daughter and I had our snack, followed by work on a shoebox she had to decorate for school. By five o’clock, she was happily watching her favorite cartoons, and I was whipping up a gourmet batch of frozen chicken nuggets and french fries for dinner.
You might think that being a stay-at-home mom, I’d be a little more conscientious when it came to dinner. Not me. I hated cooking. Really. In fact, Vivian’s request - no, demand - that I make and decorate four dozen cookies really set me off. Of course, I would buy them from a grocery store. Just because she ordered me to do something didn’t mean I’d do it. I had my dignity after all. Plus, thinking of Vivian’s words would be “inspiration” during my next hit. That made me smile.
“Mommy?” Romi asked while we snuggled on the couch to watch Survivor, Arctic Circle. I suppose you think it’s bad to allow your kid to watch TV, but I found this particular show educational.
“What?”
“Alta said we’re going on vacation soon. Where are we going?”
“Well,” I said slowly, “we’re going to an island in the ocean for a family reunion.”
“Oh.” Romi turned her attention back to Survivor, laughing as the contestants tried to start a fire in the snow. I mean, it wasn’t as sexy as the more tropical versions of the show. It’s kind of hard to get a tan and run around scantily clad in the snow and ice. I was hoping they’d have to dodge a hungry polar bear or at least a rabid harp seal before the season ended.
Later that night, as I collapsed on the couch, ignoring the dirty dishes and baskets of unfolded laundry, I felt a wave of relief that Romi didn’t ask more about our upcoming trip.
What should I tell her? Eddie had always been good at this kind of thing. A stab of guilt hit my stomach when I realized I’d never told him the truth. He had accepted taking on the family name with no problem. I guess when your name was “Johnson,” anything else looked good.
Damn. Much as I’d like to avoid it, I’d have to tell Romi something. But what? What had mom told me? I had no memory of that. It was as if I’d been born knowing that nun-chucks and plastique were in my future.
There were parenting books on potty-training, raising polite children, and so on, but nothing for this problem. Maybe I could manage somehow. For thousands of years, my family had transferred our history to each new generation. What did they do?
Looking at the clock, I saw it was too late to call Mom, Liv or Dak. I turned off the TV and took a book up to bed. Light reading would take my mind off it until tomorrow when I could actually do something. Once curled up with a pillow and blankets, I opened my book and within minutes I was laughing my way through The Dead Zone by Stephen King. I loved that book.
Chapter 5
[A grenade lands at his feet]
“And everything seemed to be going so well.”
-Dwight, Sin City
If you were to stand in front of my house, you would; a) not see my secret attic, and b) draw the attention of my surveillance monitors, making me very, VERY nervous. But let’s go with the first thing, shall we?
I had a lovely, Victorian house in the Queen Anne style. Behind the low-pitch, center gabled roof was a hidden dormer room, my secret workshop.
When I’d bought the house, I’d been single and fresh out of college. (I had majored in Russian Lit and minored in botany. More on that later.) Because of my unusual family business, I had hired a carpenter/electrician from Chicago to put in a “special room” for me.
Bombays are supposed to be extremely discreet. So I’d thrown an insane amount of cash at the guy I picked for the job. After exhaustive research to discover that he worked alone and moved around a lot with no family commitments, I’d hired him and sent a limo to pick him up to bring him to the house. Of course, the limo driver had been Dak, who’d given him a cup of coffee laced with one of my special knockout drugs. Robby Carmichael hadn’t known what hit him. He had woken up in St. Louis. . .or rather. . . he thought he’d awoken in St. Louis.
Instead, he’d been here. I’d put him up in the guest room, and he’d begun work immediately. My cover story had been that as a single woman, I was incredibly paranoid and wanted a secret “safe room.” Robby hadn’t watched TV, listened to the radio or gone out. He simply ate, worked and slept. Those had been the conditions of his job, and I paid him well.
The whole time he’d been here, I wore a wig, fat suit, brown contact lenses, and several facial warts. I’m sure he’d wondered why I needed a “safe room,” considering my appearance, but to his credit, he had never asked. Once he’d been done, I killed him so no one would know I even had this room.
Just kidding. Bet you thought I really iced him, eh? Nah. I had just rendered him unconscious and had Dak deliver him home. He had woken up in his bed, none the wiser and a whole lot wealthier.
The secret room was completely white, with a ceramic, tile floor. The ceiling had skylights disguised as solar panels. There were ten different surveillance monitors on the wall opposite the door.
Metal bookshelves took up the rest of the space, filled with jars labeled with numbers. This system made sense only to me. There was a small desk with a laptop computer and one of those really cool, ergonomic task chairs from Levenger’s.
Bolted to the floor, in the middle of the room, were two lab tables and a sink littered with beakers, test tubes, a microscope and slides. There were no personal effects, except for a poster with a kitten dangling from a branch saying “hang in there.” My mom had given it to me when I started training.
Anyway, my daughter didn’t know about my workshop yet. Why not introduce her? (Romi, this is Mommy’s death lab. Death lab, Romi. Actually, she’d probably like the kitten poster.) I don’t know. She thought of me as her mother; bedtime storyteller, owie-kisser, cuddler. I wasn’t ready to reveal that side to her. It was schizophrenic, but that’s what made it tolerable. There were two Gins; one who was a model mother, perfect daughter, etc. And one who could hogtie a man in such a way that the slightest release of tension in the rope could break his neck. That had taken all of my sixth grade year to learn, by the way. And there were NO merit badges for that kind of knot-tying in Girl Scouts. Believe me. I checked.
My lab was so well-concealed that my late husband hadn’t even known it was there. Of course it helped that he had been oblivious to anything outside of his den. He had once gone three weeks without noticing that I bought all new furniture for the living room. In fact, I’d had to tell him. Compare it to the day I had borrowed his letter opener (not for a job, but to actually open letters) and laid it on his desk instead of placing it back in his cup. The man had freaked out.
Of course, I had loved that about him. I had loved everything about Ed. He’d been smart, quirky, funny, and he had the loveliest blue eyes. And when he had laughed at one of my jokes, I swear I levitated off the ground with euphoria.
Where was I? Right. My lab. Anyway, the laptop was my entire office. Grandma Mary would kill me (if I have to explain it at this point, you haven’t been paying attention) if she knew how much stuff I had in there, including files on every member of the family.
That was where I found myself the next morning, sitting at my desk, checking up on the Bombays. I thought if I could figure out who was going down, I might have an edge. Even with family, you can never have too much leverage. And I have to admit I was a little worried for my own immediate family. Common sense told me none of us were in danger. At least I think that’s what common sense was telling me. Either that, or I was hungry.
Deciding not to take chances, I locked up and hit the kitchen. Two Ding Dongs and a half can of Pringles later, I threw on a jacket, grabbed my purse and headed out the door. Whenever I felt overwhelmed or on edge, there was one place I could go to relax.
“Hey, Ginny!” Vera looked up from the register.
“Anything new, Vera?” I asked, hopefully.
The old woman threw her thumb over her shoulder. “Yup. In the back. Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” I headed to the back of the shop. Vera always had something special for me when I came in, which was often. She ran the best pet store in town.
“I thought I’d find you here.” Dak’s sudden appearance made me jump.
I made a face. “You know me so well.”
He knelt down beside me. “Maybe, but I’ll never know why you come here so often.”
“Well.” I sighed, peering into the large, glass case. “It’s therapy really. Calms me down.”
Dak tapped on the glass. “Why don’t you just get one of these guys?”
Good question, I thought as the puppies raced over to inspect Dakota’s finger. Why didn’t I get a dog? I love dogs! And I would achieve godlike status in Romi’s eyes.
I rose and lifted the lid of the box, carefully scooping up a Pug puppy. Vera always let me handle them. Not many people were allowed to. But I came regularly, and once I had roughed up two goons who were bothering her, so I guess that made her trust me.
In spite of what I do, I would never, ever, hurt an animal. Not that I’ve ever been asked to. No Bombay has ever killed an animal, as far as I know. (Well, there was that gorilla, but he had known sign language and we just couldn’t leave witnesses behind, could we?) Of course, it may have something to do with the fact animals don’t sell guns, drugs, or spill their guts to the wrong people. Unless you’re a signing gorilla. And trust me, he’d had it coming.
“I don’t know,” I said in response to Dak’s question. “It’s a lot of responsibility.”
“And being a single mother isn’t?”
I shook my head. “Look, I can manage to keep myself, a child and a backyard full of plants alive. I don’t think I can add one more life form to that equation.”
“Okay, Mr. Spock.” he laughed and took the squirming pup from me.
“You’re right, I guess.” I sounded like an idiot. There was really no reason not to get a dog. The Pug struggled in my brother’s arms, trying to get back to me. I lifted her to my face and a licking frenzy commenced.
“You know what?” I said more to myself than anyone else, “I’m gonna buy you. Right now!”
And that was just what I did. Dakota helped me fill a shopping cart full of puppy food, toys, a small crate, etc. I handed Vera my credit card, and she smiled.
“Finally! After all these years, I never thought you’d do it!” she teased.
“Well, I had to do something at some point or you’d ban me from the place. Besides,” I looked at the snoring pup in my arms, “how can I resist a girl who snores?”
Back at the house, I felt a spring in my step. I was happy, giddy really. Dak and I set up all of Poppy’s stuff. That’s what I named her, Poppy. It was kind of a sentimental botanist/assassin thing. Soon we were sitting in the living room, my newest purchase happily sleeping in my lap.
“So,” I finally asked, “why’d you come looking for me, anyway?”
Dak’s smile faded a bit as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a large, manila envelope.
My mouth dropped open. “I have an assignment? Now?”
He nodded. “Yup. Mom dropped it off this morning.”
“DAK!” I screamed. “I don’t have time for that now! With the reunion coming up, having to tell Romi about everything and four dozen ghost-shaped cookies to bake! Why did you let me buy this dog?” I felt more than a little betrayed.
He raised his hands against my outrage. “Whoa! Don’t shoot the messenger! It’s just a job. I thought maybe getting Poppy would help relax you, is all.”
“WHAT?!” I seriously considered shooting him. “How can I relax now? Oh my God! I wonder if Vera will take her back?”
I looked at the little dog, curled up in my lap, oblivious to my rantings. She was awfully damn cute. What the hell was I going to do with her? And the reunion was coming up! What was I thinking?
“Calm down, Gin!” Dak smiled that big, toothy smile that peeled clothing off young blondes. “You need some sort of break. You don’t have to do the job right now. You know that.”
He was right. I had at least a two-week window. But with that damned reunion coming up, there wasn’t much time to prepare.
“And you know Dad or Todd will watch her. They never go to Santa Muerta.” He looked at his watch. “Ooh. Gotta run, Sis. I’ve got a date tonight.”
I nodded weakly as he let himself out. Oh sure, he has a date. I’ve got an untrained, narcoleptic puppy and an oblivious kindergartner. Dak was probably meeting some hot chick for dinner somewhere nice. Bastard. I never get to do that. And while I didn’t necessarily mean I wanted a hot chick, anything would be an improvement over my current celibacy situation.
Something clicked in my frazzled brain. I gently placed Poppy on the couch and retrieved my purse. It was still there! I walked to the phone and dialed the number on the card.
“Hello?” that hot Aussie accent purred in the receiver.
“Um, hey, is this Diego?” Who else would it be, moron?
“That’s right. Who’s this?”
“Gin. . . Ginny Bombay. We met at Borders, remember?”
A warm, luscious laugh filled my right ear. “Of course! I don’t easily forget a woman who salts her latte.”
I laughed nervously. “Well, I was calling to take you up on your offer for dinner. If it still stands, that is.”
“I’d like that!” He sounded sincere, and my naughty bits became warm and tingly. “How about tonight?”
“Um, sure! Where can I meet you?” It wouldn’t do for him to see my assassin’s lair. Not on the first date, anyway.
“How about Antonio’s at seven?”
Italian food? Did he know that was the way to my bed. . . I mean heart? “Great. See you then.”
I hung up and immediately dialed Liv.
“Sure, I’ll babysit for Romi and Poppy! I love dogs!” she effused.
“So why don’t you have one?” I thought Dak’s question was fair, even though he didn’t have so much as a houseplant.
“I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. “It just seemed like too much of a responsibility.”
Obviously I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. “Well, enjoy your time with Poppy, then. Maybe she’ll change your mind. I’ll drop them off at six-thirty.”
“Great. See you later.” Liv said before hanging up.
Okay. Dak had said I needed to relax. And that’s what I would do tonight. Relax while mentally undressing Diego. Actually, I wasn’t going to wait to do that. My imagination was just getting to the part where I tear off his boxers with my teeth, when I saw Poppy squatting on the carpet. And it wasn’t because she was doing lunges. Terrific.
Chapter 6
“Murder is always a mistake. One should never do anything that one cannot talk about after dinner.” –Oscar Wilde
It was kind of funny. I mean, I’d killed lots of men. Some of them had been really scary, intimidating types. And yet, here I was, at Antonio’s, waiting for Diego and I was terrified. I guess it had just been a long time since I’d had a real date. And by real, I meant a date that could end up with me and a man naked in a bedroom.
Anyway, he wasn’t late, I was early. Which I know you aren’t supposed to do. I was supposed to show up after him, making a clothes-melting entrance. Instead, I was early. Damn my training! Mom always said, “Never arrive late for a job. Or you give opportunity to your victim.” Was I thinking of Diego as a victim? That made me sound a bit predatory, didn’t it?
At least I looked okay. . . I thought. In trying to give the appearance that I could casually throw anything on and walk out the door, I tried on seven different outfits. Two hours later, I settled on dark blue wide-legged dress jeans, a red V-neck cashmere sweater with a white camisole, and my PRADA kitten heels. Now all I had to do was stop sweating, not wet myself and somehow keep my heart from bursting out of my chest a la Alien.
“You want anything to drink while you wait?” The waiter stood in front of me expectantly. Great. He managed to point out that I was alone, which in food server speak meant “loser.”
“Um, how abut a glass of shiraz?” I managed weakly. Way to project those killer instincts.
The waiter nodded and left. I looked at my watch. Again. Not much had changed since the last time I checked. So I concentrated on behaving normally. By the way, that wasn’t as easy as it sounds. Remember the latte dilemma at the book store?
“You look fantastic.” Diego pulled out his chair and joined me.
“Thanks,” I replied, “you do too.” Breathe Gin, breathe. No need to be nervous. After all, you’ve killed men for doing less than dating you.
The waiter appeared with my wine, and Diego ordered a beer. Now we actually had to come up with something to say.
He really did look amazing. A simple shirt, opened to the third button blazed brilliant white against his bronzed skin. A black blazer and khaki chinos just looked perfect on his body.
“Come here often?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah. I like this place.”
“My first time.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I haven’t been in town long enough to try everything.”
Did I just imagine it, or was he implying that I was one of the things he should try?
“Did you just move here?”
“Temporarily,” he answered. “I’m in town for a couple of months with a client. The company’s headquarters are located here, and he’s been reassigned to the area for about six months.”
He could leave me in six months? I began to mourn for a relationship that hadn’t even begun yet.
“I see,” I said sagely. At least, I hoped it sounded like sage wisdom. With me, you could never tell. “Then where will you go?”
Diego put down his beer and smiled again, “Probably back to Europe. That’s where he was stationed before.”
Already, in my mind, I had married Diego, only to lose him to Belgium! “Have you ever been to the Midwest before?”
Diego laughed. “No. This is my first time.”
Oooh, the conversation was scintillating, wasn’t it? “What do you think?”
“Not bad. I must say that I find the natives intriguing.”
“I’ll give you the tour sometime.” Ending in my bedroom, of course.
I had to get it together, but it wasn’t easy. In my mind, Diego wasn’t human, but a gorgeous fantasy. We scanned the menus and ordered dinner. The waiter left us with bread, extra virgin olive oil and parmesan cheese. I thought about using the olive oil on Diego.
“So, Ginny, why do you live here?”
Huh? Was that a slam? “I like it here. It’s quiet, there are four seasons, and most of my family lives here.” I might have sounded a tad defensive.
Diego held up his hands and laughed. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Just curious. Most executive protection specialists live in New York, D.C. or L.A.”
Oh riiiiiiight. The bodyguard cover.
“We have an airport. And my client only works a couple of months a year. So I can live wherever, really. Besides, you live here now. And I don’t recall you mentioning living in New York, D.C. or L.A.”
Diego nodded. “True.” He changed the subject. “So tell me about your family. You’re not married --” he pointed to my hand “ -- at least, I don’t think you are.”
“I’m widowed, actually.”
“My condolences,” he said with concern. “I hope I didn’t upset you by asking.”
“It’s alright. Ed died a couple of years ago. . .cancer. I have a little girl who’s five. My parents, brother and some of my cousins live here too.” I watched him carefully to see if my having a kid bothered him. This date could be over pretty quickly. Hunk be damned, I couldn’t tolerate a man who didn’t love kids.
I looked into his eyes. He wasn’t kidding. And he didn’t race out of the restaurant when I mentioned Romi.
“If your daughter is anything like you, I imagine she’s quite delightful.” Diego smiled, completely relaxed. I took it as a good sign. Make that a very good sign.
“She’s wonderful. Funny, smart and independent. I couldn’t live without her.” Okay, now I was spending too much time talking about it. He might think that I’m one of those freaks who lives vicariously through her children.
“I’d very much like to meet her.” He said. And I adored him for that.
“Another time, maybe,” I needed to change the subject and fast. “So tell me about you.” Nice save.
“Not much to tell, really. Grew up in Sydney, went to university there, and moved here. There aren’t a lot of opportunities in our field in Australia. A friend of mine told me there were jobs here in the States, so I moved here ten years ago and have been in and out of your hemisphere ever since.” Ooooh! He said “in and out!”
“Do you ever go home?” I couldn’t imagine being away from my family. They were pretty cool. Violent, sure, but whose family wasn’t dysfunctional?
Diego ran his fingers through his dark, wavy hair and I started to melt. “Oh yeah. Sure. I go back a couple of times a year to see Mum and Frida. Dad passed away a while back, and Sis has a couple of kids now. I’m crazy about my niece and nephews.”
So he loved kids! And his family! I did a lewd end-zone dance in my mind.
“Well, I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know anyone to talk about the murders of famous people with.”
He laughed, by God, and I went all woozy inside, “Right! By the way, I went back and picked up Assassination Vacation. You’re right. It is funny.”
“Well, maybe we could trace her steps someday and have our own assassination vacation.” I choked on my wine – or more accurately, my words. What the hell was I doing making vacation plans with him?
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