'Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy Read online

  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 assassin 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 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 comer, 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 THREE

  “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 saltshaker 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 side-burn slivers, smiling blue eyes and 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 percent 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 over my shoulder 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, and 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 elem
entary 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 had come 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 FOUR

  “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.”

  —Martha, 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 perfectly waxed right 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.”