'Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy Page 8

  The problem of a disruptive child was addressed when a well-dressed Daisy in a clean tunic told another girl, “No, Darwin didn’t favor Intelligent Design.” This child was deemed rude and the tight-lipped leader whisked her aside to two chintz-covered wingback chairs for a gentle chat. The girl, realizing the error of her ways, promised to move to India and take up Mother Theresa’s mantle in ridding society of poverty. She was then allowed to rejoin the group.

  By the time parents in the video arrived to pick up their angels, Liv and I were completely slack jawed. The leader had time to talk to each set of parents (that’s right, both mom and dad, dressed in suits, came to pick up their darling) about their daughter’s progress. Once the meeting ended, Tight-Lips told us that the most important thing was to have control of the meeting at all times. And her hair was still perfect. Really. No pipe cleaner fuzz or glue anywhere. Bitch.

  Okay, so maybe I exaggerated a little bit, but it was the most idiotic thing I’d ever seen ... and believe me, I’d seen stupid things in my line of work.

  Eldamae rejoined us, handing us blank copies of the same test we took prior to the meeting. I had barely filled in my answers when she presented us with two cards, signed by her.

  “Keep these. Anytime you get training, we’ll add to it. Thanks for becoming a volunteer.” She packed up and was out the door before I could say anything.

  “That’s all we need to know?” Liv asked in shock.

  “Uh, I, er,” I mumbled.

  Neither one of us moved for maybe twenty minutes. We kept thinking someone would burst through the door, saying, “Just kidding!” This wonderful someone would hand over thick, colorful volumes that answered every question we had, and give us sage words of advice and an arsenal of Jedi mind tricks to use on our troop.

  Instead, a thin, waspish woman poked her head in and told us to leave. The bridge club needed the room.

  I wanted to kill her and Eldamae. And I probably could’ve gotten away with it too, if Liv hadn’t dragged me out to the car.

  “We are so screwed,” I finally said after my fourth consecutive cup of coffee.

  Liv nodded. “No shit. This is worse than the Falconi hit. Remember that?”

  My turn to nod. How could I forget? Liv and I had just turned twenty-one and decided to take out this mob guy together. You know how it is when you’re in your twenties—you think you’re bulletproof?

  Of course, we had done all the research. But while we were throttling him in his upstairs bedroom, a couple of Mafia-endorsed hit men were climbing the stairs to teach him the “forever lesson.” We dove into a closet just before the door opened. Those bastards spent two hours in that room before leaving. Several times, they had approached the closet, but something stopped them. I was pretty sure my heart gave out three times that night. To this day, I still had an irrational hatred of closets.

  “And those bastards took credit for the hit too! I’ve never seen Grandma that pissed off.” I poured another cup of coffee in an attempt to drown that memory.

  “Well, Gin, we’ll just have to get through it.” Liv slapped the table decisively.

  “Great. At least we don’t have another meeting for a while.”

  “Two weeks, right?” Liv asked.

  “Yeah.” Why was everything in two weeks?

  “Shit, Gin! That’s when we’ll be in Santa Muerta!” Liv’s eyes grew wide.

  “We could always take them with us, like a camping trip.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh yeah, that would work.”

  “I’ll send out a memo rescheduling the meeting. Besides, Santa Muerta looks better to me than that classroom.”

  Liv nodded, looked at her watch, said good-bye and fled.

  As I locked up, I realized postponing the meeting was a pretty easy decision. Hmmm ... watching a family member die or spending an hour with the Daisies, who by the way had not seen the video.

  I drifted off to sleep, fantasizing about the many uses of duct tape and psychotropic drugs.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Mr. Pugh. Here is your arsenic, dear. And your weedkiller biscuit . . .”

  —Dylan Thomas, Under Milkwood

  I was running out of time. I had to get rid of Vic before the reunion. My to-do list had grown to epic proportions:

  1. The Job

  2. The Reunion

  3. Begin Romi’s Training

  4. Begin Poppy’s Training (or put carpet cleaner on speed dial)

  5. Learn to Run Daisy Meetings (without stun guns)

  6. Order four Dozen Scary Halloween Cookies

  As you can see, I had my priorities. If I could get the job done before the trip, I was pretty sure I could handle whatever got tossed at me, with the possible exception of #5. Oh, and the stun guns would be for the girls.

  I had everything I needed. I had managed to whip up a lethal lookalike heart medication and fill the empty gel caplets I bought at the health food store. With just one dose, Vic would find his blood pressure boiling and his heart beating in time to a calypso death spiral. To a bored coroner on a Friday night before quittin’ time, it would look as though there had been a simple (albeit deadly) screwup at the pharmacy. Now all I had to do was break back into the house and “refill” Vic’s prescription bottle.

  A couple of days ago, I’d taken the Silly Putty out of its shell, carefully slicing it in half so I had the two sides of the key impression facing up. Once it hardened, I poured in a special resin I invented (all this and good looks too—can you believe it?) and allowed it to set. After joining the two resin key sides together, I used the key grinder to fine-tune it for one-time use. That’s all the resin would hold up for, but it was all I really needed.

  Bulk order of Silly Putty ... $20.00

  Key grinder purchased from eBay ... $55.00

  Seeing Vic’s obituary in the paper and easing any family conflict in the process ... Priceless.

  Dad agreed to come over and watch Romi and Poppy since it was a school night. I waited until my daughter was asleep, then took a shower with unscented soap, put on unscented deodorant (the invisible kind, of course), then slipped out of the house dressed in black yoga pants, a black long-sleeved T-shirt, black socks and shoes, carrying a bag with, you guessed it, a black stocking cap and latex gloves.

  I really hated latex gloves. It was like when you pump gas and get some on your hands and you smell those chemical fumes all day. I hated that.

  Where was I? Oh yeah, in the hedges behind Vic’s house. And no, I didn’t just go over there cold. According to Liv’s research, Vic was going to the annual meeting for his company. It was my only opportunity. The bastard didn’t give to charity or make appearances at public events. Creep.

  The key turned noiselessly in the lock, and I shut the door behind me. Ugh, the kitchen again. Apparently, Vic had attempted some minor cleaning. This guy was a slob. Good for me in that he would be careless with his medication and probably ignore the symptoms of his heart attack. Bad for me because it smelled like he had some prehistoric eggs rotting in the sink.

  I moved quickly up the stairs to his bathroom. It only took a few seconds to dump his meds into my bag and refill it with my own, personal painkiller.

  I was just about to head down the stairs (and perform a little celebratory dance in my head), when I heard the clink of glass breaking in the kitchen. I froze in mid-step. Did Vic have a cat? There’d been no evidence of that. And the way this guy kept house, I would have smelled a neglected litter box.

  For a moment, I wondered if he had mice. With the condition of the kitchen, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had dog-size cockroaches. I backed away from the staircase slowly, leaning against the wall and waited impatiently. That’s right, I was an impatient assassin. Several minutes passed without incident. Okay, mice it is, I thought as I gently slipped down the stairs, careful not to tread on the usually squeaky middle part of each step.

  My eyes were adjusting to the darkness somewhat, and I was just about to pass th
e study when I saw it: the silhouette of a man standing at Vic’s desk. Shit. I slipped to the other side of the doorway unnoticed, I thought. After a few scary seconds of crawling through the disgusting kitchen, I slipped out the open door. And into the shrubs.

  The brick wall snagged my clothes. Who the hell was that? Was it Vic? No, a man turns on the lights when he enters his own home and definitely shuts and locks the door behind him. A burglar? Maybe. It was a pretty ostentatious house. I could call 911. But that would be stupid, on the remote chance they might check his meds. Okay, Gin, just go home.

  Was I being followed? The idea froze inside me as a lump in my throat. Something was up with the family. Was I under suspicion? I slid further down the wall, remaining in the shrubbery. If anyone was checking up on me, they might have left someone outside to watch for my retreat. I kind of hoped it was Evil Cousin Richie so I could kill him once and for all.

  I waited for the shadow to exit the house and followed him as he walked around to the front yard. From my vantage point in the hedge, I watched until he disappeared down the street.

  “And you say he was dressed like you?” Dad asked me once I got back to the house. We were sharing a bottle of wine in the kitchen, and I told him what had happened. I was boiling down Vic’s meds in a pot on the stove. Once dissolved, I’d flush the water and stick the pot in the dishwasher on “high.”

  I nodded. “Yup. All in black.”

  Dad leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully. I, however, had just started to notice a particular odor souring the room.

  “Burnt popcorn? Dad!” Was there any smell more obnoxious than burnt popcorn? Even worse, it was done on purpose. Dad’s favorite snack was seriously charred popcorn. Mom couldn’t get him to give it up. I had a popcorn ban on my house because of it, but apparently he had ignored that and smuggled some in.

  “What?” He feigned innocence. “Romi wanted some.”

  “Dad! You promised!” I whined.

  He smiled. “Okay, never again.”

  “You know what will happen to you if you go back on that promise!” I threatened as I rummaged under the sink for a can of Ozium. Of course, my threats bore all the weight of a feather. Mom had threatened him for years with all kinds of nasty shit and he never listened.

  I sprayed the air liberally. Just a word of advice, never spray it in an enclosed car while you’re sitting there. It displaces oxygen, I think. Bad trip, that was. Great, now all of a sudden I sounded like Yoda.

  “So, you don’t think it’s family....” Dad resumed our previous discussion.

  “I have no idea.” I squinted at him. “You don’t know something, do you?”

  He laughed. “No, I stay out of the family stuff. Life’s a little saner if you forget who the Bombays are.”

  I chewed my lip. “I guess it must be weird for an outsider, huh?” I wondered about people who married in. They received their Bombay Wake-Up Call when they were adults. But we had it spoon-fed like it was a normal thing at the tender age of five.

  “It was, at first. Now I just ignore it and spend the money. Scruples are for suckers anyway,” he said with a wink. “I’m really proud of you, honey.”

  I responded to this Kodak moment by rolling my eyes. “Oh, great. My dad’s proud of me ’cause I can kill people real good.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” he continued, “I mean it’s hard to take on the family legacy and find a way to live with it.”

  “So ... you’re not proud of the fact I can fling an ice pick fifty yards into a man’s eye socket?” After all, I was proud of that.

  “Well, I guess there’s that too.” Dad rubbed his chin. “But you’ve made a good life out of what was given to you. You’re raising a daughter alone. And you managed to get through sixteen years of education without killing any of your bullies.”

  “Sure, when you put it that way.” I refilled his wineglass, then my own. “I’d like to think Eddie would’ve taken the news as well as you did.”

  Dad looked at me, “Don’t get me wrong, Ginny, I really liked Ed. But there was a part of me that was a little relieved that he died before you told him. I don’t know how he would’ve handled it.”

  For some reason, that made sense. In a sick, thank-God-your-husband-got-cancer-before-you-had-to-tell-him-you’ re-a-killer sort of way. But speculation about Eddie wasn’t the problem in front of me.

  “Look,” Dad said, “why don’t you get in the car and drive around Vic’s neighborhood? See if there are cops or something else. I can see you aren’t going to sleep until you know what’s going on.”

  So that’s what I did. First I changed my clothes; then I went to the convenience store to pick up a half-gallon of milk (as my alibi for what I was doing out so late). I cruised slowly past Vic’s house and circled it once. Nothing. With a sigh of relief I drove two blocks back to my house, dismissed my father and chucked the milk into the fridge. I began the ritual cleaning of my break-in gear, scraping all dirt from my shoes into the disposal and rinsing the soles, throwing the clothes into the washer and wrapping the gloves inside of what appeared to be a used maxi pad (doctored with red food coloring, of course). You know, the usual stuff.

  It was past midnight when I finished my shower, checked my arms and legs for telltale scrapes from the shrubs, and crawled into bed. Hopefully, Vic’s death would take place within twenty-four hours and all would be well. Just another random day in the life of Gin Bombay, All-American Assassin-Next-Door.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Forgiveness is between them and God. It’s my job to arrange the meeting.”

  -Creasy, Man on Fire

  I usually give my “concoctions” a few days to work. Sometimes, Vic is the type who doesn’t take his medication regularly. So I decided to put my worries on the shelf and focus on prepping the house for Romi and Alta’s training. Liv and I worked to set up the basement in my house for Little Girls Gone Lethal.

  For an entire day (Dak picked up the girls after school and kept them occupied), we unpacked the new stuff and organized it. I installed locked wooden cabinets to hold the garrotes, dummies and knives. Liv bought a kids’ chemistry set so it would look amateurish (unlike the primo stuff in my workshop). When we were done, we sat back and admired our work.

  Liv handed me a bottle of beer and sat on the new sofa I had put downstairs.

  “Wow,” I noted, “looks like a deranged playroom.”

  Liv nodded. “It does, doesn’t it? Maybe we shouldn’t have gone so crazy with the Disney Princess theme?”

  “Well, it does give it a certain childlike atmosphere. It just looks like this is the part of Cinderella’s castle she didn’t visit so much.”

  “The torture room?” Liv asked.

  “At least there’s no Iron Maiden.” I took a swallow of beer.

  “True.” Liv rubbed her chin. “But I think it’s safe to say that we should have the Daisy Troop Christmas Party at my house.”

  “Deal. By the way, where’s Dak?” I looked at my watch. “It’s getting late.”

  As if on cue, peals of giggling laughter erupted above us. Liv and I moved up the stairs quickly. I was just plugging in the combination code to lock the door when the girls came running in.

  “I don’t think they’ll want dinner....” Dak smiled.

  “We had lots of ice cream!” Romi yelped.

  “I can see that,” I said as I took the dish towel to her face.

  “Uncle Dak rocks!” Alta shouted, and the two danced circles around their hero.

  “Great. Thanks, little brother.” I wasn’t smiling.

  “No problem. Let me know if you guys want me to unfairly overdose your kids with sugar again.” Dak grinned, then fled before I could kill him.

  Liv and I did the only thing we could do: We took our beer bottles and two squealing kids into the backyard to burn off some steam.

  “When should we tell them?” Liv asked quietly.

  “I don’t know. I’m afraid to do it before the reunion
. Romi already tells her teacher too much stuff. The other day, she told her that I gave birth to a puppy.”

  Poppy opened one bulging eye, then went back to snoring on Liv’s lap.

  “Okaaay. So, when?” Liv stroked the pup between the ears.

  “What did our parents do with us?”

  “You know,” Liv said.

  “Uh, no, I can’t remember. Seriously. How did they break us in?”

  She looked at me for a minute, probably wondering if I was teasing her. “They just had us attend the ritual. Then my dad and your mom took us to the bungalows overnight to explain things to us. You really don’t remember?”

  Actually, I didn’t. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little more than alarmed by that.

  I took a swig of beer. The girls were swinging so high I thought they might go over the top any minute now. Thanks, Dak.

  “Let’s do the same thing, then. That way, we can keep all discussion about it on the island until we return.”

  Liv smiled. “I’ll reserve one of the bungalows. We can make pizza. Like a little sleepover!”

  “Yeah,” I said slowly, eyes still on the girls. “The sleepover where instead of using the Ouija board or giving ourselves pedicures, we get to tell the girls how to kill a man using just your index finger.”

  “Well, that’s a little more advanced. We might want to save that nugget until at least second grade,” Liv responded.

  “Good point.” I drained my beer. “We probably shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves.”

  We sat outside until dusk, making plans for the training when we returned from Santa Muerta. Eventually, I wrestled my little sugar junkie into the tub, then into bed.

  I was just picking up my knitting when the doorbell rang. With a frown, I hoisted the comatose Poppy from my lap and checked the security cameras.