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Authors: Leslie Langtry

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BOOK: 'Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy
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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 knew, or well, you know what happens.
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. 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 TWO
“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 all right?” 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 a 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 was 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 quinceañera. 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 guessed 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 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?
BOOK: 'Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy
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