'Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy (4 page)

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Authors: Leslie Langtry

BOOK: 'Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy
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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 hadn’t asked 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 nunchucks 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. 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 FIVE
[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 had 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. Of course, the limo driver had been Dak, who had 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 and 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 other 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 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’d had the loveliest blue eyes. And when he 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 after Romi went to school, 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 was 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 that 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, and a small crate. 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.

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