The so-called fruit of my loins responded, “Sheckie? Come on, Dad. I can barely stand Louis. Mom thought it sounded intelligent.”
“How old are you?” I asked. Maybe he was a midget teenager. Then I wouldn’t need a sitter.
Louis rolled his eyes. “Not very good at this, are you? I’m six.”
“You’re shitting me!” I said before I could stop myself.
Louis frowned. “You’re not supposed to use that kind of language around me.” He looked around the room, “Actually, this place seems more like a bachelor pad than a home for a kid.”
He was right. I didn’t know what to do. This kid was freaking me out.
“So, what are the schools like here?” Louis continued. “Mom moved around a lot, so I’ve been exposed to several different curricula.”
I searched my mind for info on his mother. I don’t think I ever dated anyone as smart as this kid. Where did the brains come from?
“Romi seems nice. Although a little young. I’m used to older companions.”
Companions? What kind of six-year-old referred to other kids as companions? I rolled my eyes. “Used to spending time with physicists and philosophers, are you?”
Then Louis did something that made my heart sink. He narrowed his eyes and frowned. I’d seen that expression all my life on my grandmother’s, mother’s and sister’s faces. My god. He really was my son. The realization was too much. All the blood that should have been flowing to my cock (hear that, you stupid prick?) drained to my feet. Which was how I ended up in a clump on the floor.
CHAPTER SIX
“Blinded by the light. Remmed up like a docent in the humble of the might.”
- Paul, The Vacant Lot
Mom and Gin showed up later that night with shopping bags full of clothes, toys and more presents than I ever got. Of course, they were for Louis. While Mom bathed him and tucked him into my old guest room, Gin lectured me on what I needed to do to register him for school the next day.
“You should get to Kennedy Elementary early so they can show you around and he can even sit in on a class.” Gin was focused. This was her thing. Gin was even in the PTA.
“I don’t know. I was thinking of taking him to the hospital.”
My sister looked alarmed, “Why? Is he sick?”
“No. I just thought I’d get a head start on the paternity test.”
Gin frowned and narrowed her eyes. Just like Louis had. They could be mother and son. I gulped.
“Dak! That boy is your son. His mother just died. If you run him in for the tests tomorrow, he’ll think you don’t want him.”
“I don’t want him!” I cried.
Gin responded with a right cross to my jaw. She was good. That was going to leave a mark.
She crossed her arms over her chest. Uh oh. “You, little brother, are going to grow up, once and for all. You were stupid enough to ignore birth control, and now you’re gonna be a man or I will kill you.” I was pretty sure she meant it.
“What’s all the yelling out here?” Mom came out of my guest . . . um, Louis’s room, that same Louisy scowl on her face. “I just got him to sleep. What is wrong with you two?”
Gin threw her arms up into the air and dropped into a chair. I thought that looked like a good idea, so I sat on the couch.
“I think you’d better stay the night, Mom.” I was pretty sure she’d turn me down. But I was way over my head here.
“Of course,” she responded. Apparently I’d underestimated her maternal instincts. I gave her a dazzling smile.
“Don’t pull that shit with me, Dakota.” She sighed. “I’m doing this because I’m afraid if I don’t, you’ll sneak off to the bars tonight, leaving my grandson alone.”
She can read minds? You know, that explains so much.
“Well, thanks for that vote of confidence,” I responded.
“So. You’re a father now,” Gin said. “What are you going to do to take care of my nephew?”
I looked at the two most important women in my life. Mom, who coddled and spoiled me. Gin, who taught me how to sight a sniper rifle and used to beat up my bullies. And who very recently saved my life. Damn. I was totally screwed.
“I’ll take him to school tomorrow. Then, this weekend, I’ll find something for us to do together. Get to know him, that kind of thing.” I sounded mature, but really I was just saying what I thought they wanted to hear.
“I think this will be really good for you, Dak,” Gin said as she picked up her jacket from the back of the couch. “Maybe you’ll grow up.” She kissed Mom on the cheek and made it out the door before I could say something really cutting and witty. I don’t know what that would have been, but if I had something, I would’ve said it.
Mom brought her duffle bag in from the car and in minutes had changed into jammies. She took my room (it was closer to Louis), and I had the couch.
I’d bought the sofa for its make-outability. I’ve never had to sleep on it. Oh well. I had a son now. It was time to make sacrifices. As I lay there, uncomfortable as hell, I thought that at least I’d given Mom what she wants. Maybe she’d back off on the whole notion of me getting married. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all. I got the kid without the work.
“When are you going to give Louis a mother?”
I woke up to find Carolina Bombay standing over me. I looked at the clock. 3:45 a.m.
“Jeez, Mom! Go to bed!” I was pissed. I’d been in the middle of this dream where I was being bathed by naked Nordic women. And they were giggling. A lot.
Mom sighed her eternal sigh of martyrdom (after forty years, she really had it down) and padded off to my room. Fortunately, I was able to pick up the dream again. Unfortunately, we’d apparently gotten past the sex and were all fully clothed. Thanks, Mom.
I got up a few hours later and sat in the kitchen with a cup of black coffee. It was way too early for Louis or Mom to be up but I couldn’t sleep.
My masculinity was in serious trouble and I knew it. In the last few days I’d had erectile dysfunction twice, fainted, and got socked on the jaw by my sister and bullied by Mom. My life was completely messed up and I didn’t have anyone I could kill . . . I mean blame. Now all I had was no sex life, actual marketing work for the family, and a son. What the hell?
It was obvious that Gin wouldn’t take Louis and raise him. She was my best shot. Maybe Mom would, but then she would’ve taken him home last night. I walked down the hall to my guest . . . I mean son’s room. The walls were covered with airplanes, trains and cars. How in the hell did they wallpaper that room without me knowing? That’s creepy.
My eyes rested on Louis. He looked pretty cute all curled up and sleeping. I know this will sound weird, but I do love kids. Romi has me wrapped around her cute little finger. I just thought I had more time for fatherhood. And I kind of expected a kid who talked like a kid, not Einstein.
Louis sighed and rolled over. He looked so small. I remembered that he was here because his mom was dead. The guilt hit me harder than Gin’s right cross. This little kid was holding up well, especially being with the dad he never knew. I should cut him some slack. He wasn’t really responsible for my problems.
I don’t know how long I stood there watching him, but it must have been a while because the doorbell rang. The Thomas the Train clock said 7 a.m.
Gin and Romi pushed past me through the doorway and raced off to Louis’s room. Obviously, they both thought I was completely useless. I followed them to find Mom fully dressed (how the hell did she do that in the time it took me to answer the door?) with Gin choosing Louis’s clothes. Louis and Romi were in the kitchen having cereal for breakfast. I must move in slow motion, I thought to myself. Either that or I was experiencing a blackout. How did these women move so damned fast?
So, being totally ignored, I showered and dressed. At 8 a.m. we rolled out like some Secret Service caravan – Gin’s black minivan, my black SUV and Mom’s black Town Car. In minutes we pulled up in front of Kennedy Elementar
y.
“Here are some forms that need to be filled out by the parent,” Mrs. White, the secretary, informed me. Mr. Steuland took Louis down to his new classroom. Gin had just returned from dropping Romi at her class, and Mom stared at me as if she thought I was about to sprout two new heads.
I turned toward the paperwork. How hard could this be?
Full name. Um. Louis Torvald-Bombay. Middle name? Shit. Tripped up by the second question. That couldn’t be good. I looked up at Gin and Mom, but they wouldn’t know either. I’d just skip that. Address – no problem. Parents’ information – easy. Date of birth. Uh oh. I could just make that up, I guess. But that would make me look stupid when Louis (and I was pretty sure he would) corrected me.
I tried to skip it, but the questions just got harder. Social Security number? Kids had those? I didn’t get one until I turned twelve. Physical ailments? Should I put overdeveloped brain? Medical history and shots? Dental exam? I was so screwed.
“Um -” I looked up at Mrs. White - “can I take this home with me and bring it back?” Mom and Gin looked at each other like they knew I couldn’t do it.
“Certainly, Mr. Bombay.” Mrs. White smiled. “Your sister explained the situation. I imagine you have paperwork on your son at home. Just bring it in tomorrow morning.”
Gin scolded me on the way out to the car, “You don’t know his middle name?” She stopped walking and looked back at the school. “They aren’t supposed to let him attend school without a physical.”
I was getting sick of her. “Don’t go back there and tell them that! I have five hours to myself today and I need it.”
She turned toward me. “This is not all about you!”
“Just shut up, Gin!” Oooh. Oscar Wilde I ain’t.
“I could just kill you for being so irresponsible!” she yelled.
“I should kill you just for hitting me yesterday!” I shouted back.
“Knock it off, or I’ll kill both of you,” Mom hissed. That worked. Mainly because we knew she could. And she’d make it hurt, too. There was no quarter given where Mom was concerned.
The three of us stormed off to our cars, agreeing to meet back at the school at 3 p.m. I went home and called that pencil neck who dropped off my son, wondering if the Council would allow me to kill him for not telling me my son’s middle name. Priorities, I told myself. Get the paperwork first – kill him later.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Have you ever tried to pick up your teeth with broken fingers?”
- Fergus, The Crying Game
The next thirty-six hours (that’s how assassins think – in hours, not days) were a blur. Bob Riley apologized profusely for not giving me the paperwork. Of course, you’ll do that when hanging upside down out of a window four stories above a concrete parking lot.
I had to give Helga credit. She’d kept medical records from the day (October 1, 2000) Louis was born. He didn’t have a middle name, though. How weird is that? While in Bob’s office, I filled out some paperwork (which he assured me would be processed immediately - turns out Bob’s a little scared of heights) to add my last name to his.
Louis and I settled into a sort of routine. I took him to school and picked him up afterwards. We’d chat about nothing serious – mostly because I couldn’t understand a word he said – get through dinner at a fast-food restaurant, then it would be bedtime and we’d do it all over again.
I think the kid and I were warming up to each other. But I hadn’t had sex in a week and that was a serious dry spell for me.
Since I couldn’t do much about the sex with Louis around, I agreed to meet Paris to go over the marketing project after dropping Junior off at school the next day.
“This is due in eight days,” Paris said.
I sighed. “I know. So let’s get to it.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday. Liv says you’re spending the weekend with Louis,” he scowled.
I slapped the table. “Listen! Do you want to do this or not? My life hasn’t exactly been a bunch of roses lately! Cut me some slack or do it yourself!”
Paris leaned back. “All right. I get it. Sorry I’ve been pushing it. I know you’ve had a lot on your mind with the kid and celibacy and all. Let’s talk about it now and get it over with.”
I shook my head. “Let’s not. It’s all I’ve been thinking about for the last four days. I’d rather be distracted by this crap.”
Paris studied me for a moment, then nodded. He’d been my best friend since we were little kids. Hell, we even trained together. So he knew when to give up.
“All right,” he said, “I’ve gone over this stuff and noticed that in the last two years, our assignments have decreased by twenty-five percent.”
I tapped my pencil. “Maybe there are fewer people to kill? Maybe they don’t have as many assignments to hand out anymore?”
“No, I don’t think so. Look at these figures.” He pushed his laptop toward me. “Our work load has been steady for four thousand years. This is the first time we’ve had a drop off.”
“Okay. So you think we need to work on our image?”
Paris nodded. “I’ve come up with some ideas. Nowadays, companies use branding to reinforce their status with consumers. I’ve been working on some logos.” He slid the laptop toward me again.
“Jesus, Paris!” The screen was filled with every image of death you could imagine but with a Madison Avenue-type spin. There were skulls, coffins and nooses superimposed over staplers, file folders and computers (staplers?). “I don’t know about this.”
“Okay.” Paris pushed another key on the laptop. “How about this?”
You might think that as an assassin, I’d seen everything. And up until this moment, I would have agreed with you. But we’d both be wrong. Dead wrong.
There, on the screen, in full color, was Grandma, dressed like the Orkin Man, holding an Uzi instead of bug spray or whatever the hell it is that they hold. She was smiling, standing next to the legs and feet of an apparently dead man. The caption read: “Bombay Pest Exterminators – Discreet and Efficient Disposal of Your Problems Since 2000 BCE.”
“Are you kidding me?” I asked Paris. Maybe he was.
A hurt look crossed his face. “No. I’m not This is what I came up with.”
“Jesus, Par! You can’t do that.”
Paris threw his pen at the table. “Well, if you’d been here to help me, I could’ve come up with something better!”
“If you think for one minute I’d rather have a dick malfunction, dating problems and a new son, you’re more screwed up than I thought you were!” I shouted.
Paris sank his face into his hands. “Crap,” was all he said.
I took a few minutes to calm down. This wasn’t his fault. None of it was. “I’m sorry.” And I was, too. I’m not all bad. “You’ve got me all day. Let’s see if we can come up with something else.”
Paris looked at me, and after a moment he smiled. Good. Because this exterminator stuff had to go. Especially the hard hats. Chicks don’t dig hard-hat hair.
Two hours later, we’d come up with a sadistic play on Nike’s “Just Do It,” and a terrible rendition of the Vegas ads, “What happens with the Bombays stays with the Bombays.” Nothing clicked. We were just ripping off the big boys.
Apparently, my marketing skills were rusty. After promising Paris that I would spend the night thinking about our project, I called Gin and arranged for her to pick up Louis from school and keep him overnight (she was thrilled, by the way). Then I headed to my local public library to get some research materials.
You might think you could find anything at a library. But you’d be wrong. Apparently, no one writes books on marketing for mom-and-pop assassination corporations. I found stuff on selling your retail, non-profit, Internet, wholesale and general services companies. There was guerrilla marketing, viral marketing, and other crap, but nothing geared toward maintaining interest from the same clients, and certainly nothing on working with the CIA, Interpol, or others.
The closest I came was a book on the management of death. No kidding. It’s target readership seemed to be funeral homes, crematoriums, cemeteries, etc. Apparently, death was a growth industry. (Hmmm, death and erectile dysfunction. I wonder if there really is a conspiracy.) Still, I’d been here three hours and came up with nothing, so I reached for the book.
A tall redhead snatched it before I could. She literally took the book out from under me, and it was the only copy.
“Hey!” I whined. “I was going to check that out!”
The woman turned to me. “So?” She frowned and began to walk away. Oh my god. It was Leonie Doubtfire!
“Hey!” I shouted. My vocabulary had apparently abandoned me. “Wait a minute.”
“Yes?” she asked a bit impatiently.
I was frozen. I didn’t know what to do. She looked like a child or woodland fairy. All of my atoms were riveted to the spot, and I couldn’t move.
The redhead rolled her eyes and walked away. And I stood there, like an idiot, saying nothing.
After about two minutes, I uprooted myself and went back to the marketing section. I found myself in a daze, grabbing about five or six books at random and checking them out. Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in my car trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
She didn’t remember me! Me! That had never happened before. Nope. Every woman I’d ever met remembered me. I stood out of the crowd. Women wanted me, dammit! Why didn’t Leonie Doubtfire want me? And why hadn’t I said anything? Oh my god! I’ve lost it. I’ve really lost it!
When I got home, I opened the yellow pages to physicians, therapists, stylists and priests. My mojo, sexuality and ego were AWOL. Obviously, I needed some help.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I bet it was that mouth that got you that nose.”
- The Boss, Lucky Number Slevin
Greatest Hits Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-4) Page 24
