Greatest Hits Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-4)

by Langtry, Leslie

  I started screaming like a little girl (mainly due to the fact that my testicles had just been crushed), “Oh my God! Doctor! Somebody call 911!”

  Gin narrowed her eyes at me, then rolled them. Okay, so it wasn’t much of a plan, but I needed her compliance.

  “Thocther Munth? Thocther Munth?” She knelt down beside the body, which I turned facedown. After shooting me a pissed off look, she continued. “I think he’th dead!”

  Two nurses and another surgeon ran into the room and stopped when they saw their colleague face down on the stick end of a dental mirror.

  We had to stay there for three hours while the police (or “poleeth,” as Gin called them) and coroner came to investigate. At one point I think the Novocain wore off and Gin was in desperate need for painkillers because she fainted. Somehow we managed to convince everyone that the doctor was walking with the implement in his hand, when he slipped on a little puddle of Gin’s drool (I made that part up just for fun – Gin didn’t like it much because when everyone’s back was turned she had to spit on the floor) and fell onto his mirror.

  “Happens all the time,” the bored coroner said to me, “You wouldn’t believe how many people die in freak accidents.”

  Actually, he’d be surprised to know how many “freak accidents” were really Bombay family hits. But I wasn’t about to tell him that.

  “You bastard!” Gin lit into me once I got her back home. “What if I get dry socket? I can’t ever go back there, you know!”

  I ran my hands through my hair. “I said I was sorry! I didn’t expect him to be who he was.” We were talking in code because the kids were in the next room. Diego finished making an icepack for his wife and handed it to her in silence. I knew he was uncomfortable with our livelihood. But he didn’t argue either.

  I took out my cell phone and dialed Paris. “Got one. Four more to go.”

  I could feel him nodding – how weird is that? “I found number two. We’re going to Indianapolis tomorrow.” He clicked off.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “The first rule of Fight Club is – you do not talk about Fight Club. The second rule of Fight Club is – you DO NOT talk about Fight Club. . . .And the final rule, if this is your first night at Fight Club, you have to fight.”

  - Tyler Durden, Fight Club

  “Are you sure this is him?” I whispered. We had fifth-row seats to a motivational business seminar in Indy. Paris had bought our tickets online under assumed names and we were wearing wigs, cheap suits and large, plastic-framed glasses.

  “Yup.”

  My cousin had hacked into the reservations and got us into the 10,000 strong business seminar as Mr. Tom Olds and Mr. James Smith. Apparently, we were salesmen for Massengill. Yeah, I was excited about that too.

  Anthony Lowe had taken the stage, pacing back and forth as he shouted lame encouragements and vague success strategies.

  “And with my one hundred percent foolproof plan, you can triple your sales in the next six months . . . guaranteed!” He went on to share several situations where this worked, but to me it sounded like he was telling the stories of Sam Walton and Bill Gates – just leaving out their names. Lowe went on to plug his ten-CD collection that usually sold for $500. We could get it for $399 today only. Cash and credit cards accepted.

  I really hated this guy. But I was starting to hate the audience more for believing this shit. We’d been there for three hours already, and I’ve got to be honest with you: I still didn’t have any idea how to sell douche bags more effectively. All he offered was a bunch of clichés, promising that if you bought his CDs could you achieve nirvana, win “Salesman of the Year,” and find yourself wealthy with a knock-out trophy wife. What a rip-off artist.

  Finally, a break in the seminar found us in the cement hallways around the auditorium, dining on greasy hot dogs and stale nachos.

  “Isn’t he brilliant?” A mousy woman in a flower-patterned dress sighed aloud to the tall, thin man next to her.

  “Tomorrow,” the man said while nodding, “he’s going to zip line onto the stage. That’ll be cool.”

  I raised my eyebrows at Paris and he nodded, indicating he heard it too. We tuned out the stupid couple (turns out they sold insurance) and moved on. As the crowd started to re-enter the auditorium, Paris and I slipped around to the backstage area.

  “James Smith,” I shouted as I stuck out my right hand to the harried-looking teenager with a clipboard. “I was told that my colleague and I won a backstage tour.” Paris nodded, pushing his glasses up on his nose.

  “Oh! Um, really?” The girl looked like she was wound pretty tight. “I didn’t, uh know. Okay.” She flipped through the papers on the clipboard, but found nothing indicating that two Summer’s Eve salesmen had won such a precious commodity.

  Fortunately for us, an even more mentally challenged kid walked by.

  “Ernie!” the girl shouted. “These guys get a backstage tour!” Then with a nod toward Ernie, she walked away, presumably proud of herself.

  Ernie squinted at us. He was tall and skinny, with a pronounced slouch and blue hair. He wiped his nose on the sleeve of a shirt that was way too big for him. His tie had an eagle on it with the words “I’m a winner!” in gilt script.

  “Okay,” he sniffled. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Apparently Ernie wasn’t caught up in the excitement of the show. He looked like he’d hire us to hit himself if he had to do one more day here.

  “This is the green room where the celebrities wait until they go onstage.” Ernie pointed to a closed door. Celebrities? What, was he kidding? “And that’s the staff lounge. We got Fruit Roll-ups and juice boxes in there.” I closed my eyes in an attempt to avoid strangling Ernie with his tie.

  He led us past vending machines, which he pointed out to us as if we had never seen one before, and light and sound techs who were drinking some mystery liquid from bottles wrapped in brown paper, to the exit doors, and finally to the backstage area.

  We stood there, watching Anthony from the wings spin bullshit into gold. Gold that would, at the end of the day, only go into his pockets. My guess was that our tour guide barely made minimum wage. It didn’t look like Ernie could afford clothes that fit.

  “We heard Mr. Lowe is riding a zip line to the stage tomorrow.” Paris pushed his glasses up again. “Is that true?”

  I looked at Ernie, who sighed heavily. “Yeah. He’s been wanting to do it for a long time. This is the only place the techies think it’s possible.” I followed the line of his arm as he pointed to a catwalk in the wings.

  “He’ll go from there, offstage - ” he slowly led his index finger down toward the stage - “to center stage. I’m not really sure why he’s doing it, but oh well.”

  A crash came from right behind us, and we watched as Ernie scrambled in its direction. He’d already forgotten our existence, which was good, since we’d have to kill him otherwise.

  Back in our seats, Paris whispered, “We’ll have to come in tonight and weaken it somehow. Maybe shred some of the cable.”

  I heard some laughter to my left. It distracted me only for a moment before I leaned in and answered, “Maybe we could take the steel out of the pulley, replace it with plastic or something else that would fall apart quickly.” However we did it, I really wanted this idiot to die dramatically. A humiliating death is so much more fun when it happens to an asshole.

  The laughter came again and I turned toward it. Sitting to my left were two burly, good ole boys. You know the kind. The ones who are trapped in the 1950s and still pinch their secretary’s ass for fun. The kind that think if a woman isn’t interested in them, she’s a lesbian. The kind who take their wedding rings off when they travel out of town for business.

  “Is there a problem?” I asked. Paris punched me in the arm. I know, I know. Maintain a low profile at all times. But this bullshit seminar was killing me.

  “Now that you mention it, son,” the larger of the two answered. “I was just wondering w
hat a couple of dandies like you sell?”

  Dandies? Are you kidding me? I looked at my polyester suit. It was far more obvious that we resembled ’70s porn actors! And who the hell says “dandies” anymore? Thanks, Paris. Next time, I’ll pick the disguises.

  “I b’lieve my colleague asked you a question,” the lesser of two fat men said. “What do you sell?”

  “Oh, I don’t know if you two boys can handle it,” I replied slowly, ignoring the repeated punches from Paris.

  “That’s funny, son.” Son? Were we on the Dukes of Hazzard? “But what business are you in?” They looked pissed off.

  Never one to shrink from a challenge, I leaned forward and looked carefully from side to side. Paris started kicking me but I wasn’t about to stop. “Lobster semen.”

  “What?” The one closest to me looked like his eyes were going to pop.

  I brought my index finger to my lips. “Shhh! We aren’t supposed to tell anyone.”

  “Boy, are you trying to tell me you sell lobster jizz?” the big one asked.

  I nodded. “There’s big money in that. Those of us in the business call it white gold.” I added a wink for emphasis.

  “I don’t believe you,” the smaller one said, folding his arms across his chest.

  I leaned back in my seat. “I don’t care if you believe me. But my wife does, every time we visit our ocean-front home in Jamaica, and every time she has the Bentley washed.” I would’ve gone on and on, but what’s the point? I still didn’t know why I came up with lobster semen.

  “You make good commissions on that?” Big One asked, his eyes the size of salad plates.

  I nodded. “About thirty grand on the East Coast, twenty thousand in the panhandle, forty-K in California. Breeders are begging for this stuff.”

  Paris coughed, trying to get my attention but I was too far gone.

  “Our client supplies the seed of giant blue lobsters. We can’t keep up with the orders.”

  “How do we know you’re not havin’ fun with us?” Little Fat Man broke in, a bit disgruntled about the whole thing.

  “Well, let me put it to you this way. You go into any grocery store here in Indianapolis and you’ll see a tank of live lobsters, right?”

  Both men nodded.

  I continued, “Indiana is a land-locked state. You think about the hundreds of thousands of stores in this great country of ours and you know in your heart there aren’t that many lobsters in both oceans to keep up with supply. That’s why there are breeders!” I sat back, looking smug. Paris, snickered in spite of himself.

  “How can a couple of guys like us get in on this action?” One of them leaned toward me conspiratorially.

  I acted like I was thinking about it. Then Paris whispered in my ear (he said, “You’re an idiot,” but that’s beside the point) and I nodded.

  “I’ll tell you what.” I pointed at the stage. “Mr. Lowe got us into it about five years ago. Now you go up to him after the show tonight and ask him about it. He’ll deny it, and he’s supposed to. But if you’re really persistent, he’ll relent and give you the info.” I leaned back in my chair. “Then when we see you boys here next year, we can compare the size of the diamonds we buy for our wives.”

  The fat men laughed knowingly. Paris and I slipped away at the next break. Sure, I was having a good time, but there was still work to do.

  It didn’t take us long to find a couple of backstage passes (you’d be surprised how many people just leave those things lying around) and to question a completely stoned technician about who would be there that night, when do they lock up, etc.

  I loved sneaking around backstage. The passes worked like a charm. The staff were few and far between and it was dark enough we could hide if needed. After about half an hour of this, Paris and I swiped a detailed schedule (again, just lying around), then headed back to the hotel.

  “We should head back at midnight,” Paris said after a shower. I couldn’t blame him. Those clothes were hot and scratchy.

  I nodded. “Sure. But this time we dress my way.” Tomorrow we’d have to put on the cheap suits again, but tonight it would be black cashmere. I had it imported. Pure, one hundred percent Mongolian cashmere. It would be like wearing silk pajamas to a break in.

  So, sure enough, we found ourselves back at the arena at 12:11. Okay, we were a little late, but I’d really wanted some nachos. I think I got a secondhand pot buzz from the roadie earlier.

  We managed to slip inside before the last of the staff called it a night. According to the stoner, the building was open all night and had security guards 24/7. No problem. My experience has been that these guys usually find a nice warm closet and bed down for the night.

  By 12:45 a.m., we were alone backstage trying to decide what would work better, weakening the cable or screwing/destroying the pulley. One Rock, Paper, Scissors game later, we were working on Paris’s plan to weaken the cable. How was I supposed to know he would pick paper? He usually picks scissors and I usually pick rock. Oh. Maybe he knew that. I hate it when I find out I’m not as smart as I thought I was.

  While Paris worked on fraying the cable, I replaced the steel carabineers with cheap, aluminum ones and significantly loosened the screws that held the cable in place. We wanted it to look like an accident, like human error and equipment malfunction. I could live with that. If none of the above worked, there was always one of Missi’s transparent bullets.

  Once we were satisfied, we slipped past the snoozing guard at the door and made it back to the hotel. Paris dropped off immediately, but I wanted to do some work on my wig. It was so crappy, that no matter what I did, it continued to resume its ugly, bowl shape. Damn Stupid synthetic hair.

  Louis popped into my head once I stretched out. I was surprised to notice that I smiled automatically. Damn, he was cute. How did I end up with a kid like that? I felt bad that I didn’t remember his mom. I would’ve liked to know more about the mother of my son.

  A shock of pain hit my stomach, and I realized I felt bad that I’d treated her like all the other women. Whoever she was, she did a good job raising Louis. And I was depressed that I couldn’t thank her for that.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Vesper Lynd: It doesn't bother you; killing all those people?

  James Bond: Well I wouldn't be very good at my job if it did.

  - Casino Royale

  The next morning, at 9a.m. sharp, Paris and I (incognito again in the ‘70’s porn flunky look) stood in the doorway of the auditorium closest to the backstage area. Why weren’t we in our seats? Well, one reason was to avoid the rednecks who sat next to us yesterday (I smiled, thinking of them pestering Lowe about lobster semen all night), and the other was that if something went wrong with the hit, we could finish off the target quickly.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said,” I whispered to Paris.

  “Hmmm?” He was busy studying his watch. Lowe’s lethal zip line moment was about to make motivational speaker history.

  “What you said about women. How I don’t seem to respect them.”

  Paris arched his right eyebrow. “We’re working now. Can’t this wait?”

  I nodded, then went on anyway. “I was just thinking about Louis’s mom. How I don’t even remember her. And I think you’re right about me.”

  “That’s great, Dak. This is a real breakthrough for you, but the wrong time.” Okay, he sounded pissed.

  I turned my eyes to the stage. Damn. They were running late. After scanning the audience I thought about talking to Paris again, but something in his posture dissuaded me.

  Music started up, you know, the kind of dun-dun-dee-dun thingy that announces the arrival of the king, dictator, sheik, whatever.

  “Do you want to zip through success?” Anthony Lowe’s voice came from backstage. The crowd went wild. I rolled my eyes, thinking, Just die already.

  “Then follow me!” Lowe screamed and the audience screamed.

  Paris and I watched as Lowe started to appear
at the side of the stage, about forty feet off the floor. As if on cue, the cable gave way, dumping the speaker unceremoniously in a clump on the right side of the stage. That was a serious drop. But people have been known to survive high falls, so I held my breath. The crowd was unnervingly silent. For once in his life, I realized Mr. Lowe had the complete attention of everyone in the room. How nice.

  We waited just a few more minutes for the stage hands to do the typical, “oh my god, he’s dead,” the expected gasp from the audience before Paris and I headed for the exits.

  “I just wanted you to know that you were right,” I started up as we walked out to the parking lot.

  Paris stopped and looked at me. “What are you talking about?”

  I explained to him that I was up pretty late thinking about Louis’s mom, how I felt like an asshole for how I most likely treated her. We continued on to the car and got in. Paris listened quietly.

  “That’s great, Dak.” He finally spoke as we hauled our luggage out to the car. “I never thought you’d come around.”

  “And I wanted you to be the first to know. And as soon as we get back, I’m going to invite the family to a barbecue at Gin’s house, to meet Leonie.”

  “Why at Gin’s house?” Paris asked.

  “Well, duh! Gin has a backyard and a grill. I don’t.” It made sense to me.

  Gin was more than enthusiastic to host the family. Diego nodded and winked. Mom screamed into the phone when I invited her and Dad, and Liv was so excited that she spoke in a shrill, high-pitched voice that I believe only chipmunks could understand.

  Apparently, I’d never done this before. I didn’t realize I’d never brought a woman home to meet the family. I called Leonie and she sounded amused, but agreed.

  “That’s awesome, Dad!” Louis howled when I told him.

  “Really?” I asked him.