Greatest Hits Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-4)

by Langtry, Leslie

  Liliana has actually started creating art. No longer does she just think about it. Lex and I went to a show she had in a small town in northern Montana. It was pretty interesting to see busts of famous Montanans carved out of patchouli-scented mashed bananas.

  I heard that Brick/Norman was doing a one-man show in L.A. about his experience on Survival. Of course, no one even knows what that is since the show never aired, but oh well.

  Bob the politician finally ran out of political positions to run for in his hometown of Leavenworth, Kansas. After a disastrous, yet inspired campaign for County Coroner (on a platform that included the ability to slay zombies should the dead ever rise in the morgue), he decided to launch a bid for President of the United States. He’s counting on being a write-in. I guess Kit endorsed him so he may have the incontinence vote sewed up.

  Turns out, Cricket and Jimmy the cameraman were screwing around during the show and she was keeping his hotel room key hidden in her pockets while with us. In the aftermath, they got Bert and Ernie to help them set up a film-making camp for blind kids in Banff. I’m pretty sure the irony is lost on them.

  So everything worked out okay. Lex even has some great ideas for using stunts with my inventions on assignments. (I just loooooove the human catapult he came up with.) Who knew I would really enjoy having a man in my life? Well, okay, my mother did. And after I’ve had my fill of tormenting her by spiking her tea with my severe, intestinal gas-producing and sleep-inducing powder (laxatives are sooooo juvenile and she’s a hit at Council meetings), I might just agree with her.

  * * * * *

  I SHOT YOU BABE

  by

  LESLIE LANGTRY

  * * * * *

  ebook Edition

  Copyright © 2010 by Leslie Langtry

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  “I thoroughly disapprove of duels. If a man should challenge me, I would take him kindly and forgivingly by the hand and lead him to a quiet place and kill him.”

  - Mark Twain

  Okay. Stop me if you’ve heard this before. A pro football player walks into a bar. He falls to the floor clutching his head in pain and says, “I didn’t see that coming.” True story. Although maybe, just maybe, it would be more accurate to say the iron rod walked into the football player, but I’m telling it my way.

  I managed to kick the guy in the ribs as he tried to get up, but one of his enormous hands (which, I assume, can only have made him good at his sport) grabbed my ankle and pulled me down to join him on the floor. It was at this point he seemed to gain the upper hand. The lumbering side-o-beef with legs climbed on top of me, bouncing my head off the cement twice. This did nothing for my self-esteem and probably wasn’t good for the “rugged attractiveness” women told me I had. Did you know you actually do see stars when your head is pummeled against something so unyielding as concrete? I know, it seems too cartoonish, but then, there it is.

  I distracted my target by biting his forearm. I’m not fond of biting, but in this business, you have to think quickly. As he screamed, I punched him in the throat, and he crumpled over like a stack of dimes. With Vic (as in, my victim) facedown, I climbed on top and began my chokehold. Frankly, I was tired of using a chokehold. So overdone and not terribly elegant.

  Vic struggled to get free, but unfortunately for him, he was losing strength. To my surprise, he got lucky and managed to flail out, catching me (quite to his surprise) in the gut with his elbow. I dropped him and he scrambled backward until he hit the wall.

  I walked toward him slowly (for dramatic effect, of course). The bastard wasn’t going anywhere. Stupid athlete. They always think they can handle themselves in a fight. It was true he was much larger than me. But it was also true that because of this fact, he’d never really had to fight before. For his first actual battle, he was literally fighting for his life. A brilliant irony I thought would likely be wasted on him.

  My fist hit him square in the face, and he slid down the wall. Through the gurgling blood coursing from his nose into his mouth just seconds before I sent the broken shards of his nose piercing into his brain, he asked, “Who are you?”

  Bombay. Coney Island Bombay. Actually, you can call me Cy. I only go by Coney when I’m working as a carnie. Most of the time I prefer eliminating the middle three letters from my name. It’s kind of like what I really do, which is eliminating bad people.

  That might sound a bit simplistic. Sorry about that. But there really is no point in analyzing it any further. I know this because I have a Ph.D. in philosophy and it has driven me to distraction most of my life. It is possible to over think things now and then. After all, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.

  This, however, isn’t one of those times. This time, the cigar is more than it seems. The rather ugly, large cigar of which I speak (who now lay lifeless on his basement floor) was a popular sports figure who ran an illegal white slave trade on the side. I’ve never been much of a sports fan. It seems wrong to me that professional athletes make millions of dollars when scientists trying to cure cancer and teachers educating children live from check to check. This gig was my own small contribution to evening things out. You know. The old yin-yang thing.

  My Vic was a professional football player who’d invested in an Eastern European slaver. The slaver sent young women all over the world to work as prostitutes. I use the past tense because I took care of that bastard a couple of days ago. The athlete was quick to join him in death. It wasn’t pretty. And honestly, I don’t feel too bad about that.

  Most of
the Bombays tend to maintain a low profile when it comes to wet work. Making murder look like an accident seems to make them feel better. I don’t really go that route. My preferred modus operandi is to actually make it appear to be foul play. And if you knew how bad these people were, you’d probably agree with me.

  Two days later, the police and media seemed to think the Russian mafia was responsible and when the evidence I left behind revealed his crimes, Vic’s jersey and status were yanked from the Football Hall of Fame. My mother and the rest of the Bombay Council were pleased. Dad, an Aussie, had to call to remind me that technically, my Vic didn’t play real football. But that’s Pop, always splitting hairs.

  My family history is interesting, in a bloodthirsty sort of way. The Bombays have cornered the market on international assassination for hire since ancient Greece. Every infant born into Bombay blood becomes a killer. We begin training at age five and progress from there. There is no way out. Once you are born a Bombay, your fate is sealed. No one rebels unless they have a suicide wish. Occasionally, one does. What can I say? Every family has at least one idiot. Doesn’t yours?

  The football job took place in Chicago, and a few days later I was in Omaha. The alarm went off at six a.m., and I sat up on the edge of my bed, running my hands through my hair. You might think I’m a morning person. Nothing could be further from the truth. I’m actually more of a discipline guy. I get up to make myself functional. The exercise that follows is simply for masochistic purposes. I’ve been told I’m in excellent shape. It’s the discipline thing.

  Wheek! Wheek! came the brain-splitting cry of my guinea pig, Sartre. The minute I wake up, she reminds me that it’s time for breakfast. She’s affectionate and sweet, but I’ve always suspected that she considers me to be little more than a servant.

  “Here you are,” I said as I placed a small dish of strawberries, collard greens and baby carrots in front of her. Sartre grunted and began her feast. I walked to the door of my trailer to get the paper.

  When I’m on the road (which is pretty much always), I like to park my RV in Wal-Mart parking lots. They seem to have a camper cult following. Every one I’ve stayed at leaves a newspaper at my door in the morning and has fresh coffee ready before the shoppers arrive. I like that. It’s a nice touch.

  Opening the door revealed a bright, late August. I scooped up the paper and nodded to the older woman standing in the parking lot, across from me. It was then I realized that I hadn’t put any clothes on. Huh. I shut the door behind me (but not before winking at the lady) and after tossing the paper on a chair, threw on some running clothes. Ten minutes later, I opened the door to find her and several other women standing in the same place. I don’t know what they hoped to see, but clearly my having clothes on had been a bit of a buzz kill. Just for fun I grinned and shouted “G’day ladies” with an Australian accent (something I inherited from Dad). That seemed to do the trick. I believe one actually fainted.

  A good jog always helped clear my head. With my Bombay-appointed duty over for the year and the carnival season coming to an end, it was time to make my plans for fall. I was pretty sure it was time for a sabbatical. I needed a break.

  Back at the trailer, Sartre squeaked indignantly. I scooped her up as I flipped on the television to listen to while I threw breakfast together. Sartre wiggled in the crook of my left arm before sprawling out luxuriously. I found an orange and made some toast while the little pig ran up and down the table. There wasn’t much on in the news, as usual. I had a gig coming up in rural Nebraska. Just a county fair. Then the season would be over for me. Sartre nibbled on an orange peel, never taking her eyes off me. Huh. It’s sad when your own pet doesn’t entirely trust you. But that’s the nature of an assassin pet owner I guess. I gave her some of the fruit and she devoured it. An ad for Disney World came on and somehow managed to get my attention.

  I clicked off the TV and pulled open my laptop. After a few more hours of research, I decided on my sabbatical: Disney World. I had a few connections there – a couple of my carnie brethren that had gone legit. I flipped open my cell phone and dialed. Within moments I had a job lined up from fall to spring. After that, who knows what I’d do? I was unattached. A loner, to be cliché - but it suited me.

  Besides, I already have a career. I have travel, adventure, middle-aged women in the parking lot ogling my physique and the love of a good, elitist rodent. What else could I possibly need?

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Women; you can’t live with them, and you can’t get them to dress up in a skimpy Nazi uniform and beat you with a warm squash.”

  - Emo Philips

  Ah. The Saunders County Fair in Wahoo, Nebraska. The name says it all, doesn’t it? Nothing but dirt, horseshit and fried food as far as the eye can see. Sigh. It’s paradise. I checked the crankshaft on the Tilt-O-Whirl before admitting sticky children and beer-addled adults to the ride. People expect the carnie doesn’t really give a damn when he checks the safety bars and pushes the button to start the ride. But they don’t know me. I’m a firm believer in safety first because I actually like kids. Adults, however, are more complicated.

  I grinned through my beard and turned on the ride, watching as the little cars swivel and swirl. I hadn’t had a barfer in two days, but I figured I was overdue. Sure enough, when the ride came to a stop, some green-faced teen was being led off her car. It didn’t bother me. When you eat five corn dogs with a cotton-candy chaser, then go on a ride that scrambles your insides like eggs, you have to expect a little carnage.

  Oh well. This was my last gig before heading out to Orlando. I’d have to use the solution my brilliant scientist cousin Missi gave me to erase the tattoos. I’d miss the beard a bit. Even though I generally lived off the grid, I was still a bit paranoid. The disguise kept me from being recognized and the customers seemed to expect it. It came with the carnie image, and I hate to disappoint anyone. I was so involved in my thoughts it took me a minute to realize the woman standing before me didn’t want a ride – at least, not on the Tilt-A-Whirl.

  She looked to be in her mid- to late twenties, with chin-length blonde hair, very little makeup and a slim build. I watched for a moment as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Definitely nervous.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  She stuck out her right hand as if she had never shaken hands before. I slowly grasped it in my own and she shook it. I could feel her heart beating in her palm. Must be the beard. It scares even Sartre.

  “Um, I’m Veronica Gale.” She then seemed to roll her eyes and slap herself on the thigh – as if she thought it wasn’t wise to have given me her last name. I took no offense. I was used to such a reaction.

  “Hello, Veronica.” I thought it might be rude if I didn’t respond. Of course, I still had no idea why she was standing there but thought I should at least make her comfortable. And there was something about her. She wasn’t mysterious; in fact I could read through her like tissue paper over a large-print picture book.

  “I’m finishing up my master’s thesis on transient lifestyles and wondered if I could interview you?” Ms. Gale bit her lip, displaying a lack of confidence that I found a little adorable.

  Ah. So that was it. An academic. You don’t see many in this line of work. I felt a twinge of nostalgia for the ivory tower.

  “Okay.” I stepped past her and admitted more kids to the ride. “I’ve got a break in an hour.”

  Veronica jumped back as if she hadn’t noticed the people around her. “Um, fine. I’ll be back in an hour.” She paused for a second as if her central nervous system had failed her. Finally she turned around and marched off.

  Hmmm. A sheltered little thing with no life experience and plenty of attitude. How could I possibly resist? And who am I to stand in the way of a fellow academic and her quest for knowledge?

  I checked all the safety bars and switched on the ride. I didn’t really have a break coming up, so I called one of the other guys on duty on my radio. Mort agreed t
o cover for me in a bit.

  I was actually looking forward to talking to Veronica Gale, Master’s Candidate. I hadn’t had a date in a long time. Sure, carnies have followers – often wealthy housewives with a sexual fetish for tattooed flesh, but a real date? It was too depressing to think about. As I said, I’m a loner, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get lonely for intelligent conversation with a woman. Most of my contact included very little discussion.

  Mort showed up less than an hour later. When my “date” arrived a few seconds after, I suggested we hit the beer tent. We bought two drinks and settled at a splinter-riddled picnic table.

  Veronica slid her beer to the side and pulled a notebook out of her purse. I smiled. She was starting to grow on me.

  “Now, your name is?” she asked, sounding very official. This chick had to loosen up.

  “Coney Bombay.” I watched as she wrote that down. She had beautiful, slender fingers. I like that in a woman. Veronica Gale wasn’t a hottie. She was pretty in an interesting sort of way. With large, questioning green eyes, a classic European nose, strong chin and dark blonde hair, I found her intriguing. I’d like to think she found me intriguing, but then I remembered her nervousness around me. To her, I was just some sort of hobo who still had all his teeth.

  “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me, Mr. Bombay.” All friendliness had gone from her voice. This woman was pure business now. At least that’s what she wanted me to think.

  “Call me Cy. And no problem. This is the best proposition I’ve had all day.” I smiled, hoping to loosen her up.

  It didn’t. Veronica scowled. “Fine. Cy it is. But this is not a proposition.”