Greatest Hits Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-4)

by Langtry, Leslie

  “Hey Missi. I have a job and I need some advice.” I smiled as I said this. Missi was the inventor of ways to kill people for the Bombays. She’d come up with everything from exploding wacky wall walkers to plants that could suck the oxygen out of room.

  “What’s the scenario?” She asked. This was good, because Missi tended to get sidetracked easily. Bring up a silencer make and she’d tell you how trout explode when you pressurize them.

  “I’ll be in one room while my Vic is behind a two-way mirror, flanked by security.” Hmmm, now that I said it aloud, it seemed harder than it originally had. Maybe there was another reason Liv didn’t want this gig.

  “Wow.” Missi said. That got my attention. Missi never said anything other than give me a few hours before. “It might take me a couple of weeks.”

  What? “Oh, okay.” I cleared my throat. “You know what, Missi, don’t worry about it. I can come up with something.”

  “Really? Are you sure?” Came the doubtful reply.

  I nodded, as if she could see me. “Yes. I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”

  “Okay!” Missi sounded cheerful before the phone went dead in my hand.

  I was on my own. Damn.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “I needed a drink, I needed a lot of life insurance, I needed a vacation, I needed a home in the country. What I had was a coat, a hat and a gun. I put them on and went out of the room.”

  - Raymond Chandler, Farewell My Lovely

  The next morning found me tired from staring at the ceiling all night, with no new ideas. I had nothing. Basically, all I could come up with was actually making it to the audition. It was the two-way mirror’s fault. The bodyguards would have the drop on me before I could do anything. And then, I’d have to be able to get out of there unseen. There’d be a line of actors waiting their turn in the hallway. And without knowing how many were behind the mirror, I couldn’t plan an organized attack. That annoyed me. I loved being organized. It’s like foreplay.

  I needed advice. Why was I blanking on this gig?

  “Because it wasn’t assigned to you.” Dak said an hour later when he met me for coffee. “There is a reason why jobs are assigned to specific Bombays.” He motioned for the blonde waitress to bring him another cup without even looking at her. Marriage had really changed him. For the better. Now if I could just find someone.

  “The Vic loves brunettes. He gets most of his sweat shop workers from Central and South America.” My sister, Liv, was a brunette with big, innocent eyes. Vic wouldn’t have suspected her of anything.

  Pushing back in my seat, I brought my right ankle up to rest on my left knee. “We’ve helped each other out on jobs before.” I said. A fleeting memory of Mickey Mouse going “pop” at Disney World crossed my mind.

  Dak shook his head. “We’ve helped each other, but never completed the job for someone else.” He chuckled softly. “What were you thinking?”

  The waitress returned with Dak’s coffee. She raised one eyebrow suggestively at me. For a moment I took it as flirting. Then she pointed to my empty cup. I just shook my head and waved her away.

  “I wasn’t thinking.” I answered. The gravity of the situation hung in the air between us. Dak was right. None of us ever took on another Bombay’s job before. Even with Liv, I’d helped her, but I never did it for her. This was serious. Didn’t she realize what she’d asked me to do?

  I ran my hands through my hair. What was wrong with me? I should just call her right now and tell her I refuse to do it.

  “What are you going to do?” Dak asked.

  I looked at my cousin and best friend. His blonde hair was tousled and he looked like some guy in a Starbucks ad with his blonde hair, blue eyes and golf shirt with khakis. Marriage and kids agreed with him. There was a glimmer of contentment in his eyes lately. One more thing to make me realize how alone I really was.

  “I’m going to call my sister and tell her I can’t do it.” I said firmly. Digging out my cell, I hit the quick dial.

  Liv answered on the first ring. “What.” Her voice was flat, like she knew why I was calling.

  Dak nodded at me and I spoke up. “I can’t do your job. I’m not supposed to.”

  “What?” Liv’s voice took on a dangerous tone. I waited for her to respond but there was nothing more.

  “I can’t do an assignment given to you by the council.” I said.

  “Why not?” My sister asked. “I’ve saved your ass many times, Paris Cyrano Bombay!” Uh oh. She sounded like Mom. “And you’re telling me you can’t do this one, little job?” Her voice was calm and even. That was worse than hysterical and yelling.

  “Fine.” I caved with as much dignity as a man can when doing so to his sister, in front of his best friend.

  “That went well.” Dak grinned as he took a sip of coffee. He really couldn’t talk though, his sister, Gin, had him by the balls most of the time too.

  “Just help me come up with some ideas.” I pleaded, my dignity now pooling on the floor at my feet.

  “Okay,” he said with a shrug. “When can you go forward?”

  I sighed. “If I get accepted to audition as a contestant, it’ll be soon. If not, we’ll have to go a different way.”

  Dak dropped a twenty on the table and rose to his feet. “I’ll talk to Leonie and Gin…see if they have any ideas, and talk to you tomorrow.”

  I got up to leave. “Thanks Dak.”

  I headed back home feeling a little better. Dak would come up with something. But maybe I should have a few thoughts for a backup plan, in case he didn’t.

  I took some paper and a pen and sat at the dining room table. After drawing a diagram of what I imagined the scene would be, I used paper clips to simulate the actors in the hall, an olive for me and four grapes for the Vic and his bodyguards. I had to think of it as a room with only one entrance. Hoping for an extra exit was an amateur move. Always think of the worst and you’ll be better off – that’s my motto. Well, that and avoid flamethrowers at all costs. I really don’t like flamethrowers. That’s just plain cheating.

  One possibility was to smash through the mirror, like Ryan Reynolds did in Blade Trinity. There would probably be an extra way out in that room. But that required getting the drop on guys I couldn’t see.

  Spraying the window with machine gun fire might work. It would have to be an Uzi, or some other compact for me to smuggle it in. That would smash the window and kill pretty much everyone behind it. But it was noisy and would draw the attention of the actors in the hallway. I imagined a bunch of vapid, attractive men trying to keep their Botoxed features placid at such a noise, so as not to induce unsightly wrinkles.

  I also tried to imagine them rushing in to help, but I was pretty sure they’d flee instead. Why help someone and risk having your six pack abs scarred by a bullet? The idea made me laugh. Maybe going out the way I came in was an option after all.

  The other problem with the Uzi idea, was that it would be tough to smuggle in. My Vic was paranoid and had security. No doubt, he’d have them searching everyone. At least, that’s what I would do.

  The olive, grapes and paperclips stared at me. Have you ever had an olive stare at you? It’s creepy. I ate the food and shoved the paperclips aside. Once again, I had nothing. My cell beeped and I pulled it from my pocket to check my email.

  Mr. Bombay,

  You have been selected to audition for The Bachelor! Please report to Studio 7B at the date and location listed below.

  Sincerely,

  The Producers

  I was in. I had two days. Two days to get to LA, complete Liv’s assignment. Once home, I would finally look into some speed dating or something to get my life on track. That was something to look forward to.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Nothing is impossible. Some things are just less likely than others.”

  - Jonathan Winters

  “You want me to shake his hand?” I asked Dak, frowning.

  “It’s a small, clear p
in filled with tree frog poison.” Dak grinned at me as he pulled out a small, nearly invisible needle.

  “So, he’ll feel it when it happens?” I wasn’t sure about this. Bombays weren’t too keen on getting caught.

  Dak ran his other hand (the one unencumbered with frog poison) through his hair. “Well, yeah. But you palm the empty needle and get away.”

  I examined the needle. “Exactly how do I hold the needle so it pierces him, and not me?”

  “You grip it with your palm.” Dak’s smile lost some of its luster.

  “I don’t know about you, but I don’t have prehensile palms.” I shook my head. “And this whole plan is contingent on the fact that I can get a face-to-face with him.” I pictured myself failing at this and attempting to throw the needle at the mirror in a last ditch effort. In this fantasy, the needle would clink against the mirror before shattering on the floor, spilling a microscopic amount of tree frog poison.

  Dak nodded. “Okay. That won’t work. Sorry.”

  I sighed. “No problem. I shouldn’t have asked. Of course, I shouldn’t have agreed with Liv either.”

  “Ask Missi.” Dak said.

  I told him about my conversation with her. “Anyway, this is my problem.” I looked at my watch. “I have to pack for my flight tomorrow.”

  An hour later, I had my black, Tumi roll-on neatly organized with everything I would need for the trip. Everything, that is, except for a plan. The whole thing was bothering me. I’ve always been organized…on top of things. How did this happen? It wasn’t like me at all.

  I’d just have to think of something on the flight over. My audition was in twelve hours. Whatever I’d need I’d have to find in LA. I’d never been so disorganized. That’s what happens when you take jobs that aren’t yours. And because I was illegally on the job, I couldn’t borrow the Bombay private jet. Word would get out. Family would know. If you got busted by the Council taking another Bombay’s job, that meant corporeal punishment. And that meant I was taking a commercial airline.

  I was starting to believe that I’d lost it. Bombays lose it all the time. The pressure of the job makes having a normal life impossible. Our family tree was loaded with stories of assassins snapping – often spectacularly. In the early twentieth century, Sicily Bombay snapped and ran around the streets of Oslo wearing a Santa suit and throwing cauliflower at people before she was gunned down by the cauliflower-hating police.

  Forty years earlier, Kiev Bombay decided to swim the distance between Australia and New Zealand, while wearing a necklace made of steak. His remains were never found. Perhaps the most famous story in our history is that of Moosejaw Bombay. At the age of eighty three he decided he was such an excellent assassin, he could kill an elephant with his bare hands. He even insisted on wearing a blindfold. I’ve heard he still stains the pavement at a bazaar in Pakistan – but I’ve never been to check it out myself.

  I didn’t want to lose it. Sure, this business was pretty high pressure – but to go insane on a simple job would make it tough to find Mrs. Paris Bombay. I just had to hold it together through this assignment. If I did that, I could make Liv do the next gig assigned to me. And I hoped it was a messy one.

  I flew first class to LAX, naturally. My Armani suit jacket hung on a hanger behind me. After the hot towel and a whiskey sour, I could feel myself starting to relax. Of course I could come up with something. I’m a Bombay – and not one of the crazy ones. We’ve had four thousand years’ experience making stuff up on the fly. In fact, that’s what we all did before we had Missi. Great, Great Aunt Bethesda once had five seconds to figure out how to kill an South American dictator during a tennis party and escape without notice. (Hint, the secret was in the velocity of the tennis ball.)

  It would come to me. I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes.

  “Excuse me?” A woman’s voice said.

  I looked up and saw a statuesque brunette with full lips and a neat black bob. She was cute. Really cute.

  “Can you help me?” She was struggling with a carry on.

  I was on my feet in seconds, easing the bag into the overhead compartment. The woman stood close to me. She smelled like expensive perfume. I smiled at her and then returned to my seat.

  “Thanks.” She said with a grin that implied she was interested. Or maybe I just wanted to believe that. She took the seat next to mine and extended her hand.

  “My name is Cindee.” She said with a smile.

  She was tall and curvy in all the right places and made me think of noir black and white films. I felt like Sam Spade, and immediately regretted not bringing my fedora.

  “Paris.” I said, taking her hand in mine. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  She had dimples and a voice that sounded like a tall, cool drink on a hot afternoon.

  “Nice to meet you, Paris.” I wondered what to say next. Dak was the guy with the moves and great lines, not me.

  “So,” I said, “heading to Los Angeles?” Okay, that might have been a bit stupid. The plane we were on was, after all, a direct flight to LAX.

  Cindee had the class to ignore my faux pas. “Yes, and I’ll be there a while…I hope.”

  “You hope?” I asked. “You don’t know?”

  Cin shook her head and a wave of silky, black hair fell perfectly into place. “I’m an actress.” She made a face and I thought that was adorable. I couldn’t stand pretentious actors. This woman had a sexy, self-deprecating edge I found irresistible.

  “I’m sure you’ll find what you’re looking for.” Clearly this conversation wasn’t working for me. Maybe I needed another whiskey sour?

  Cindee rolled her eyes. “I’m just tired of doing theatre, that’s all. It’s a lot of work for little money. I want to see if I can actually make it on TV.” She shrugged…adorably… “And if it doesn’t work, I return to my parents’ bookstore. That was the deal.”

  That got my attention. “You like books?”

  “Sometimes, more than acting, really. I love nothing more than to put on my silk pajamas, and sit in front of a roaring fireplace with a first edition of Tennyson.” She shook her head. “Sounds pretentious and boring, right?”

  My head was pounding. Bookstore? Silk pajamas? Poetry? Was this some sort of a setup? Maybe the gig was just a ruse for Liv to get me on the plane with my dream girl. I know, you’re wondering why she didn’t just set us up on a regular date? But the Bombays are different (and rather dangerous) that way.

  “So,” she continued, “I got this opportunity to be on some, stupid Bachelor knock off and here I am.”

  And there it was. I had trouble returning her grin. She was one of the vapid bimbos for the show. I should’ve known better. I really should have.

  The steward began announcing the safety procedures as the plane began to taxi down the runway. Thank God. I didn’t think I could continue the dialogue. What was I supposed to say? What I thought? That she was going to share a man with a roomful of women and discover he’s her true love? There simply was no way to justify that kind of rationale. It felt dishonest and wrong.

  “Well, it was nice meeting you, Paris.” Cindee said when I didn’t respond. She turned away with a small frown as she pulled out a book to read.

  “You too.” And I leaned back and closed my eyes. I had four hours to think of a plan. The sooner I took out the Vic, the sooner I could get back home and find a ‘real’ woman.

  PARADISE BY THE RIFLE SIGHTS

  Buy now for Amazon Kindle!

  Also available:

  'Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy

  Guns Will Keep Us Together

  Stand By Your Hitman

  I Shot You Babe

  Paradise By The Rifle Sights

  Snuff the Magic Dragon

 

 

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