Frank rested his head on his elbows, watching me while I took it all in. The amount of time he spent staring at me would’ve been creepy had it been anyone else.
I moved the scope from window to window like flipping channels on the remote, the TV on permanent mute. There was a little old lady feeding a little gray dog right off her plate, and a guy playing a violin, and I paused on a man and a woman shouting at each other, until their little girl or boy, I couldn’t tell which, came sleepily into the room and they all went to bed. A lot of blinds were closed, some backlit, mostly just darkness. It felt lonely, watching from a distance, even with Frank right beside me.
“This is what you do?”
“Yes,” he said, and he smiled. “You’re bored.”
“No, it’s fun, really…there’s nothing on.”
Frank leaned close to me, kissing the top of my head and taking the scope. “You can learn a great deal about someone by speculating. Did you see the old woman?”
“With the dog?”
“Tell me about her.”
“She’s old.”
“So we’ve established.”
“She has a dog.”
“Yes,” he said, and he handed me the scope back. “Look again and tell me more.”
“I don’t know more, Frank,” I griped. “Can’t we just fuck up here and go home?”
He smacked me hard on the ass. When it came to spankings, there was a very fine line between being rewarded and being punished. This was definitely on the punishment side. “Shall I tell you about her?”
“Yes, please. Sir.”
“She’s a widow,” Frank said. “See the pictures of the elderly man on the bookshelf?”
“Maybe he’s still alive.”
“See the urn?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to really concentrate. “No other pictures, so they didn’t have kids?”
“Good. How old is she?”
Just when I was getting used to speculation. I kept my mouth shut about him changing the rules of our game. “Extremely.”
“How much does she weigh?”
“I don’t know.”
“Height?”
“She’s sitting down.”
“How would you kill her?”
“With my bare hands.”
“Why?”
“Because you haven’t taught me weapons yet.”
“So you do pay attention,” he teased. “Let’s try another.” I gave him back the scope, feeling him up until he returned it to me with a new assignment: a guy in a tight wife beater and boxers, holding what was definitely not his first can of Coors Light, judging by the way he walked. He looked like the kind of guy I’d go home with, someone without a maid or mother to clean up after him, who’d shoot his load all over my face and never reciprocate. Blowjobs were for queers. I’d sleep on his sofa, not in his bed. It looked uncomfortable even from here.
“He has a little cock,” I said, and the world went black. I took the scope away from my face, until Frank took his hand away from the lens. “I was speculating.”
Frank smiled abashedly. “I thought he’d exposed himself to you.”
“He doesn’t know I’m here,” I said, which was as good an excuse as any for not exposing himself to me. For as long as I could remember, I’d been a magnet for male frontal nudity, as if I wore a sign around my neck, Gentlemen, display your penises. A few months before I left home, I’d gotten such a reputation that the truckers across the street from my school used to seek my advice as to whether they were adequate or not, or if that rash might’ve been something serious. Some of them weren’t even after giving me a taste test, like the guy who eventually drove me out of Branford. His rash was normal.
I looked again, the scope on my other eye, since I now had a perfectly circular bruise forming on the right side. Mr. Coors Light had slumped on his leather sofa with another beer, and was channel surfing to his heart’s content on a giant HDTV. The car key on the coffee table was for an Audi, probably a fast one. No photographs to give me hints, but I knew all about this guy.
He shouted something at his TV. I tensed, even though I couldn’t hear him. The anger on his face was what did it for me, anger that could’ve very likely been at his favorite football team, but had proven time and again to be directed towards me. Frank instinctively moved closer. “He has a temper,” I said.
“Oh?”
“And he’s a bachelor.”
“Must wear the wedding ring for fun.”
“Separated,” I said glumly. I hadn’t caught the wedding ring. I was too busy looking at his split knuckles. “Her choice.”
“Because of the temper?”
“Little cock.”
“He seems pretty upset about it.”
“He’ll get over it. Find someone to meet his needs.”
Frank took the scope from me, paused a moment, and thwacked it against my knuckles. He had me pinned under his body weight before I could follow through with a punch. “What was that for?”
“You’re not speculating, you’re projecting.
I was also under him for the first time in hours, and somehow found myself a bit distracted. “Maybe I’m right.”
“It doesn’t matter if you’re right. The majority of our marks will be middle-aged men, Vincent. You cannot see every single one of them as a warm place to stay.”
Frank liked to accuse me of being too emotional. And yet he would piss me off without even moving to protect himself. I guess he was under the impression that his cock was too important to me. But he underestimated my willingness to sacrifice for the greater good.
I brought my knee up between his legs, rolling him off me as easy as you please once he was curled up in pain. “I think all those stairs did me some good,” I said, hopping to my feet and pulling the blinds shut.
Frank laughed through the pain, his jaw clenched. He was on his knees, holding his balls, forehead pressed to the floor. It was a good look for him.
“Why don’t you tell me about him, dearest?”
“In a minute, sweetie.”
I set my foot against his ass, and tipped him onto his side. He smiled and shook his head. That’s when I decided it would be best to run for my life. Slowly. After all, what was the point in misbehaving if you didn’t get punished for it?
I’ll never forget what it was like to walk around Chicago for the first time, the buildings so tall they blocked the sky, everyone anonymous, avoiding eye contact. It makes you feel so small, and so alone, but in that moment it also gives you strength, and suddenly you’re self-reliant, and you’re avoiding eye contact too, even though you grew up in suburbia, looking at people when they spoke to you.
And then you feel someone watching you, and that’s breaking the rules so you look too, only it wasn’t Frank. Just a warm place to stay. I held my hands together, pressing against where Frank had split the skin with his scope until it nearly brought tears to my eyes. Resisting the urge to sneak off with strangers was easier when I was in pain. It reminded me that I belonged to him. It took away temptation. I kept walking.
We were in Pittsburgh. A torn newspaper in the gutter told me so. I stood on the corner and watched the traffic light change from red to green, trying to imagine how many times Frank had been here. Killed here. Ten letters in Pittsburgh. Ten kills, I decided. And Vincent makes eleven.
The light changed again and I nearly crossed, but I felt someone’s eyes on me. I knew without turning around that it was Frank. By the time he got to me, I’d completely forgotten about being mad at him.
He briefly set his hand against my back, where he could rip out my heart from behind, and we walked side by side to his apartment building, not speaking, not even looking at each other. It was the calm before my favorite kind of storm, and I was sure to be limping the rest of the night. Then his phone rang, and Frank ducked me into the car without so much as pulling my hair. Kneeing him in the balls wasn’t enough to ruin my ravi
shing, but a phone call from Charlie did it on the first ring.
I slumped in my seat and pouted in protest. It had been so nice when Charlie was ignoring Frank, and even nicer when Charlie left the country. He’d actually been back for awhile, but apparently he found the process of giving up money so traumatizing that it had taken him weeks to recover, and he’d been holed up right where Frank left him, recovering from his jetlag.
Frank got in the car and tossed his phone on my lap. I sighed at the poor excuse for a groping. “Well?”
“I’m meeting him tomorrow. Put your seatbelt on.”
I sat up quickly, yanking the belt over my shoulder as he floored it in reverse, slamming us into a cement post so hard it shattered the back window. We smiled at each other, and headed back the way we came.
It was bright red. Bright red. The color red that comes with a glove compartment full of speeding tickets. Or comes from a thorough spanking. Frank was not amused. I was thrilled. “Can’t I please just drive it once before you take it back?”
He glared at me.
“Please?”
“Get out of the car.”
I gave him my best pout. It didn’t work. “How is it fair that I get punished when you’re mad at Charlie?” I said to myself, since Frank was too busy driving away, zero to sixty in three seconds. I counted. Then I coughed for effect as the dust settled around me. It was a long walk back to our hotel. Long enough for him to trade the car Charlie brought him for a crummy old slow black one.
The old man had finally put his foot down in a way that Frank would understand. If he wanted a new car, it would be a flashy one. Frank didn’t do flashy. And I’d blown it the last time he had to depend on the kindness of his associates, so all I could do was look at the tire tracks he’d left and imagine what it would be like to drive flashy, while blisters formed on my feet.
“Cheer up,” Frank said as I fell dramatically to the carpet the moment he opened the door. “We have work.”
“Work?” I balked. “I just walked fifteen miles!”
“Walked?” he said in mock amazement. “I thought I told you to run.”
I screamed for mercy as he scooped me up off the ground, slinging me over his shoulder and plopping me unceremoniously into the full bathtub. It was warm. With bubbles.
“Tell me about the job,” I said, pulling off my wet clothes and tossing them over the side of the tub for him to clean up. Frank spent a good portion of his day picking my clothes up off the floor; though to be fair most of my spontaneous bouts of nudity were his fault.
“You tell me,” he said, handing me an eight by ten photograph of a warm place to stay, fifty-ish, borderline okay-looking with a graying, expertly trimmed beard and what was probably fake hair. He looked like he smelled heavily of money, and not in a good way. I shrugged, keeping my wet hands to the edges of the photo. I didn’t have much energy to be excited about the job, especially since my previous attempt at speculation had ended in bloody and bruised knuckles. “Um, suit and tie means white collar?”
“Good. What else?”
“He looks like he gets manicures,” I snickered.
“If you underestimate a mark, it could cost you your life,” Frank said sternly. “What if I told you he was one of us?”
I stared at him, the severity of what he’d said the only thing keeping me from swooning over his use of the word us. “Is he?”
“No, he’s an accountant. But you never know what someone is capable of based solely on appearance.”
“Then why’d you ask what I thought?” I grumbled.
“I wanted to know,” he said. “Tell me more.”
I rolled my eyes. He could be so aggravating. “He’s married. Or at least wearing a wedding ring.”
“That’s better,” he said.
“He does look like he gets manicures. So, he’s proud of his appearance?”
Frank nodded. “More. Look at his clothes.”
“Suit and tie. I already said that.”
“What about his suit?”
I leaned back, putting my poor feet up on the side of the tub. “The jacket’s a little too tight.”
“Perfect,” he said proudly. “What does that tell you?”
“He’s gained some weight?” I said unsurely. “But his pants fit fine. It’s not weight. He’s been working out.”
“Vincent, that is absolutely right,” he said. I beamed at him. “And why would an accountant suddenly start working out?”
“He’s got a new lady,” I said cockily.
“I really thought you would’ve got this one,” he said, single-handedly deflating my newly filled ego.
I glared at the picture. This man’s death couldn’t come soon enough. All I wanted was for Frank to be impressed with my natural assassin abilities, and I’d struggled with every lesson he’d given me. “I don’t know, Frank,” I said, and fickly flung the picture into the water.
“Yes, you do. You’re his type.”
“What?” I gasped. “He’s—”
“Absolutely. And I’m sure you’re cuter than the tart he’s been seeing.”
Flattery never got old. But compliments didn’t come free. These days, they didn’t even come cheap. “Tell me I’m not bait.”
“You are so clever.”
“Frank!” I whined. All my weeks’ worth of training and I was a worm on a hook. I’d been enticing men since before I hit puberty. If that was all I was going to be responsible for, he should’ve let me sleep in.
“This is an ideal job for your first time, V,” he said, stroking my wet hair. He knew me too well. I’d agree to just about anything if it came with a petting.
“Does Bella ever have to play bait?” I asked.
“Bella frequently plays bait. Except that she’s predator and prey. This will be a simple setup. Robbery turned violent. Client’s like these are always the same. They want to brag about how brave their husbands were. How they got killed defending their wedding rings.”
That didn’t sound like anything worth bragging about. If Frank ever got killed defending a material possession, I’d drown his corpse. Unless that material possession was me. “Are we actually going to rob him?”
“Yes. Cash we keep, everything else is discarded.”
“Can I have a gun?”
“You wouldn’t know what to do with it,” he said meanly. “Besides, you could take this guy one handed.”
I tried not to smile. This was typical of the new and unimproved Frank. He’d only offer praise while insulting me. But I’d take what I could get.
“What do you say, killer?” he asked. “You think you can feign interest in him?”
“I’ll pretend he’s you,” I teased.
“Good kid,” he said, which I thought was a strange thing to say to someone you’ve been fucking practically non-stop since right after he turned almost legal. Then he moodily left the room, which wasn’t quite as strange, but in context, meant I was on drama duty.
Frank was already lighting up a cigarette by the time I pulled a towel around my hair and left our mark to enjoy my bath. “Are we having issues?” I asked. He flicked his cigarette at me. Luckily, I was still wet, and it was mostly extinguished upon contact. I sat on his lap and lit another one for him. It’s the little things in life.
“Shall I guess, or do you wanna just tell me?”
He sighed smoke. “If he touches you, I’m going to lose it.”
“He’s not gonna touch me.”
“You don’t understand, V. I cannot get emotional on a job. It’s not—”
“He’s not gonna touch me,” I said again. “Listen. I’ve been blowing guys like him since I was thirteen. He’ll ask politely before even reaching for my cock. ‘Oh, uh, you’re so beautiful, I just want to, oh if I could only, oh uh, but I have a wife and oh I’ve never done anything like this before.’ Trust me. If I don’t make the first move, I don’t get dinner.”
“I wish you didn’t know that.”
I shrugge
d. “I wish I was taller.”
He laughed and shook his head.
“Tell me about the job, Frank.”
“You’ll probably be bored,” he said. He was absolutely right.
Ernest and Edith Goldman, married twenty-four years, no kids. He crunched numbers for a Fortune 500 company and embezzled millions from his clients, she did part-time CPA work out of their home and occasionally sold Avon. Boring, boring, and more boring.
The tart, as Frank called him, was young, blond, and a whore. That’s all Charlie had gotten out of her. It remained to be seen whether Mr. Goldman was actually paying him for sex or not, but Frank didn’t think so, and I agreed. Prostitutes weren’t swayed by muscle, they were swayed by money. Unless there was relationship potential, Ernest would have no reason to change his leisurely routine.
Frank took me to breakfast before we officially got started. He was his normal quiet self, watching me eat while drinking his second cup of coffee of the morning. I’d been abnormally silent, waiting for him to enlighten me on what we were doing. Then I got the attention of a trucker in a dirty button-down shirt who’d just come in, and I purposefully bit my tongue along with my toast.
“It took him sixty-eight seconds to notice you,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Would you say that’s about average?”
Here I was doing my best not suck every cock I met, and he had to go and point a spotlight at it. “I guess,” I said, feeling self-conscious. I’d been secretly dreading what would happen when someone came sniffing around Frank’s now thoroughly marked territory. Mark used to get so jealous when other guys looked my direction, but he always took it out on me like I was encouraging their behavior, which of course I was. The fifteen miles Frank made me walk yesterday was nothing compared to the time Mark took me out for pizza after a track meet and caught me smiling at some other guy. He left me in the next county with no ride home.
Chance Assassin: A Story of Love, Luck, and Murder Page 19
