Table of Contents
A KILLER DATE
Title Page
Dedication
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Praise
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-FlVE
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
EPILOGUE
A KILLER DATE
“Okay, we want details!”
I sighed. “His name is Diego. He’s Australian. I met him at the bookstore.”
“Ooooh! A man with an accent!” Liv squealed.
My brother rolled his eyes. “And?”
“Well, he’s gorgeous as all get out in that tall-dark-handsome kind of way. He’s very funny and smart and likes kids. Happy?”
“What does he do for a living?” Dak asked.
And there it was. The little thing I didn’t want to tell them. Why? Because there was a teensy, weensy chance that there could be, in the way distant future, a slight conflict of interest there.
“He’s a bodyguard.” I couldn’t lie to them. “But I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” I rushed to add.
“A what? Gin! Are you crazy?” Dak yelled. “Won’t be a problem! He just happens to be a bodyguard in a small city where my immediate family of assassins lives!”
But really, how could that be a problem?
To Tom, my hero—
Thank you for making this possible.
To Mom—
Thank you for making me possible.
A LEISURE BOOK®
August 2007
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10016
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Copyright © 2007 by Leslie Thompson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
ISBN-10: 1-4285-0411-7 ISBN-13: 978-0-8439-5933-8
The name “Leisure Books” and the stylized “L” with design are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Visit us on the web at www.dorchesternub.com.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I have to thank my children, Margaret and Jack, for respecting my writing time (not an easy thing for an 8- and 6-year-old to do). A huge thanks to Jodi and Natalie, who kicked me in the ass and got me started. And I can’t forget my critique group: Elizabeth, Kim, Susan, Stephanie, Theresa, Jan, Tom, Howard, Jane, Ellen, Gina. And I have to send props to my RWA friends from Phoenix—the RomBabes, as well as Misti and Jen from Ohio and of course, Fredericka from Chicago. Thank you to Leah, my editor, who took a chance on me, and a HUGE shout out to the Scoobies—you know who you are! Thank you to Lori, Beth and Pam for keeping me sane every other Wednesday and to the girls of Brownie Troop #360—you are my inspiration. And last but by no means least, thanks to my cousin Wendy—who totally gets this family thing. You can’t pick your family, but I’d pick her.
PRAISE FOR LESLIE LANGTRY AND ‘SCUSE ME WHILE I KILL THIS GUY!
“With an irreverent, tell-it-like-it-is, suburban-mom-assassin narrator, Leslie Langtry’s ’Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy delivers wild and wicked fun.”
—Julie Kenner, USA Today Bestselling Author of California Demon
“Leslie Langtry has penned a cleverly fresh and glib mystery with just the right touch of romance in ‘Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy....It kept me totally entertained first page to last.”
—Tanzey Cutter, Fresh Fiction
CHAPTER ONE
“On a large enough time line, the survival rate for everyone will drop to zero.”
—Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club
No one really liked family reunions. I got that. But when I listen to people complain about it ’round the water cooler, I couldn’t help rolling my eyes. I mean really, try it when you come from a family of assassins. Kind of gave “avoiding Aunt Jean’s potato salad” a whole new meaning.
That’s right. Family of assassins. I came from a line of murderers dating back to ancient Greece. Mafia? Puhleeeese. Ninjas ? Amateurs. Illuminati? How pedestrian. My ancestors had invented the garrote, the ice pick, and arsenic. And Grandma Mary insisted that the wheel had actually been devised as a portable skull crusher. I’d tell you the names of some of our famous victims throughout history, but I’d had to sign a confidentiality clause in my own blood when I was five. So you’d just have to take my word for it.
I turned the engraved invitation over in my hands and sighed. I hated these things. We only held them once every five years, but for some reason, this time, the reunion was only a year after the last one. That meant someone in the family had been naughty. That meant one of my relatives was going to die.
As I stroked the creamy vellum paper, for a brief moment I thought about sending my regrets. But only for a moment. After all, it wasn’t an option on the R.S.V.P. card. Unlike most family reunions with sack races, bad weather and crappy T-shirts, where to refuse to go only meant you weren’t in the ridiculous all-family photo, to turn down this invitation was death. That’s right. Death. Any blooded member of the family who didn’t show was terminated.
Now, where had I put that goddamned pen? I rattled through the “everything” drawer, looking for the onyx pen with the family crest engraved in gold on the side. It may sound pretty callous to throw a centuries-old family heirloom in with tampons, fishing hooks, batteries, and ten-year-old packs of gum, but I didn’t exactly have the usual family sense o’ pride.
I found the pen behind some broken cassette tapes and dusted it off. The coat of arms practically glowed on the cold black surface. Crossed sabers entwined with an asp were topped off with a vial of poison. Lovely. Really sent that warm homemade-chicken-soup kind of feeling. And don’t forget the family motto, carved in Greek on the side, which translates as, Kill with no mercy, love with suspicion . Not exactly embroider-on-the-pillow material.
The phone rang, causing me to jump. That’s right. I was a jumpy assassin.
“Ginny?” My mom’s voice betrayed her urgency.
“Hey, Mom. I got it,” I responded wearily. Carolina Bombay was always convinced I would someday skip the reunion.
“Don’t use that tone with me, Virginia.” Her voice was dead serious. “I just wanted to make sure.”
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br /> “Right. Like I’d miss this and run the risk of having my own mother hunt me down.” For some reason, this would be a joke in other families. But in mine, when you strayed, your own family literally hunted you down.
“You know it makes me nervous when you don’t call the day you get the invitation,” Mom said, whispering the words the invitation. It was a sacred thing, and to be honest, we were all more than a little terrified every time we received one. (Did you ever notice that the words sacred and scared differ only by switching two letters?)
“I’m sorry,” I continued lying to my mother. “I just popped the R.S.V.P. into the mailbox on the corner.” And I would too. No point in taking any chances with my mail carrier losing it. That would be a stupid way to die.
“Well, I’m calling your brother next. I swear, you kids do this just to torment me!” She hung up before I could say good-bye.
So, here I was, thirty-nine years old, single mother of a five-year-old daughter (widowed—by cancer, not by family) and still being treated like a child. Not that my childhood had been normal, by any means. You grew up pretty quick with the ritualistic blood oath at five and your first professional kill by fifteen.
To be fair, Mom had a right to be nervous. She had watched her older sister, also named Virginia, get hunted down by Uncle Lou when she failed to appear at the 1975 reunion. That really had to suck. I’d been named after her, which kind of jinxed me, I think.
In case you hadn’t noticed, my immediate family members were all named after U.S. states or cities (Lou was short for Louisiana, much to his dismay, and Grandma Mary was short for Maryland). It was a tradition that went back to our first ancestors, who thought it would be a cute idea to name their kids after locations, rather than actual names. My name was Virginia, but as a kid I went by Ginny. Of course, that had changed in college when everyone thought it was a real hoot to shorten my name to Gin. That’s right. Gin Bombay. Yuck it up. I dare you.
Bombay had been the last name of my family since the beginning. Women born into the family weren’t allowed to change their names when they got married. In fact, the husband had to agree to change his name to Bombay. You could guess what happened if they refused.
Non-blooded Bombays were allowed to miss the reunion, as were children under the age of five. Bombays had to let their spouses in on the “family secret” by the time the first reunion in their marriage rolls around. It wasn’t exactly pillow talk. And of course, you weren’t allowed to leave the family once you knew, or well, you know what happens.
Most of us didn’t even tell our spouses until the first five-year reunion. I guess I’d been lucky, if you could actually call it that. My husband, Eddie, had died of brain cancer four years into our marriage. And even though I’d seen the lab results, I still eyed my cousins suspiciously. While I’m fairly certain we haven’t figured out a way to cause cancer, with my family, you never know.
Roma, my daughter, had been born one month after Eddie died. I’d given her the traditional place name, but rebelled against the state thing. I called her Romi. I smiled, thinking about picking her up from kindergarten in a few hours. She was my whole life. All arms and legs, skinny as a stick, with straight brown hair and big blue eyes, Romi had given me back my laughter when Ed passed.
My heart sank with a cartoon boing when it hit my stomach. Romi was five. This would be her first reunion. She would have to be drawn into that nest of vipers that is the Bombay Family. Her training would begin immediately after. And in a couple of weeks, she’d go from playing with Bratz dolls to “icing” them. Shit.
CHAPTER TWO
“We are all dead men on leave.”
—Eugene Levine, comedian
The doorbell rang, and I automatically checked the monitor in the kitchen. Yes, I had surveillance monitors. Hello? Family hunts us down! Remember?
“Hey, little brother.” Despite my weary voice I gave Dakota a vigorous hug.
“You all right?” he asked more with mischief than concern.
“You’re joking, right?” And I knew he was. Dak loved Romi almost as much as I did. He just found the whole family of assassins thing amusing most of the time.
“Well, we went through it and survived. Besides, the training is pretty harmless for the first few years.”
“Harmless? That’s an interesting way to describe turning your kindergartner into a cold-blooded killer.”
“Maybe you could write the guidebook! The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Turning Your Kindergartner into an Assassin.” Dak laughed in that easy way he had about him. Single and thirty-seven, he was handsome and funny. And I should mention that he was single by choice. Dak, like most of the people in my family, had “commitment issues.” Personally, I thought they took the family motto a little too seriously.
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. That would work.” Hey! Was he calling me a complete idiot?
“Look, Ginny, it’s not like you can refuse to go.” He looked sideways at me. “You are going, right?”
“Duh! Do you think I’m stupid? Like I’d let you raise and train Romi!”
I loved my brother. We were close. We even collaborated on jobs. He had taken this whole Prizzi’s Honor lifestyle in stride. After three millennia of contracted kills, the family was extremely wealthy, and we all lived off of huge trust funds. In the past seventy-five years, after some smart investing, no one has had to do more than one or two hits a year. So we all lived comfortably. And we got Blue Cross and dental.
Dak eased back in the kitchen chair, rudely devouring my Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies. Bastard.
“Look, Ginny, it’ll be fine. Romi can handle it.”
I shook my head. “That’s not all I’m worried about.”
He stopped eating, and for a moment I thought I might have a few cookies left. “Oh. The other thing. What’s up with that?”
“I don’t know. You hear anything?”
Dak shook his head. “I heard Uncle Troy almost got busted in Malaysia last year. But he’s on the Council and they don’t bust you for almost fucking up.”
I snatched the Milano bag from him. There was only one left. “Yeah, I haven’t heard anything either.”
“I guess we just see who shows up and . . .” He gave a dramatic pause a la Christopher Walken, “... who doesn’t.” (Insert creepy “dun, dun, dun” music here.)
I looked at him, and not just as a treacherous cookie thief. “How can you be so cold? We’re talking about our family here!”
“And there’s nothing we can do about it until it happens. I just hope it isn’t someone we like.”
Dak was right. If it had to be someone, I hoped it would be one of the more assholish relations. Everyone has someone like that in their family. Right? There are definitely some folks I wouldn’t miss too much.
I picked up my cup of coffee. “We didn’t mess up in Chicago, did we?” My mind raced to remember the details.
Dakota shook his head, but seemed disturbed. “No. It was a clean kill. Nice work, by the way.”
“Thanks.” Our hit had been screwing so many married women that there were plenty of suspects in his death. Of course, we’d done such a good job, the police didn’t even consider murder. I smiled, remembering painting the inside of the chain-smoking son-of-a-bitch’s condoms with pure nicotine—which, of course, killed him. That was fun. Rolling each condom up and putting them in the bags so they didn’t look “tampered with,” on the other hand, was not.
“Maybe it’s nothing,” I murmured. “Maybe they’re going to give us an earlier retirement age.” Who was I kidding? Bombays are allowed to retire at fifty-five, although most don’t. I mean, Grandma was pushing eighty, and just last week she rubbed out a made man in the Sicilian mob. There’s definitely something to be said for loving what you do.
Dak laughed. Pushing a stray lock of sand-colored hair off his forehead, he replied, “Could be Uncle Lou has found a new poison.”
I perked up. Poison was my specialty. Everyone in the family had
a favorite way of killing people, even though we were required to cross train. With my brother, it was asphyxiation and/or strangulation. And while I should probably worry about that, it made us a good team because we both liked to make each job resemble death by natural cause. Of course, occasionally we ran out of time and had to leave the scene of the crime with a plastic bag still on the victim’s head, but that happened only once when I’d been running late from picking up Romi from preschool. And Romi always came first. I had to have my priorities straight, after all.
Most gigs took place in other parts of the country. We had to maintain discretion. But occasionally, the job had to be local. We were supposed to get more time to plan those. Oh well, Murphy’s Law, blah, blah, blah.
“I haven’t heard any gossip,” I said absently.
“Maybe with Delhi turning fifteen, and Alta and Romi turning five, they just want to focus on the ritual?” Dak offered, albeit not helpfully.
“I don’t know ... they’ve never done that before.” And there it was. My baby would learn about the family. She’d start practicing with the chemistry set and sniper rifle that came standard with the blood oath. Ooooh, I hoped she would get the new, tricked-out Remington with laser sites! What? It wasn’t different from first communion, a bat mitzvah or quinceañera. Right?
Dak slapped the table, startling me into spilling my coffee. “Well, there’s nothing we can do about it until we get there.” He rose and kissed me on the cheek. “I gotta run. I need a new swimsuit for the trip.” He punched me in the arm and left with a wink.
I guessed I’d have to start packing soon. The reunions were always held at Santa Muerta, a private island the Bombays owned off the coast of Ecuador. Hmmm, the weather would be hot. And as beautiful as it was there, I wasn’t sure I wanted the family to see me in a swimsuit.
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