Agnes and the Hitman

by Jennifer Crusie

  Fucking Keyes, SC. Armpit of the South.

  “Come home and take care of my little Agnes, Shane.”

  You adopt another kid, Joe? Gonna take better care of this one? “I’ll be there in an hour.”

  “I appreciate it.” Joey hung up.

  Shane pushed the off button. Joey needing help taking care of something. That was new. Old man must be getting really old. Calling him home. That was-

  “I’m a Leo – and you?”

  Shane turned to look at her. Long blonde hair. Bright smile plastered on her pretty face. Pink T-shirt stretched tight across her ample chest with the word Princess embroidered on it in shiny letters. Effective advertising, bad message.

  “What’s your sign?” she said, coming closer.

  “Taurus with a bad moon rising.” The hell with Joey. He had a job to do. He looked at the upstairs landing.

  Two men in long black leather coats and wraparound sunglasses appeared on the landing. They took barely visible flanking positions at the top of the metal stairs, just as they had the previous evening at approximately the same time, which meant the target was in-house.

  At home, so to speak.

  “Do you come here often?” Princess asked, coming still closer, about three inches too close. He scooted back on his stool slightly.

  “Never.” He looked up again. Too many people had seen The Matrix, he decided as he took in the bodyguards’ long jackets and shades.

  The Matrix probably hadn’t even played in Keyes yet.

  Princess came in closer, her breasts definitely inside his personal space. “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a painter.”

  That’s what Joey used to tell people. I’m a painter. Enough with Joey.

  Shane glanced across the room. Carpenter was in place, his tall, solid figure near the emergency exit, the flashing lights reflecting off his shaved ebony skull. I paint them, Carpenter cleans them. Shane nodded toward the guards ever so slightly. Carpenter nodded back.

  “That’s cool.” Princess began to scan past Shane, probably looking for somebody who’d play with her. She must have found him, because she smiled at Shane blankly and backed off. “Have a good one,” she said, and was gone into the crowd.

  The phone buzzed once more, and Shane glanced at the screen: go. He secured the phone in his pocket, nodding once more at Carpenter, who reached into one of his deep pockets. Princess was over by the bar now, dialing on her phone with a blank look on her lace as she tossed her head to get the hair out of her eyes. Then she frowned and pulled the phone away, staring at it. Shane knew no one’s cell phone within two hundred feet would work now, as long as Carpenter kept the transmitter in his pocket working, jamming all frequencies.

  Shane wove his way through the sweaty dancers to the bottom of the staircase and walked up, Carpenter falling in behind him. Both bodyguards stepped out, forming a human wall that he estimated weighed over 480 pounds combined with another ten pounds or so of leather coat thrown in. Which meant they trumped him by over 270.

  Fortunately 210 pounds with brains could usually beat 480 pounds of dumb.

  “Private office,” the one on the right growled.

  Shane jabbed his right hand, middle three fingers extended, into the man’s voice box, then grabbed the face of the man on the left and applied pressure at just the right places with the fingertips of his left hand, thumb on one side, four fingers on the other. The man froze in the middle of reaching under his jacket, unable to move, while Carpenter caught the man to the right.

  “Tell me the truth and live,” Shane whispered as he leaned close, ignoring the other guard’s desperate wheezing attempts to get air down his damaged windpipe. “Lie and die. Is Casey Dean here?”

  “Uggh.” There was the slightest twitch of the head in the affirmative.

  “Alone?”

  “Uggh.” A twitch side to side.

  Shit “Left foot,” Shane said. “How many are in there? Tap your foot for the number.”

  The foot hit the ground twice, then halted.

  “Good boy.” Shane shifted his fingers slightly and pressed. The man dropped unconscious to the floor. Carpenter already had the other man down, sleeping with the leather. At least they’d be warm.

  Shane reached inside their coats and retrieved their pistols. He placed one in his waistband in his back and kept the other one out, safety off. He stepped over them as Carpenter reached down and grabbed the back of each man’s jacket and dragged them to a small janitor’s closet and tumbled them in, then turned and faced the stairway to make sure no one else came up. He wasn’t wearing leather.

  Shane walked down the hallway to the bright red doorway with a prominent no trespassing sign hung on it. He kicked right at the lock, the wood splintered, and he stepped in and to one side, eyes taking in the dimly lit scene, pistol up, sweeping the room, gun in concert with his eyes.

  Movement. Two people. A man. Seated behind a desk. A redhead standing on the other side, leaning forward, palms down on the desktop, her skimpy halter top hanging loose, exposing her breasts. Great, Shane thought. I had to hit at playtime.

  He strode across the room as the man jumped up and the woman turned, looking surprised. The man was reaching for a jacket when Shane hit him with a cat-paw fist strike to the solar plexus, making him thump back into his chair, gasping in pain and floundering, out of commission for a couple of minutes at least.

  The redhead lunged at Shane, who sidestepped her claws, grabbed her from behind, and used her momentum to slam her against the desk, pinning her to it. He got one arm in a half nelson around her neck and pressed the barrel of the gun against the back of her head. He could feel her tight ass pushing back against his groin, and she began to grind as she struggled against him, putting her arms flat out on the desktop and looking over her shoulder angrily. He shoved her shoulders down on the desk and saw a small tattoo of a compass on the small of her back, just above her jeans. Like somebody needs directions there, he thought.

  She pressed back harder against him.

  “Stop it,” he said.

  “Oh, come on,” she whispered. “You like it. We can work this out, you and me. I can-”

  Shane pulled the gun back and tapped the barrel against the back of her skull.

  The girl rubbed her head. “What the fuck?”

  “This is business and you are not part of it. Stay there.” Shane backed away, keeping the barrel aimed at her, and when she didn’t move, he glanced at the man who was still gasping for air. Not a problem.

  Then Shane reached inside his jacket and pulled out an airline ticket. He tossed the plane ticket on the desk in front of the woman. “You’ve got a problem, here’s the solution. A voucher you can use at the airport tonight. Enough for a one-way ticket anywhere in the world.”

  The redhead stared at him.

  “You don’t ever want to come back to Savannah again,” he told her. “This man hangs with bad men, and they’re going to remember you were here and come looking for you.”

  The girl was nodding, reaching for the ticket at the same time she tried to put her jacket on.

  “You can go, but if you say anything to anyone on the way out, you will die.”

  The girl was still nodding like a bimbo bobblehead doll, one arm in her jacket, the other with the ticket in hand. Shane kept one eye on her struggles as he focused his attention back on the man. When she was ready and holding the ticket in one hand and her purse in the other, Shane pulled out his satellite phone and hit the speed-dial for Carpenter. “You got one civilian coming out. Redhead. Let her go.”

  There was a telling moment of silence. “A witness.”

  “A civilian coming out,” Shane repeated.

  “Roger,” Carpenter said.

  Shane nodded to the redhead, and she scuttled to the door and was gone.

  Shane turned his attention back to the man. “Same deal for you, my friend.” He slapped another ticket voucher on the desk.

  �
��Who-?” The man coughed and tried again as he managed to sit up straighten “Who-are-you?”

  “Doesn’t matter who I am,” Shane said. “I’m gonna ask you some questions. Answer honestly, you take this ticket and go. Lie and die.”

  The man’sface was shinywith pain and exertion. “What-do- you-want?”

  “You were hired by the mob to kill someone the U.S. government would prefer stay alive.”

  “You got the wrong-”

  Shane hit him, an open-handed slap that was more insult than injury. “You’re wasting my time, Casey Dean,” he said, and the man flinched when he heard the name. “The people I work for do not make mistakes. Unlike you.”

  “Really-”

  Shane reached out and jabbed his thumb into Dean’s shoulder, hitting a nerve junction, and the guy jumped as if struck by an electric shock. “Now here’s the deal. You tell me what I want to know and forget about the hit, fly away, and never come back, and it’s the same to me as if you were dead.”

  Dean rubbed his shoulder. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” Shane slid the ticket voucher across the desk.

  “You’re really gonna let me go if I tell you what you want and forget about the contract?”

  “No. I’m gonna let you go if you forget about the hit and give me the names and contact information of whoever hired you and the name of the target.”

  Dean shook his head. “I can’t give the contractor up. He’ll kill me.”

  Shane brought the gun level with the point right between the man’s eyes. “Which is worse? The possibility he might kill you in the future or the certainty I will kill you in the next ten seconds?”

  “Shit.” Dean slumped, looking suddenly very old. “Listen, I’m just a business manager. I’m-”

  Shane pressed the muzzle of the gun hard against the man’s skin just above his nose.

  Dean’s eyes turned inward, mesmerized by the barrel. “I’m telling you, I don’t know the contractor’s name. I just got a call that services were needed.”

  “Who’s the target?”

  “Didn’t get it yet. I swear.”

  Great. Dean was an idiot, but there was a ring of truth in that.

  “Listen, I’m cold. Can I get my jacket?” Dean’s eyes shifted again, his voice heavy with faked innocence now.

  Shane looked at him, almost pitying him in his stupidity. The dumb fuck has a plan. He pulled the gun back. “Sure.” His assignment was to take out Casey Dean, world-class hitman, but if this guy was a world-class hitman, Shane was Princess’s date to prom. Some guys were all PR, no game, and Dean was sure as hell turning out to be one of them.

  When Dean had put on his jacket, he looked downright confident, his eyes sly as they went to the desk. “So I really don’t know anything, but I’m definitely leaving town, just like you said. Okay if I get my passport from my desk drawer?”

  Shane nodded. You bet. Commit suicide with my gun. That’s what I’m here for.

  The man turned his back and opened a desk drawer, and Shane brought his gun up.

  Dean swung around, a small gun in his hand, and Shane fired two quick shots, hitting him in the chest. Dean fell back, disappearing behind the desk.

  Below, the music pounded, drowning out everything. Shane walked forward, gun at the ready, and rolled the man over, surprised to find there was still a spark of life in his eyes. Not surprised to see his two shots were so tightly grouped they appeared to be one hole, but not happy to see them an inch off target.

  Fucking Joey, making him lose focus. Fucking Keyes. Fucking little Agnes, too, whoever she was.

  A funny look came over the man’s face as Shane aimed the gun at his forehead. His eyes blinked rapidly. “Wait,” he gasped. “We can make a deal.”

  “Oh, come on,” Shane said. “You know who and what you are. You lied. You’d have completed the contract because otherwise you’d never get another job.”

  “No-” Dean said, and Shane fired, the round making a perfect black hole in the center of his forehead. Shane leaned over and checked Dean’s pockets, finding a business card with just a phone number on it. He pocketed it.

  He pulled out his cell phone and hit number 3 on the speed-dial.

  It was answered on the first ring: “Carpenter.”

  “Painting’s done. You’ll have to help him on to the next world on your own, Reverend. I won’t be at debrief.”

  There was a brief moment of silence. “Wilson won’t like that.”

  “The target had no information on contractor or his target.”

  “Roger.”

  Shane put the phone away and picked up the voucher.

  Then he crossed the room to the window, reached under his shirt, retrieved the heavy-duty snap link attached to the rear of his body armor, clipped it to a bolt holding a drainpipe, turned outward and jumped, the carefully coiled bungee cord snapping out until it jerked him to a halt three feet from the street and bounced him back up half the distance. As he went down the second time, Shane pulled the quick release and landed on all fours. Right next to his Defender SUV.

  Keyes again.

  Fuck.

  At eleven thirty, an hour and a half after the kid had gone screaming through her kitchen wall, Agnes pulled another pan of chocolate-raspberry cupcakes out of the oven, stopped rehearsing her story for the next wave of police-It’s a nonstick frying pan, so it’s really very light, it couldn’t kill anybody-and wondered what Dr. Garvin would say about all of this. Well, she knew what he’d say. He’d look at her and say, “How are you feeling right now, Agnes?”

  And if she said, “Fine, Dr. Garvin,” he’d give her that look that said, Myass, Agnes, except court-appointed psychiatrists couldn’t say that.

  She tried to remember the list of terms he’d given her to help her describe how she’d felt when she hit her fiancé with the frying pan: Mean/Evil. Worthless. Revengeful. Bitchy. She remembered wondering where outraged and betrayed and sickened by the unsanitary assault on a dining surface had been. “He was actually doing her on my clean kitchen table,” she’d told him, in what she’d thought was a perfectly calm voice. “I mean, Jesus Christ, of course I hit him with a frying pan!”

  “Hit who with a frying pan?” Joey said from the doorway.

  Agnes looked up from where she’d been talking to the cupcakes. “Am I going to go to jail for hitting the kid with the frying pan?”

  “No,” Joey said, mystified. “You didn’t kill him, he fell through the wall. You all right?”

  “Well.” Agnes leaned against the counter. “There’s some stuff I didn’t tell you.”

  Joey came in and put his arm around her, the weight of muscle going to fat a comfort on her shoulders. “Like what?”

  “Remember I told you I was engaged after college and my fiancé cheated on me?”

  “Yeah, the bastard.”

  “Well, when I found out he lied to me, I kind of hit him.”

  “Good for you.”

  “In the face. With a frying pan. Nonstick. Broke his nose.”

  “Oh.” Joey nodded, still supportive but wary now. “He file a police report?”

  Agnes nodded. “He dropped the charges, though.” Tell me I’m okay, Joey.

  “Well, this is different. It won’t-”

  “And then three years ago, I got engaged to that crime reporter I told you about?”

  “Yeah,” Joey said, definitely on guard.

  “And two years ago, he cheated on me with my assistant? And I caught him with her on my kitchen table?”

  “You didn’t tell me that part”

  “And I hit him in the back of the head with a cast-iron skillet.” Tell me I’mokay, Joey.

  “Oh, shit, Agnes.”

  Ouch. “So if the cops look me up…”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No. They put a plate in his head. He’s fine.”

  “You do any time?”

  “Probation with court-ordered therapy and community service.�
� Agnes leaned against Joey, grateful for his bulk beside her. “A soup kitchen. It was nice. Good people worked there.” Tell me I’m okay, Joey.

  “You’re good people, too, Agnes.” He patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry. This was self-defense. You’re all right.”

  Agnes looked up at his dear, ugly mug. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Joey said, and looked at her straight, the way Joey always did.

  “Good.” She straightened up to go back to work. Self-defense was legitimate. Brenda would have pounded the kid in self-defense, too. “What were you coming in to tell me?”

  He looked uncomfortable. “I called somebody to come help you, and I was waiting for him outside, and then the next bunch of cops pulled down the drive. We got trouble.”

  Agnes put the cakes on the bread table. “You mean besides the cop in the hallway and the dead body in the basement?”

  “The cop in the hallway is a dumb-fuck deputy, he’s not trouble,” Joey said. “But now we got Detective Simon Xavier comin’ across your bridge.”

  “Who?” Agnes peeled off her oven mitt.

  “Xavier,” Joey said. “The one cop in Keyes who actually knows what the fuck he’s doing.” Agnes felt cold. “Joey?”

  There was a crash from the direction of the old housekeeper’s room, now her bedroom, and Agnes said, “That’s that deputy. He keeps wandering around saying, ‘So this is what Two Rivers looks like inside.’ Like he’s looking for something. I told him to stay in the hall. I even gave him a cupcake.”

  Joey jerked his head toward the housekeeper’s room. “Go get him. I’ll talk to Xavier.”

  Agnes swallowed. “Joey, am I going to jail?”

  “No, honey,” Joey said. “But don’t hit anybody else with a goddamned frying pan.”

  Agnes went cold. I’m in trouble if Joey’s warning me. “Right.” She forced a smile for him, took a deep breath, and started for the housekeeper’s room.

  “Aw, wait a minute.” Joey caught her arm and handed her the frying pan.

  “What’s this for?” she said.

  “I take it back,” he said. “If that deputy tries anything funny, you can use this. They can’t get you for self-defense.”

  “Oh, funny,” she said, but she took the pan and tried a smile. “Joey, you’re the best.”