Paris looked absorbed. Sure, he loved this stuff. Don't get me wrong, he's my wingman, but why would he take this seriously?
"Um, Grandma?" I hesitated, "Why would slogans and logos help us? Aren't our main clients various government agencies? They don't care about this crap. They just want results." And unless I'm totally off base here, results means lifeless corpses—not a list of goals, objectives and action items.
Grandma leaned back with a sigh, "Well, we aren't getting as much work as we used to."
Paris spoke up (finally!), "So, the Council thinks a jazzed-up image will tell the CIA we are ready to take on more assignments?"
"Actually, boys, we just need to prove that like every other family business, we can adapt—change with progress."
"Why don't we just get out of the business entirely?" To be fair, this was a valid question. Our individual trust funds (from four millennia of wet work) exceeded $100 million dollars.
"Dammit, Dak!" Grandma sputtered, her face turning an alarming shade of mauve. "Get with the program! This is what Bombays do! It's what we've always done! Why should we stop now when we're the best in the business?"
Paris looked at me, then turned to her. "Maybe Dak is right, though." I mentally made a note to cancel that body check I was going to give him in the hallway when we were done. "We've owned the assassination market for centuries. Why not quit while we're ahead?"
I nodded in agreement, but it felt like I was in the movie Jackass and had just agreed to do something that would involve my testicles, jumper cables and a rusty WWII battery.
She shook her head. "Just because Gin has retired, doesn't mean you can too. No. This is our family's honor we're talking about." She stood, indicating that we should leave. "You have two weeks before you make your presentation to the Council. I'll have Missi set up the multimedia equipment in the auditorium at Santa Muerta. I'll expect at least Power Point 2007 for the presentation." She herded us to the door and opened it. "That's all. I want to see some real, outside-the-box thinking from you two."
As the door shut on my stunned face, I couldn't help wondering if the box she was referring to was my coffin.
CHAPTER THREE
"What do you get when you cross a cataclysm with a hellhole? A catastrofuck."
~Jon Stewart, The Daily Show
I don't know which freaked me out more. The new job, Dad seeing an Erectile Dysfunction specialist or Mom setting me up with his doctor. To tell the truth, I was a bit insulted. Did my family think I was dating a steady stream of blondes because I had a…um, problem? Or was this just sport for them?
I stomped around my condo for an hour, slamming doors and throwing a tantrum no one would see. For Christ's sake! I have no problem getting it up. All of my guns are fully loaded! I don't shoot blanks! I don't run out of ammo at the wrong time either!
Okay, this is not a big deal. I'll just go over to Mom's, sit through dinner calmly, then make my excuses and leave.
Another thought occurred to me. Maybe I should bag Nora. Prove to her I don't have a problem. That would solve it. I could wear that woman out with one of my all-night erections. That would show her. And when she called Mom the next day and said she was too exhausted to date me, my family would know too.
That sounded like a good plan. I spent more time getting ready than I ever had for a date before. From my perfectly tousled hair to the tips of my Bruno Magli loafers, I was ready. I just had to pick up an expensive bottle of wine and head to my parents' house, and later I would make Nora see God.
The bottle of Bordeaux was expensive. I used the AmEx black card—that would show Grandma for not giving me a present. I pulled into my parents' place and noticed the Lexus in the driveway. Promising. At least this Nora had her own money. I guess the hard cash is in soft dicks these days. Then I remembered that Dad was funding that Lexus and shuddered again.
"Hey, Mom." I hugged her warmly as she ushered me into the house and I handed the bottle of wine to Dad. He rolled his eyes, and we had a father-son moment of silent communication.
"And this," Mom said casually, "is Nora Adams."
I unleashed my best smile. "It's nice to meet you." I shook her hand. She was blonde, and cute, like Gin said. Short, curly hair, blue eyes and a decent smile. Not totally my type, but I could do her.
"Thanks," she said. "It's nice to meet you too."
Oh…my…God. She had a man voice. Not a smoky, Kathleen Turner voice or a sultry, Demi Moore voice, but a deep, unabashed man voice. A thought terrified me. Maybe she was a man.
Mom pushed us toward the dining room, and I held out Nora's chair for her. I sat opposite Dad, between Nora and Mom.
"So, Dakota," Nora's bass boomed, "your mom tells me you're a consultant?"
I struggled to clear my head. I was really freaked out by her voice. "Um, yeah. I'm a marketing consultant." That was somewhat true. It was my cover, but I didn't actually do it. All I did was major in it in college. Bombays were encouraged to major in something practical and use it as their cover. I have cousins who majored in accounting, engineering and such, but never worked a day in their lives. That's the beauty of the Bombay Family trust fund.
At this point, it's usually customary to ask her what she did, but I didn't want to let on that I knew. So I asked her where she was from, that kind of thing. As she droned on in a voice that would make a Green Beret feel girly, I caught Mom's expression out of the corner of my eye. She was staring at me. I tried to ignore it, but I couldn't. My sweet and petite mother resembled a cobra trying to hypnotize its prey. Hey, no pressure here, right?
"And after I did a stint with the Merchant Marines in '92," Nora said, and I forced myself to focus. So, I did the mature thing. I stuck out my tongue at Mom and turned to Nora.
"That sounds fascinating. Wow. You surf, participate in triathlons, ride rodeo and whittle. Where do you find time for a social life?" I tried my best to be charming, but at this point I was convinced she actually was a man. At least deep down inside.
Dinner was awkward. Very, very awkward. But I managed to charm a few boyish smiles out of Nora. I thanked my Mom for dinner, winked at Dad, and took Nora home to prove to her and everyone that I, Dakota Bombay, had no trouble in bed.
All night long, I made merciless, passionate love to this woman, pleasing her in ways she never imagined. She had more than 20 orgasms and finally, at 4:30 a.m., she begged me to stop and called me the greatest lover she'd ever been with. She was even considering writing an article about me for the Journal of the American Medical Association.
Well, at least that's how I imagined it would go. If the truth must be told (and if this gets out to anyone in my family, I will hunt you down and kill you), it was a major disaster.
I'm going to say it was the man voice, the man hobbies, and the horrible pressure of trying to succeed under all the above circumstances. I refuse to believe I have a problem.
That's right. I couldn't get it up. Laugh if you want to, but I can kill anyone with nothing more than a pair of tweezers, so you make that choice.
We started making out, you know, the usual. I turned the lights out initially, but her voice was such a turn off I turned it back on because in the dark she seemed too masculine. Nora wasn't a bad kisser, and we moved on to fondling. That seemed to help, except that I just couldn't get hard. I figured all I had to do was get her clothes off. The sight of a naked woman always worked.
Then I saw the tattoos. What kind of woman has an anchor with the word "Mom" written on it? I swear, my dick actually receded into my body in revolt. The final insult? She handed me her card as she got dressed and left. Nora thought I'd benefit from an appointment.
I showered for a long, long time. I even gargled for 30 minutes with Listerine. (The new whitening kind of course. I use every opportunity to work on my smile.) Even though I knew Nora was a woman, it still grossed me out.
As I lay on my bed, I began to lecture my penis. "You're my Go-To guy! How could you let this happen? You're immune to t
his shit!" That kind of stuff. I don't know if other men yell at their penises, but I felt it let me down and therefore, should be punished.
Publicity Network was a group I'd joined after college. Made up of local public relations and marketing professionals, I thought it would be a great way to work my cover and pick up women. I was right on both parts.
The meetings took place once a month at a local hotel and featured lunch, a speaker, and networking opportunities. Ironically, the next day was one of those meetings.
As I stood in line, wearing my khakis, blue shirt and tie with navy blazer, of course, I scanned the room. The trick was to make people think I worked as a consultant in their field. They had to believe I was committed to a life of telling people how great some eczema cream was or why they should invest in their children's education at a prep school. Actually, it wasn't very hard. PR is mainly bullshit, and I was the king.
"Bernie!" I sat down with my plate full of food and thumped the one guy I did like on the back. He was the Director of Communications for the Boy Scouts and a really funny dude.
"Dakota! Good to see you! Have you met everyone?" He motioned around the table of all men. I nodded through the introductions. Some of them I'd met before—some were new. I didn't really care. Maybe I'd glean something useful to take to Paris that afternoon.
Bernie and I chatted for a little while. He told me a funny story about a crisis at the Council involving a leader who recently had his Boy Scouts use poison ivy for toilet paper. I could've listened to him all day, but we were interrupted.
"May I join you?" asked a tall woman with flaming red hair. She looked annoyed more than anything, and I watched as the other men at the table tried to figure out what they should do. It reminded me of lemmings on the edge of a cliff.
Bernie pointed at the only open chair. "Please."
The woman turned to face me. For some reason, I was a little stunned. Tall and thin, she had long, curly red hair, light blue eyes, pale skin and freckles. Her features were elfin, with large eyes, a little, upturned nose with a cupid's bow mouth. I was so startled, I didn't know what to say next. Then I realized she was speaking.
"No other open seats," she said as she placed her napkin on her lap.
"No problem," Bernie smiled. He was the only one behaving like an adult. "My name's Bernie Paulson. I work for the Boy Scouts. And this is Dakota Bombay. He's a consultant." He then went on to introduce the other stunned men at the table.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Leonie Doubtfire."
"Seriously?" I asked before thinking (one of my less endearing traits).
Leonie looked right into my eyes, as if she was daring me to say something stupid. Something about those eyes made me start to sweat—and I never do that. No woman has ever made me nervous before. But this one was fascinating. I found myself admiring her fearlessness. In fact, I'm pretty sure I admired her throughout the presentation.
The lecture was "Finding Your Brand," but I had a hard time keeping up with it. For some reason, I was completely focused on Ms. Doubtfire. I tried not to stare, but it was impossible.
Forcing my eyes away, I scanned the room. There were other women there—many blondes. I'd slept with a number of them. Of course, I would never work with them. Never bag a client—that's what I would say if I ever had clients, which I didn't.
Before I knew it, the lunch had concluded. Again, I tore my eyes away from Leonie to pretend I'd been paying attention. People were starting to get up and mingle before heading back to work. When I looked across the table, the redhead was gone.
"Good to see you again, Dak." Bernie shook my hand.
"Where did she go?" I fumbled.
He smiled. "She probably thought you were stalking her—the way you kept staring at her like that."
I winced, realizing he was right. I had been staring. And for some strange reason, I felt a little depressed that she was gone. I looked at the chair she sat in and spotted a small compact. Picking it up, I realized that Cinderella had left something at the ball. If I ever saw her again, I'd be able to return it. Of course, then she'd really think I was creepy.
I said my goodbyes and left, circling the parking lot twice to see if I could spot her. Shaking my head to clear it—I headed to Paris' place. And then I remembered last night and all thoughts of Leonie Doubtfire vanished.
"You're impotent?" Paris's eyes grew wide with amazement.
I shhhshed him and looked around—a weird thing because we were in his apartment. Still, six months ago, Gin had bugged mine and Paris's phone lines, so I didn't put it past the family to have their ears and eyes on us at all times.
"No!" I shouted, a little too forcefully. "No. I couldn't help it. She sounded like a man. And Mom was staring at me all through dinner. There was too much pressure to perform!"
Paris shook his head. "I don't know, man. You've never had a problem like this before."
"I know! It's making me crazy! What do I do?"
Paris looked around his apartment, like the answer would automatically materialize in the blender, lampshade or ceiling fan. He had a great place. Paris was an artistic sort. I'd recently found out he wrote poetry. The apartment was filled with artwork—paintings, sculptures and architecturally designed furniture. I used to think he had one hell of an interior designer, but after the poetry revelation, I figured he did it himself.
"You have to sleep with the other women your mom set you up with," he announced, looking pleased with himself.
"What?" My mind turned back to Dora and Millie. I shuddered again and realized I was doing that a lot. "Why can't I just spend the weekend in the arms of a couple of Swedish twins?" That seemed more reasonable to me. And I could find 'em too. Some people have "gaydar." Some people have "beerdar." I had "blondar."
"No. You have to prove that you can screw anyone. Not just your type." He paused, rubbing his chin. "Maybe blondes have ruined you. Maybe you can't have sex with any woman who goes against your type?"
"That's the stupidest thing I ever heard. I can do any woman. Hair color and legginess doesn't matter." It didn't. Right?
"What about that Kelly girl?" Paris asked.
"The one who's afraid of trees?" Hmmm. Theoretically, there was nothing physically wrong with her. She was actually cute. A brunette, but cute. I'd just have to keep her in the bedroom and remove the bamboo plant in the corner, but I could do that.
"Okay. I'll give her a call." I picked up my cell phone and dialed.
You might think it's strange that I had her number, but I had every woman's number in my cell phone. Mom would text them to me, and I'd enter them before meeting them. I've never erased a single one. But I did code them. For example, Dora's number came up with a photo of Lee Harvey Oswald. Millie's had Quasimodo. Kelly had Woody Woodpecker. That kind of thing. What?
CHAPTER FOUR
The Criminologist: I would like, if I may, to take you on a strange journey.
~The Rocky Horror Picture Show
After Kelly agreed (a bit too eagerly) to my suggestion of dinner the next night, Paris and I got to work on the marketing plans for the Bombay Family business.
"Man, I can't believe we did work for the Republicans four times this century." Paris shook his head. "Although that kind of makes sense now that I think of it."
I leafed through a few pages of my binder. "I can't believe the Family actually wrote this shit down! I mean, look at this one!" I pointed at a high-profile hit of a politician in the nineteenth century. I'd tell you more, but I had to sign a confidentiality clause in my own blood when I was five. You might think we'd forget something that happened when we were little, but there's something about a family blood ritual and Grandma in a goat skull headdress that sticks in your mind.
Paris nodded. "Yeah. Well, at least we have a record of who our main clients are."
"Are you even surprised? I mean we always suspected the CIA, the Feds, Interpol and the Yard, and here it is in black and white." And color too. Grandma did the pie charts as lite
ral cherry pies and all the bullet points were little skulls.
"Okay," Paris said, "where do we start?"
"I wonder if it's hereditary," I mused aloud.
"What?" Paris cocked his right eyebrow. Bastard. I've never been able to do that.
"You know. E.D. I mean, Dad has it, right?"
Paris stared at me. "Will you give it up and concentrate? This presentation is important!"
I sat back in my chair. "And you're just eating it up, right?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" Paris growled.
I stabbed my finger at him. "You love doing this. You've probably been waiting your whole life for this type of assignment."
He slapped my hand away. "Oh for Christ's sake. You're pissed because I didn't argue with Grandma about it."
Damn. He nailed it. I never could get away with anything where Paris, Gin or Liv were concerned. And you can bet one of my dazzling smiles wasn't going to get me out of this one.
"Fine." I was behaving like an immature jerk, but losing access to your favorite appendage will do that to a man. "Let's get this over with."
We spent the afternoon going through the binders, ass-deep in reports on the financial history of the Bombay Clan's Greatest Hits. And I'll grudgingly admit it was kind of fascinating. I'm pretty sure no one but the Council had access to the history of a family of assassins spanning 4,000 years. You couldn't find this stuff on geneology.com.
"All right." I leaned back in my chair and pushed the binder to the middle of the table. "I'm done for today." I looked at my Tag Heuer watch. "Got a hot date tonight with a tree hater."
Paris and I agreed to meet up again tomorrow, but from the look on his face, he was going to keep working. Bastard. He'd probably get the bigger gift from Grandma too.
Guns Will Keep Us Together Page 2
