Guns Will Keep Us Together

by Leslie Langtry

  One final check in the rearview mirror told me that Dak was back. I locked the car and made my way into the funeral home. A different mortician greeted me at the door and sent me to the correct room. The receiving line was short, and I had to play the part.

  "I'm so sorry for your loss," I said quietly to the widow.

  "How did you know my husband?" she asked through her tears.

  "Oh." How did I know him? Well, it hardly seemed prudent to say that I just spotted his visitation notice in the paper today. "I'd met him through work. Just a few times. I didn't know him well but wanted to pay my respects." I thought it was a great cover story. So why, then, was the widow looking at me with her mouth open?

  "Could you come with me please?" Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and I saw that it was Leonie. My heart soared as I excused myself from the widow and followed her into the hall.

  "What are you doing?" Leonie had her arms folded over her chest. "Are you crashing the Lutz visitation?"

  "Yes. I thought I'd come find you, since you've been too busy to return my calls." I said calmly with only a smidge of defensiveness.

  Leonie looked to her right and left before speaking. "That is so wrong, Dak! You can't stalk me like this."

  "What are you talking about? I just wanted to show you some support."

  "By pretending to be a colleague of Mr. Lutz's? Are you joking?"

  "I could be a colleague. How do you know I'm not?" That's right, boy. Hang on to your dignity!

  "Because Mr. Lutz was the fat man in a circus side show," she said grimly. Okay, she had me there. Come to think of it, the urn was enormous. (I just thought the widow was being dramatic.). And there was that woman with the beard…

  "All right, fine! I came here to find you." I pouted.

  Leonie sighed and brushed a stray loop of curls from her face, "Look, Dak. I just need some time on my own for a while. Don't call me or stop by. Just give me space."

  My jaw was hanging down to my knees. Somehow I managed to close it. "You're…you're breaking up with me?"

  "Look, it's more complicated than that. Someday I'll explain it to you, but I can't now. Okay?" Leonie patted me awkwardly on the shoulder, then left me alone.

  Oh my God. I just got dumped by a redheaded mortician in a funeral home named Crummy's, after pretending to be a circus freak at the visitation I just crashed. I was pretty sure there'd be no bouncing back from this.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  "I wonder if I have become smaller or has the bedroom

  Always been the size of a western state.

  The aspirin bottle is in the medicine cabinet

  Two hundred miles away, a six day ride,

  And my robe hangs from the closet door in another time zone."

  ~Saturday Morning, Questions About Angels, Billy Collins

  "And then she walked out of my life forever. She thought I was a loser and a geek," I said to Paris as I slumped over my scotch at some bar.

  Paris raised his eyebrows. "You're quoting movies now? Man, you've got it bad. What is that…Casablanca?"

  "Ghostbusters. But that's beside the point." I was on my third drink and starting to realize that this might've been a bad time to take up drinking scotch. But Coney drank scotch, and he was soooooooo cool. I guess I thought maybe it would rub off on me. But all it was doing was getting me drunk.

  Paris shook his head and motioned to the bartender for another Harvey Wallbanger.

  "What's up with these '50s girlie drinks anyway?" I slurred.

  "What are you talking about?" Paris asked.

  I motioned dramatically toward his glass, "Harvey Wallbangers, Pink Cadillacs, Grasshoppers and Manhattans. That's what I mean! You had to tell the bartender how to make them! What's next? An Old Fashioned?"

  "Ooooh," he replied, "I haven't tried one of them. I'll have that next."

  "Dude—" I stabbed a finger at him—"you drink like Zsa Zsa Gabor."

  Paris looked pissed. "No I don't! Frank and Dino and the other Rat Packers drank this stuff!"

  I drained my drink and signaled for another, "That was fifty years ago, and they're all dead. Drink something normal!"

  "Oh, like you? I've never known you to drink scotch before. A little hung up on Coney?" Paris snorted.

  We were stepping out onto dangerous territory here. And I was really drunk. If Paris would just quit wiggling like a rubber pencil and stop dividing into two people, I'd let him have it.

  "I'd rather emoolatte him." I frowned, "Emyoolabe. Emulake."

  Paris sighed and rolled his eyes, "Emulate?"

  "Right! Instead of a bunch of dead actors." I nodded sharply, which was a mistake, because now there were three Parises.

  "All right, Mr. Sunshine. Time to take you home." Paris threw some money onto the bar, and I watched as it got up and danced a jig. He wrestled his arm under me and dragged me out to his car. The whole time, I felt like I was walking through water—upside down.

  On the way back home, I vaguely remember him calling my mom and asking her to keep Louis overnight and take him to school the next day. I couldn't help but smiling. Paris was so responsible. He was not only my wingman, but my son's as well. Why couldn't I be more like that?

  "I love you, man," I said to my cousin as he tucked me into bed. Paris rolled his eyes and left me alone in my room, with its spinning ceiling.

  I woke up around noon the next day, following a dream where I was being chased around a 1950s casino by Sammy Davis Jr., who was pissed because I accidentally dropped his glass eye into my drink. And let me tell you—he ran like the wind.

  Man. I should not try new alcohol again. Right. Like it was the scotch's fault. I splashed some more water on my face and looked in the mirror, barely recognizing the gray ghost with purple bags under his eyes.

  I was just brushing my teeth for the tenth time when the doorbell rang. I spit quickly, then grabbing a robe answered the door.

  Paris stood there with a grin and a box of Krispy Kreme Donuts. "You look like hell."

  I snatched the box and nodded. "Yeah, I just got back."

  My cousin followed me into the kitchen and started making coffee. "Wait, I know that one." He absently tapped his fingers on his forehead, "It's from Heathers, right?"

  I nodded. For some reason lately, I could only think in movie quotes. Which was okay, because words had failed me with the only woman I'll ever love. Oh, brother.

  "Dude," Paris said as he munched on a maple donut. "You reek."

  "If it weren't for the donuts, I'd throw your sorry ass out of here." He was right. I just didn't want to hear it. The huge quantity of scotch I drank was now saturating my pores. There wasn't enough soap in the world to get rid of it.

  "Well, I've got some news that will cheer you up. Neil came through with the last assassin. He's in Portland, Oregon. I booked us a couple of flights for tonight."

  Neil. Neil. My brain scrambled to pin an identity on that name. Oh yeah. Our contact at the CIA. Old friend in college who liked Air Supply. He was helping us nail the National Resources guys.

  I opened one eye and squinted at him—mainly because that's all I could manage. "That will cheer me up?" Actually, it made me feel worse as I remembered I'd promised Louis not to travel so much.

  Paris seemed to sense my inner protest, "We're only one more kill away from clearing this assignment. Then you can spend the rest of the year ruminating on how your life has become an ironic, tragic comedy."

  He rose to his feet and slapped me on the back. It felt like getting hit with a baseball bat and sounded like a sledgehammer hitting concrete. "I'll pick you up at five. Pack for cold, rainy weather. Gin's going to pick up Louis from school and keep him till we get back. Ciao."

  I heard the door shut—it sounded like cannon fire. I finished off the pot of coffee and the box of donuts, then took a long, hot shower. Maybe Paris was right. Getting this job done would be a huge relief. Leonie could wait. I could win her over again when I got back. At least—I desper
ately hoped I could.

  Somehow I managed to convince myself that everything would be all right in the end. After all, the Council was likely to give us time off for accomplishing two or three years' worth of work in just under a month. Then I wouldn't have to shuttle Louis between Mom and Gin, and I could get my head straight on Leonie.

  Her image came immediately to mind. Leonie's tall and slim body, with creamy pale skin and bright, curly red hair. Her face with its elegant, yet elfin features. And those eyes that could turn me into a slave.

  But what really caused a lump in my throat was who Leonie was. Funny and smart—she didn't put up with my crap and seemed to be the only one to see me for who I really was. With a shock, I realized that her (considerable) physical attributes came in a distant second to her personality. Another first for me.

  But that would have to wait. Portland came first. I opened my suitcase and began to pack, thinking of how happy Leonie would be when I got back and she realized I really, truly loved her. In this fantasy, Louis went on to cure cancer and win the Nobel Peace Prize—which would be ironic for an assassin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Derek Zoolander: I'm pretty sure there's a lot more to life than being really, really good looking. And I plan on finding out what that is.

  ~Zoolander

  My head stopped hurting by the time we landed in Oregon. As I stepped off the plane, the cool, wet air made me feel a little better. By the time we got to the Super 8 hotel, I was feeling like my old, broken-hearted self.

  "Neil gave us this address." Paris handed me a slip of paper. "He didn't have a name, but I googled it and found out it's a guy named Fred Costa. He lives alone. Should be pretty easy."

  I forced a grin and took another swig of water. My skin tone was starting to come back after the serious dehydration of the night before. I didn't like the bags-under-the-eyes look.

  "So," I said. "We go tonight. Let's get this shit knocked out."

  We must've been sitting in that rental car for hours, watching Vic's house. It was kind of cute—not at all what I expected for a male assassin, but who knows how people think? I sure didn't have a clue what was going on in Leonie's mind. Okay, enough of that. Get the job done, and then I can get her to tell me what was going on.

  At 11:30 p.m., the final light went out in Fred's house. Paris and I slipped up to the house a half hour later. Picking the lock on the back door was pretty easy. That's just plain sloppy. A good assassin would be more conscientious of his security. Oh well, in a few moments it wouldn't matter anyway.

  We moved quietly through the house, trying to locate our (hopefully) sleeping Vic. The inside of the house was even more feminine than the outside. Everything in every room screamed that a woman lived there. I whispered my concerns to Paris, but he just shrugged. As we approached the bedroom, I prayed silently that there wouldn't be a Mrs. Vic in bed with Fred.

  This worry proved needless, as we found him snoring away on a mattress on the floor. Paris pulled out his LED penlight to confirm the kill by locating the Woody Woodpecker tattoo. We'd been so freaked about the last two jobs we wanted to make this one work.

  He'd just flashed the light on when I noticed there was no tattoo. Of course, Fred woke up and noticed that there were two men, dressed all in black, shining a flashlight on him. I aimed my gun at him.

  "Who are you? What do you want?" A clearly terrified Vic scrambled to a sitting position clutching his sheets as if they would protect him against bullets. That was funny.

  Paris growled (which made me look at him in surprise), "Are you part of National Resources?"

  The man's face screwed up in confusion. "No. What's that?"

  "Are you Fred Costa?" I asked in exasperation.

  He nodded, "Yeah. Who are you?"

  Paris turned to me, "I don't think this is the guy."

  I kept my eyes trained on Fred. "He must be the guy. Our source gave us this address. You googled him, for Christ's sake."

  Paris shook his head. "He doesn't have the tattoo."

  I was getting annoyed with this line of conversation. "We didn't check Garth for the tattoo, and we took care of him." I watched Vic to see if the name Garth caused any recognition. But Fred just sat there with a blank look on his face.

  "Who the hell is Garth? What tattoo?" Vic whined.

  Paris never lowered his flashlight, keeping the Vic completely in the dark as to what we looked like. "It's not him," he said simply.

  I thought about this for a moment. There was no way I wanted to gun down an innocent man. However, I was just one step away from being able to focus on Louis and Leonie. Family had to come first.

  "Don't," Paris said quietly.

  Fred was beginning to whimper now. "Is this because of that prank with the donkey and mayonnaise? Because if it is, I'll never do it again! I promise."

  I was just about to ask him what he was talking about when I remembered I was on a job.

  "Look!" I shouted at Paris. "Our connection gave us this address. He said this was the place. We can't worry about whether or not he has the right tattoo. Let's finish this and move on!"

  I kept the gun leveled and snapped off the safety. The click seemed to drive Vic mad.

  "No! Please! It's not me! It's a mistake!" he pleaded. I rolled my eyes. Like I haven't heard that one before.

  "Please!" Vic continued. "It must've been the previous owner! I've only lived here a couple of weeks!" He closed his eyes and flinched. Like that too would protect him from bullets too.

  Paris pushed my arm down. "Wait. Let's hear what he has to say. I really think we might have the wrong guy."

  I rolled my eyes and agreed. Paris confirmed the address with Vic, who nodded as vigorously as a man who has just gotten a call from the governor at the last minute.

  "Yes! That's right." He nodded like a nervous bobble head doll. "But I just moved here. The house has been on the market a long time. The previous owner moved." A strange look came over his face. "Wait! I still get the other guy's mail! I'll show you!" He started to get out of bed, and I raised the gun again, stopping him mid-way.

  "Just tell us where it is. We'll get it," Paris said calmly.

  "Okay! It's on the dining room table. I just sorted it to send back to the post office." A glimmer of hope shone in Fred's eyes. I nodded to Paris, who handed me the flashlight and left to retrieve the mail, while I kept my gun trained on Vic.

  This was turning into a major disaster. How did things get so out of hand? Paris and I needed to do more research if this was true. The Council would be pissed if they thought we broke in and almost killed the wrong man.

  Paris came back into the room. In the dim light I could make out that he had a stack of bills. These, he tossed onto the bed and Fred greedily snatched them up.

  "See!" He held them up to us. "This is what I was talking about!"

  Paris took back the flashlight and leaned forward to inspect the mail. Vic scrambled back to what he thought was the safety of the headboard. I watched him with amusement.

  "Oh no." Paris said softly, and I realized we must've had the wrong guy.

  "So, who is it? What name is on there?" I asked, the gun still trained on Fred.

  Paris snatched up the mail and stuffed them into his coat pocket. "Tell no one of this!" He snarled at the man on the bed. "Tell no one, or we will come back and finish it." Then he dragged me from the room, out of the house and down to the car.

  "Whoa, slow down." I protested. "We don't want to attract attention."

  Paris was driving at least forty miles over the speed limit. His face was pale, and he'd broken out in a sweat, which wasn't a good look for him, by the way.

  "Hey," I said slowly, trying to be encouraging, "it happens to everybody. Neil didn't know the other guy moved. It's just a simple mistake."

  Paris turned and looked at me as if he wanted to say something. In fact he looked at me longer than I was comfortable with, considering he was driving. He said nothing until we got back to the ho
tel.

  "What the hell was that all about?" I asked as we stripped out of our gear.

  Paris looked like he was going to be sick. Obviously this affected him more than I thought. Of course he'd be upset. We'd just broken into the home of an innocent man, scared the bejesus out of him and fled with little or no information on what to do next. Since I was the new, improved, humbled Dak, I tried a different approach.

  "It's all right. That guy didn't see us. We'll find the real guy and blow a hole in him—" I held my hands out a foot apart "—this big."

  He shook his head, despite my quote from Parenthood. Okay. Maybe I should just let him deal with it in his own way. My phone started vibrating on my hip.

  "Hey! It's Leonie." I declared. Maybe things were looking up. I flipped the phone open to talk to her.

  "Hello?" I asked as casually as I could. Paris started shaking his head vigorously. What a dork. He could at least concede me this small victory. No, he has to muck it all up with his depression on the gig.

  "Dak," Leonie began, "I'm so sorry for how I acted at Crummy's. I've been an idiot. I do want to keep seeing you, it's just…"

  Paris was now doing some kind of charades thingy. He was hopping up and down giving me the 'kill' sign by dragging his finger across his throat. Geez. You'd think our crisis at work could wait till I reconciled with my girlfriend.

  "Is this a bad time?" Leonie asked, and I realized I was giving Paris too much of my attention.

  I turned my back to him. "No, this is the perfect time. I've been thinking about you a lot and wanted to talk to you." I left out the word 'desperately.'

  Paris walked over to his coat and pulled the bills from Vic's place out of his pocket. He fairly bounced up to me and tried shoving them under my nose. Couldn't this wait?

  I pushed his hand away. "Sorry for my distraction, Leonie. Paris and I are on a job right now, and for some reason he won't leave me—" I shoved him backwards onto one of the beds—"alone."

  She sighed. It was the most wonderful sound I'd ever heard. "Look, the fact is, there's been some stuff going on in my professional life that I need to reconcile. But I shouldn't have pushed you away like that. You…you mean a lot to me, Dakota Bombay. And I want to be with you."