Dead Clown Barbecue (24 page)

He stood in front of me and held up the knife. "I've been hired to kill you, Mr. Mayhem."

I lowered the recliner's footrest. "By who?"

"I can't say."

"You can say if you're going to kill me, right? I promise not to scrawl the name in my own blood on the carpet."

He shook his head. "No, I'd get in trouble."

"If you're going to kill me, you've at least got to let me know who wants me dead. Give my ghost something to avenge."

"I don't know . . ."

"It's the least you could do."

"Hey, I waited two weeks for you to be alone in the house. I could've done this while your wife and kids were home. Would you want your wife and kids to see you die? Would you?"

"Helen would kick your ass."

Uh, maybe you should try not to anger the nice assassin
, I told myself. Using humor to buy myself time to get out of this situation was fine. Insults were uncool.

The hit man smiled. "She sure puts you in your place. Damn, but you're whipped."

"Not whipped. Henpecked."

"Whatever."

"Y'know, you may be here to kill me, but you're still a guest in my home. Let's be respectful, okay?"

"Fine with me. I'm not here to talk. I'm here to cut myself a slice of bitch."

I stared at him for a long moment.

"Did you just say you're here to cut yourself a slice of bitch?"

He nodded.

"Was that, like, a planned comment? Did you actually come in here with the intention of speaking those exact words?"

"What's wrong with them?"

"What does that even mean?"

"It means that you're a bitch, and I'm here to cut a slice of you."

"No, no, no, no, no, that doesn't work at all. Trust me on this. Have you really said that to other human beings? What was their reaction?"

"I haven't said it to anybody else."

"Good. Don't. What do you usually say in this situation?"

The assassin looked a bit sheepish. "Actually, you're my first hit."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, well, that explains it. I know that you were trying to sound all cold-blooded and stuff, but the only reaction you're going to get is 'Oh, crap, I'm gonna be murdered by a doofus.' What's your name?"

"Victor."

"Hi, Victor." I extended my hand politely. He didn't shake it. I figured I probably should have seen that bit of rudeness coming and placed my hand back on my lap. "Listen, you need a catch phrase that doesn't make you sound like a street punk. Something sinister but classy. Because I'll be honest with you, right now I should be so scared that I can barely keep my urine on the inside, and I'm just not feeling it."

"I bet you'd feel it if I stuck this knife in you."

"I'm sure I would. But if you're an assassin, you need to be memorable. You need to be stylish. I mean, any common hooligan can run somebody over with a car, but you, you're the kind of guy who gets up close and personal with a knife. It's all about the presentation. You need to leave a lasting impression."

Victor nodded almost imperceptibly, as if he were considering my advice. Then he scowled as if suddenly realizing that he'd become the kind of assassin who listened to helpful hints from people he was supposed to kill. "No, I don't. You'll be dead!"

"Yeah, but this isn't about me. It's about you. I might be dead either way, but how would
you
feel if I died thinking that your hit man persona was sub-par?"

Victor shrugged. "I get paid either way."

"Is it just about the money, though?"

"Sure."

"Do you really believe that?"

"I kill for money. That's what an assassin does. When I slit your throat, I won't feel a thing."

I wasn't happy that the conversation had turned to slit throats, and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "How many people have you killed?"

"I told you, you're my first."

"You haven't killed
anybody
? Not even for recreation?"

He shook his head.

"What about animals?"

"No animals."

"Have you ever flushed a goldfish?"

"Look, I don't need to have dozens of corpses stacked in my closet to deal with somebody like you. One slice and you'll be on the floor gargling your own blood, and let me tell you, I'm going to have a good long laugh about it."

"I'm not trying to be a pain here," I insisted. "I'm just wondering how you got the gig of terminating me without any previous murder credits."

"I sorta fell into the job. You know how it goes."

"You padded your resume, didn't you?"

"That's none of your concern."

"You did! You lied about your experience! What are you going to do if your boss finds out?"

"I didn't lie about anything."

I shook my head and made a
tsk-tsk
sound. "Lying by omission is still a lie."

"You know what? I've had way more than enough of you." Victor pointed the knife at my throat. "Got anything else to say before I gut you?"

"That's not where the knife should be pointed if you're planning to gut me."

"Don't tell me how to do my job."

"I'm just saying. Not many guts in my neck."

"Sure there are."

"Do you even know what a gut is?"

"That's it. You're dead, Mayhem."

"My name's not Mayhem."

He blinked. "What?"

"Are you looking for Andrew Mayhem? He lives next door. Shorter guy, glasses . . ."

"You said you were Andrew Mayhem."

"Your knife made me nervous. I wasn't thinking."

He looked at me for about three seconds as if trying to decide if I was lying, and then clearly decided that I was, in fact, lying. "You know what? I'd kill you for free," he said.

"How much are you getting paid?"

"None of your business."

"Of course it's my business! I have a right to know my market value. How much?"

"I don't discuss salary with anybody. And it's time for you to die."

"You keep saying that, and yet my guts are still sealed up in my neck."

Victor looked so angry and frustrated that I thought he might scream. I used the opportunity to strike.

"Did you just throw a fucking juice box at me?" he asked, rubbing his forehead.

"I did."

"You . . . you . . . there's something wrong with you, man! How can nobody else have murdered you yet?"

"See, Victor, you're not listening. This isn't about me. It's about —"

He began to pace around my living room, wildly swinging the knife. "You know what, I didn't even
want
this crappy job! I was happy at the Wal-Mart! I'm just trying to earn enough money to go back to school! I didn't ask to get hit in the head by a goddamn juice box!"

I noticed to my horror that the juice box, which lay on its side, had leaked some grape juice onto the carpet. Helen was going to go ballistic when she got home. The juice boxes were never, ever to be consumed in the living room. Granted, the rule was intended for my children, Theresa and Kyle, but I'd get in just as much trouble. Damn.

Victor continued pacing back and forth across my floor, alternating between shouting in frustration and muttering silently. I kind of felt sorry for him. I still held the straw and tried to figure out how good my chances were of plunging it into his eye when he wasn't looking.

Suddenly he turned to me, eyes wide with fury, raised the knife over his head, and brought it down toward my face —

 — stopping a few inches from my nose.

It occurred to me that a substantial portion of my plan had revolved around the idea that I would break out my lightning-fast reflexes to escape from danger at the exact moment when Victor finally snapped. But if Victor hadn't stopped the knife's downward trajectory by his own choice, I would probably have a blade sticking deep into my face. T'was not a pleasant thought.

"I'm sorry," I said.

Victor lowered the knife. "This job sucks," he said.

"Most jobs do."

I realized that my palms were sweating profusely now that I'd come so close to being stabbed in the nostrils, and my stomach kind of hurt. What had happened to my lightning fast reflexes? The knife could have gone all the way through my nose and up into my brain! I'd be
dead
! And then Victor would collect his paycheck even though he was a below-average assassin!

I wiped my palms off on my jeans, hoping he wouldn't notice.

"Did I scare you?" he asked.

"No."

"I bet I did."

"Okay, yeah, you did, but that knife looks sharp, all right? You can't expect me not to be a little uncomfortable when you're trying to stab me with it."

"I bet you almost wet your pants."

"Would it make you feel better if I had?"

He shook his head. "That would probably be awkward."

"Yeah, for me too."

He sighed. I sighed back.

"Why didn't you finish stabbing me?" I asked.

"Dunno."

"Are you having second thoughts?"

"Maybe. I just . . . do you ever feel like you're playing a part that isn't really
you
? I mean, I feel ridiculous in this spiked jacket. What do you think?"

"Honestly, I thought the jacket was pretty cool."

"It's too hot. And it doesn't fit right in the back. And these spiky things keep scraping on furniture and stuff. I wonder if I should just give up the whole idea of killing people for a living. I don't think I'm cut out for it. I like being the lovable guy. I like being cuddly."

"Cuddly is good. So how much trouble will you get in if you don't kill me?"

"I'm not sure. Not too much. He was only paying me fifty bucks."

"Fifty bucks?
Fifty
?"

"Yeah."

"My life is only worth fifty dollars? Are you kidding me?"

"Is that low?"

"Of course it's low! Holy crap, I was thinking you were making at least five figures, probably six!"

"I made seven dollars an hour at Wal-Mart."

"I can't believe you would kill me for fifty bucks. That's just insulting. Who hired you?"

"Todd McBride."

"I don't even know him. But people try to kill me every once in a while. It's just part of being me. But . . . fifty bucks? You'd pay an exterminator more than that to kill some bugs! Perhaps you should leave."

"Yeah."

"Sorry this didn't work out."

"Me too. I'll resign in the morning. I didn't really want to see sliced flesh anyway. Do you have any of those juice boxes left?"

"I think there's one in the fridge."

"Thanks."

"Don't take the cherry one."

"Okay."

Victor wandered into the kitchen and rummaged through the refrigerator. I heard him leave, and I sat on the recliner for a while, more than a little annoyed. I couldn't even get back into my book.

Still, at least I was alive. And I'd helped Victor realize that the life of a killer-for-hire wasn't for just anybody with access to a bladed weapon. So the evening wasn't a total loss. In fact, since I now knew that my lightning fast reflexes needed to be honed, I had fodder for self-improvement.

If you really thought about it, it was a very worthwhile experience.

I returned to the novel, feeling good.

Then Helen came home and I got in trouble because I forgot to clean up the grape juice on the carpet. So the rest of the night sucked.

TRUE HERO

"You're a true hero," said the reporter in the blue suit, and everybody else at the press conference nodded.

Ted scratched at the bandage on his cheek. There would definitely be a scar, though not as bad as the anticipated scars on his chest and arms. The killer had been nicknamed the Tasmanian Devil by the media; he didn't actually spin in circles, but he attacked his victims with the berserk nature of the cartoon character. Ted had been cut six times, twenty-eight stitches' worth, before he knocked the knife out of the killer's hand.

Then he'd bashed the Tasmanian Devil's head against a tree, twice. As the killer of six (that they knew of so far) fell to the ground, Ted felt the moment where, if this were a horror film, the audience would be shouting, "Kill him! Kill him!" at the screen.

Ted hadn't killed him. This not only gave him a clear conscience for not having taken the life of a fellow human being, no matter how wretched, but also allowed the police to save another little girl who was still in the Tasmanian Devil's basement.

"So what were you thinking when you saw him abduct Millie?"

"You know, it's kind of weird," Ted told the reporter. "She wasn't screaming or pulling away or anything." The Tasmanian Devil had told six-year-old Millie that her parents were in a car accident and that he was a police officer here to take her to the hospital. He had done this in the "only a few seconds," that Millie's babysitter claimed to have been distracted, flirting with a boy at the park. "It just felt wrong. I didn't see any harm in following the car, maybe for a few blocks or so."

He had, in fact, followed the car onto the freeway and tailed it for about ten minutes before deciding to make a call. "I still really didn't think anything was wrong, but I figured, what was the worst case scenario? A 911 dispatcher gets mad at me for wasting a few minutes of his time? So I called the cops."

When he found out that a young girl matching her exact description had just been reported missing from the park where he'd seen her, Ted had almost rear-ended the kidnapper's gray sedan in his effort not to lose it. He followed him off the next exit ramp, and followed him closely through several more turns, taking them further and further from anyplace Ted was likely to receive help.

The kidnapper knew he was being followed, no question, but if Ted tried to be discrete about the pursuit, he might lose him.

Finally, the Tasmanian Devil pulled off to the side of the road and got out of the car to see what the hell Ted wanted. Though Ted couldn't deny that there was a slight urge to lock himself in his own vehicle and hope that the police showed up soon, he immediately worked up his courage and got out of the car to confront the kidnapper. If he'd known that the man was also a serial killer, he might not have done this.