Guns Will Keep Us Together (2 page)

Lord Melchett:
Grey is more usual, Ma'am.

Queen Elizabeth:
Who's Queen?

Lord Melchett:
As you say, Majesty. There were these magnificent orange elephants...

~
Blackadder II

 

 

Usually, I sleep in. When you only have to kill one or two people a year, your hours are pretty flexible. I'd say ninety-nine percent of the time I do whatever I want and one percent is work. It's a damn good ratio. I'm more of a night guy anyway. 

Which is why I was pissed off hearing the phone ring at 8:00 the next morning. This time it was my grandmother.

"Hey, Grandma." I used my most endearing voice, the one that made her treat me like a sovereign prince all these years. Yes, I'm a spoiled assassin.

"Dakota, dear. How are you?" Grandma Mary replied cheerfully. Normally I'd be nervous about this, but she's been sucking up to me even more lately since she almost had me terminated six months ago. I don't hold a grudge, but I'd be an idiot not to milk it.

"Fine. What's up?" I answered, turning my charm all the way up to eleven.

"Well, the Council has some work for you and Paris. Meet me at the Hyatt in one hour," she ordered.

"The Hyatt? Here in town?" Grandma's here? Let the spoiling begin! Last time she showed up she gave me a black American Express card with an unlimited line of credit and a private concierge available 24/7. I can't wait to see what she has for me this time!
What?

"One hour. I'm calling Paris now." She hung up.

I jumped out of bed and raced to the shower. Okay, so I had to wait for the blonde in there to finish first. I shoved Jill…Jenny…Judy (or whatever her name was) out the door, even turning down her offer to spoil me in a different way.

Fifty minutes later, I knocked at the Presidential Suite door, a bouquet of flowers in my hand, ridiculously hyper in anticipation of a spectacular gift.

Paris opened the door. He laughed when he saw the lilies and ushered me in, showing the ones he'd brought. Grandma gave me a rough kiss and hug and invited us to sit down. I put on my most charming smile and awaited my prize.

"Boys, I called you here because I need your help. The Bombay Family business is in trouble."

What? I blinked a few times. The Bombays were in trouble…again? And no present?

"Over the years," she continued, ignoring the blatant look of disappointment in my face, "we've grown the business, utilizing the latest technology and intelligence. But that's not working anymore." Her tone changed. "You'd think quality and craftsmanship would be enough these days, but nooooo."

I looked at Paris and he shrugged back at me, assumingly pissed about not getting a present too.

"Grandma, what the hell are you talking about?" I asked.

She frowned. "No doubt you thought I was in town to spoil you?"

I stumbled over my denial, "No, ha, ha, ha. Why would you think that?"

Maryland Bombay (have I mentioned that everyone in the family is named after a city, state or nation?) narrowed her eyes.
Uh-oh
. It was a look she reserved for her victims. "It's time for you two to put your talents to the test for the family. Dakota, with your education in marketing and Paris' M.B.A. from Wharton, I expect great things from you."

Uh-oh
. "Grandma," I protested, "I'm not really a marketing consultant. That's just my cover."

Her eyes narrowed to slits. "Did we or did we not send you to Princeton to study marketing? Did you or did you not graduate ranked fifth in your class?"

I ran my fingers through my hair. (Maybe it wasn't boyishly tousled enough to warrant a present.) "Well, sure. But I've kind of been out of practice on that particular skill set. Now, if you want me to kill or seduce someone—that I can do."

She shook her head. "Consider this one of the most important things you can do for the family."

Paris sat there, nodding like a bobble-head dachshund, and I felt a little betrayed that he didn't argue with her too.

I sighed. "When do you need us to start?"

"Now." She smiled as she handed over two large, black leather binders. "This is all the activity of the last five fiscals. You'll find our annual reports in there too. I need you both to discover how we can better market our business."

I flipped through the pages of pie charts, organizational flow charts, and statistics. Which is really weird when you consider that we kill people for money. Who knew the Council was so organized? I blame the European branch.

"We have annual reports?" I asked. Why do we have annual reports? Who in the hell would we file them with?

"So," Paris interrupted, his eyes never leaving the binder on his lap, "you want branding, focus groups, the whole lot?"

How do you do focus groups for assassination? Find a cross-section of average citizens and ask them, "How do you feel about ice picks versus handguns in life termination?"

"Let me get this straight," I piped up. "You want us to come up with logos and slogans and try them out on random people to find out which sells murder better?"

Grandma snapped, "Of course not! The public doesn't know what we do! You're to help the company find our target market!" Target market? Was she joking?

Paris winked at me, then rolled his eyes to Grandma, indicating he thought I was nuts.
Bastard
.

For a moment, I thought I might still be in bed, dreaming. I mean, come
on
! This isn't the sort of business you create a marketing campaign for. That, and it would be a lot of work. I didn't really have time. There were two new blondes at Gin's spa I hadn't gotten to yet.

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.

 

 

 

"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 this 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.