Guns Will Keep Us Together (8 page)

I sighed and pulled the blue Springfield Armory .45 from the back of my jeans and placed it on the table. Bob's eyes almost burst.

"That's all you know?" I asked patiently.

There was a moment of silence, and I toyed with bringing up the pawn shop scene from
Pulp Fiction
, but Bob seemed to be telling the truth. He was just a broke, two-bit loser who did something stupendously stupid—like breaking into the condo of a professional assassin. Of course, he didn't know that.

"What's this guy's e-mail address? Does he have a name?" I asked, talking to Bob but looking at the pistol. I loved that gun. It was a gift from Mom on my fifteenth birthday. It was unregistered, of course, and came with a hand-tooled calfskin holster.

He didn't miss a beat. "Says his name's Doc Savage."

If I were a dog, Bob would've seen my ears prick up. "Really? The Man of Bronze?" My inner ten-year-old geek kicked in, and I was suddenly transported to my parents' attic, knee-deep in Kenneth Robeson novels.

Bob squinted at me. "That name mean something to you?"

"I believe I'm the one in charge of this inquisition, Mr. Drake. You don't mind if I call you Mr. Drake, do you? I do prefer to distance myself from my victims."

I smiled as he shuddered. The name did, in fact, mean something to me. I'd always wanted to be just like Doc Savage. Independently wealthy, surrounded by willing and knowledgeable henchmen, blonde hair and glowing tan, scouring the world for evil. I'd read all the books and seen the Ron Ely movie a million times. I even wanted a 1930s roadster for my first car, but Mom said it would stand out too much. Bombays never call attention to themselves. So instead of a cool car, I got what all the other kids got – a stupid Chevy Citation.

"That's all I know," Bob stammered, "I…I…I swear!"

I knew he was telling me the truth. There was nothing more to get out of Bob. I slapped a piece of duct tape over his mouth and held a liberal dose of Gin's special knockout drug over his nose until he passed out.

He'd be unconscious for at least ten hours, easy. But what should I do with him? I mean, I couldn't let my little boy come to breakfast to find an unconscious naked man tied to a chair. After about ten minutes of intense thinking, I dragged him into the cleaning closet, threw a blanket over him and locked the door. That should hold Bobby John Drake till I figured out what the hell to do with him. The question was, what did this all mean?

"Um, Dad?" Louis stood in the doorway of the kitchen, his small fists rubbing sleepy eyes.

I felt a little twinge inside my heart. I was starting to love it when he called me Dad. "What is it? You should be in bed."

Louis looked around the kitchen, then frowned. "One of the chairs is missing and it smells like a dog peed in here." His eyes rested on mine. "We don't have a dog."

I know you are supposed to be honest with kids, but I couldn't think of a logical explanation. So I went with the next best thing—making him think he was hallucinating. Putting my hands on his shoulders, I turned him gently toward his room.

"All four chairs are there, and no one had an accident on the floor. You're still dreaming. Back to bed, now."

To my immense relief, Louis shrugged and went back to his room, shutting the door behind him. After cleaning up the kitchen, I sat in the living room for a long time trying to figure out what to do next.

A couple of hours later, as I fed my son his Lucky Charms (They
are
magically delicious.) in the living room so he wouldn't notice the missing chair in the kitchen, I still didn't have a clue. Zip, zero, nada. Not one single idea what to do with the man in my cleaning closet. When I got back home from dropping Louis off at school, I pulled Drake out of the closet, still attached to the chair.

He stared at me while I dragged him to the kitchen and whimpered as I pulled the tape off of his mouth.

"Okay," I said amiably, "where were we?"

Bobby John Drake shook his head, indicating he wasn't much of a talker as of late.

"What kind of grown man goes around as Bobby John?" I asked him. When he didn't respond, I continued, "Not interested in talking?"

"I don't have nothing else to say."

"That's too bad." I started looking through cupboards, "Now where did I put that rusty ice pick?"

"I told you all I know!" Bob squealed.

You know what? I believed him. How about that?

"So what do you suggest I do with you?" I asked calmly. Normally I don't give my victims a chance. They always have to die. But I was feeling a little magnanimous.

"Let me go! I won't tell Savage anything! I didn't get very far anyway!"

"Do you know the significance of the name Doc Savage?"

Bob shook his head.

I sighed. "Too bad for you," I answered as I hit him with the frying pan I never used. As he slumped forward, I thought I probably shouldn't use it to make my son pancakes anytime soon.

For your information, Bobby John woke up several hours later, naked and penniless, on top of a Dumpster outside a biker bar in East St. Louis. Hey, at least he wasn't dead.

 

 

 

(Practicing in a mirror before his high school reunion.)

"Hi, I'm Martin Blank, you remember me? I'm not married, I don't have any kids, and I'd blow your head off if someone paid me enough."

~Grosse Pointe Blank

 

 

 

"You're such a normal guy," Leonie said before shoving a forkful of fettuccine into her mouth.

"No, not really." And she would know that if she'd been at my house at two a.m. to see Bobby John naked and tied to a chair in my kitchen. But she wasn't. We were at my favorite Italian restaurant having a typical, average date. It was only natural that she'd think I was normal. Of course I wasn't sure what a mortician's idea of normal was.

Leonie nodded. "Sure you are."

No, I'm not.
"You just haven't gotten to know me yet," I replied.

Leonie rested her head in her hand. "Let me guess, good college, white-collar degree with postgraduate work, thinks he's God's gift to women, and prefers blondes."

"Shows what you know. I'm an agnostic." Maybe my cologne gave me away? Or was it the Italian loafers? I'm pretty sure it wasn't my hair. I'd achieved perfection in that arena.

"So, am I right?" She smiled, and I thought about taking her right there on the table. Of course, I would not be welcome here again.

"Somewhat. I have a master's in marketing from an Ivy League school. I'm a consultant. And I'll admit to a less-than-healthy respect for non-blondes. But that was before I met you."

Leonie smiled again, and my blood pressure skyrocketed. Suddenly I forgot what color blonde was.

"Well, maybe I can hire you to help me with Crummy's."

I felt a sharp stab of guilt. I'd left Paris pretty much in the lurch, and we had to go to Santa Muerta for our presentation in just a few days.

He was even babysitting for me tonight. I made a mental note to make it up to him tomorrow. Flowers? Wine? Maybe one of the blondes at Gin's spa?

"Okay, but my prices can be steep."

Leonie laughed. Dinner went beautifully. By the time dessert rolled around, we were swapping bad pick-up lines.

"I think my favorite has to be, 'Nice shoes. Wanna fuck?'" Leonie said with a smirk.

"You're kidding. Someone actually used that on you?" Hmmm, I'd have to write that one down later.

She nodded. "And I was wearing hiking boots at the time." She took a drink from her glass of wine. "I'm having a great time, Dakota."

I smiled. "Me too. And you can call me Dak."

"So, what's up next, Dak?" she asked with a wicked grin. I knew what I wanted to do. But did morticians do that on the first date?

A strange beeping noise broke into my fantasy involving Leonie and me naked…anywhere. This would be my first time with a redhead. It almost made me feel like a virgin all over again.

"Damn," Leonie said.

Oh. The beeping came from her. I watched as she pulled a cell phone from her purse. Leonie frowned at it before putting it away.

"I'm sorry, Dak. I've got to go. People are so inconsiderate—dying at the most inopportune moments."

Oh. Right. In her line of work, she probably got calls at all kinds of weird hours.

I tried to hide my disappointment. "It's okay. You go, and I'll take care of the check." I rose from my seat.

Leonie came around to my side of the table, threw her arms around me and kissed me hard on the lips. She smelled like rose water and vanilla and tasted like cabernet. I reached up and tangled my hands in her hair, kissing her like I was devouring chocolate. I wanted her so badly I thought maybe the stiff (as opposed to my stiffy) could wait. What's a few hours when you're already dead, anyway?

Finally, she pulled away. "You're a peach, Dak! I'll make it up to you!" And then she was gone.

My head was spinning as I paid the tab, grotesquely over-tipped the waiter, and flew through the air to Paris's place.

"Hello, Paris, my man!" I swung the door open wide and danced into the living room. Louis was curled up asleep on the sofa.

"Isn't he the greatest kid ever?" I beamed at my son.

Paris raised one eyebrow. "Are you drunk?"

"No, I'm not!" I took my best friend and cousin into my arms and started waltzing him around the room.

He pulled away, "Oh my God. It's happened. I owe Liv $2,000."

I stopped and looked at him. "What's that?"

"Nothing," he rushed. "We only have two days till we leave for Santa Muerta. I'll expect you right after you take Louis to school in the morning."

"Fine," I answered as I scooped the boy up into my arms and carried him to the car. Once in bed, I thought for a brief moment about what Paris had said, then traded in those thoughts for fantasies about Leonie, her kisses, and her long red hair.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Did you say something about owing Liv money last night?" I asked Paris when I got to his place the next day.

Paris chuckled—presumably at my expense. "Yeah. Liv and I made a bet ten years ago that you'd never fall in love. As you got older, the pot grew higher."

I stared at him. "You bet money on that?"

He nodded. "And it looks like I lost, by the way you were acting last night."

"I am not in love with Leonie. It's a phase. I find her career choice…interesting."

"Riiiiiiiiiight." Paris had a smug look on his face, and I really wanted to punch it off.

"Let's just get to work," I snapped. Now, why would it bother me to think I had feelings for Leonie? I shoved that thought aside for now. We had work to do.

Paris typed into his laptop. "Okay. You had the right idea wondering why our assignments have decreased. I called a few contacts, and it seems that there's another firm competing with the Bombays." He slid the notebook over to me.

"National Resources?" I frowned at the generic name on the generic website in front of me. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing, presumably. There's no mention of who they are or what they do. Just a hidden e-mail address I can't hack into."

"Who did you talk to at the agencies?" I asked, not taking my eyes off the bland screen with nothing but a contact button.

"Neil over at Langley. Anders at Mossad."

"Ha!" I snorted. "Remember that time the four of us got so drunk we woke up in Bogotá wearing lederhosen?"
Good times
.

"Yeah. I remember that. Especially the part where you tried to sell me to that pair of white slavers from Yemen."

Oh. He remembered that. "Moving on…" I mumbled. To be honest, I wasn't really going to sell Paris to those guys. It was just a fraternity prank. Although Ali and his brother weren't terribly amused at the time.

"Anyway, National Resources underbid us a few years back on a case. The agencies have been using them ever since."

"When were Neil and Anders gonna tell us?" I was pissed. The four of us had been really close since we shared the same dorm room freshman year. Now that I thought of it, it was kind of weird how we all ended up in the professions we did.

Paris shook his head. "It wasn't easy to get that out of them. I had to use blackmail. I still have those photos of them posing with Air Supply at the concert in Milan."

I laughed. We really came down on them when we found out they ditched us at the brothel to meet Air Supply. I mean, come on! Air Supply?

"Neil says these guys are good. They're also cheaper than we are, and they wear suits when they make their hits. That's why our contracts are down."

"Grandma's gonna be pissed. Especially since they have a website."

Paris looked pretty grave. "She called. The meeting's been moved up. We're expected in Santa Muerta tomorrow. And there's something else."

"Tomorrow? I can't do tomorrow! I have a date with Leonie! And what about Louis? I can't ditch him for a couple of days!" I, Dakota Bombay, started to panic. I'd never really had any reason to turn Grandma down before. Well, there was that time I was on a ski trip in Aspen, but I made it back before the three Austrian nurses got cold.

"You have to bring Louis. She wants to meet him."

Oh shit. "She knows about Louis?" I wasn't ready for that.

Paris nodded. "She wants Missi to run a DNA test on him while we're there."

I slumped into my chair. A DNA test. Of course she'd want that. In the Council's paranoid brain, Louis could be a midget spy. They'd have to make sure he was of the Bombay blood. Missi was the family's version of James Bond's "Q." There would be no margin for error in her results.

"I really like Louis," Paris said. "I'm sure the test will prove he's your son."

He was telling the truth. I knew that. Paris may have been irritated with me lately, but he was still my right-hand dude. And of course he and Louis had hit it off. They were a lot alike. But it was what he said that struck me. It never occurred to me that Louis wasn't mine. And if he wasn't a true Bombay, what would the Council do with him? He would have been to Santa Muerta, and with that kid's brains, they wouldn't allow him to leave. Not alive, anyway.