Chance Assassin: A Story of Love, Luck, and Murder (7 page)

I looked at Frank, wondering whether that was the connection I’d felt between us.  Two murderers seeing one another for what they were.  Death uniting us.  Not love.   “Is that how you got to know him?” I asked, unable to imagine what he was like as a kid despite how innocent he looked sometimes.

He tensed, but he didn’t leave.  That was a good sign.  “Not quite,” he said.  I could tell by the way he avoided eye contact that the discussion was over.

“So, why tell me this now?” I asked.  Anything to keep him talking.  I was beginning to love his voice as much as his face.

“The way you looked when you told me about your boyfriend.  You showed no sign of concern over what might happen to him if I went over there.  The opposite, in fact.  I could see the bloodlust in your eyes.  I figured you wouldn’t have any remorse for killing someone who nearly killed you.”

“Why should
I
feel remorse?” I asked defensively. “He stabbed me first!”

“Exactly my point.”

“Last night, you said Charlie wasn’t allowed to kick me out.”

“All this, him looking after you, taking care of you, that’s his punishment.  He knows I’m pissed at him.  He’s trying to make it up to me by doing what I say.”

“What happens to me when you’re not mad at him anymore?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.  If I hadn’t had such a huge crush on him, I might’ve been furious.

As much as I liked seeing how sadistic Frank looked when he talked about forcing Charlie to do something he didn’t enjoy, I couldn’t help but feel that my life was a game to them.  But being a pawn did have an upside.  I was getting room and board during my recovery, even if it came with the occasional verbal abuse from The Warden.

“Oh, I’ll be mad at him for years over this,” he said.  Then he looked at me and saw where I was coming from.  “No one is forcing you to stay here, Vincent.”

“Other than my lack of anywhere else to go…”

“Tell you what,” he said sympathetically, like he was eager to make it up to me, “you stay here, make Charlie’s life miserable for a little while longer, and I’ll see to it that you’re taken care of when this is all over.  Okay?”

Through the years of foster care, living to service Mark and all the men who followed him, I’d been filled with constant worry over where I’d end up.  It was always there, a reminder that I would never again have the luxury of letting my guard down, that at any moment I could be right back where I started from.

I’d heard the promise of security before, but coming from him I could actually believe it.  If Frank said he’d take care of me, I had nothing to worry about.  It was an overwhelming feeling, one that I wasn’t sure what to make of.  I
trusted
him.  “Really?” I asked.

“Will you stay then?” he asked, that sadistic expression returning to his face. “Play sick for another week or so?”

“What’s in a week?”

“My job should be finished by then.”

I suddenly felt sick.  I
hadn’t even considered the fact that his out of state license plates were going to stay that way.  He was passing through.  Getting out.  And I wasn’t.
 
“Do you guys move around a lot?”

“Most of the time,” he said. “Usually we’re in and out in about three weeks.  This job is taking longer than Charlie anticipated.”

I noticed that he didn’t say it was taking longer than
he’d
anticipated.  “Because of me?”  I asked, wondering whether Frank was drawing it out deliberately to further piss him off.

“Partially.  Charlie shouldn’t have been seeking work for me while I was away.  He knows where I’d rather be, so he has to deal with the fact that I’m taking my time.”

It broke my heart to think that the man he considered his friend would betray him in his hour of need.  Frank was obviously suffering, and Charlie didn’t seem the least bit compassionate.  It was no wonder he looked so wounded.  Charlie
had
wronged him.  And so had I, even if it was unintentional.  But I was determined to make it up to him, by any means he deemed necessary.  Preferably with bondage and sexual servitude.

“How’s your friend?” I asked, hoping that showing interest wouldn’t dissuade him from punishing me for my crimes.

“Better,” he said with a genuine smile.  I could see the relief on his face.  He even looked like he’d gotten a little sleep.  “I talked to her last night.  She is going Paris for some
retail therapy
.  That’s shopping, yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s shopping,” I said, my already broken heart shattering into a million pieces.  His friend was female.  Of course she was.  She was probably beautiful, too.  But his statement had answered another question.  The way he’d said Paris was unmistakably French. 
That
was the accent.  “Where are you from, Frank?”

“Here,” he said, a moment too late.

“You don’t get asked that very much, do you?”

He gave me a semi-threatening glare.  “Eat your lunch.”

“You first.”

Frank rolled his eyes and took a fry.

“Hmm.  French fry,” I muttered.

He shook his head in exasperation.  “You’re going to be a big problem for me.”

“I’m glad your friend is doing better,” I said.  “Where’d you grow up?”

“Enough questions,” he said sternly. “Eat.”

We sat in silence for what had to be a record for me, ten whole minutes while I wolfed down the best meal I’d had since before my parents died.  Then, when I’d had enough food and quiet, I started up the inquisition again.  He must’ve had a long enough reprieve because he didn’t stop me.

“Where’d you grow up?”

“Where’d
you
grow up?” he asked in response, pushing the last of the fries toward me.  He was as picky as a child, but I’d prodded him enough to get him to try a bite of my burger.

“Near here.  A little Podunk town you’ve never heard of.  Your turn.”

“Why’d you come to Chicago?”

I crossed my arms over my chest.  “
Your
turn.”

He rolled his eyes.  “London.”

“As in England?” I asked.  Geography hadn’t been my best subject, but I was pretty sure you didn’t get a French accent from London.

“Why’d you come to Chicago?” he asked again.  He’d been subtle before when he skirted my questions, but now he was just being a brat.

“You don’t have a British accent.”

“Nor would I,” he said. “I have an
English
accent, when I feel like it.”

“When you
feel
like it,” I teased. “I want to hear it.”

“Tough,” he said firmly. “Why’d you come to Chicago?”

“That’s where the trucker was heading,” I said.  It had been my first go at hitchhiking, and despite my usual bad luck, I’d actually found someone nice.  He hadn’t even taken advantage of me,
and
he bought me pie.  But he did tell me I needed to get to know My Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, and that had made me a bit uncomfortable.

I’d never been a very good Catholic.  I wasn’t fond of guilt, and our church didn’t employ any of those handsy priests I’d heard such delightful things about, so I saw no reason to attend.  Still, I’d told the man I’d do my best to look up JC once I got settled, just to ease his mind.

“Where are your parents?” Frank asked.

“It’s my turn to ask the questions,” I said sternly.

“I have to go to work.”

“Cheater,” I said.  I knew he was only fleeing to avoid any more talking.  The man was impossible.  “My parents are dead.”

“Were they good to you?”

I stared at him.  No one ever asked that.  They’d always jump right to the apologies, as if their being sorry changed anything.  “What if they weren’t?”

“Then you’re better off without them,” he said plainly, cold and detached.  But it was too late.  I was already getting choked up.

“Yes, they were good to me,” I said with my head down.

“How did they die?”

I wiped my eyes.  It had been awhile since I’d talked to anyone about it.  The social workers dried up pretty quickly once I’d gotten placed in the first of many foster homes, and Mark had never liked discussing the
negative
sides of life.  “Car accident,” I said. “They were killed instantly.”

“Were you in the car?” Frank asked.  He didn’t flinch at the word
killed
. Not like someone else would.

“In the backseat,” I said.  I didn’t remember any of it.  The entire day was a blur.  But I’d been told the details.  The other driver had a blood alcohol content three times the legal limit.  He’d crossed over the center line and hit us head on.  My dad had tried to swerve, but it was too late.

The man who killed them had come to visit me after he got out of jail.  He said he was sorry, and we ended up sharing a bottle of schnapps in the backseat of his still wrecked Ford, parked halfway on the dead lawn of my current foster home.  I gave him a blowjob, then threw up on his lap.  I didn’t apologize.

“I’m sorry, Vincent,” he said.  It was interesting that he didn’t give his condolences until after he’d learned that I was in the vehicle.  I wondered whether death seemed less significant to him, being that he caused it for a living.

“What about
your
parents?  Are they still alive?”

“No,” he said.  I had a feeling he was only going along with this because he’d made me cry.  I wouldn’t have been surprised if he flipped the inquisition back on me as soon as I calmed down, but for now he was allowing it, just to appease me.

“Were you close?” I asked.

“With her, yes.”

“Not him?”

“We barely knew each other.”

“They weren’t married then?” I guessed.

“
He
was.”

“Ouch.”

Frank smiled.  He’d been doing that more and more, and it brought me endless pride to know it was because of me.

“Were you
really
close with your mom?” I asked, and judging by his expression, he’d hoped I’d lost my train of thought.

“What kind of question is that?”

I shrugged, then sniffled a little to remind him that he’d upset me earlier.  My parents loved me because they loved each other.  I was a part of them, which made me a great substitute when they couldn’t be together.  But mostly I was left to my own devices, mainly television, while they stared into each other’s eyes.  When I thought of them, it was usually as one parental unit, instead of two individuals.  Momanddad.  It was fitting that they’d died together.  It was fitting that they’d forgotten to take me with them.

He scowled at me.  “Very close.  She was all I had.”

“When did she die?”

“I was young.  I don’t remember.”

“Did you live with your dad after that?”

“No,” he said, and I could feel the room get colder.  He was done with this subject for now.  “What did your parents do before they died?”

“Took turns getting fired,” I told him.  I’d thought
I
would have to change the subject, but he’d taken the lead.  “They were like two teenagers in love.  They’d skip work to hang out with each other and then wonder why they couldn’t pay their bills.  He was really good with cars, so usually she was the one to lose work.  I get my lack of talent from her.”

“You’re very hard on yourself,” he said.

“But I’m conceited, so it makes up for it.”

“You’re beautiful.  You have every right to be conceited.”  As soon as he realized what he’d said, he blushed violently.  “I am so sorry.”

He stood up like he couldn’t get far enough away from me. I thought he was afraid I’d get the wrong idea, but his body language wasn’t defensive.  It was more like he was ashamed of himself.  Could he possibly think I’d be insulted by his compliment?

I wasn’t sure what to say.  “That’s okay,” I said.  It wasn’t the same as when other men called me beautiful.  With them, it meant I’d be donning knee pads.  With Frank, it meant uncomfortable silence.  And the last thing I wanted was for Frank to be uncomfortable
or
silent.  I tried my best to reassure him, whatever his concern may have been.  “I’m practically a girl anyway.  Don’t worry about it.”

“No, you are not,” he said quickly, still avoiding eye contact.  “You say shit like that you’re no better than Charlie.”

“I was trying to make you feel better,” I said.  I didn’t like being compared to Charlie, especially because Frank was absolutely right.  I’d been known to use words like faggot in a derogative manner, not just toward myself but toward any slightly effeminate male.  It was hard not to when I’d gotten so accustomed to hearing it.  As much as I hated when someone called me anything remotely offensive in that way, it had infiltrated my vocabulary to the point that I rarely even noticed when I used it.

“I should have said handsome,” Frank muttered under his breath.  Language was clearly an insecurity for him, though I couldn’t see why.  He spoke better English than I did, and I never would’ve figured out what the accent was if not for the way he’d said Paris.

“So you’re a little ESL.  It doesn’t change the fact that I’m pretty,” I said.

“I’m a little what?”

“Um…European.  You say my name with a French accent.”

“
Do
I
?” he asked. “
Merde
.”

I laughed.  I knew that word.  “Is Vincent a French name?” I asked.  As far as I was aware, my ancestors were all Irish.  The name had been passed down from my grandfather, the first Vincent James Sullivan.

“Not specifically, but it’s more common in Latin based languages,” he said, then he repeated my name a few times, making sure to say it like I had. “Sometimes it slips.”

“French is pretty.  I don’t see why you bother speaking English at all, much less with an
American
accent.”

“Because I’m
in
America,” he said. “I like blending in.”

“You don’t blend in,” I told him. “You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

He paused for a moment.  “Charlie says that you fancy me.  Is that true?”

That hadn’t been the word Charlie used.  He would’ve told Frank that I wanted to fuck him, or something lewder.  I watched him carefully, trying to gauge how he’d react.  Would he be mortified or would he just blush again and get over it?  Whichever it was, I was fairly confident that he wouldn’t punch my lights out, so I went ahead and answered.  “Yes, I
fancy
you,” I said.