The Ethical Assassin: A Novel (9 page)

I sat by myself for a moment, staring at the blank, gray face of the TV. Maybe there was something about the murders. Maybe I should be watching. I continued to stare, afraid of what I might see or not see, until, in a surge of bravery, I lunged forward and turned it on.

The late news would be long over by now, but I figured if there was a murder, the local news stations would jump at the chance to use their generally useless live broadcast equipment. Nothing. No police cars or helicopters hovering over the mobile home. I sat at the edge of the bed, hands pressed against the tattered bedspread that smelled like a mix of ashtray and aftershave, and stared with unfocused eyes at Johnny Carson, who was laughing hysterically at Eddie Murphy. I didn’t really know who or what Eddie Murphy was imitating, but I took comfort in Johnny Carson’s appreciation. Could I really have witnessed a murder in a world full of Carson’s belly laughs?

I wanted to embrace the doubt, but there were too many questions. So I opened the night table drawer and took out the phone book to look up Oldham Health Services. Nothing in the yellow pages or the business white pages. It didn’t prove anything. It could be reasonably close by without being in the same county, but unless I knew where it was, I didn’t see how I could get a number to call them and ask them who they were and—and what? If they knew a guy named Bastard? That wasn’t exactly a conversation I wanted to have.

I stood up and looked out the window, pressing the thick brownish curtain to one side and trying not to cough from the storm of dust I’d unleashed. About thirty book people were out now. The tinkle of music and laughter filtered through the window. I’d flipped off the gurgling air conditioner for a moment so I could hear what there was to hear. Through the glass I could just discern the furiously optimistic jangle of “Walking on Sunshine.” That song was everywhere that summer, and as much as I hated it, its rhythms pumped with an undeniable pull. It announced cheerfully that people were having fun somewhere else. Quite possibly everywhere else. And sure, it was stupid, mind-numbing fun, but it was still fun, and sitting in a tobacco-saturated motel room with globs of ancient semen encrusted into the carpet, trying to decide if I’d really seen two people gunned down that night, was a hell of a lot less fun than walking on sunshine down to the pool, drinking watery beer, and possibly even flirting with Chitra.

I looked out the window again and there was Chitra, sitting on the edge of a slatted reclining chair, the sort sunbathers across the country—the world, for all I knew—endured in order to tan themselves. A tall boy was wrapped around those long, silver-ringed, red-tipped fingers. Like everyone else, she still wore her selling clothes—in her case, black slacks and white blouse, so she looked like a waitress. A beautiful waitress.

The fact was, I was going to be eighteen in January, and this virginity business was beginning to get me down. Not in a frenetic, must-visit-the-whorehouse,
Porky’s
sort of way, but more in a life-is-passing-me-by way. It felt as though everyone I knew had been invited to a party from which I was barred. I could hear the music and the peals of laughter and the clinking of crystal champagne flutes, but I couldn’t get in.

From my room, I could make out Chitra’s distant smiling face. It was a big, easy, open, and unself-conscious grin. She was one of those pretty girls who didn’t fully appreciate or factor in the effect pretty girls had on men, so she believed the world to be a much nicer place than it was. The brutality of people like Ronny Neil remained invisible to her not only because she wouldn’t know a redneck if he did doughnuts on her lawn in his four-by-four, but also because they weren’t assholes around her, were they? They didn’t insult her, crowd her space, make her feel that only the thinnest gossamer thread kept her safe from a monumental ass kicking. No, they tripped over themselves, they told her how nice she looked, they gave up their seats for her, they offered her a piece of Kit Kat. And for a moment, I felt an incredible jolt of envy—envy not of those who were close to Chitra, but of Chitra herself and that beautiful, protected, fantastical universe into which she’d been given a free pass.

Now she threw back her head and let out a full, tinkling laugh, so high-pitched that I could hear it this far away, through the glass, over the music from the boom box. She was surrounded by a group of people. Marie from the Jacksonville office, a couple of people from Tampa, Harold from Gainesville, who I suspected might be a rival.

At first I didn’t recognize the guy who was doing such a great job of amusing her. The umbrella at their table was up, and the angle was odd. I could tell from the clothes it wasn’t Ronny Neil, and anyway, Ronny Neil wasn’t very funny. He might tell some dirty jokes or racist jokes in the car, but they were stupid, and only Scott laughed at them. They sure as hell weren’t going to make Chitra throw back her head and let loose.

And then I saw the comedian. Tall, thin, black jeans, white button-down with the collar done up, even whiter hair puffing upward and outward.

It was the assassin. Chitra was talking with the assassin.

Chapter 8

E
MPTY
B
UD CANS
already littered the outdoor stairwell. The Gambler and Bobby and the other crew bosses asked us not to litter, but there was no way to get a bunch of exhausted bookmen, thrilled after a long day to be sitting and drinking beer, to pick up after themselves. The bosses didn’t really care as long as the books were sold, and Sameen and Lajwati Lal, who owned the motel, were content if not exactly happy as long as the bills were paid. We stayed at this motel every time we came to Jacksonville, and they weren’t about to mess with a decent-size account, so in the end nothing got done.

I rounded the stairs, nearly slipping in a puddle of spilled beer but recovering by leaping into the air and landing at the bottom of the first floor.

To get to the pool I had to cross a little courtyard, go past the reception lobby, and come out the other end. I never got that far. When I landed I smelled something sweet and familiar, and it wasn’t until I felt a hand on my shoulder that I processed the scent.

It was pot. Not that I found anything especially sinister about pot. Sure, I associated its use with my father, but my father also wore pants, and I wasn’t about to eschew them on similar grounds. I’d smoked a few times, and though it always made me headachy and paranoid, I figured that sometimes you had to be a good sport and go along to get along. But here, on the road, with the bookmen, I associated pot with just one thing: rednecks.

“Where’s the Hebrew fire?” Scott lisped in his high-pitched voice. It wasn’t bad enough the guy had an impediment, he sounded as if he’d just sucked in helium as well. He had one of his dinner-plate hands on my shoulder, and there was nothing friendly about it. He pressed hard, but even so I could have gotten away if that’s what I’d wanted; however, doing so would have involved some squirming, which struck me as humiliating. Better, I thought, to act as though I didn’t care. This strategy was one I’d turned to again and again in middle school and high school. It never worked, but I clung to the routine as desperately as a sailor clung to prayer in the face of a storm.

“Yeah, where ith it?” Ronny Neil said. Harassing me didn’t mean that Scott was above contempt.

I looked at Scott’s hand. “I’ve got somewhere to go,” I said. The sour odor of his unwashed body began to pierce the shell of the pot.

“Where would you have to go?” Scott asked. His eyes were already red and half-closed, and he teetered a little uncomfortably on his feet. I tried not to stare at a cluster of pimples on his chin, big and foamy white at the top.

“Yeah,” Ronny Neil repeated, tossing his hair back like an actor in a shampoo commercial. He took a big suck from the pipe, held it for a moment, and blew the smoke in my face.

I understood the gravity of smoke blowing. A man blew smoke in your face, you beat the shit out of him if you had the chance. It was a hanging offense, a reason to go nuclear.

“Bobby wants to see me,” I said in a scratchy voice. It seemed like a good lie. No one wanted to get on Bobby’s bad side. There was no percentage in that.

“Fuck Bobby and fuck you and fuck all your asshole friends,” Ronny Neil said.

“That,” I observed, “is a lot of fucking.”

“You little shit,” Scott added. He jabbed his finger in my stomach. Not insanely hard, but hard enough to hurt.

Ronny Neil smacked Scott in the back of the head. “I tell you to hit him, you fat fuck?”

“I just poked him,” Scott answered defiantly.

“Well, don’t juth pokth himth. Don’t juth poke nobody until I tell you to, asshole.” He turned to me. “You think Bobby is so great? He ain’t shit around here, and he don’t know shit about what’s going on. The Gambler trusts
us.
You understand? Not you and not Bobby. So stop hiding behind him like he was your mama.”

“Bobby’s a fucking asshole,” Scott said. “He gives all the best areas to a pussy like you.”

“A puthy like you,” Ronny Neil repeated.

“You know what, I’m starting to feel like a third wheel in this conversation,” I said. “I think the polite thing would be for me to excuse myself.”

“I think the polite thing would be for you to stick it up your ass.”

“It’s funny,” I said, “how the standards of politeness vary from culture to culture.”

“You think you’re smart. You blank again tonight?” Ronny Neil handed the pipe over to Scott, who looked at his hand for a moment, trying to figure out how to keep me where he wanted without touching me. Scott then studied the ground and moved around on unsteady feet to block me from getting away.

“I didn’t blank,” I said. “Not that it’s your business.”

“When you fall asleep tonight,” Scott said, “we’re gonna fuck you up.”

I had heard this threat before, but it never amounted to anything. They didn’t want to get fired, they just wanted to make me afraid. And it worked, because even though they hadn’t done anything yet didn’t mean they weren’t going to. They were certainly capable of it. Guys like Ronny Neil and Scott had no real future, not one they could imagine or look forward to. The end of high school had always meant that I could put the worst behind me; for Ronny Neil and Scott, it meant that the best was over. They were entirely capable of doing something horrible and irreversible, of sending themselves to jail, all on a whim.

My clenched determination not to waver before them was beginning to crumble. I’d seen too much today, and now I could feel the tears welling back somewhere in my throat. I needed to find some way to end this.

“Just what do you boys think you’re doing?”

We all turned around. Sameen Lal came storming out of the registration office, a paddle I somehow recognized as a cricket bat in one hand. He was in his forties, slender and tall, and had a thick head of black hair, well-defined cheekbones, and small, intense eyes, a natty little mustache. We stayed in his motel many times, and he recognized some of us and had opinions about the ones he recognized. He and his wife had singled me out for friendly waves, a “Good morning,” a sympathetic nod at night. They somehow knew my name. They also appeared to understand that Ronny Neil and Scott were bad news.

“I smell something illegal,” Sameen said. “I want you boys to clear out of here.”

“How you doing, there, Semen? I smelled it, too,” Ronny Neil said. “I think Lem here’s been smoking ganja. Best you should call the police and turn him in.”

Hardly my idea of a good joke, tonight less so than ever. Fortunately, Sameen understood what he was dealing with.

“I find your story very unlikely. Now, this is my motel, and I’m telling you to clear off, or I’ll report this to your boss.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. I’d hate to see this here motel of yours burn to the ground, if you take my meaning.”

“His meaning is arson,” I said, working hard to sound dry now that my rescuer was here.

“I never threatened nothing,” Ronny Neil said. “You just remember that when this here place burns down that I never threatened nothing.”

“I do not want to hear your threats,” Sameen said. “You are a pair of very bad boys. Now, clear off, I said.”

“Okay, then.” Ronny Neil took hold of my arm and began to lead me away. “Let’s go.”

Sameen raised the cricket bat. Only a few inches, but it was clear he meant business and that he understood a lot more than his retiring demeanor suggested. “Let go of him, and clear off by yourselves.”

“I don’t like the way you’re ordering us around, Semen,” Ronny Neil said. “You don’t decide who goes where, now, do you?”

The two of them stared at each other, each waiting for something definitive to happen. Over by the pool, above the throb of conversation and music, I heard a few words, unmistakably Chitra’s voice, and I wanted to find some way to excuse myself. For her sake, yes, but for my own, too. I didn’t want to be there to witness more violence, not even if it meant Ronny Neil having his head bashed in by a vigilante wicket keeper.

“Excuse me, Mr. Lal, you’ve got a customer waiting for you, sir, so if you don’t mind, I’ll look out for Lemuel.”

The assassin walked toward us with an easy if slightly slouched gait. He had a spirited grin, and one hand was up in a half wave. Ronny Neil, Scott, and Sameen stared. They stared at this crazy-looking guy with his wild white hair and gangling enthusiasm.

“I’m Lemuel’s friend,” the assassin said to Sameen. “He’s okay now.”

“How do you know my name?” Sameen asked.

“It’s inscribed on your cricket bat.”

Sameen squinted with suspicion. “Can I leave you with him?” he asked me.

I nodded. I was afraid to do anything else.

Sameen nodded back. “You come see me if you have any more problems,” he said to me, and then went back to his office.

I liked that Sameen had come out to help me. I was grateful, even touched, but I’d never believed that this inoffensive, nearly invisible man, even with his bat, would be a match for Ronny Neil and Scott. The assassin, on the other hand, was another story.

The brief gust of relief I felt was gone in an instant. The assassin might get Ronny Neil and Scott to back off, but I couldn’t help feeling I was better off with Ronny Neil and Scott. I wanted to beg them not to leave me alone with him.

“What do you want?” Ronny Neil asked, his voice slow and viscous. He held himself straight, but he was a good three inches shorter than the stranger.

“Just looking for Lemuel,” the assassin said. He put a hand on my shoulder and began to lead me toward the pool.

I didn’t want to go. I wanted to cling to something, to resist. But there was no resisting him, and I went.

“That your boyfriend?” Ronny Neil called.

I ignored them. But the assassin didn’t. He turned and cocked his thumb and index finger into a gun and fired invisible digit bullets at each of them.

How frightened should I be? I wondered. I had already known he was down here. I had been coming to the pool because he was there. And we were in public. For all that, however, I felt the chill of terror simply from his proximity.

As though he belonged, as though he were the host and I the visitor, the assassin led me to the throng of bookmen by the pool. For a criminal, he didn’t fear crowds much.

In my haze, I didn’t see her come up to us. But then there she was. “I’ve met your friend,” Chitra said, gesturing toward the assassin with her red-tipped fingers. She stood next to me, smiling warmly, even goofily, as if she’d started in on a beer that would be one too many. And talking to me—our first exchange of the weekend. For all my fear, I felt the thrill at hearing her voice, which was soft and high, the accent sort of British and sort of not. “He’s quite funny.”

I grabbed a tall boy, popped it open, and drank without tasting, trying not to gulp. “Yeah, he’s a great guy,” I said to Chitra. I then turned to the killer. “What are you doing here?” I tried to keep the trembling out of my voice, tried to hit the tone I would have used with anyone I knew who had turned up unexpectedly. I wildly missed the mark.

“Looking for you, Lemuel. Will you excuse me for a minute?”

“Of course,” Chitra said.

The assassin put his hand on my back, pushing me away from the crowd. I didn’t much care for him touching me in that way, in part because he was a killer, but also because people already were quick to label me as gay. Not that they really much contemplated my sexual proclivities, but the insult came easily to guys like Ronny Neil and Scott, for whom “faggot” interchanged nicely with “pussy” and “Jew-boy.”

The assassin stopped by the candy machine that rested between the two public bathrooms. The nauseatingly sweet scent of deodorizer wafted out.

“Why’d you go back to the trailer, Lemuel?” the assassin asked.

So there it was, the reason he had followed me here. I felt the
whoosh
of panic in my ears. I’d been caught. But caught at what, exactly? Maybe, I tried to tell myself, I should relax. Now that I knew what it was, I could deal with it. Maybe. On the other hand, a guy who resolved his problems by killing now had a bone to pick with me, and that was discouraging.

“I didn’t have a choice.” The words tumbled out, hasty and hollow. Nothing in the assassin’s body language suggested menace, but I had to believe that I was talking to save my life. “I accidentally handed the wrong credit app to my crew boss.” I explained the rest, how Bobby wanted to go back, wouldn’t take no for an answer.

The assassin considered my explanation for only a matter of seconds. “All right,” he said. “But your pit boss didn’t see anything strange?”

I shook my head. “He just rang the doorbell and knocked, and then we took off.”

“Because it looked kind of funny to me,” the assassin said. “From where I was watching, it looked funny.”

“Yeah, I know. But I couldn’t do anything about it.”

“I guess there’s no harm done, huh?” He gave me a little pat on the shoulder. “And I got to meet that nice girl.” He leaned closer. “I think she likes you,” he said in a stage whisper.

“Really? What did she say?” The absurdity of the question, of the conversation, descended on me at once, and I blushed.

“She said she thought you were cute. Which you are, in a timid sort of way.”

“Can I get my driver’s license back?” I wanted to hear more about what Chitra had said, I wanted to interrogate the assassin, get every detail of what she said, how she said it, how it came up, her body language, her expression. I almost began the interrogation, but I had to remember that this was not a friend, not someone with whom I could talk about a girl. I was also eager to change the subject from the very probably gay assassin’s evaluation of my cuteness.

He shrugged. “Okay.” He reached into his pocket and pulled it out. “But I’ve got your name and address memorized, so, you know, I can find you if you decide you want to be a jerk about this. But I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. And, hell. It’s one thing to frame someone for murder, kind of another to make him wait on line at the DMV.”

“As long as you have your sense of priorities in order.” I put the license back in my pocket, strangely comforted. The assassin was acting reasonable, so maybe I really didn’t need to worry. I couldn’t believe it, though. The fact that he wasn’t always, at every moment, homicidal didn’t change what he’d done, and it didn’t make me worry about him any less.