Robert Ferrigno - Prayers for the assassin

“I am as much as he can handle.”

Pernell banged the spoon against the cup as he stirred. “Don’t be spreading that modern slop around my wives.” His smile didn’t even attempt to be convincing. “I’m serious.”

“A husband like you makes women happy to be part of a quartet. It means they each only have to spend a fourth of their time pretending.” Sarah smiled at Pernell. “I’m serious.”

Pernell looked at Rakkim. “Yeah, you’re going to have trouble with this one.”

Rakkim watched Sarah as she walked back to the house. “I’m counting on it.”

Pernell noisily sipped his tea. “What kind of help do you need?”

“I’m looking for a rent-wife. Short-termer-”

Pernell cackled.

“Not for me. Her name is Fatima Abdullah. Last aka was Fancy Andrews.” Rakkim showed him her picture on his phone, printed out a copy for him. “This mug shot is five years old. She was busted in Little Vatican for stealing a customer’s wallet. Had another bust the year before for heroin possession.”

“Little Vatican is full of violators. What do you expect, though? Catholics.”

“I was hoping one of your contacts in Vice could give me a lead on where to find her.”

Pernell pushed a lip out at the photo. “Five years since her last bust? Five weeks is a long time living that life. She could be anywhere. She could be dead.”

“I know.” Rakkim leaned forward. “All charges were dropped on that last one. Administrative adjudication. Which means she paid the arresting officer off, one way or the other. I’m thinking she might have been picked up a few times since then and the paperwork never got filed.”

“That’s been known to happen from time to time.” Pernell sipped his tea. “What do you want with her?”

“Her father is looking for her.” The lie came easily. Smoothly. “He’s dying and no longer cares about the shame she’s brought to the family. I owe him a favor.”

“So there’s no money in it?”

“I’m happy to pay you for your time and expertise.”

“Like you’d pay a rent-wife?”

“I don’t want to fight, Jack. I just want to find the girl.”

Pernell clapped him on the shoulder. Hard. “I haven’t had a good fight in a long time. I’m probably outclassed trying to pick one with you.”

“I know better. You’re the man who taught me how to fight dirty.”

“I’m the man who taught you there’s no such thing as dirty fighting. There’s just fighting.”

They shared a smile in recognition of the truth. The only truth.

“You weren’t the best recruit I had,” said Pernell, staring at the swimming pool. “There were a couple better. Hector Cinque…he had the fastest hands I ever saw. He’s dead now. Shot through the throat five years ago during an extraction outside of Mombasa.”

“I heard the diplomat they pulled in didn’t even have anything useful.”

Pernell shook his head. “I didn’t know that. Typical front-office op. Emir Zingarelli…you ever work with him? No? He was faster than you too. Not as fast as Cinque, but fast.” A mosquito buzzed around Pernell, landed on his prosthetic hand. “Zingarelli’s dead too. Helicopter went down off the coast of Texas. Might have been a peckerwood missile…might have been some asshole in maintenance didn’t tighten the right bolt.” The mosquito buzzed away and Rakkim pinched it between his thumb and forefinger. “Cinque and Zingarelli both dead, and here we sit, a couple of heroes baking our brains in the sun. Funny, isn’t it?”

Rakkim watched him.

“There were times these last few years I hated all of you with your two good arms and two good legs. All of you who still had missions ahead of you. Sometimes…sometimes I wish I hadn’t had body armor on when I stepped on that land mine. That titanium weave saved my life.” Pernell wiped his milky eye. It wasn’t a tear. Pernell had probably never cried in his life. He waited for Rakkim to say something, finally nodded. “Thanks for not telling me how lucky I am. Thanks for not telling me Allah must have a plan for me.”

“If Allah has a plan, He’s not sharing it with us.”

“They used to call this the happiest place on earth,” said Sarah as they circled a fallen Ferris wheel. Half the girders had been stripped away.

Rakkim pointed to a man with his painter overalls around his ankles, smoking a cigarette while his rent-wife bobbed away. “He’d probably say it still is.”

Disneyland had been abandoned twenty years ago, much of its infrastructure looted, but plenty of the original park was still left behind, either too heavy to move or not worth selling for scrap. They walked over to the remains of the Matterhorn. Most of the fake mountain had been destroyed, but the snowcapped peak remained, shining in the moonlight, the brightest spot in the darkness.

Last night Pernell had checked the local vice squads until he found a detective who knew Fancy; he said she had come down a few pegs since working Little Vatican. Last he heard, she was renting it out at Disneyland with the rest of the fifteen-minute skeeges. Detective said she still gave a mean no-hands, but it was better if you closed your eyes. Pernell had offered the hospitality of his home to Rakkim and Sarah-they had eaten dinner together, but declined to spend the night. It had been late when they’d left Pernell’s, too late to go to Disneyland. They had slept until almost afternoon, then walked the boardwalk. Sarah insisting on feeding the gulls. When they got back to the motel, they made love, but were distracted, too conscious of time.

They started out on Main Street in Disneyland, asked a rent-wife who had set up shop in an overturned streetcar if she knew Fancy. It cost $5 to be told no. They had been told no a lot as they crisscrossed the park. Businessmen in twos and threes wandered the deserted streets, swinging their briefcases while women called to them. Muslims and Catholics, white-collar and blue-collar and everyone in between. Knots of young toughs leaned against the buildings, but in spite of its isolation and lack of police presence, the park was relatively crime-free. The rent-wives paid the toughs to keep the peace, and the toughs didn’t want to scare away business.

A rent-wife working under a splintered Mickey Mouse said Fancy used to catch tricks near Cinderella’s castle. The castle was a busy spot, men sitting around watching basketball on their phones while they waited their turns. No Fancy though.

“I didn’t like Pernell when I thought he could help us,” said Sarah. “I like him even less now that his information may be useless.”

Rakkim walked over to three toughs sprawled across a beached gondola. “Evening.”

The biggest tough was a pale anvilhead wearing only overalls to show off his tattoos. He looked at Sarah. “She’s too fine for this rat’s nest. You’ll put every skeege here out of business. I got a number you can call in Newport. Mucho upscale. Tell them Jimmy Boy sent you.”

“Thanks anyway,” said Rakkim. “We’re looking for a wife named Fancy.”

Jimmy Boy snickered. “Fancy ain’t so fancy. Nothing like what’s on your arm.”

Fifty dollars later, Rakkim and Sarah were on their way to what was left of the Finding Nemo undersea adventure. He had taken the money from a separate pocket so as not to flash the extent of their cash, but he kept watch for tagalongs anyway.

Sarah spotted the Finding Nemo adventure first, noticing a massive epoxy starfish that someone had taken a torch to. The ride itself was housed inside a large, concrete blue-white shark. Disneyland patrons had evidently once walked through a series of turnstiles and into the shark’s wide-open mouth. Although most of the teeth had been broken off, the shark itself seemed mostly intact. Light flickered from inside its red plastic eyes. Sarah started toward the mouth, but Rakkim put a hand on her shoulder.