David Liss - The Ethical Assassin

B.B. glared at the Gambler. “You’re awful quick with the violence, aren’t you?”

“I’m just saying.”

“I’m the one who just says, okay? Remember that.”

“What? I’m not allowed to make suggestions?”

“Make good ones, and you’ll be allowed.”

“Christ, you’re touchy today. Let’s forget it.” He looked out the window. “You think having Desiree follow the kid is worthwhile?”

“No, it’s a waste of time. That’s why I’m having her do it.”

The Gambler shook his head. “Okay, B.B. Whatever you say.”

“That’s right. Whatever I say.”

The Gambler didn’t answer. There was no response that didn’t involve kicking the crap out of him.

Back in his room, B.B. sat on the side of the bed and picked up the phone. He dialed the number he had memorized but not yet called until now. For an instant he felt the hammering in his chest might be the sign of something serious. He might look like a young man, but he was in his fifties, and people his age, seemingly healthy people his age, dropped dead from heart problems all the time.

It was only nerves. Odd he should feel so nervous, like a kid asking a girl out on a date. He was just calling, that’s all.

He heard the click of an answer, and he prepared to hang up until a familiar voice spoke.

“Hello?”

“Chuck?” B.B. said.

“Yeah?”

“It’s B.B.”

“Oh,” he said with cheer, wonderful, heartening cheer. “Hi.”

“Hi,” B.B. said. He was silent for a minute while he gathered his thoughts. “Listen, I was just calling to tell you that I, you know, had a good time with you last night.” He hoped it didn’t sound stupid.

“Yeah, it was fun,” Chuck said. “The food was good.”

“And the wine?”

“Yeah. I didn’t tell my mom about that, but it was good, too.”

“Maybe you’d like to try some more,” B.B. said.

“That would be neat.”

“I have a nice collection at my house.”

“Okay.”

The boy sounded hesitant. Did he not like the idea of being invited over, or did he not know exactly what having a wine collection meant?

“Maybe you’d like to come over sometime next week. See the collection. Sample a few choice bottles.”

“That would be cool. Thanks, B.B.”

He felt himself suck in a breath. Chuck wanted to come over. He wanted to drink wine with him. Desiree wouldn’t like it. She would think he was up to something. B.B. would deal with that later, because Chuck was a special boy, maybe the most special boy he’d come across, and there was much to teach him and show him. That was what it meant to be a mentor.

In the distance, he heard Chuck’s mother call his name in her shrill, gnome voice.

“Listen,” B.B. said, “I have to go, but stop by the foundation early next week, and we’ll set up a time.” He’d have Desiree out on a wild goose chase that afternoon. Something.

“That sounds great. I’ll see you later, B.B.”

He hung up the phone and shook his head against the power of it all. Here it was, the boy B.B. had always known was out there. The one he could show things and educate and enlighten, and together they could tell the world to fuck off with their narrow-minded suspicions.

Maybe everything was changing. Maybe it was time to move on, hand the business over to Desiree. She’d been overwhelmed by the idea, of course, but he only needed to help her gain the confidence. That would get her out of the house, certainly.

There was one last thing, however. He couldn’t hand things over to Desiree with the Gambler still running the operation. Desiree wouldn’t be the new B.B.; she would be the new Gambler, only with more responsibility. And that meant it was finally time. He’d kept the Gambler around long enough, savoring the opportunity, enjoying the feeling of toying with him. Now it was time to get rid of him.

That he had no idea how he would do such a thing bothered him hardly at all.

ISAT GLOOMILY in the car while Bobby drove us around, getting us pumped up for the selling day. He would point at moochie houses, point at lawn furniture and Slip ’N Slides and volleyball nets. Finally, he let me out at a little after eleven. He would come by the Kwick Stop to get me in about twelve hours.

There had been times when I enjoyed it, this feeling of the day being all before me, every house a potential sale, a potential $200. Some days the unanswered knocks with the low barking behind thin metal doors didn’t even bother me. Some days I all but smirked at the people who stared at me blankly as I went through my introductory speech, and I judged them. I judged them for their apathy. That’s why you live in this shithole. That’s why your kids will live in a trailer, just like you, when they grow up. Because you don’t care.

Not that the encyclopedias mattered. Sure, it was possible that they’d make a difference in someone’s life, but if a kid wanted to know some detail about the population of Togo or the history of metallurgy, he’d find out at school or in the library. On the other hand, the parents’ willingness to buy the books, to invest the money, signaled something, and there were times when I actually believed in the importance of the work.

Not this morning. I skipped houses if they didn’t look moochie. I knocked listlessly, mumbled my lines. Half an hour into the day, I’d had a smallish woman, pretty but ferociously freckled, just about primed. She was ready to bite, I could feel it, but I eased up on the pitch, excusing myself from going inside.

I knew that my days as a bookman were over. I’d go back to Ft. Lauderdale on Sunday night and I’d quit, and the thought of my impending freedom both excited and enervated me. What would I do with the rest of my day? If only there were a movie theater around here. A good bookstore, a library. A mall. Someplace I could go to cool off.

But for twelve hours? Suddenly the day stretched out endlessly. The heat hammered down on me, and I felt the sting of perspiration in my eyes. The endless expanse of time blanketed me, smothered me like the humidity. I wished I could gear myself up into book mode, just for the next couple of days. I’d still quit, I’d still walk away from this and never come back.

By twelve-thirty I was walking along a main road, not even bothering to look at the houses I passed, when I heard a car slowing down behind me. I turned and saw Melford’s old Datsun, a faded dark green in the sunlight.

He rolled down the window. “Hop in.”

I continued walking, with Melford keeping up with his slow pace. “I don’t think so.”

“Come on. What, are you going to kick rocks all day? I’ve got air-conditioning, tunes, witty conversation.”

I told myself that I had no choice, that the guy was a killer, and a person was smart to do what a killer said to do. But I’d stopped being afraid of Melford. Not entirely, maybe- I wouldn’t want to provoke him or even be around him when someone else had provoked him, but for all his killing he wasn’t like Ronny Neil and Scott, whom I actually feared.

I sighed and nodded, so Melford stopped. I went around to the passenger side and got in. He did have the air conditioner going pretty strongly, and it felt good. We sat in silence for a few minutes while Melford drove past houses and mobile homes and a shopping plaza with a Kmart and a sporting goods store and an Italian restaurant. Coming out of the Kmart, I was sure, was Galen Edwine, the man at whose house I’d sold the grand slam that didn’t work out. Not so far from where I’d been selling the day before, in fact.

Melford saw me looking at the strip mall. “God, I love Florida,” he said.