David Liss - The Ethical Assassin

I sucked in air through my teeth. Could it really be true? Had these assholes, for stupid and ill-advised reasons of their own, protected us from scrutiny, all to conceal their sordid little drug deals? I could hardly believe it.

If I were honest with myself, I would have admitted that my relief was marbled with disappointment. I hadn’t liked the terror of being arrested, I hadn’t liked being slapped around by Doe, but I liked the feeling of being a part of something, and Melford had made me feel it was something important, something more than murder. In a couple of days I would be home, I would quit selling encyclopedias, and everything would be back to where it was. And I would still need $30,000 to get to Columbia next year.

Desiree stepped out from the passenger side of the car. She was wearing the same jeans as before, but instead of the see-through shirt and dark bra, she wore a butter yellow bikini top.

She had a nice body, there was no denying it, voluptuous and trim all at once, and under normal circumstances my biggest problem would be how to avoid staring at her breasts. But right now I had to figure out how to avoid staring at her scar. It was huge, unlike anything I’d ever seen before, running from her shoulder, down her side, and disappearing into her pants. It covered most of her side under her arm and nearly half her back.

It wasn’t just that it was unusual. I remembered what Bobby had told me: The Gambler’s boss, Gunn, had a woman with an enormous scar working for him. Desiree worked for B. B. Gunn. Melford had been sitting companionably in his car with a woman who worked for the enemy- the big enemy.

Not looking at the scar was incredibly difficult. It was as though it had its own gravity, pulling in my eyes. I decided to conceal my discomfort by asking about it.

“Can you tell me about your scar?” I said.

I regretted the words the minute they came out. This was life and death, here. She wasn’t just an attractive woman with large breasts, a butter yellow bikini, and a scar the size of a hand towel. She was some sort of agent of evil. Wasn’t she?

She looked over at me and smiled. “Thank you for asking.” Her voice was sweet and vaguely vulnerable. “Most people think it’s polite to ignore it, pretend they don’t see it. This is where my sister was before they separated us.” She ran her left hand along the scar, grazing it with the tips of her unpolished fingernails. “She died.”

“I’m sorry.” I felt stupid saying it.

Desiree smiled sweetly again. “Thanks. You’re very kind. You and Melford are both very kind.”

“So,” I said, rubbing my hands together, “what can we do for you this time?”

“Mostly,” she said, “I came to see Melford. I want to hear more about helping animals.”

I sat in the backseat, sidekick status withdrawn, instantly converted to third wheel. I felt sullen and rejected- and cramped, shoved back there as I was into the too small space designed for Japanese children, not American teens and a library load of tattered paperback books. When I asked where we were going, he explained, not very helpfully, that we were driving around. He wanted to keep me busy and away from Doe until my pickup time.

It was hard to hear everything from the back, but I could see that Melford had Desiree enthralled. She sat up front beaming at Melford as if he were a rock star, as though she had a crush on him. I didn’t like her fawning all over him, and I didn’t like that I didn’t like it. I recognized that churning, uneasy feeling working its way through my chest as jealousy, but jealous of what? Did I want the sexy half Siamese twin, or did I hate having to share Melford?

Once again, I felt I was missing something, maybe everything. Why didn’t Melford want to know more about her before inviting her into the car? It seemed to me that the superassassin might be less detail oriented in his work than it had at first seemed.

After about twenty-five minutes on the highway, Melford pulled off and stopped at a 7-Eleven, saying he was thirsty and had to wash up. When he walked away, I felt a sickening panic set in. I didn’t want to be left alone with Desiree. I had no idea who Desiree really was, other than an employee of B. B. Gunn. I didn’t know what she wanted.

But Desiree showed no signs of finding the situation awkward. She turned around and grinned at me conspiratorially. “I think he’s so sexy.”

I fidgeted with an empty plastic cassette holder I’d found on the floor. “I’m not sure you’re his type. Being female and all.”

“You don’t think he’s gay, do you?”

“Well, I did kind of assume it. But look, that’s not important. Who are you, anyhow?”

“Why do you think he’s gay? Because he’s a vegetarian?”

“Of course not,” I said. “I don’t care if he’s gay or he isn’t. I was just letting you know that you may not be his type. But we can discuss that once you tell me why you’re following us around. Melford might not care, but I do.”

“It’s so wrong,” Desiree said, “to just assume things about people, to label them based on appearances. I’ve worked so hard at trying to understand my real self. I’ve been reading about auras and reincarnation and using the I Ching. And you? Boom. You decide he’s gay.”

“Look, it’s not a big deal to me. I was just saying.”

“Have you even asked him?”

“No, I haven’t asked him, because I don’t care.” My tone was growing increasingly shrill. “I haven’t asked him what his favorite color is, either.”

“Why are you getting so worked up about this?” Desiree asked.

Melford came out of the store, a bottle of water in one hand, his keys in the other.

“Lem thinks you’re gay,” she told him when he opened the door.

Melford settled behind the wheel and pivoted around to me. He grinned broadly. “A lot of people think that, Lemuel. I wouldn’t sweat it. But you don’t have anything against gay people, do you?”

“No,” I blurted. “That’s not the point. I want to know who Desiree is and what she’s doing following us around.”

“What does that have to do with my sexual orientation?” Melford asked. “I don’t get it.”

“Neither do I.” My voice came out high-pitched.

Melford glanced over at Desiree. “Lem has a valid question. Who are you, and why are you following us around?”

“Me?” she said. “Some very bad people asked me to keep an eye on you, Lem, find out if you were up to anything improper.”

“And is he?” Melford asked.

“Not as near as I can tell. But I’ll have to keep following him to be sure. Unless”- she glanced at Melford-“someone distracts me.”

Information came out slowly over a leisurely drive up and down the highway. Desiree worked, as I’d already suspected, for B. B. Gunn, who was centered near Miami and who used both the hog trade and the encyclopedia business as some sort of front for selling drugs. Desiree seemed eager to avoid getting too specific. She made it clear that she wanted to leave B.B., but while she didn’t want to betray him, she’d reached the conclusion- thanks, in part, to the I Ching and in part to Melford- that she needed to make amends for her involvement in such an enterprise. For some time now she’d been looking for something, she said, some kind of meaning, and at the Chinese restaurant she’d become increasingly convinced that Melford’s interest in kindness to animals might be what she sought. I had no idea if her conviction would strengthen or waver when she discovered the project involved killing people.

“So, what do animal rights people do?” she asked. “Blow up slaughterhouses and things?”