Christopher Buckley - Thank You for Smoking

"I wish you'd checked with us before you did this," Polly said, looking fraught.

"You weren't speaking to me."

"There might have been an easier way of getting us off the Mod Squad rap."

"It's a little late for alternative suggestions. Anyway, don't flatter yourself. Maybe I didn't just do it for you two."

"Then why," Polly said, "are you pleading guilty if you're not guilty? Assuming…"

"I am guilty," Nick said. "I'm just not guilty of that."

"Hell is that supposed to mean?" Bobby Jay said.

"Crimes against humanity. Maybe it's just a mid-life crisis. I don't know. I'm tired of lying for a living."

Polly and Bobby Jay stared. "You going soft on us?" Bobby Jay said.

"No, but let's be real. Who's going to believe me in court?" "Got a point."

"And who's got a million and a half dollars for legal expenses? Do I want to work for a law firm for the rest of my life?"

"So," Bobby Jay said, "BR and Jeannette get a free ride after this world of hurt they dumped on you?"

"Well," Nick said, "that depends."

"On what?"

He grinned. "On whether you've gone soft." "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. I will repay. Romans twelve, nineteen."

"What about you, Split-tail?" Nick said. "You want to be the designated driver?"

"Split-tail?" Polly said.

"I don't know if I'm cut out for this," Polly said. She and Nick were sitting in a rented sedan parked fifty yards from the Two-Penny Opera House, a converted warehouse in a part of lower Manhattan that was still some years away from having art galleries and coffee shops. Polly was chain-smoking, filling the car with so much smoke that Nick had to keep the windows open. It was steamy out, and it would have been nicer to have the air-conditioning on.

"You're doing fine," Nick said comfortingly. "But you shouldn't smoke like that. You're going to kill yourself."

Polly looked at him.

A snoring sound came from Bobby Jay in the back seat. He'd fallen asleep. Nick and Polly could hear the Bible tape playing on his Walkman.

"How can he sleep?" Polly said with annoyance. "He was in Vietnam," Nick said, sipping coffee.

"But this person is a contract killer."

"So were the Vietcong," Nick said. He checked his watch. "They're running late tonight."

"It's the dress rehearsal," Polly said. "Maybe the director told them they all sucked and they're going to go through it again." She lit another cigarette. Nick groaned and rolled down the window. She said, "Why don't we just do it tonight and get it over with."

"Polly," Nick said, touching her arm, "just relax."

"Relax," she shuddered. "Two weeks following this. person around New York and you tell me, 'Relax.' "

"Do you want me to rub your neck?"

"Yes," Polly said. "There. Ah."

"What's going on?" Bobby Jay said from the back seat.

"Not much," Nick said. "They're running late."

"I'm glad opening night's tomorrow," Bobby Jay said. "I couldn't take another night of this. This town is not beloved of God."

"Why would anyone want to see H.M.S. Pinafore set in the twenty-seventh century aboard the Starship Enterprise?" Polly said.

"I don't know," Nick said, "but he's playing the right part. Dick Deadeye."

"Do you think he's any good?"

"How good an actor could he be if he has to kill people for a living?" Bobby Jay snorted.

The next night the three of them sat not in a sedan but in a rented panel truck. Polly was behind the wheel, tapping her feet nervously and chewing gum, as Nick had forbidden her to smoke until after the operation was over. She was dressed up as a New York City hooker, gold hot pants, heels, bustier, and so much makeup that her mother might not have recognized her; or, if she had, would have cried. Actually, Nick thought she looked kind of. good. For his part, he was once again sweltering underneath a disguise, a nylon stocking pulled down over his head. Bobby Jay was also uncomfortable, but having spent many a night lying in ambush in warmer places, was keeping cooler than Nick. He was doing a crossword puzzle with a tiny flashlight.

"They're coming out," Polly said, as the doors opened and opera-goers began to spill out onto the trash-strewn sidewalks.

"Do they look uplifted?" Bobby Jay said. "More like relieved," Nick said.

Bobby Jay checked his watch and went back to his crossword puzzle. "Three-letter word for air pollutant beginning with E." "ETS," said Nick. "Environmental Tobacco Smoke." "Fits."

About the time they estimated Peter Lorre would have removed his makeup and changed back into his regular clothes, Polly stepped out of the van, tugging down at her hot pants, which had ridden so high up in the car that half her southern hemispheres were on display. Very nice hemispheres, Nick observed. Bobby Jay chambered the round into the riot gun that he had borrowed from the SAFETY museum collection.

"That is a large bullet," Nick said.

"Brits use 'em on Irish Catholics." Bobby Jay grinned. "By regulation, they're supposed to aim at the legs. But this SAS major who came to lunch with me and Stockton told us" — he mimicked a British accent—" 'Sometimes we miss.' "

Nick winced at the thought of a hard-rubber projectile the size of a vibrator connecting with his tender vittles at five hundred feet per second.

Peter Lorre walked out the stage door and turned in their direction.

"He's alone, good." They'd observed, over two weeks, that the other actors didn't seem to gravitate toward him. Fine. Now they wouldn't have to follow him.

As Peter Lorre walked past the van, Nick opened the rear door just enough to give Bobby Jay aiming room.

On cue, Polly intersected with him on the sidewalk. "Got a match?" she said.

Peter Lorre looked her up and down. He smiled at her. "Don't you know smoking's bad for you?"

"Shoot that asshole," Nick hissed.

Bobby Jay took aim.

"Want to have some fun?" Polly asked him. "I don't pay for fun."

"Tell you what," Polly said. "You look like such a stud, I'll do you free."

Peter Lorre said, "I don't sleep with whores."

"Too bad," Polly said, moving away, "you'll never know what you missed."

Bobby Jay fired. There was a loud shotgun blast and ten ounces of hard black rubber hit Peter Lorre in the solar plexus, knocking every every cubic centimeter of air out of his lungs. He went down onto his back. Nick and Bobby Jay jumped out of the van and dragged him into it, Bobby Jay looping his hook through his pants belt. Polly jumped into the driver's seat, pulled off her wig, and drove.

"This boy is out," said Bobby Jay, checking Loire's vitals.

Nick gave him a kick in the ribs. "Now he's really out."

"I thought the point was not to kill him," Bobby Jay said.

"He'll live."

They cinched the plastic police bands tightly around his wrists behind him and put the black hood over his head.

They were under the river and into New Jersey before they heard him groan and start to shift around — painfully, Nick hoped. They waited another five minutes until they saw him lift up his head to try to take stock of his situation before they activated Phase Two. Satisfied that Peter Lorre was fully conscious, Nick pressed Play and the sound of their altered voices came over the speaker. They'd tested it several times to make sure that it would be audible in the rear of the van, where they had placed him, on the floor, right by the rear doors.

first voice: Slow down, let's not get a speeding ticket.

second voice: That'd be a fucking bummer.

first voice: He still out?

second voice: Yeah, he looks out.

first voice: Well, if he moves, pop him with the.45.

second voice: Hey, this is a rental. I don't wanna spend the rest of