Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy Part 8

-Mystery Men

Setting up my plans for Vic's demise really helped to calm me down. There's kind of a green tea-Zen feeling to it all. Calgon, take me away Calgon, take me away and all that c.r.a.p. and all that c.r.a.p.

I needed to relax. After all, h.e.l.l awaited me that afternoon. And it had nothing to do with my family . . . for once.

"Mrs. Bombay?" Emily O'Toole raised her hand. "Can I go to the bathroom?" Suddenly, all ten little girls raised their hands. Only five minutes into my first-ever Girl Scout meeting and I was already in over my head.

I looked through some papers they had given me down at the Scouts Council. "Um, yeah, just, er ... take a buddy with you." They were gone before I looked up. Liv shrugged. Fat lot of help she was.

The screams from the girls' bathroom told me they weren't limiting their activities to the hygienic. Ten minutes later, I wrangled several soaking wet Daisy Scouts back into Romi's cla.s.sroom.

"Okay," I began, "now that we know what not not to do, I guess we can get started." I nodded to Liv and she proceeded to pa.s.s out the uniforms and handbooks. to do, I guess we can get started." I nodded to Liv and she proceeded to pa.s.s out the uniforms and handbooks.

"Here's your Daisy tunic and book. Remember to bring them to every meeting. Yes, Hannah?"

The tiny little girl put her hand down. "When are the meetings?"

"Oh, um ..." I shuffled through the papers again in an attempt to look like I knew what I was doing. "Every other Tuesday, in here, right after school."

A discordant chorus of squeals pierced my eardrums. Apparently, they approved. Yippee.

Somehow, we managed to make daisies out of pipe cleaners before their moms came to get them. There I sat, covered in pipe cleaner fuzz and glue-which was really weird because we didn't even use glue. Liv took over at that point, handing out the application forms and giving instruction to the parents. I just sat there, like a lump, until it was over.

Liv flopped down into one of the teeny tiny chairs next to the teeny tiny table. "Jesus. I'm glad that's over."

I looked at her. "Yeah. I didn't really expect that. How did it go?"

Liv rolled her eyes. "You led the meeting!"

"Oh, right," I responded. "Can we call that a meeting? I mean, it was more like a riot." I pictured Liv and myself in Riot Squad gear, approaching the kindergartners with plasticine s.h.i.+elds and rubber bullets. For a moment, the idea appealed tome.

Liv frowned at the handbook. "It says here we have to teach them the Girl Scout Promise and they earn the petals for their daisy insignia through the meetings."

"You're just now reading the Leader's Guide?" Leader's Guide?" I asked while pulling a clump of glue (and hair) off my head. I asked while pulling a clump of glue (and hair) off my head.

She looked alarmed. "It also says we're supposed to have training."

I perked up. "Maybe that's it. We should've done that first."

"Well, there's a training session for Daisy Leaders tomorrow night at the Lutheran church down the street from you. I'll call and sign us up."

I nodded, finally brave enough to rise from my itty, bitty chair. My muscles threatened to a.s.sa.s.sinate me. "Okay."

We gathered our things, straightened the room and left. As I walked to my car I realized that for once I had no clue what in the h.e.l.l I was doing. I could kill a man with my thighs, but I couldn't control a bunch of five-year-old girls. I think terrorist organizations would learn a lot from this kind of experience.

"Mommy?" Romi squeezed my hand, reminding me she was there. "That didn't go very well, did it?"

I slid open the pa.s.senger door and lifted her to her seat. "No. I guess not. But Liv and I are going to a workshop tomorrow night. We'll be okay."

The dubious look in my daughter's eyes made me realize she had little faith in me. Great. How could I train her to kill when I couldn't keep kindergartners from tras.h.i.+ng the bathroom? And how do you get wet toilet paper off of the ceiling? Maybe they'd cover that tomorrow night.

The following evening at the Lutheran church, Liv and I sat up straight, eager to find out what we had done wrong. I was convinced that some hip, young Girl Scout Council professional would give us all the tools we needed to succeed.

Ergo, I wasn't prepared for the obese, elderly, wheezing woman who sat down across from us, reeking of beer and cigarettes. Wow, I guess scouting hadn't changed much since I was in it. All she needed to do now was tell me how great the handheld shower ma.s.sage was for masturbation and I'd be right back in middle school.

"You two here for the workshop?" Eldamae Haskell eyed us with disdain.

"Um, is this for Daisy Scouts?" I spoke up. Hope refused to wane. Maybe we were in the wrong room?

"Yeah," she sputtered, coughing loudly. "Fill out these forms."

"A test?" I couldn't believe it. It was a test! How could we take a test on something we didn't know yet?

"It's to see what you know. You'll take the same test when we're through."

Liv asked, "And how long is the workshop?"

Eldamae gave a heavy, wet, rasping cough, "An hour . . . hour and a half at most."

"That's it?" I asked. "That's all the time it takes to teach us everything we need to know?"

"Yup," our teacher replied. She tossed us the papers and left, probably for a smoke break.

Actually, the test was pathetically easy. Upon Eldamae's return, we watched a videotape, possibly made in the early 1990s. The scene opened on some lovely, mythical mansion in a perfect world at the beginning of a scout meeting. A tight-lipped, professional, middle-aged woman with perfectly coiffed, glossy blond hair told the camera how she ran her meetings.

"First," she said with perfect diction, "you greet each girl at the door personally, discussing the subjects that interest her the most, and then guide her to a simple yet engaging activity to keep her busy until the other girls have arrived."

These Stepford children wore immaculate clothes and quietly colored pictures promoting world peace and multicultural diversity. During the meeting, the kids quietly listened to everything the leader said, raising their hands if they wanted to speak.

Following that, they commenced learning activities worthy of a postgraduate science seminar. Somehow, and without making a mess, they measured barometric pressure using Saran Wrap, an empty two-liter pop bottle, and fingernail polish. Of course, the experiment opened their eager, young eyes to the possibilities and later in the meeting, they went on to cure cancer.

The problem of a disruptive child was addressed when a well-dressed Daisy in a clean tunic told another girl, "No, Darwin didn't favor Intelligent Design." This child was deemed rude and the tight-lipped leader whisked her aside to two chintz-covered wingback chairs for a gentle chat. The girl, realizing the error of her ways, promised to move to India and take up Mother Theresa's mantle in ridding society of poverty. She was then allowed to rejoin the group.

By the time parents in the video arrived to pick up their angels, Liv and I were completely slack jawed. The leader had time to talk to each set of parents (that's right, both mom and dad, dressed in suits, came to pick up their darling) about their daughter's progress. Once the meeting ended, Tight-Lips told us that the most important thing was to have control of the meeting at all times. And her hair was still perfect. Really. No pipe cleaner fuzz or glue anywhere. b.i.t.c.h.

Okay, so maybe I exaggerated a little bit, but it was the most idiotic thing I'd ever seen ... and believe me, I'd seen stupid things in my line of work.

Eldamae rejoined us, handing us blank copies of the same test we took prior to the meeting. I had barely filled in my answers when she presented us with two cards, signed by her.

"Keep these. Anytime you get training, we'll add to it. Thanks for becoming a volunteer." She packed up and was out the door before I could say anything.

"That's all we need to know?" Liv asked in shock.

"Uh, I, er," I mumbled.

Neither one of us moved for maybe twenty minutes. We kept thinking someone would burst through the door, saying, "Just kidding!" This wonderful someone would hand over thick, colorful volumes that answered every question we had, and give us sage words of advice and an a.r.s.enal of Jedi mind tricks to use on our troop.

Instead, a thin, waspish woman poked her head in and told us to leave. The bridge club needed the room.

I wanted to kill her and Eldamae. And I probably could've gotten away with it too, if Liv hadn't dragged me out to the car.

"We are so screwed," I finally said after my fourth consecutive cup of coffee.

Liv nodded. "No s.h.i.+t. This is worse than the Falconi hit. Remember that?"

My turn to nod. How could I forget? Liv and I had just turned twenty-one and decided to take out this mob guy together. You know how it is when you're in your twenties-you think you're bulletproof?

Of course, we had done all the research. But while we were throttling him in his upstairs bedroom, a couple of Mafia-endorsed hit men were climbing the stairs to teach him the "forever lesson." We dove into a closet just before the door opened. Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds spent two hours in that room before leaving. Several times, they had approached the closet, but something stopped them. I was pretty sure my heart gave out three times that night. To this day, I still had an irrational hatred of closets.

"And those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds took credit for the hit too! I've never seen Grandma that p.i.s.sed off." I poured another cup of coffee in an attempt to drown that memory.

"Well, Gin, we'll just have to get through it." Liv slapped the table decisively.

"Great. At least we don't have another meeting for a while."

"Two weeks, right?" Liv asked.

"Yeah." Why was everything in two weeks?

"s.h.i.+t, Gin! That's when we'll be in Santa Muerta!" Liv's eyes grew wide.

"We could always take them with us, like a camping trip."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh yeah, that would work."

"I'll send out a memo rescheduling the meeting. Besides, Santa Muerta looks better to me than that cla.s.sroom."

Liv nodded, looked at her watch, said good-bye and fled.

As I locked up, I realized postponing the meeting was a pretty easy decision. Hmmm ... watching a family member die or spending an hour with the Daisies, who by the way had not seen the video.

I drifted off to sleep, fantasizing about the many uses of duct tape and psychotropic drugs.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

"Mr. Pugh. Here is your a.r.s.enic, dear. And your weedkiller biscuit . . ."

-Dylan Thomas, Under Milkwood Under Milkwood

I was running out of time. I had to get rid of Vic before the reunion. My to-do list had grown to epic proportions: 1. The Job2. The Reunion3. Begin Romi's Training4. Begin Poppy's Training (or put carpet cleaner on speed dial)5. Learn to Run Daisy Meetings (without stun guns)6. Order four Dozen Scary Halloween Cookies As you can see, I had my priorities. If I could get the job done before the trip, I was pretty sure I could handle whatever got tossed at me, with the possible exception of #5. Oh, and the stun guns would be for the girls.

I had everything I needed. I had managed to whip up a lethal lookalike heart medication and fill the empty gel caplets I bought at the health food store. With just one dose, Vic would find his blood pressure boiling and his heart beating in time to a calypso death spiral. To a bored coroner on a Friday night before quittin' time, it would look as though there had been a simple (albeit deadly) screwup at the pharmacy. Now all I had to do was break back into the house and "refill" Vic's prescription bottle.

A couple of days ago, I'd taken the Silly Putty out of its sh.e.l.l, carefully slicing it in half so I had the two sides of the key impression facing up. Once it hardened, I poured in a special resin I invented (all this and good looks too-can you believe it?) and allowed it to set. After joining the two resin key sides together, I used the key grinder to fine-tune it for one-time use. That's all the resin would hold up for, but it was all I really needed.

[image] Bulk order of Silly Putty ... $20.00 Bulk order of Silly Putty ... $20.00[image] Key grinder purchased from eBay ... $55.00 Key grinder purchased from eBay ... $55.00[image] Seeing Vic's obituary in the paper and easing any family conflict in the process ... Priceless. Seeing Vic's obituary in the paper and easing any family conflict in the process ... Priceless.

Dad agreed to come over and watch Romi and Poppy since it was a school night. I waited until my daughter was asleep, then took a shower with unscented soap, put on unscented deodorant (the invisible kind, of course), then slipped out of the house dressed in black yoga pants, a black long-sleeved T-s.h.i.+rt, black socks and shoes, carrying a bag with, you guessed it, a black stocking cap and latex gloves.

I really hated latex gloves. It was like when you pump gas and get some on your hands and you smell those chemical fumes all day. I hated hated that. that.

Where was I? Oh yeah, in the hedges behind Vic's house. And no, I didn't just go over there cold. According to Liv's research, Vic was going to the annual meeting for his company. It was my only opportunity. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d didn't give to charity or make appearances at public events. Creep.

The key turned noiselessly in the lock, and I shut the door behind me. Ugh, the kitchen again. Apparently, Vic had attempted some minor cleaning. This guy was a slob. Good for me in that he would be careless with his medication and probably ignore the symptoms of his heart attack. Bad for me because it smelled like he had some prehistoric eggs rotting in the sink.

I moved quickly up the stairs to his bathroom. It only took a few seconds to dump his meds into my bag and refill it with my own, personal painkiller.

I was just about to head down the stairs (and perform a little celebratory dance in my head), when I heard the clink of gla.s.s breaking in the kitchen. I froze in mid-step. Did Vic have a cat? There'd been no evidence of that. And the way this guy kept house, I would have smelled a neglected litter box.

For a moment, I wondered if he had mice. With the condition of the kitchen, I wouldn't be surprised if he had dog-size c.o.c.kroaches. I backed away from the staircase slowly, leaning against the wall and waited impatiently. That's right, I was an impatient a.s.sa.s.sin. Several minutes pa.s.sed without incident. Okay, mice it is, Okay, mice it is, I thought as I gently slipped down the stairs, careful not to tread on the usually squeaky middle part of each step. I thought as I gently slipped down the stairs, careful not to tread on the usually squeaky middle part of each step.

My eyes were adjusting to the darkness somewhat, and I was just about to pa.s.s the study when I saw it: the silhouette of a man standing at Vic's desk. s.h.i.+t. I slipped to the other side of the doorway unnoticed, I thought. After a few scary seconds of crawling through the disgusting kitchen, I slipped out the open door. And into the shrubs.

The brick wall snagged my clothes. Who the h.e.l.l was that? Was it Vic? No, a man turns on the lights when he enters his own home and definitely shuts and locks the door behind him. A burglar? Maybe. It was a pretty ostentatious house. I could call 911. But that would be stupid, on the remote chance they might check his meds. Okay, Gin, just go home. Okay, Gin, just go home.

Was I being followed? The idea froze inside me as a lump in my throat. Something was up with the family. Was I under suspicion? I slid further down the wall, remaining in the shrubbery. If anyone was checking up on me, they might have left someone outside to watch for my retreat. I kind of hoped it was Evil Cousin Richie so I could kill him once and for all.

I waited for the shadow to exit the house and followed him as he walked around to the front yard. From my vantage point in the hedge, I watched until he disappeared down the street.

"And you say he was dressed like you?" Dad asked me once I got back to the house. We were sharing a bottle of wine in the kitchen, and I told him what had happened. I was boiling down Vic's meds in a pot on the stove. Once dissolved, I'd flush the water and stick the pot in the dishwasher on "high."

I nodded. "Yup. All in black."

Dad leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully. I, however, had just started to notice a particular odor souring the room.

"Burnt popcorn? Dad!" Was there any smell more obnoxious than burnt popcorn? Even worse, it was done on purpose. Dad's favorite snack was seriously charred popcorn. Mom couldn't get him to give it up. I had a popcorn ban on my house because of it, but apparently he had ignored that and smuggled some in.