Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman Read online

  “Understanding. I’m supposed to understand. Be patient. Excuse and forgive.”

  God licked his eyeball, his equivalent of blinking. It’s disgusting to watch. “You’re not making a lot of sense.”

  “Maybe that means I’ve gone ’round the bend. Over the bridge to grandmother’s house I’ve gone.”

  “You’re going to your grandmother’s house?”

  “Over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house . . . Oh never mind. It’s just a song Mom used to sing when I was little—before she went ’round the bend and over the edge. I have a headache. I don’t want to talk about this any more.”

  “You speak of her with such . . . disdain.”

  “I love my mother.”

  “All the time?”

  Busted. I hung my head. He was right. There were times when I didn’t love her or even like her. It was my secret shame.

  “Tell me why.”

  I shook my head. It was bad enough that I was confiding in a lizard. I sure as hell didn’t need to confess to him, too. I couldn’t even look at him.

  “Why, M&M?

  The old nickname caught me like a sucker punch to the gut. The air whooshed right out of me on a pained gasp. How did he even know to call me that?

  Only one person had ever called me M&M (Margaret May): my youngest sister, Darlene. I did my best not to think about her. It just hurt too much. It had been over ten years since she’d been kidnapped from the traveling carnival passing through town. Almost nine years since her body had been discovered and identified.

  God summoning her memory was a low blow.

  Before I could even process the renewed sense of grief, he delivered the knockout punch.

  “Why do you hate your mother?”

  “Because it’s all her fault!” The accusation came from somewhere deep in my core. Like lava it bubbled up and out, obliterating everything in its path. There was no reason or logic left, just the searing pain.

  I fell to my knees in the foyer, shards of glass tearing at my flesh. My eyes burned. I wanted to cry, to let it out, but no tears came.

  “I should have been keeping an eye on the girls, but I was so busy watching her, making sure she didn’t do anything crazy, that they wandered off.” Speaking softly didn’t dampen the ugliness of the admission. I hated my mother because of my own failure to protect my little sisters.

  “You are going to feed me soon, I hope.”

  Disbelievingly, I turned to give the scaly little guy the evil eye. Here I was, pouring out my heart, and he was worried about his stomach?

  “Typical male,” I muttered.

  God flicked his tail, a sure sign he was displeased. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that the minute I start talking about my feelings, you go and change the subject. Typical. A guy says he wants to know you, but that’s a lie. All he cares about is food, sex, the latest app on his phone, or the score of the game.”

  “There’s a game involved? I like games!”

  I began sweeping up the broken glass with short, choppy strokes. “Never mind.”

  “No. I want to understand about this game.”

  “There is no game! I just meant guys are always checking on a baseball, football, or basketball game.”

  “I enjoy more intellectual pursuits. I am not into sports.”

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  “You did say I was a typical male.”

  I considered throwing the swept up shards at him, but he was too well protected by his cage. I’d just have to sweep them up again.

  “Just to be certain I’ve assessed this situation correctly: you hate your mother, you hate your aunts, and you hate all males. Is that correct?”

  I shook my head. Geez, when he put it like that, it made me sound like the most bitter, lonely woman on the planet. No wonder I’d been reduced to talking to a lizard. “I don’t hate my aunts. It’s just that they drive me insane.” I winced at my unfortunate choice of words. “And I don’t hate men.”

  “Then what’s with the unprovoked male bashing?”

  “It wasn’t unprovoked! You—”

  “All I said was that I’m hungry.”

  I took a deep breath. If men are from Mars, and women are from Venus, that must mean lizards are from Zargon. We were never going to understand one another. “Fine. I’ll feed you.”

  I hauled myself to my feet. A million splinters of pain set my knees on fire. Looking down I saw glittering chips of picture frame stuck through my pants. “I just need to get this glass out of me first.”

  Carrying the dust pan, which tinkled with every step, I limped into the kitchen. I dumped the contents into the trash can before hobbling into the bathroom where I grabbed my first-aid kit.

  I glanced at the light fixture above the sink. A light bulb had blown out in the morning, but being late for work, I hadn’t had time to replace it. As a result, it was too dark to perform minor surgery.

  Walking lamely back into the kitchen, I turned on all the lights and slumped into a chair. This practically put me at eye-level with the lizard.

  “You’re going to need tweezers.”

  “They’re in the kit.”

  “And antiseptic.”

  “It’s in there.”

  “And bandages.”

  “Thank you, Doogie Howser. I think I can treat my own wounds.”

  His tail flicked, but he stayed mercifully quiet.

  Gritting my teeth against the pain, I used my fingertips to pull the biggest shards of glass out of my knees. It hurt like hell. I tried to remember whether I had any Percocet left over from the root canal I’d had three years earlier.

  “Can we watch Wheel of Fortune?” the lizard asked.

  “You like Wheel of Fortune?”

  He nodded. “I’d like to buy a vowel.”

  The little guy was full of surprises. I glanced at the microwave clock. Wheel didn’t start for another forty minutes. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “You’re wondering how a creature with a brain the size of mine can spell? I told you, I enjoy intellectual challenges.”

  “Uh huh. That’s cool and everything, but I had a question about me.”

  He stood up, balancing on his tail, and crossed his arms over his . . . chest. “Go ahead.”

  “Do you think I look like a killer?” Grabbing the tweezers I attacked the smaller particles imbedded in my knees while he mulled over his answer. When an uncomfortable pause stretched on, I glanced over at him.

  Head cocked, he was stroking his chin with one of his . . . hands, obviously deep in thought. Finally he spoke. “That’s an odd question, Mags. Even for you.”

  “Never mind. Forget I asked.” Something told me I didn’t want to hear his answer.

  “I’m curious as to what spurred this line of inquiry.”

  I sighed. I’d really hoped to avoid getting into this whole thing. “Someone offered me money to kill someone. I was thinking maybe he could see something in me . . . see that I was capable of that.”

  “Thomas Alva Edison once said, If we did all the things we were capable of doing, we would literally astound ourselves.”

  “Yeah, but he was inventing light bulbs, not playing the part of the Angel of Death.”

  “Do you think you look like a killer?”

  I shrugged, plucking the last piece of glass from my flesh. I watched a small, red rivulet of blood spread over the torn-up skin. “Everyone says I look like my father. He’s a killer. So maybe I do.”

  “Did you accept the offer?”

  “Of course not!” I pulled the pack of alcohol-soaked pads from the first-aid kit. I ripped it open with my teeth. “How could you even think I would?”

  “Sometimes questions reveal more than answers,” he replied mysteriously.

  “I couldn’t kill someone.”

  “Then why ask the question?”

  “Because it’s been bugging me. I was wondering if I give off some crazy-ey
ed Charles-Manson-wannabe vibe or something.”

  “I wouldn’t say so. No.”

  “Then why’d he ask me?’

  “He didn’t give you a reason?”

  “He said . . . Well, here’s the thing. I sort of attacked, physically attacked, the guy he wants dead.”

  “You did?”

  “But the psycho-killer jerk totally deserved it. He threw his son down the stairs, and then he tried to smother the kid with a pillow. I had to stop him from doing that.”

  “So perhaps he deserves to die.”

  “I’d considered that possibility.” Actually I’d come to that conclusion, but I wasn’t about to voice the thought. I swiped the alcohol pads over my knees. It felt like I was being stung by dozens of hornets. If I could have cried, tears would have come to my eyes. I should have found and taken the Percocet. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck that hurts!”

  The lizard waited for my pained outburst to subside before he asked, “So you saved the boy’s life?”

  “That’s what they said.”

  “Interesting.”

  “What is?”

  “The whole dichotomy of taking a life versus saving one.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Fascinating. Does this mean you think I’m capable of killing someone?”

  “Do you think you are?”

  Chapter Eight

  “HEY THERE, CHIQUITA!”

  “Hey.” I really wasn’t in the mood to chat with Armani.

  I’d spent the night before plunked in front of the television with the talking lizard. Who, in case you’re interested, really sucks at Wheel of Fortune. He just doesn’t get the clues. At all.

  I actually was feeling pretty damn superior when Pat and Vanna waved good-bye. I’d done a much better job at solving the puzzles than God. My victory was short-lived.

  The lizard is some sort of Jeopardy-savant. You know the annoying kind who knows the most obscure trivia, does the New York Times crossword puzzle in pen every day of the week, and actually understands what the hell Pi is.

  So I’d gotten my ass whipped watching a game show while I chowed down on a gourmet feast of microwaved Lean Cuisine, half a bottle of wine, and a bag of chips (not the single-serving size mind you, but a real, honest-to-goodness, bag).

  I’d fallen asleep on the couch and woken up coated in the grease and crumbs of the chips. And here I’d been thinking I’d inhaled them all.

  I had to take a shower to get the smell of rancid vegetable oil out of my hair. The water felt like it was slicing and dicing my knees all over again.

  Finally I’d managed to drag my hungover self in to work.

  Of course, once I was there I took a string of automobile accident claims. That’s my job. Unfortunately all of my callers were vying for the Stupidest-Driver-Ever-Allowed-Behind-the-Wheel award.

  I got a woman who didn’t know how to spell the names of the passengers who were in her vehicle (they were her children), a guy who didn’t know what car he’d been driving, and someone using one of those creepy voice distortion machines who didn’t want to give his/her name or policy number and then threatened to report me to a supervisor for not helping them.

  By the time my lunch break rolled around, I had a throbbing headache and an upset stomach, not to mention the fact that I was seriously considering taking a chair to Harry’s head, despite the fact he’s my boss.

  Smelling like week-old pepperoni, he kept leaning over my shoulder under the guise of looking at my computer monitor when what he was really doing was checking out my cleavage.

  So I really was in no mood to chat with Armani.

  That is, until she suggested, “Let’s eat outside.”

  Outside. Away from phones, computers, and Harry. “Sounds good.”

  I logged off the system and got to my feet. My knees were killing me.

  Shuffling like an old lady, I followed Armani outside, shielding my eyes from the abnormally bright sun.

  “Jesus,” she said, looking back at me, “You move worse than me. What’s wrong?”

  “I fell. Cut up my knees on some broken glass.”

  “You should be more careful.”

  “Ya think?”

  We settled at a picnic table under a tree. A brook babbled nearby. It would have been a nice, peaceful place to nurse my hangover headache . . . if Armani had just shut up.

  “Remember that reading I told you about?”

  I nodded. Bad idea. My stomach roiled mutinously at the movement. I lay down along the length of the bench and closed my eyes. That was a little better.

  “Ends up she didn’t want a reading.”

  “I thought you said she was a referral.”

  “I did. She was. For sex.”

  “You, the great and powerful psychic, couldn’t predict that?”

  “Bitch!” She fell silent for a long time.

  I wondered if I’d hurt her feelings. I couldn’t afford to lose someone else right now. “I’m sorry. Don’t mind me. I’m hung over.”

  “A three-way.”

  I sighed. Armani Vasquez is not only the Latina poster girl for Americans with Disabilities at Insuring the Future, she’s also been voted “Most Likely to Spill her Sexual Exploits.” Whether or not you have any interest in hearing them.

  I considered covering my ears and belting out “God Bless America,” but I didn’t think she’d take the hint. Instead, I remained motionless and silent, hoping she’d think I’d fallen asleep.

  “They were both DPWs.”

  I didn’t make a peep. This stuff was too much for me on a good day, forget about it when I’m hung over. Apparently there’s some whole sexual fetish thing concerning people who are disabled or disfigured. I don’t get it, and quite frankly, since it’s not my thing, I don’t particularly want to get it. I feel the same way about math, fashion, and white bread.

  But it is Armani’s thing. She’s always hooking up with these people.

  “Wait!” she said suddenly. “Did you just say you’re hung over?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “So you took my advice? You embraced your inner Chiquita?”

  “I still don’t understand how my WASPy Caucasian self could possibly be a Chiquita.”

  ‘And I told you. It’s a state of mind. A Chiquita is a cute, smart, passionate girl. I know she’s inside you.”

  I wasn’t so sure.

  “Did you get your freak on?”

  Yes, she actually uses that phrase in conversation.

  “Did you party ’til dawn?”

  “Oh yeah. Me, Pat, and Alex had a wild night.”

  Armani squealed with delight and slapped her thigh (her version of clapping). “I want to hear all about it!”

  “Be real. I haven’t had a date in a year, let alone sex, and you think your spraying me with Glow and telling me to set my inner Chiquita free turned me into some—”

  “Miss Lee?”

  That was not Armani’s voice. It was too deep. It was too male. It was too damn amused.

  Oh crap, how much of my outburst had he heard?

  Opening my eyes, I bolted upright.

  I had to clap a hand over my mouth to keep from puking the previous night’s feast on the picnic table.

  “I’m Detective Mulligan. I’d like to ask you a few questions about your . . . altercation with Alfonso Cifelli.”

  I looked up at him. I knew we’d never met, but his face seemed oddly familiar. Both his forehead and his chin seemed a bit long, which gave his face an almost oblong appearance. Aviator sunglasses hid his eyes. A stack of red hair, almost copper in the sunlight, was being ruffled by the breeze. I barely glanced at the badge he held out for my inspection.

  “I know who you are!” Armani cried excitedly.

  I winced as her shriek drilled into my brain.

  “You’re the Courageous Cop!”

  It was his turn to wince. I wondered why. I also wondered how I hadn’t recognized him myself. Footage of a dramatic rescue he’d made had played on the
news. His picture had been on the front page of the paper. His face was plastered on billboards all over the state.

  “Wow, an honest-to-God hero.” Armani sighed reverentially, like she was seeing the Holy Mother or something.

  Personally I thought it was a bit much.

  “Just doing my job, ma’am.”

  Armani frowned. She hated the ma’am label.

  “Which is actually why I’m here. As I said, I need to ask Miss Lee some questions.”

  “Is she in trouble?”

  I shot her a dirty look to let her know that I’d heard that hopeful note in her voice. She gave me a big, all-teeth smile in response.

  Secretly I was glad she’d asked the very question I’d been wondering myself. Maybe someone had overheard my conversation with Delveccio. Or worse, what if someone had been listening in on my discussion with Godzilla?

  “No, ma’am. She’s not in trouble, but I would like to speak to her in private if you don’t mind.”

  I was shocked when Armani stood without an argument. Usually she wanted to be smack dab in the middle of everything. “See you later, Chiquita.” She winked at me, an overly exaggerated wink signaling . . . what? She thought I should try my Chiquita charms on the nice police detective who’d heard me talking about hooking up with strangers I met on the street?

  I waved her off. Still smiling, she limped away.

  Detective Mulligan slid into the seat opposite me. “This won’t take long.”

  “I already told the officer at the hospital everything.”

  “This is just standard follow-up. Nothing to worry about.” He was more soft-spoken than I’d expect in a man of action, willing to put his life on the line.

  “Your sister is a patient at the hospital?”

  “My niece. Katie. My sister’s daughter.”

  He nodded. “Can you just explain how you came to . . . interrupt Mr. Cifelli?”

  “I collided with him in the hall.”

  The detective seemed to go still. I wished I could see his eyes, but the sunglasses hid them.

  “And I tried to apologize, but he was a jerk. I’d just come from my sister’s funeral and I was distracted. I—”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he murmured gently.

  I wondered how often he had to utter that phrase in his line of work. I was surprised that he managed to make his condolence sound sincere. “Thank you. I was distracted. I didn’t mean to run into him, and I did apologize right away.”