The Housewife Assassin's Handbook (11 page)

At least the kids are in a great mood. I listen to their happy patter as I dole out the pancakes.

Every other sentence has the word “Dad” in it.

Mary is glowing. I presume that all night long she fantasized about introducing her father to her friends at the dance. He would certainly be the handsomest man there.

But he won’t be going.

Through a mouth full of bacon, Jeff wonders out loud if his father will be watching his ballgame this afternoon. The Wildcats are playing the Torrance Tornadoes for the county title.

My answer is to choke on my coffee. He thinks I’ve teared up because it went down the wrong way. I recover by nodding nonchalantly and muttering, “Hurry, kids, we’re already late!”

My children are dropped off by age, eldest first. I savor Mary and Jeff’s kisses as they scurry off.

When I walk Trisha into her preschool, her peck on my cheek is proffered with some advice: “Maybe if we’re all nice to Daddy this time, he won’t go away again.”

I know she’s hoping that I take the hint.

Okay, yeah, I guess there’s no harm in trying.

I nix my plan to release bedbugs in the guest room.

The odor hits me as I enter the house. It’s as if someone has died in here.

Seeing the look in my eye, Lassie skedaddles, making a dirty paw print trail as she jumps through the dog door in the kitchen.

Cautiously I make my way upstairs, wading through a trail of muddy clothes that stretch down the hall, from the guest room to the hallway bathroom. As I sweep them up off the floor and toss them into a laundry basket, it dawns on me that I better nip this crap in the bud, and fast.

I don’t bother knocking on the guest room door. Instead I kick it open. 

At least he’s dressed this time: khakis and a golf shirt. Just one of the guys.

He’s standing by the window with a pair of binoculars, scanning the street beyond. From the studious look on his face I’m guessing he’s trying to get a bead on a possible target—

I look around. The place is a mess! The bed hasn’t been made. His suitcase is open, and clothes thrown all over the room. Computers, cameras, and guns are piled on my antique secretary. He ate his breakfast in here instead of the kitchen or the dining room, and there are dirty dishes all over the place.

That’s it. I’ve had enough. “Excuse me—”

“Later, doll. Busy now—”

Angrily I pick up one of the dirty plates he’s left on my Chippendale dresser and hold it up in front of the binoculars. “By the way, today it’s your turn to do the dishes—including these.”

“You’re kidding, right? I was told you had a maid to do that kind of stuff.”

“Marta only comes once a week. Even so, you make a bigger mess than the rest of us combined. This room is a pigsty! I think you can handle something as simple as making up your own bed and doing your own laundry—and for that matter, cleaning your own bathroom. It stinks to high heaven. What did you do, take the evening tour of Hilldale’s sewers?”

“Something like that.” He shrugs. “I wasn’t the only one. Somebody’s already setting up an escape route down there. They’ve lasered through the locked grate that dumps the rainfall runoff in the pipe beyond the golf course. I guess they figure that, if something goes wrong they can’t just very well waltz out through the front gate. I set up a surveillance cam that feeds to Acme, so we can watch for any activity.”

“Wow! Good thinking.” I hand him back his binoculars. “Well, I guess you’re tired after your trek. If you take a nap, you know how to set the clock’s alarm, right? I should be back in time to pick up the kids—”

He’s not even listening. Instead, he’s staring out the window again—

I see why: he’s got his sights set on Nola Janoff as she washes her vintage car, an ice-white 1954 Mercedes 300SL with gull wings and a lipstick red interior. Her red-with-white polka dot bikini clings to every part of her body, now that she’s drenched in suds.

On the other hand, the car is hardly wet. 

I doubt I could say the same about Jack.

I snatch the binoculars from his hands. “Hey, don’t blame me,” he protests. “Jeff turned me on to her. I hate to break it to you, but your boy has X-rated taste.”

“Believe me, I know. It’s why I’ve made him change bedrooms with Mary.” I shake my head angrily. “And frankly, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t encourage his prepubescent fantasies. Nola does enough of that already.” She pays my son too much to mow her lawn; not in money, but in money shots, as she sunbathes on her back, strapless.

Jeff is so distracted that I’m surprised he hasn’t mowed over his own foot.

Okay, enough of this. I pull the blinds. “Let’s get one thing straight between us, Mr. Craig: everyone in this house does chores. Is this the way you live at home?”

“I don’t have ‘a home.’ No, I take that back: the Georges Cinq is my crash pad. By the way, they bring me my meals on a tray. Since I’m persona non grata here, feel free to do the same.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me! Listen here, you lazy son-of-a-bitch, if you can’t be a gentleman and eat with the rest of us, I’ll give your plate to someone who’ll appreciate it: Lassie.”

“Yeah, well, from what I saw while she and I were out and about, that dog will eat anything. Oh, and lady, while we’re on the topic: not to rub it in or anything, but let me burst any bubble you may have that you’re some sort of Martha Stewart fembot. The pot roast at the Cinq makes yours taste like a reject from the Chef Boy-R-Dee test kitchen.”

“If you don’t like my cooking, feel free to eat at McDonald’s. And by the way, the laundry room is on the far side of the kitchen. If you can assemble an AK-47 in under thirty seconds, I’ll just bet you can figure out the settings on a Maytag washer. Otherwise, your expensive dress shirts can share the wash with Jeff’s grass-stained, muddied baseball uniform.”

To make my point, I shove the laundry basket into his gut.

He lets it fall on the floor. 

That’s it for me. I fling one of the messy plates at him like a Frisbee, but he ducks. It skims over his head and shatters as it hits the wall. 

For just a moment, the smirk on his face drops into a frown. His eyes darken with anger. He grabs me so fast with both hands that I don’t have time to react—

What would that reaction have been, anyway? If it were to match Jack’s, my eyes would reflect the turmoil of emotions that are causing my heart to beat so loud and so fast. I know this, because my hand is now on his chest, trying hard to push him away—

But for some reason, I’m not at all upset that he’s too strong for me to do so.

Like Jack, I should be pursing my lips to keep from giving into the urge to press them against his. And I certainly shouldn’t be gazing into his eyes, which are that same shade of green as Carl’s. It’s a hue that refuses to fade from my memory. Even after all these years, it leaves me mesmerized.

Slowly he lets go of me. He seems angrier at himself than at me.

“Acme will spring for another day of maid service.” He is muttering so slow that I can barely hear him. “I’m not here to ‘play house,’ remember? I’ve got a job to do. And she—“ he stabs a thumb toward Nola “—will make it easier. She’s got a wandering eye and a big mouth.”

It takes one to know one, I think to myself. But I have to ask, “How would you happen to know that?”

“I ran into her last night—while we were walking our dogs.”

“Oh? How convenient.” So, that’s where he really was last night. Figures. “By the way, Lassie is my dog, not yours.”

He lifts the binoculars back into position. “Isn’t there someone you should be torturing besides me?”

He’s right. So many gangbangers, so little time.

“When Emma gets here, tell her to set up in the room over the garage. The key is on the hook beside the back door. I should be back in time to pick up the kids from school.”

As if Jack gives a hoot. He’s too enthralled with Nola.

I can’t wait for this mission to be over.

Only when Xie Tong’s hard-on goes limp, and his hand slips from my breast (a club no-no, but there’s no one there to enforce the so-called rules) am I assured that the truth serum has finally entered his bloodstream. 

About damn time.

The injection was as noticeable as a pinprick. I nibbled playfully on his ear at the same time. Which do you think caught his attention?

Go to the head of the class.

The club’s hidden security camera is viewing a digital loop of the lap dance I just gave Xie. This six-minute feat of creative choreography buys me enough time to ask him the questions we need answered:

Where did he get the uranium? Who did he give it to? What are they going to do with it? Where and when will this disaster take place?

No matter how I ask him (with promises and threats, both in English and Chinese), there isn’t much he can tell me. Apparently, the uranium was brought in by a Chinese diplomat. Yeah, okay, that was to be expected. In exchange for getting his drug lord cousin—now on Death Row in San Quentin—released and returned to his homeland under some sort of international immunity, Xie handed it off to a tall Anglo.”

But the where and the when it is to be used wasn’t divulged to him. 

His cousin may have avoided a heart attack in a needle—for now, anyway—but not Xie. My next injection, Sodium Thiopental, kills him instantly.

By the time they discover his body, my gloves, wig, and G-string will have been tossed into the Pacific Ocean, along with anything else that would indicate I had anything to do with his demise.

Congestion on the I-10 sets me back half an hour for afternoon pick-up. 

I go speeding up to the house, only to find no one there: not Emma, not the kids, and not Jack. 

Where the heck is everyone?

I cruise by the park, when I see Emma and Mary standing by Abu’s ice cream truck. They look up as I swerve to a stop. “Sorry I’m late,” I say breathlessly as I give Mary a kiss. I almost don’t recognize Emma. Her naturally brown hair is dyed platinum blond. Yes, she can certainly pass for a Swede. 

In keeping with mission protocol, I put my hand out to her. “So, you must be—”

“Inga Larsson.” By the way in which Emma rolls her eyes, I gather that she’s not pleased with her cover.

“Well, nice to finally meet you! I take it you’re all moved in?”

“Ja.” She shrugs her shoulders. So that neither of us catches him laughing, Abu sticks his head into the freezer of his truck. Mary gives me an annoyed sigh. “Mom, she barely speaks English! What are we going to do with her?”

“That’s just the point. She’s here to experience the American way of life. So we’ll just leave her be. That way, she can explore on her own. Ja, Inga?”

“Ja. Um… I mean, no… I mean—” Listening to Emma figure out her accent was painful. “I vill mostly stay in my room. I vill vatch American TV to learn your language.”

It’s Mary’s turn to roll her eyes. “What ev.”

“Mary, where’s Trisha and Jeff?”

She nodded toward the ball field. “Jeff has a game, remember? And Trisha is there, with … Dad.” This endearment doesn’t roll off her tongue easily.

Not that I expected it would. It was still a little too early for that.

As I pay Abu, I also hand him my grocery list. Really, it was a breakdown of Xie’s information, in code. I doubt anyone would ever suspect that cantaloupe translates into lethal injection.