Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 02 - Christmas Bizarre

by Lizz Lund

  “I’m-sorry; I’m-sorry; I’m-sorry,” I whispered, groping around the front pockets of his vest. I found the keys in the second pocket I tried.

  I stood up holding the keys, and all but flew back up the steps.

  Myron pointed the laser at me. “Do you have the keys, Kitchen?”

  “Right here.” I held the key chain up for him to see.

  “Good. Now toss them up here like a good girl.”

  “Mina, don’t!”

  “I said DO IT!”

  I threw the keys onto the kitchen floor. They landed with a clunk.

  “Now, I think you girls need a little time out. Bernard, please escort Mrs. Phang back to her room. I’ll move the car.”

  “What about the kid?”

  “Oh, she’ll be quite safe.” Myron pushed me down the steps, closed the door, and locked it.

  Luckily I fell on top of the dead guy, or I’d really have fallen hard. Dead guy? Ugh!

  Mrs. Phang shouted a lot of unintelligible curses. I heard a smack, and then silence. Then I heard shuffling up the flight of stairs to the second floor. A few moments later, I heard the front door open and shut.

  I kneeled on my knees and bowed my head. “Christ, I hope they didn’t kill her.”

  “Don’t worry, they didn’t.”

  I whirled around and found myself face to face with the stiff. I opened my mouth to scream, and he clapped a very firm – and large – hand over it.

  “Don’t make a peep, whatever you do!” he whispered. “We’ve only got a moment! I’m Agent Mitchell.”

  I nodded.

  “We’ve been tailing Bernie since last summer.”

  I nodded again.

  “There were two sets of steps up the stairs. Not one. You see? One had to be Tina’s.”

  I relaxed a bit.

  “Now, I’m gonna take my hand off you, and you’re not going to scream, right?”

  I nodded.

  He took his hand away.

  “You’re not dead?”

  “Not yet, anyway.” He unzipped his vest. “Kevlar.”

  “Then why the hell were you playing dead?”

  “My first time. It kind of knocked the wind out of me. And you gals also thunked my noggin pretty good on the floor.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I started to come to right as you raced up the steps into the other guy.”

  I shook my head. “We totally weren’t expecting that.”

  “Anyone else here besides you and Tina Phang?”

  I shook my head.

  The front door banged open and shut.

  Agent Mitchell put a finger to my lips, then ducked back down underneath the drop cloth to play dead.

  I heard water rumbling through the pipes.

  “Have you got her secured, Bernard?” Myron’s voice trailed up the stairs.

  “Of course I do.”

  “What are you doing, then?”

  “I’m taking a shower and getting changed, natch.”

  “Right. Good thinking.” Myron’s steps paced overhead. “Disgusting old fool.”

  A few moments passed. “Yes, Dexter, it’s me. Where are you? Why aren’t you here yet?”

  There was a brief silence while Myron apparently listened to Dexter’s response. I could only imagine his smug look of impatience.

  “Yes, he botched it. Although it’s not entirely his fault.”

  Another silence.

  “Let’s not get into who’s blaming whom. Let’s just finish this and get rid of our baggage quickly, shall we?”

  There was another brief pause, followed by Myron’s ending the call and muttering a mocking, “Whatever.”

  Myron’s steps came back into the kitchen. A chair scraped the floor, and paper bags rustled.

  OMG was he actually eating?

  The water stopped running through the basement pipes. Some more water came gushing down, Bernie must have flushed the toilet.

  A little while later, Bernie thumped downstairs and into the kitchen.

  “Hey, you’re eating my food!”

  “I wouldn’t touch that bloody mess if you paid me.”

  “Oh. Well that’s all right then.”

  Another chair scraped against the floor. Some more bags rustled. There wasn’t a lot of small talk between them, just chewing. And slurping.

  A car pulled up the gravel driveway. It stopped and a door slammed. The door off the kitchen banged open.

  “What the hell? You tell me to get here ASAP, and you’re sitting around having coffee and pie?”

  “Calm down, Dexter. You’ll live longer.”

  “Thanks a lot, Bernie. Here’s your stupid burger.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Sure.”

  “I do. This stuff’s stale.” Bags were crumpled and tossed. Onto the floor?

  “Great.”

  “Have a seat, Dexter. We have a problem.”

  Another chair scraped against the floor.

  “It appears that Bernard has not allocated our funds into our private accounts yesterday, as we previously agreed.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “You eat with that mouth?”

  “Look who’s talking? You’re drinking fucking blood.”

  “Gentlemen! Dexter, your iPad please.”

  “It’s in the car.”

  “Retrieve it please.”

  The chair thumped back and the door slammed open and shut.

  “What’s your plan, Stan?”

  “Clever, Bernard. I simply mean to put our original plans back into place.”

  “Which is?”

  “That you arrange to have our separate accounts wired immediately. You’re a day late.”

  “But not a dollar short. I have other plans.”

  Dexter’s steps thumped back into the kitchen. “Here.” He plunked his device onto the kitchen table. “And don’t splash any blood on it this time!”

  “You’re a little sensitive, kid. First things, first.”

  “What is it this time, Bernard?”

  “We got a few loose ends to wrap up. I want our arrangement clear, before I wire any cash.”

  “The reality is, Bernard, that after we dispose of our baggage, we will be separated for the rest of all time. And while you’ve been very democratic thus far, I don’t trust you to wire the funds after the fact.”

  “That hurts, Myron.”

  “You’ll get over it.”

  Hands slammed on the table. “Enough with this bullshit. Look old man, you wire half the funds now. Now. Then you set it up so the other half’s wired after we quit this burg.”

  “What a perfectly acceptable arrangement, Dexter. I’m pleased to see you’ve learned a thing or two.”

  “Yeah. I learned I’m not gonna be the fall guy for you two cons. I’m outta here. Get tapping, Bernie.”

  There were several moments of silence, punctuated by frustrated expletives – mostly at Bernie’s lack of notepad savvy and forgetting his password. More silence.

  “Bingo! You did it Bernie, we’re done.”

  “By tomorrow morning, Dex.”

  “Fine.”

  “Agreed. And by tomorrow morning, we’ll be off on our separate adventures, gentlemen.”

  “That sounds good. Too bad we don’t have nothing to celebrate with.”

  “You mean like champagne? Us vampires don’t drink alcohol. Besides, I never drank much as a human, even.”

  “Forget it, Bernie.”

  “Don’t be so disappointed, Dexter. We might be able to celebrate without consuming anything.”

  “How’d you mean?”

  “Do you like fireworks?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then we might have the next best thing.”

  Agent Mitchell sat up next to me, and put his hand over my mouth again. I had a feeling neither one of us was going to have much to celebrate very soon.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Not me, you Dexter. I
’d like you to go out to the shed, and start bringing in all the containers of gasoline.”

  “In here?”

  “Just put them in the basement.”

  “What about the stiff? And the girl?”

  “Yeah, Myron. First we gotta sink the stiff in the Atlantic, you know?”

  “I’ve reconsidered that, Bernard. Now that we’re about to retire, and are no longer in need of our baggage, it seems a waste of effort.”

  “Huh?”

  Myron sighed. “We’re leaving now. We don’t need this house anymore. Or Phang, or Kitchen. We’ll just tidy up all the loose ends with the stroke of a match.”

  “Hey, that’s some stroke of luck. Good thinking, Myron.”

  “Sure beats cleaning up the dishes,” Dexter added. Myron and Bernie guffawed at their good fortune.

  “Beats cleaning up the dishes! Good one, Dex!” Bernie coughed a bit.

  “You ought to be careful about that cold, Bernard.”

  “Vampires don’t catch colds, idiot. I’m the undead, you know?”

  The back door banged open and shut.

  I tugged at Mitchell’s shroud and hissed. “What are we going to do?”

  He put a hand over my mouth.

  “Don’t open the basement door without me, all right Bernard? We don’t want to underestimate that misfit.”

  “Gotcha. Where you headed?”

  “To use the facilities.”

  “Oh. Sure.”

  We listened to Myron going upstairs. Bernie’s chair scraped away from the table, and we heard him walk to the front of the house.

  Mitchell pulled his hand away. “Can you feel these sacks of cement?” he whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Help me pile them underneath the ground cloth.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we hide underneath the steps and hope the cavalry is on the way.”

  “That’s a hell of a plan.”

  “It’s all I got. Besides this.”

  “What?”

  He reached for my hand and pulled it toward him. At first I thought he was trying to pull some last minute whoops-we’re-gonna-die-what-the-hell deviant shit on me, until my hand felt something cold and hard. His gun. We crawled underneath the steps and waited.

  Dexter banged back through the back door. “Open the door to the basement, Bernie.”

  “No can do.”

  “What the fuck?”

  Bernie sighed. “Myron’s in the can, he wants us to wait. Besides, he still has my keys.”

  “Oh. So what do I do now?”

  “Line ‘em up.”

  “Why don’t you help me? There’s gotta be a hundred cans out there.”

  “Rank has its privileges, kid. Besides, it’s broad daylight.”

  “Great. Batty old fuck…” the door banged open and shut.

  Water sloshed through the pipes again. Any moment now, we’d hear Myron coming back downstairs. I wished I remembered where the piss bucket was.

  “Bernard, I require your assistance upstairs, please.”

  “What’s the matter? You can’t flush?”

  “How vulgar. No, I’d like some backup checking on Phang. She’s been suspiciously silent.”

  “So what? We’re gonna off her anyway.”

  “Is there a window in her room?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you remember locking it?”

  “Sure.”

  Silence.

  “I mean, I think I’m sure. You know?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Shit.”

  Footsteps thundered overhead.

  The back door banged open and shut. “Stupid fucks. I should have been forging Picasso’s. That’s what I’m gonna do next time, that’s what. Stupid stamps.” More cans got set on the floor. The door banged shut.

  A whoosh of two pings sounded faintly from upstairs.

  A single set of steps came back downstairs.

  The back door banged open. “Say, I’m running out of room here. You gonna open the basement door, or what?”

  “Certainly. Let’s just make sure our guest isn’t on the ready, shall we?”

  “Huh?”

  “Let’s make sure Kitchen doesn’t make a break for it.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Here’s the key. Open the door.”

  “Hey, don’t point that gun at me, man!”

  “It’s not at you, you fool! It’s in case she runs away.”

  “Right. Hey, you got a light? I can’t see for shit down here.”

  “Here.”

  We heard Dexter catch something. A flashlight shone down the steps. “What do you want me to do with the gas?”

  “Pour it down the steps.”

  “Pour it down?”

  “Yes.”

  “You gonna light it, while that chick’s still alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Man, that’s cold. Bernie okay with this?”

  “I have it on the best authority.”

  “Okay, dude. Your karma.” Gasoline splashed down the steps, pooling at the bottom where Mitchell’s faux stiff lay. He tossed the can in after.

  “That’s very good thinking, Dexter. You’re very efficient.”

  “Whatever.” More gasoline came splashing down. Another can was tossed down.

  Mitchell led me silently away from under the steps, to a far corner away from the pooling gasoline.

  Dexter’s gasoline dousing repeated itself. The fumes were noxious. I stifled a cough.

  “My apologies about the stench, Kitchen. But it will soon be over.”

  I coughed again.

  Dexter coughed, too. “Hey man, open a window, would you?”

  “What a brilliant idea.”

  “What?”

  “Oxygen, Dexter. A fire can’t burn properly, or quickly, without oxygen.”

  “Yeah, right. Where the hell is Bernie? Why can’t he fling a can?”

  “He’s indisposed.”

  “Great. You mean he’s in the can.”

  “Actually, he’s in the bag.”

  “Huh?”

  “Goodbye, Dexter.”

  One ping sounded and Dexter hurtled down the steps like a sack of bricks. His fall was broken at the bottom by the cement wall, followed by a sickening snap of his neck.

  “The very best parties all have fireworks.” Myron tossed a lit match and basement steps were ablaze. The door to the basement shut and locked for a final time.

  Steps were heard treading rapidly upstairs, toward Mrs. Phang.

  “We’ve got to get out of here now! He’s going to kill Mrs. Phang!”

  “I can shoot the lock open, but the stairs are already on fire. We’re gonna get burned.”

  “I know! Our shoes will get soaked.”

  “When we reach the top, do you know how to tuck and roll?”

  “Do you know how to play dead?”

  Mitchell fired a round at the lock and the door blasted free. We raced up the steps with the flames of hell literally at our heels.

  I tucked and rolled on the kitchen floor for all I was worth – my shoes and jeans were on fire. Suddenly I felt a cloth thrown on me, and got tackled. We rolled then abruptly stopped. Mitchell got off me, and stood leaning on the kitchen sink, like a smoking gun. Which he really was. His jeans were smoldering and he was holding a gun.

  We heard crashing down the steps. Myron came into view, holding Mrs. Phang with his gun to her head.

  “Forget something, Kitchen?” But his eyes opened wide seeing Agent Mitchell, aka dead Leon Martini.

  “Nope,” Mitchell answered, just after he blasted a bullet straight through Myron’s forehead.

  Myron fell. A small explosion sounded beneath us.

  “C’mon! Let’s get out of here!” Mrs. Phang screamed, grabbing my hand. Mitchell followed.

  Myron, Bernie and Dexter did not.

  CHAPTER 12

  Sunday

  “You almost ready, Toots
?”

  I surveyed the mitigated damage in the mirror.

  Trixie shrugged. “It’s hair. It’ll grow.”

  Thanks to Agent Mitchell, I’d been spared the severe burns I might have had. But my pony tail suffered a casualty so a good three inches of singed hair got hacked a day after the hospital declared us A-OK, at the Godmother’s insistence, and on her tab. I now sported a kind of layered bowl cut. It wasn’t completely unflattering. But it wasn’t me. I looked like me in someone else’s hair. Luckily, I didn’t cave at the stylist’s suggestion (insert grappling of wills here) to have my hair tipped ala Ombre. Right now, I wished I could press my belly button and make it grow like my childhood doll had.

  “Almost,” I called back to Vito.

  He and Miriam spent a couple days in a panic about my disappearance, as I found out. Which is why they’ve been acting a little clingy. That, and Ma and Aunt Muriel told them to. They want to make sure I stay safe and sound, until I go visit them in Virginia since the twins were born earlier than expected. Although their arrival might not have been premature, considering my sister thinks she swallowed a button instead of a birth control pill.

  So there was an upside to Vito holding onto the spare key to my place: Vinnie and Marie were well fed and petted in my absence. The downside was Vito’s past life and associated thinking. After he found my van and not me, and after a ton of phone calls from Ma wondering where the hell I was, he checked in with Trixie. She blabbed to him about to my non-date with James. Since James was the last person to see me before Dexter kidnapped me, Trixie and Vito assumed the worst and dragged Mike into the picture. Lucky for James that K. wandered into the mix, otherwise we’d still be bailing him out. Mike isn’t big on kidnapping, even if it was just me.

  Hence, Agent Mitchell. Sort of. Mike wasn’t convinced it was as dire as Ma and Trixie made out. But after he chatted up Bauser and Norman, and they told him about the non-fortune cookie, he had a buddy investigate. Thank goodness Mitchell took his undercover work seriously, and made sure there was a backup plan in place. When he hadn’t called his partner soon after the fake fortune cookie delivery, the rest of his plan fell like dominos. The game, not the pizza. So right after Mrs. Phang, Mitchell and I busted out of Dodge, the house exploded and the cops showed up. Pretty much in that order.

  Eventually the firemen came out to play. What was left of Myron, Dexter and Bernie wasn’t pretty, but was identifiable.