Chapter Twenty-five
According to Greek mythology, the goddess Gaea sprang from Chaos and became the mother of all things including Uranus, who became the first ruler of the universe.
In a twisted union that would make Jerry Lee Lewis blush, Gaea later married Uranus and bore him 12 children, who became known collectively as the Titans.
Cronus was the youngest Titan, who castrated and dethroned his father Uranus, whose blood fell onto earth, and produced the vengeful Furies.
Cronus then took over running the universe.
In keeping with family tradition (and the “unbroken cycle” phenomenon that happens in so many dysfunctional families), Cronus married his sister Rhea and had more (by this point, one would imagine, hideously inbred) children; among them, Zeus and Hera.
Zeus eventually became the leader of a consortium of gods who ruled the universe from Mt. Olympus, hence their name, the Olympians.
In an epic battle known as the Titanomachy, Zeus led the Olympians against the Titans and won, leaving Zeus to succeed Cronus as the supreme god and free to carry on family tradition. So he married his sister Hera.
So how is it imaginable that someone with such a polluted gene pool could become the supreme god of the universe? That’s where this gets interesting.
According to legend, Rhea gave birth to Zeus in a cave belonging to sacred bees. The bees became the nursemaids of Zeus and he was raised on their divine honey, which had miraculous purifying powers. Nourished, and presumably cleansed by this sacred, magical honey, Zeus eventually became the symbol of power, rule, and law; the rewarder of good and punisher of evil.
The sacred cave of Zeus’ birth was on the island of Crete, which lay in the Eastern Mediterranean marking the southern limit of the Aegean Sea. Roughly half a million people lived on Crete these days, among those was an assassin named Klaus.
The spirits of the ancient Greek gods haunted the isle of Crete. As a place to live, it was an unusual choice for someone whose favorite pastime required frequent trips to the great casinos of Europe. But Klaus had lived here as a child and it still felt like home. Perhaps the spirit of Zeus comforted the souls of killers. Then again, perhaps Klaus just liked a fancy place with a nice ocean view.
As the sun set on a docked fishing boat, a group of men with lined, leathery faces tied knots in thick ropes and wrapped their fishing nets. Klaus, with several fish slung over his shoulder, stepped off the vessel, bid the others goodbye and headed up an ancient cobblestone road, exchanging pleasantries with those he passed on the way.
Everyone knew what Klaus did for a living, but they also knew his philosophy and, on balance, they felt he was a good man whose odd calling was a necessary evil in a world overstocked with immorality. In Klaus’ mind, and in the minds of his fellow Cretans, the egregious violators of human rights surrendered their own right to life and thus deserved to die.
Like the ancient Greek gods at Olympus, the powerful people who hired professionals like Klaus felt compelled or obligated to look after the lives of those they perceived as powerless. These people held a bloody moral standard that accepted the killing of one corrupt soul to save many innocent ones. The likes of Idi Amin, Pol Pot, and Pinochet were fair game, but assassins who would kill a Gandhi, a Kennedy, or a Mandella were themselves to be hunted down and killed.
Klaus killed with professional detachment, never with malevolence. He didn’t hate those he killed, he just believed they deserved to die, otherwise he wouldn’t kill them.
His melancholy aspect implied that he didn’t enjoy what he did, that he felt somehow trapped by his fate. He was a tragic figure, if not beloved, then at least pitied.
Klaus had thought a lot lately about retiring. But every time he finished a job another was presented, and Klaus would allow himself to think that this might be the one to make a difference.
So he killed again, collected his fee, and started the cycle anew. On average Klaus executed two contracts per year, all while maintaining his standard of excellence. But rumors were beginning to spread that Klaus was losing his edge and a newcomer was gunning for the number-one spot on the list.
In a way it was true—Klaus was losing his edge. He was growing increasingly tired of his pointless life. Ridding the world of scum once held a semblance of satisfaction for Klaus, but now it was merely an unfulfilling part-time job that allowed him to gamble. Gambling was the only form of self-destruction he could manage. He liked to drink, but not enough to kill himself. And true suicide, well, Klaus had considered it, but he lacked the courage. “Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all,” rang in his head.
Ahead in the fading light Klaus saw his beautiful villa on the hilltop and something made him smile. He suddenly remembered a line from Scripture, specifically Romans 6:23. “The wages of sin is death,” it said. Klaus thought that if the wages of sin was death, then apparently the wages of death was a nice place in the Greek islands. He chuckled at his joke as he continued up the hill.
Klaus entered his home, the fish dangling from the string still slung over his shoulder. He hesitated as something struck him as wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.
Had he left a burner going on the stove? Was the iron on? Or was someone there to kill him? It was possible. Like gunslingers from the American West of old, assassins were sometimes the targets of upstarts who wanted to make a name for themselves by proving they were the fastest gun.
Klaus wasn’t sure if he had bad company or if it was just the paranoia that seemed to be growing worse with each passing day. He continued to the kitchen and set the fish in the sink.
And again the uneasy feeling that something was amiss made him look around. He caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye and he dropped to the floor just as a spray of machine gun fire ripped away at the cupboards above his head. Someone was there alright, but not to kill him, otherwise he would already be dead. No, this was apparently just a courtesy call.
When the shooting stopped, Klaus listened for a moment, then carefully poked his head around the corner. A man sitting on the sofa in the shadows of the living room spoke. “Good evening, Klaus. Are we having fish for dinner?”
Klaus stood. He recognized the voice. The man in the shadows was flanked by several thugs.
Klaus counted the sidekicks. “Well, I have some leftover souvlaki, but I don’t think there’s enough for six.”
The Shadow Man spoke again. “I am curious about your payment. It’s not like you to be late.”
“I have your money.”
“It does me no good if you have the money,” the Shadow Man said peevishly.
Klaus crossed to a hidden safe and removed the briefcase of cash he had recently received from Marcel. He tossed the case to one of the thugs. “This is half of what I owe you. Things have been slow.”
“Slow?” the Shadow Man asked skeptically. “It was my understanding that you passed on the Huweiler assignment.”
“That is none of your concern,” Klaus said.
“It concerns me greatly when someone who owes so much regularly passes on such lucrative work. I fear if you pass on any more, this new man—the Exterminator I believe he is called—he will get all of your business, and that would deprive you of the income to which I have grown accustomed.”
“That is my problem,” Klaus said.
“It is until it affects your ability to pay your debts, then it becomes my problem. I will return in one week. If you do not have what you owe me, that visit will not be as pleasant as this.”
The Shadow Man stood and led his entourage toward the door.
“Wait!” Klaus said urgently.
The Shadow Man stopped suddenly. The members of his entourage bumped comically into one another from behind.
Klaus spoke. “I suppose this means you won’t be staying for dinner
?”
Chapter Twenty-six
After Mary and Katy left, Bob’s life changed dramatically. Time normally shared with them was now spent in his Bug Room preparing for his big presentation to Sy Silverstein. If he was going to fail, it wouldn’t be due to lack of preparation. Some days he spent as many as 18 hours with the bugs and the blue lights. He believed deeply this presentation to Mr. Silverstein would be a defining moment in his life, and so he worked relentlessly and with vengeance.
Finally, the day arrived.
They met in the Queens, New York office of Silverstein, a successful old real estate developer. It was an impressive room dominated by the largest oak desk Bob had ever seen, seven feet across and four feet deep. You could slaughter farm animals on this thing. There was a wet bar on one side of the office and a bathroom behind a door on the other. Dozens of real estate awards adorned the far wall and the expansive window behind the desk offered a stunning view of Manhattan.
Bob had an easel with charts and graphs set up in front of Sy’s desk and a card table he’d brought was placed by Sy’s wall of escrow tributes. Sitting on top of the table was a bugquarium, which, oddly enough, contained a dollhouse.
Bob and Sy pressed their faces to the glass of the bugquarium, looking intently into the dollhouse kitchen, which was complete with a tiny table and a Barbie doll frying rubber eggs over a bogus burner. Provoking no reaction in the plastic cook, one of the cupboard doors suddenly wiggled, threatening to burst open. A thin brown antennae emerged from under the door, then quickly withdrew. A moment later the cupboard door wiggled again, then popped open.
A large brown American cockroach emerged. Bob narrated the scene with great urgency.
“There it isl” he blurted. “Now watch!”
The roach scurried under Barbie’s feet, probing rudely about her perfect thighs with its antennae. Another cupboard suddenly burst open and a large, pernicious-looking mutant insect stepped out. It was a cross between the Masked Hunter and the Wheel Bug. It appeared to have an armored coat and a palpable musculature not normally seen in the insect world.
The cockroach literally shit when it saw this killer hybrid, no doubt recognizing the stout three-segmented beak as the instrument of his impending doom.
The roach dodged desperately behind a chair, then a table leg, then tried to crawl back into the cupboard, but to no avail. The Assassin seized the roach with its powerful front legs and, in a lightning-quick movement, flipped him over. He jammed his pointy beak into the roach’s soft belly and pumped him full of digesting enzymes.
The roach’s legs twitched spastically, then fell still, relaxing limp to the side. It was a hideous spectacle. But it was also nature’s ballet, choreographed by Bob Dillon.
Bob straightened up proudly, leaving an oily nose print on the terrarium glass. “Mr. Silverstein, meet the Assassin Bug.”
Sy, short and in his seventies, stood back, obviously impressed. He nodded thoughtfully as he lit an enormous cigar without saying a word, a silent George Burns impression. He pulled once or twice on his big cheroot to get it going, then spoke. “Alright, so what you’re sayin’ is you’re gonna turn more bugs loose in my buildings than I already got?” The years of cigar smoke made his voice sound like a wood rasp on Formica.
“More or less,” Bob confessed. He knew it sounded weird.
“I like you, kid,” said Sy. “You got balls comin’ to me with a meshuggahna scheme like this. Balls I like.”
Sy draped a withered arm over Bob’s shoulder and inadvertently blew cigar smoke in Bob’s face as they walked across the stately office toward Sy’s magnificent desk.
Bob coughed politely as he crossed to the easel where the graphs and charts awaited their turn. Sy stopped, narrowed his eyes, and looked at Bob. “You didn’t go to some goddamn business school, did you?”
“Uh, no sir,” Bob said.
“Good. These punks with the fancy-schmancy MBA’s don’t know shit from kreplach. I’ll tell ya, kid,” Sy continued, “my grandkids got me recycling years ago. When I realized how much crap I’d been throwing out every week, I invested in a recycling company. Made my money back in two years. So what I’m saying is, I like this safe environment angle you got. Just run it by me one more time.”
Sy took his seat behind his enormous oak desk. He looked like a wrinkled child peering over the edge of a dinner table.
“Okay,” Bob began, “in 1970 there were 224 species of pesticide-resistant insects. By 1990 that number had doubled.”
Bob pointed at his first graph to illustrate his point.
“The more resistant insects become,” he said, “the more toxic we make the pesticides, and the more toxic we make pesticides, the more we poison the planet.”
“So you’re saying pesticides are eventually gonna become either useless or too dangerous to use?” Sy asked.
“Exactly,” Bob said. “In fact, the makers of one popular pesticide have revised its formula 34 times in the last 29 years. See, roaches pass on pesticide resistance within just a few generations, and since they breed so fast and in such large numbers, it’s hard for pesticide manufacturers to keep up.”
“Riiiight,” Sy mused.
“Okay, a female cockroach might lay two thousand eggs in her life, which lasts about a year. Now, if half those eggs result in females and they lay two thousand eggs each, you got two million roaches. Even if only half survive, you got a million roaches within four months. And that’s from a single fertilized female.”
“Oy!” Sy exclaimed. “You know, I read something about a blanket of flies in one of those books you sent me.”
“The offspring of two houseflies mating in January would cover the earth by May with a blanket 50 feet thick?”
“That’s it,” Sy said. “That’s a lot of flies.”
“Of course,” Bob said, “that assumed they all survived, which they don’t.”
Bob felt he was getting his point across, so he intensified his pitch. He slapped the back of his right hand into the palm of his left as he hurled numbers at the rumpled real estate developer.
“There are 200,000 insects for each human on the planet, that’s 300 pounds of bug for each pound of person! We are so hopelessly outnumbered that the best we can hope for is peaceful coexistence.”
Sy nodded and waved his cigar excitedly. “Alright, already, I’m sold. Tell me about your bugs again.”
Bob went to the easel and flipped to some colorful renderings of the eight insects he was working with. “Assassin Bugs are predaceous insects. I’ve cross-bred eight different species in an attempt to create the perfect insect-killing machine. I tried to breed a strain that feeds exclusively on the types of insects found in urban buildings.”
Sy seemed to be taking all this in, so Bob continued.
“The plan is to release these hybrids into the wall spaces of buildings where they’ll kill the roaches, silverfish, and termites. They’re bred so they won’t bother vertebrates and they don’t eat human food products. They just live in the wall-spaces eating other bugs. You never see ’em.”
“Riiiight,” Sy said again, not completely understanding.
Bob moved to the front of Sy’s desk and leaned across toward the small grey head peering up at him.
“Now, I’ve got four strains of hybrids,” Bob said, “but I don’t know which strain will kill roaches or the others on a scale larger than these terrariums. So what I need is…”
“Buildings.” This was the part Sy understood. “Buildings, I got. C’mere.”
Sy pushed away from his desk and led Bob to the windows of the corner office which offered a sweeping view of Manhattan.
“Look at that, kid,” Sy said with a sweeping gesturing. “I bought my first building in ‘36. I was 21. It was a rattrap in the Bronx. Everybody laughed.” After a dramatic pause and a cloud
of smoke, Sy continued. “Two hundred and seven buildings later, they ain’t laughin’.”
“I just need four buildings, Mr. Silverstein,” Bob said with all his hopeful heart. “That’s all.”
“And you expect me to give you four of mine just because you got a good idea?” Sy laughed.
Bob’s heart suddenly sank. Things had been going so well up to this point.
“If I had a dollar for every good idea that flopped…” Sy said without finishing his thought. “Listen, kid, a good idea’s only half the battle. I’m telling you, I’ve seen some terrific ideas go spinning right down the crapper because that’s all they were, good ideas. Let’s assume for a minute you can make this crazy idea work. The bugs killing other bugs and all that.” Sy returned to his chair. “The next question is, how the hell are you going to market it?”
Bob’s confidence returned. “I’m glad you asked,” he said as he returned to the easel and the next chart. “The first thing we have to do is change the way consumers view household pest control. Research by pesticide manufacturers shows that Americans view metaphorically as a battle of Good versus Evil.”
“You don’t say?” Sy sent a smoke signal from behind the desk indicating he was intrigued.
“The advertisers of household pesticides found American consumers have what they call a frontier, or cowboy, mentality.” Bob sounded like a prosecutor in the midst of a passionate closing argument. “Think of the names the ad agencies created for the products—Raid!, Combat, Hot Shot, Bug Bombs, Black Flag. Research shows that images of warfare still appeal to the American military-industrial mind-set.”
Sy studied the chart on the easel.
“The research also shows Americans tend to look at the world in a simple black-and-white perspective,” Bob said as he turned to the next chart. “This makes things easy to categorize and makes difficult questions easier to answer. See, Americans don’t like grey areas. They like Good Guys versus Bad Guys, Cops versus Robbers, Jets versus the Colts. Americans want to see themselves as the Good Guys in the struggle against the evil roaches. See, the way the advertisers sell it, the American family is clean and virtuous and the cockroach is dirty and vile. The can of Raid! is the six-shooter of the Old West or the handgun used to defend one’s home against the invasion of the filthy hordes.”
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