They looked at each other and laughed. Klaus remembered the lottery tickets and pulled them from his pocket. He handed one to Bob. Klaus scratched his ticket and blew away the soft grey matter that covered the prizes. “Damn,” he said before casually tossing his ticket to the ground. Bob picked it up.
“Hey, bud, no littering. I might hate this city but I still gotta live here.” Bob scratched his ticket. “Hey, I won two bucks! It’s about time I won something.”
Klaus shook his head and took a pull on the bottle. “You know, you are alright.” Klaus handed the bottle to Bob. “I am glad I didn’t kill you.”
“Me too,” Bob said.
Klaus was drunk for the first time in a long while and he felt warm inside. “You are a good person. You are genuine. I do not meet many people like that.”
Bob looked at his new friend. “You’re alright yourself, especially for a professional killer.”
“You know,” Klaus mused aloud, “this is the sort of thing I miss in my life. Sitting with a friend on a night like this, sharing a drink, just watching the river flow.”
“Yeah, when it’s the East River it’s more like watching it ooze, but I know what you mean.”
There was a pause as Bob pondered a question. “So, Klaus. Why didn’t you kill those shits back at the store?”
Klaus answered quickly. “They did not deserve to die.”
“Maybe,” Bob countered, “but they’re scum; they don’t care about anybody else. Sooner or later they’ll kill someone.”
“Then they might deserve to die, but they did not earn it tonight.” Klaus was resolute.
“You should have wasted them,” Bob said. “This city’s got assholes to spare.”
Klaus looked at Bob. “I have rules about who I kill.”
“Rules?” Bob asked.
Klaus outlined his philosophy, Klaus’ Cliff Notes on Killing. Bob was impressed. He agreed that there was a long list of people who could do the world a great favor by being launched into eternity.
“You ever get scared?” Bob asked.
“I am always scared,” Klaus said.
The confession surprised Bob. “C’mon, what about James Bond and laughing in the face of danger and stuff like that?”
“Bond was a spy, not an assassin,” Klaus said as he looked out at the river. “Besides, this is not the movies.”
Klaus turned to Bob. “You know, I envy you. You have a family. That is something I can never have.” Klaus pulled out his wallet and showed Bob a photo of a woman and a young girl.
“I thought you said you didn’t have a family,” Bob said.
“No. This is the picture that came with the wallet. I just tell people they are my family. You see, I cannot have a real wife or children because they could be used against me. It would not be fair to them.”
How sad, Bob thought. He felt sorry for Klaus.
For a long time they stared in silence across the river at the twinkling lights of Manhattan.
Finally, Klaus spoke. “It is quite beautiful at night.”
“Imagine what it looks like to a dragonfly,” Bob replied.
“Why would I do that?” Klaus asked.
“Their compound eyes have fifty thousand facets. It’s probably like looking through kaleidoscopes while piloting a hang glider through a Fourth of July fireworks display on acid.”
“I will take your word for it.” Klaus looked at Bob for a moment before standing. “Well, my friend, I must go.”
“Go where? What’s going to happen now?” Bob asked.
“Most likely you’ll go your way and I’ll go mine. I must return home and settle an old account. And you have to get your family back and continue with your experiments.”
Bob stood and wobbled a bit. “Uh, well, since you didn’t, uh, eliminate me…is that going to cause you a problem?”
Klaus draped his arm over Bob’s shoulder and spoke gravely, “No, but if I hear that you’ve ‘assassinated’ anyone else, I will have to come back and kill you.”
Chapter Forty-five
Miguel DeJesus Riviera was enraged when he heard that his three killers had been gunned down in the street by this man who called himself The Exterminator. “Who is this son of a bitch?!” he screamed at no one in particular. He kicked a hole in the wall of his newly redecorated office as he planned his next move.
At first, putting out a contract on Bob was simply Miguel’s plot to cover up the fact he had killed his own brother; a smoke screen to prevent disloyalty among his troops. But now it was becoming a vital professional consideration and a personal point of pride. No one would fear Miguel if he couldn’t pull off a simple hit. And if no one feared him, he too would end up peeling the garlic.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t such a simple hit after all. Perhaps this Exterminator, this man with the look of death in his eyes, was indeed a better killer than Klaus. That was a frequently repeated theory being discussed lately by those who discussed such things.
Miguel needed a guarantee that The Exterminator would die and, after considerable thought, he came up with what he felt was a good plan. The plan called for immediate dissemination of a certain piece of information throughout the world, so he did what everyone else did when they wanted to share their thoughts with the world—he called another press conference.
Hungry for good footage and sound bites, the press arrived at Riviera’s palace that afternoon. Miguel stood at the podium behind a forest of microphones. He was excessively emotional as he played his part. Method acting, south of the border.
“And as my beloved brother lay dying in my arms, I swore that I would avenge his death!”
On this cue two men carried into the room a large poster rolled up on eight-foot-long poles. They unfurled the poster to reveal a greatly enlarged version of Bob’s photo from the fax. Superimposed on the photo was a red circle with a slash through it. A moment later an electric forklift whirred into the room and burst through the paper partition like a high school football team taking the field at homecoming. Six heavily armed men trotted alongside the forklift, which carried a large pallet on which was stacked an immense pile of cash.
Ooooh, ahhhs, and polite applause echoed through the room.
Miguel conceived of these theatrics on the premise that better video had a better chance of making the news. The more who saw this, the more would respond.
Miguel pointed at the cash and pounded the podium. “Ten million American dollars! That is what I will pay whoever kills this Exterminator.” Worked into a fever pitch, he screamed, “I will see blood on the tracks! My brother will be avenged!”
When it was over, the stringers for all the American, European, and Pacific Rim television networks did their stand-up wraparound routines and dutifully uplinked the footage to their employers. That night, just as Miguel had hoped, his presentation was broadcast throughout the global village. CNN broke the story. And within minutes of the broadcast, dangerous people from every continent were contacting their travel agents and making arrangements to get into the hunt.
Chapter Forty-six
Klaus was the only professional killer to miss the news. He had just flown in from the States and his in-flight news update had been taped earlier, leaving him in the dark regarding the ten million dollar contract on his new friend Bob.
The taxi driver dropped Klaus at his villa and pulled away quickly, as if he knew there was good reason not to stick around. At the front door Klaus paused to yawn. He was tired from the long flight and needed some rest.
Klaus opened the front door, and upon stepping into the foyer, was seized from behind by two strong men. Klaus reacted with an astounding back flip, landing suddenly behind them. They turned to catch him and he hammered a fist to a windpipe, an elbow to a jaw. They dropped. Klaus readied for more.
Shadow Man spoke from
the living room. “Why so tense, Klaus? Perhaps you should consider switching to decaf.”
Four guns instantly stared Klaus down.
“Do we have a communication problem?” Shadow Man asked.
“More of a cash flow problem,” Klaus said.
“We have been most patient, I think you will agree, but we cannot afford to carry you much longer. It is time to pay your debts.”
Klaus gestured to a painting on the wall. “Take my Gauguin. It will more than cover my debt.”
Shadow Man took the painting from the wall and examined it. He moved to the hearth, pulled out a jeweled butane cigar lighter, and set the painting on fire, tossing it into the fireplace. “I’m afraid that its market value has just dropped.”
“Well, sure, now it has,” Klaus said.
“We are interested in money, not post-modern paintings.”
“Gauguin was post-impressionist, “ Klaus lectured. “Post-modernism was an architectural movement.”
The Shadow Man detested being lectured. He gestured again and his thugs tightened their grips on Klaus. “You still owe us a substantial sum.”
“Have I ever not paid you?” Klaus asked. He hoped that his exemplary credit record might save him some pain.
“Klaus, my friend, you have a simple problem to which there is an equally simple solution,” the Shadow Man said.
Klaus asked what those simple things were, even though he had a good idea of what the Shadow Man was talking about. Klaus believed in buying time in these sorts of situations. That time in Pakistan was a perfect example.
A question came from the darkness, “You have heard of this man who calls himself The Exterminator?”
The image of Bob whacking his head on the brass railing at the bar in Soho flashed in Klaus’ mind. “He is a myth,” Klaus scoffed. “He is nothing more than a…”
“Perhaps,” the Shadow Man interrupted. “But this ‘myth’ is now worth ten million dollars dead.” The Shadow Man explained about Riviera’s contract.
“That is ridiculous,” Klaus remarked.
“I agree, the job is vastly overpriced,” the Shadow Man said. “Those cocaine guys have far more money than good sense. Nevertheless, by killing this Exterminator you can settle your debt to us, restore your prestige, and most importantly, stay alive.”
Lately Klaus had thought a great deal about whether he truly wanted to stay alive any longer. The debilitating bouts of depression were growing intolerable, and what used to pass as his reason for living was no longer justifiable. To make matters worse, the world he once had under his command was now completely out of control. Bob Dillon, a simple family man in Queens, New York, had inadvertently put Klaus out of business. And now some coked-up Bolivian was offering ten million dollars for his murder.
Klaus was torn. He liked Bob, but he didn’t owe him anything. On the other hand, Bob didn’t deserve to die.
Before Klaus could make sense of any of this, one of the thugs pressed a gun to Klaus’ head and cocked the hammer.
Tiring of the game, Klaus rolled his eyes. “Oh, please,” he said sarcastically, “as if you would just kill me. Dead men don’t get much work, you know, and they rarely pay their debts.”
“Of course, you are right,” the Shadow Man agreed with a chuckle, “but only to a degree.” He gestured for his man to put his gun away. “The business of extending credit can exist only if there is an adequate penalty for those who don’t repay. Am I right?”
“Granted,” Klaus said.
“So,” the Shadow Man continued, “after we give you a few stern warnings, we have but two options. The first is that we can put a blotch on your credit record.”
The Shadow Man’s entourage chimed in with a facetious chorus of “Ewwwww.”
“My second option,” he said, “and the one I believe sends a more convincing message to others who might consider welshing on their debts, is to kill you.”
“I cannot disagree with that,” Klaus said. He turned to the Shadow Man’s goons. “What about you fellows?”
The goons shook their heads in unison.
“Good,” the Shadow Man said, “then we are in agreement. Now, should it become necessary to kill you, I’m sure you understand we cannot afford to do it…humanely.”
“Not if you want to be taken seriously,” Klaus said.
“Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, I shall demonstrate.”
Another gesture from the shadows and one of the goons shot Klaus in the chest with a taser, sending him into electric spasms on the floor. After a moment he was practically paralyzed.
Two goons picked him up and set him in a chair. They produced a pair of pink knitting needles and two small wooden mallets. As one goon held Klaus by his hair, two others put the tips of the needles into Klaus’ ears and poised to send the mallets home.
“What is the expression?” the Shadow Man asked. “There are some things worse than death? A man in your profession should know this better than anyone. Now, Klaus, I have done this before and it is not pleasant. Surprisingly, it does not kill you right away. You suffer intensely for quite some time before you die. That said, I trust you will listen.”
“I’m all ears,” Klaus said.
Finally, the Shadow Man stood and walked slowly out of the darkness. Klaus found himself curious about this man’s face. Was he horribly disfigured? Had some hideous birth defect rendered his countenance so grotesque that grown men shrank from him?
With each step the Shadow Man took toward the light, Klaus grew increasingly apprehensive. When the light finally hit his face, Klaus recoiled, flabbergasted that the Shadow Man was the spitting image of Buddy Hackett.
“Kill this man,” the Shadow Man said with a delicate lisp, “your ‘mythical’ Exterminator, and get, at the very least, your financial life back together, or I promise you will die in a way even you cannot imagine.”
Chapter Forty-seven
Without fear of exaggeration, Mary’s scream could have been described as blood-curdling. It was the sort of scream one might expect from a woman confronted by a killer with a jagged and bloody knife. But, as it was, Mary had simply walked through some tall grass, upsetting a few Northern Katydids (Pterophylla camellifolia).
Lacking, as they do, sophisticated aviation skills, the large green insects had flown clumsily toward Mary’s face, causing her to scream and flail about with her hands.
Katy finally stopped laughing when Mary fixed her with a steely gaze that said, “It’s not funny.”
“Sorry,” Katy lied. “But they won’t hurt you. They’re just trying to get away.”
“How am I supposed to know what they’re doing?” Mary asked. “They flew right at me, for God’s sake! I thought they were attacking me.”
“Oh, right, Mom,” Katy said with a roll of the eyes. “Evil, man-eating Katydids. Sure, we’ve all heard of those.”
Her sarcasm notwithstanding, Katy was right. Katydids were plant eaters and were not known to attack humans. Katy was particularly familiar with these Orthopterans (from the Greek, meaning straight wings) because of a story Bob told her about how they got their common name.
Bob found the story in Hubbell’s Broadsides from the Other Orders—a Book of Bugs, a repository of fascinating details and playful writing on insects and the people who study them.
Hubbell turned up a tale out of North Carolina involving a young woman named Katy who fell in love with a handsome young man. But the young man ignored Katy and instead married her prettier sister. Tragically, if predictably in stories like these, the newlyweds were murdered on their wedding night.
As the story goes, to this day these noisy, chirping insects continue debating whether Katy did or Katy didn’t do the crime, with the majority opinion being Katydid.
“Do you want to know how they got the
ir name?” Katy asked. “See, there was this beautiful, really smart girl named Katy, sort of like me, and she painted the most beautiful painting anybody had ever seen in the whole world. Then her sister, who was jealous because she was ugly and not as talented as Katy, told everybody she had painted it and that put everybody into a tizzy. So they finally asked the insects who painted it and they all said, ‘Katydid! Katydid!’ Isn’t that a great story?”
Mary, as it turned out, had read Ms. Hubbell’s book. She gave her daughter a reproving glance. “That’s not the way I heard it.”
“Oh,” Katy said, “you heard the one about the murder, huh?”
Katy tromped ahead of her mother into the tranquil woods a few miles north of Mary’s mother’s house in Tarrytown.
“So what are we doing out here anyway?” Katy asked as she watched a Painted Lady (Cynthia cardui) flutter by.
It was a good question; the answer to which Mary wished she knew. Sure, she had a goal she hoped to achieve while in the woods, but what did it mean in the overall scheme of her life?
Why were they out there? What did it mean that Mary was about to do what she was about to do? Did it mean she was taking Bob back? Did she think Bob had learned his lesson? Did it mean anything?
“Well,” Mary said. “I need your help with something.”
“Cool,” Katy said. “Like what?”
“Yeah, well, ummm…” Mary didn’t want to admit that she had stomped Bob’s little mascots into bug dust. Not only would that set a bad example, but Katy would give her endless shit about it and who needed that?
“Well, remember those bugs your dad had sitting on his computer?” Mary asked. “His little mascots?”
“You mean Jiminy, Ringo, and Slim?”
“Exactly,” Mary said. “What were they, anyway?” Katy paused. “What do you mean…were?”
“Do me a favor, Katy. Don’t worry about the tense of my verbs. Just answer my questions, okay? Now, what were they?”
“Well, let’s see,” Katy said as she counted them on her fingers. “Jiminy was a Northern Mole Cricket, Ringo was a European Ground Beetle, and Slim was a Northern Walkingstick.”
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