Klaus wanted Bob to have what he himself never did: the love of a family. The moment revealed Klaus as nothing more than a hopeless romantic with a high-powered, laser-scoped rifle.
As Klaus’ scope wandered from Bob’s head, it chanced upon a pair of nefarious-looking fellows standing by Bob’s car. They appeared to be discussing a small package, vis-a-vis the hapless Pinto. Klaus watched one of the two slip underneath the car with the small package while the other produced a silenced handgun and slithered up the sidewalk toward the coffee shop. Klaus didn’t recognize their faces, but he recognized their intentions.
It was an easy decision. After all, they say every man must need protection. Klaus aimed carefully and squeezed the trigger.
Fwap! A kneecap split in two. The guy under Bob’s car screamed and smacked his head on the transmission, knocking himself out cold.
Klaus squeezed again. Fwap! Crack! The sound of lead shattering the second kneecap was sickening. The guy would have screamed again, but mercifully he had not regained consciousness. He lay under the Pinto with the package resting on his chest. Klaus, meanwhile, acquired his second target. The guy with the gun by the coffee shop window raised his weapon when Klaus squeezed again.
Fwap! Frontal cortex. A red mist of blood and tiny splinters from the frontal and parietal bones scattered in the breeze. All the impulses controlling involuntary activity were permanently interrupted. But before he buckled into a flaccid mound on the sidewalk, the shooter squeezed off one shot. Then he soiled himself.
The shot shattered the window and a ketchup bottle which exploded tomato-y shards of glass all over some nearby patrons.
Not sure and, for that matter, not caring whether it was a postal employee or a Mafia matter, Bob grabbed Katy, Mary, and the Goldsmith Beetles and joined the other patrons on the floor.
After several seconds of silence, Bob turned to Mary. “C’mon! The car’s outside!”
“So is the shooting!” Mary said pragmatically.
“Good point,” Bob said. “Let’s wait here a minute.”
As they waited for a break in the gunplay, they watched a female German Cockroach (Blattella germanica) scuttle past. The common name for this cockroach was the Croton Bug. The name derived from the fact that they first became household pests in 1890 when New York City began augmenting its municipal water supply with water from the Croton Reservoir. Bob knew by the way she scooted low to the ground, she was going to deposit her ootheca, a leathery egg capsule. In two days the eggs would hatch and thirty German nymphs would be welcomed to The Big Apple.
After two or three minutes without any more shots fired, many of the customers stood and began complaining about the interruption of service and the shards of glass in their food. With things returning to normal, Bob scooped Katy into his arms, took Mary by the hand, and hurried toward the door.
“Hey! What about the Beatles?” Katy asked.
“We’ll leave them as a tip,” Bob said.
As they left the coffee shop and headed up the sidewalk, Katy imagined the expression of the overjoyed waitress when she found her gratuity.
As they jaywalked toward the Pinto, Mary noticed the missing windsheild, the bullet holes, and the man with two bleeding kneecaps underneath.
“Bob, what the hell happened to the car and what’s that guy with the kneecaps doing?”
Before Bob could answer, a large sedan screeched up, fishtailing, and cut them off. The driver reached across the seat and threw open the passenger door. He gestured with a large handgun and yelled, “Get in! We’re not safe here!”
“We’re from here,” Mary said. “We know it’s not safe.”
“Get in!” he shouted.
“We’ve got a car, thanks,” Mary explained.
Klaus raised his gun, “Now, Bob!”
“How does this guy know your name?” Mary asked.
“Just do what he says,” Bob advised.
“Hurry!” Klaus screamed.
When they got in the car, Klaus gunned the powerful eight cylinder engine up the street. Behind them—KABOOOOM!—the Pinto blew sky high.
Katy spun and watched the rising fireball out the rear window. “Wow! Cool! Now can we finally get a new car?”
No one answered.
Klaus was driving like a bat-out-of-hell in a top-fuel funny car; everything spinning past them in an alarming blur.
“What the hell’s going on?!” Mary asked as she held on tight. “What happened to our car? Who the hell are you?”
“Tell me where to go!” Klaus shrieked.
“This left then a quick right,” said Bob.
“There are people trying to kill Bob. That was probably a plastic explosive. I’m Klaus.” He reached over the seat and shook Mary’s hand while simultaneously making a 90-degree turn at 60 miles per hour. Mary screamed.
“Yeeaaaaaaa!” Katy howled with delight.
“What the hell is he talking about, Bob? And where the hell did he learn to drive?”
“Take the next right!” Bob yelled. “Well, honey, there are a few things I haven’t told you.”
“Hey, let’s go back and watch the car burn,” Katy said. No one responded. She wished adults wouldn’t always ignore her. She sat in the back seat and amused herself by making explosion and crash sound effects. “Kaboom!”
Bob continued yelling at Klaus. “Left at the light! I thought you’d gone home. What happened?”
Klaus made the left turn, nearly clipping the pedestrians in the crosswalk. He glanced in the rearview mirror as he said, “I did go home, but I came back when I found out Miguel put out a contract with your name on it.”
“Miguel?” Mary asked. “A contract? You finally got a contract? Oh, honey!”
“You came back to protect me?” Bob was touched.
“No, I came back to kill you,” Klaus said.
“You what?” Bob squawked.
“Don’t worry, I changed my mind.”
“Somebody back up and tell me what’s going on,” Mary said.
“Miguel Riviera killed his brother Ronaldo so he could take over their cartel,” Klaus explained to Mary, “then he blamed Bob because of Wolfe’s contract on Ronaldo.”
“What cartel? Who the hell is Wolfe?” Mary inquired.
A light rain began to fall as Bob attempted an explanation. “Wolfe’s CIA, or so he says. Take Fourth Street, Klaus! Ronaldo and Miguel are coke dealers, I think.”
“Fourth? Are you sure?” Klaus asked.
“Positively! Fourth Street!” Bob repeated.
“Wolfe is definitely CIA,” Klaus said as he fishtailed the sedan around the rain-slicked corner.
“Ka-boom!” Katy yelled from the back seat. “This is so cool!”
Chapter Fifty-seven
A somber Asian man moved down the crowded streets of Soho in the rain searching for a place to eat. He was looking for a place called Lee Ho Fooks. He wanted to get himself a big dish of beef chow mein. He was quite hungry, having worked up a hearty appetite on the first day of his hunt for the Exterminator.
As he stood on a corner waiting for the light to change, a bratty eight-year-old came out of nowhere and shoved an old Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle doll into the hungry man’s face.
In a flash the man flipped his wrist, and in a glimmer a razor-knife materialized in his hand. Fast as an impulse he surgically lopped off the Turtle’s plastic head, spilling imaginary turtle blood on the sidewalk.
The child screamed horribly as he tried in vain to reattach the decapitated head. In another twinkling the blade disappeared, the light changed, and the Asian man smiled sadistically as he crossed the street in search of food.
Chapter Fifty-eight
Klaus was not driving as maniacally as he had been. He felt he had put sufficient distance b
etween them and the smoldering pile of Ford that used to be Bob’s Pinto.
“So, let me see if I got this straight,” Mary said. “Wolfe knew somebody wanted Huweiler dead.”
“Right,” Klaus said, “probably Mrs. Huweiler, given how those things usually work.”
“So, Mrs. Huweiler hired Marcel to hire someone else to kill her Mr. Huweiler. Then, for some reason, Marcel thought he had hired Bob to kill Huweiler.”
“Because I answered that ad in the Times,” Bob said.
“Okay, right, that night at Freddy’s. Right. Then Huweiler died in a car accident and both Marcel and Wolfe concluded Bob had killed him and made it appear accidental.”
“It’s classic Wolfe-logic,” Klaus pointed out. “Post hoc, ergo propter hoc.”
“Let me finish,” Mary said. “Next, a cab driver killed Miguel’s man, Ramon. That pissed Miguel off even more so he sent a trio of killers after Bob. And Klaus killed those three guys the night you two met.”
“I think you’ve got it,” Klaus said.
“Now, Miguel thinks Bob killed Ramon and his hit squad, which humiliates Miguel in the eyes of the international criminal community, so he put a ten million dollar bounty on Bob to make sure someone kills him. That’s the part I don’t get. Why do that if he knows Bob didn’t kill his brother in the first place?”
“It was probably just part of a smokescreen at first, but when his hirelings failed, machismo took over and now he just wants to get it done to save face.”
“Wow!” Katy exclaimed. “This is neat. Somebody’s paying ten million dollars to kill dad?”
“I thought about doing it for free after you lied to me,” Mary said, though she only half-way meant it. At this point she’d definitely take the money.
“Now that you know the story, you know we cannot stay here. We are in very serious danger.” Klaus’ tone was severe. “That bounty is going to bring out the best players. A few amateurs, like those two at the coffee shop, will also join in, but they should not prove any more troublesome than the ordinary citizens of this damned city. But the others…They will be well informed, well armed, and not so well-intentioned.”
“By the best players, I assume you mean assassins?” Bob asked.
“Yes, most likely we will have to deal with the Nigerian,” Klaus explained. “He is an expert marksman who uses cyanide-tipped bullets.”
“Isn’t a poison bullet redundant?” Mary asked.
“Not if he only grazes you. He leaves nothing to chance,” Klaus said.
“Oh, that’s good,” Bob said, impressed.
“Another one likely to show up is the Cowboy, a ruthless killer. Money means everything to this man. He will kill for a dollar, so ten million will certainly motivate him. I have come up against him before. He is unyielding and crude and he usually gets what he is after. When he is done, he marks his victims with tobacco spittle.”
“Oh, gross!” Katy said.
As she listened to Klaus, Mary looked to Bob and mouthed “Is this guy for real?” Bob nodded.
“Then there is Chantalle, from Marseilles,” Klaus said wistfully. “I believe she is currently ranked fourth. She never stumbles. The law cannot touch her. She is like a leopard, exquisite and terrifying. I have seen her kill with lipstick.”
“Wow, how cool!” Now Katy was impressed.
“She wears an Egyptian ring when she works and she leaves a white chocolate truffle in her victim’s mouth. She once spent an entire week in Madrid looking for one perfect chocolate.”
“How do you know that?” Bob asked.
“Someone told me,” Klaus said flatly. Then, after a short pause, he yelled, “I was with her, for God’s sake! It’s obvious how I know. It’s not as if any of this is original!”
“Sorry,” Bob blushed.
“There is also Reginald, the dwarf,” Klaus continued. “He is a cunning little executioner who likes to wear dresses. He sometimes disguises himself as a child—albeit an ugly one, to get close to his victims. He has never failed.”
“What size dress does he wear?” Katy wanted to know. “Has he ever been on Oprah?” Still, the adults ignored her.
“Almost certainly we will have to deal with Ch’ing,” Klaus continued. “He is an expert in barehanded killing techniques, though he prefers the use of edged weapons in his work. He may be the best—next to myself, of course.”
“What’s the deal with the trademarks?” Katy asked.
“It’s a signature. It confirms who did the job. I never bothered with that sort of thing. To me, dead is dead.” Klaus shrugged.
“That’s a comforting thought, Klaus,” Bob said before pointing out that the light had turned green.
“Can’t we just tell these people Bob didn’t do what they think he did?” Mary asked.
“Sure,” said Bob. “And you can tell the nice folks at TRW that we always wanted to pay our bills on time…”
“He is right, they do not give a damn. They are only after the money. The point is, we are in terrible danger. We must leave the city immediately.”
“Okay,” Bob said. “I’ll check the last three buildings, then we’re outta here.”
“No. You do not understand. We must leave now. Which is closer, La Guardia or JFK?” Klaus was insistent.
Mary was not pleased that the assassin was suddenly playing travel agent. “Airport? Where are we going? When are we coming back?” she asked.
“You are not coming back if you want to live,” Klaus said.
“Well that’s ridiculous,” Mary said. “I’ve got to go home and get some things. You don’t just go to the airport and hop on a plane without luggage. It just isn’t done.”
“You can buy new clothes,” Klaus said.
“I’m not just talking about clothes, there’s other stuff.”
“It is out of the question,” Klaus replied. “These people will find your house as easily as I did.”
“How’d you find our house?” Bob asked.
“We’re in the phone book, dad!” Katy said.
“Oh, yeah.”
Mary looked to Bob, putting a hand to her throat and mouthing “My locket.” Bob nodded.
“Yeah, Klaus, listen, we really would like to swing back by the old homestead real quick if you don’t mind.”
“You people are insane!” Klaus was losing his patience. “Didn’t you hear the part about the assassins?” Suddenly, Klaus hit the brakes to avoid slamming into a cab. He looked around and saw they were stuck in gridlock. “Now we are sitting ducks.”
“We have to go home,” Mary insisted.
“Impossible,” Klaus said. “You cannot go home. Whatever you want cannot be worth dying for.”
“Listen,” Mary said, “it won’t take five minutes. See, Bob’s grandfather gave me a locket on our wedding day. It was Bob’s grandmother’s and someday Katy will give it to her daughter, and yes, to me it’s worth risking my life.”
After a lifetime in New York, glib phrases about risking one’s life had lost real meaning for Mary. She had no understanding of the danger they were in.
In the mirror, Klaus saw a tall black man unfolding from a cab half a block behind them. It was the Nigerian.
“Alright!” Klaus exclaimed.
“Really?” Mary said, surprised. “That’s more like it.”
“Bob, out of the car! Now!” Klaus turned urgently to Mary. “A landmark near the airport?”
“Which one?” Mary asked.
“Uh, JFK,” Klaus said.
“Hmmm, well, there’s Howard Beach,” Mary said, “but you don’t really want to go there.”
“Aqueduct!” Klaus blurted. “Meet us there in four hours. Do not go home! Swear that you will not go home! I will get your damn locket later.”
&nbs
p; “Alright, alright,” Mary said, “don’t get so excited. We’ll meet you at the track.”
Mary clambered into the front seat as Bob and Klaus got out of the car.
The Nigerian, 50 yards away, drew his weapon. Klaus took Bob’s arm and pulled him down an alley, away from the car. A block away, on First Avenue, they were still running. Bob looked over his shoulder. “Who are we running from?”
“Back there,” Klaus said without looking back.
“I don’t see any …” Bob finally saw the enormous Nigerian and his gun. “Wait a second, black guy, about six foot eighteen? Carrying the gun? Him?”
Klaus nodded.
“Take a left here. I know a building we can cut through and shake him.”
A few moments later, Bob and Klaus were at the front door of the abandoned apartment building in the Lower Bast Side, gasping for breath. Bob had the key in the lock, but the lock was rusty and he was having a hard time getting it open.
“This is where I’m trying my second strain of Assassin Bug,” Bob said as he fumbled with the key. “It’s a cross between an Ambush Bug and a Spined Assassin. I bet you didn’t know there were Assassin Bugs, did you?”
“Hurry up,” Klaus said as he looked around anxiously.
“It’s true,” Bob said. “There are about a dozen different species of them.”
Klaus could wait no longer for Bob to get the door unlocked. In one sudden, powerful movement, Klaus kicked it open.
“Hey! Who’s going to pay for that?” asked Bob as he fingered the splintered doorjamb.
Klaus shoved Bob inside, slammed the door, then peered out the window to see if the Nigerian had spotted them. The towering black assassin was nowhere to be seen.
Bob began inspecting the floor of the building. He noticed something and bent to pick it up. “Hey, look!”
Klaus spun, his gun drawn, only to find Bob holding up a dead roach by its antennae.
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