Pest Control

by Bill Fitzhugh

  Bob looked dumbfounded. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? Roaches have become immune to almost every chemical man has made. Look at this…”

  To Klaus’ surprise, Bob kicked a hole in the wall and several agitated Oriental Cockroaches (Blatta orientalis), black and scallop-shaped, scurried across the floor.

  Bob snagged one. Because of its wing stubs, Bob knew it was a female. He brought her to the ashtray and she waved her antennae about excitedly before she calmed. Bob set the roach on the lip of the ashtray and she dipped her mouthparts into the brown liquid and drank. In a moment, the once excited bug was moving in a slow-motion, narcotic haze. Her once frantic antennae relaxed and dragged on the table top.

  “See? Roaches love this stuff,” Bob said. “Love it? Hell, what am I saying? They’re addicted to it. But my hybrids had never been exposed to nicotine. I bet all 1,000 of my bugs were dead within two days.”

  “Well, you will have to worry about it on someone else’s time,” Klaus said. “Let’s just get out of here.”

  “God, I’m such a bonehead!” Bob blurted. He paused. “Wait a second. I don’t know if this strain worked or not. All I know is they can’t handle nicotine.”

  “Can we go now?” Klaus asked.

  “Yeah.” Bob sounded hurt. “God, what a stupid waste of time. I should’ve seen this coming. “

  The street appeared safe. The only people in sight were a small tribe of itchy homeless people—luckless throwbacks to our days as hunter/gatherers. Klaus stopped, watching with macabre interest as the doomed atavists harvested a row of dumpsters for spoiled food and recyclables. Periodically they stopped to scratch themselves.

  “They’ve probably got Brill’s disease,” Bob said.

  “And I suppose Brill has theirs,” Klaus, being a longtime devotee of S.J. Perelman, quipped. “I’m sorry, I should not make sport of their misfortune. What is this Brill’s disease?” Klaus asked.

  “A relapsing form of louseborne typhus, usually comes with trench fever.”

  “You know some very strange things,” Klaus said.

  “It’s transmitted when lice are crushed on the skin and contaminated blood comes in contact with a cut.”

  Klaus scratched his chest as he cast a sympathetic eye toward these unfortunate people. He followed Bob down the sidewalk, listening to the unsolicited lecture.

  Bob scratched behind his ear.

  “Head lice cement their eggs to human hair on the back of the neck. They make a new puncture each time they feed. That causes the itch. See, their mouthparts are designed for piercing and sucking.” Bob used his fingers to mimic the mouthparts as he described them. “They’ve got these three stylets which retract within the head when not in use. It’s a beautiful design really.”

  Bob scratched a little lower as they approached Spring Street.

  “They’ve probably got Crab Lice too, uh, Phthirus pubis. They cement their eggs to pubic hairs or in armpits or the eyebrows.”

  Klaus looked over his shoulder while scratching discretely at his private parts. He had the feeling someone was following them. He wasn’t sure, but he felt something.

  As they rounded the corner onto Spring Street…BAM! Klaus ran smack into Bob, who had stopped without warning. Frozen in his steps. Mouth agape.

  Klaus looked around frantically. Instead of an assassin, he saw a 1994 Chevy half-ton parked at the curb. It had a massive, grinning fiberglass bug on its top.

  Awed by the sight, music swelled in Bob’s head. A hallelujah chorus sung by a choir of thorax-heavy cherubim swept Bob across the sidewalk until he touched his Holy Grail.

  Klaus watched as Bob examined the fiberglass insect, a composite. It appeared to be a sculptor’s hybrid incorporating the body of the Oriental Rat Flea (Xenopsylla cheopis) with the head of a Mediterranean Fruit Fly (Ceratitis capitata) and the elegantly swept back antennae of the American Cockroach.

  Klaus was embarrassed as Bob gently stroked the large bug’s multifaceted eyes.

  “It’s…beautiful…” Bob was enthralled.

  Klaus stared at Bob. “You know, I think you may have some sort of…problem.”

  “This is it,” Bob said reverently. “This is what it’s all about.” Bob stroked the polished fender and looked like he might go to his knees to offer a prayer to the gods of pest management.

  Klaus was so fascinated by Bob’s reaction that he was distracted momentarily from the seriousness of their situation. He waited, his head bowed, in deferential silence, as Bob paid his respects.

  Then suddenly, Bob’s worship service was shattered by a gleaming steel throwing star that whizzed past his head and lodged into the Fruit Fly’s compound eye.

  “Shit,” Bob said. Klaus quickly identifying the star as a lethal weapon of Far East origin.

  Bob and Klaus quickly got to the other side of the bug truck, crouching close to one another.

  “Who the hell threw that?” Bob asked the expert.

  “Ch’ing, I imagine,” Klaus said. “Though he used to have much better aim.” Klaus looked for a way out, but there didn’t appear to be many options. He gestured to a nearby subway entrance. “Should we take the underground?”

  “Hell no,” Bob said urgently. “You can get killed down there.”

  “Well, there must be some way out of here,” said the assassin to the exterminator.

  “Alright, let’s make a run for the alley just beyond the stairs to the subway,” Bob said.

  Bob bolted from behind the truck, but Klaus grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him back. Bob whacked his head on the truck’s side panel. “Owww!”

  “Sorry,” said Klaus. “When we go, do not run in a straight line, it will make you too easy a target.”

  “Good idea,” Bob said, rubbing his forehead. “I don’t think I can run straight now anyway.”

  On Klaus’ command, they dashed from behind the truck like drunken sprinters coming out of the blocks. Bob led the way, running down the sidewalk in a zigzag pattern.

  Ch’ing hurled another throwing star, but this one sailed wide right and stuck in a street vendor’s wagon filled with meatball sandwiches. Bob and Klaus were almost past the stairs to the subway when a garbage truck lurched out of the alleyway in front of them, blocking their path and leaving the subway as their only option.

  They charged down the stairs three at a time. Ch’ing was on their butts like a big nasty pimple.

  They raced toward the platform. Bob groped in his pockets for change. As they hurtled over the turnstiles Bob flung the coins at the token booth. Nickels and pennies tinkled on the concrete just as—ZING!—another throwing star whizzed past. The doors of the Eighth Avenue local were closing as Bob and Klaus squeezed in.

  But Ch’ing, a veteran subway rider after years spent in Japan, wedged himself in as well.

  “Shit,” Bob said as he led Klaus away from their pursuer.

  “I thought this city was a weapon,” Klaus said. “What do you propose we do now?”

  “Alright, no reason to get excited,” Bob said. “I’ll figure something out. But if you think of something first, feel free to speak up.”

  Bob led Klaus to the next car. Ch’ing followed, his already dark mood growing nastier with each inconvenience.

  Bob was running out of train and Ch’ing was long out of patience when the answer to Bob’s prayer suddenly materialized. For there at the end of the car sat Bob’s longtime friend, the demented, fidgeting, gun-toting Norman.

  Bob glanced at the approaching assassin, then at Norman. He thought for a second, then leaned over and whispered something to Norman while gesturing with his head down the aisle at the approaching Asian. Bob apparently chose his words wisely, because Norman swiftly assumed a countenance of genuine agitation. His bloodshot eyes shifted madly to the approaching Ch’in
g.

  When Ch’ing was upon them, Norman reached into his coat, finally ready for his moment of fame. He stood, staring fiercely at the Asian assassin, and shouted, “You ain’t going nowhere!”

  As the train approached the West Fourth Street station, those waiting on the platform heard the familiar BAM! BAM! BAM! of a large-caliber handgun.

  Moments later, the train eased to a stop and the passengers piled out, business as usual, casually stepping over the lifeless and well-ventilated body of the Ninja assassin.

  On his way out, Norman kicked his victim in the side and screamed, “The name’s Elston Gunn! Those were shots of love! Infidel!” Then he dashed up the stairs to the streets above.

  “We must get a gun,” Klaus said.

  “I just killed a man with a subway ride,” Bob said. “I don’t think we need a gun.” He then led Klaus down to the platform for the Sixth Avenue local for their trip to Queens.

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Mary steered Klaus’ rental car in what Katy knew was the wrong direction. “Hey,” Katy said, “I thought we were supposed to go straight to the racetrack.”

  “We’ll get there soon enough,” Mary said. “But first we’re going home for a second.”

  “Mom,” Katy said peevishly, “Klaus is a professional killer. I really think you ought to do what he says.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be careful.”

  “Oh boy,” Katy said, “are you gonna get in trouble!”

  Mary turned the corner and passed the neighborhood Waldbaum store where Katy’s plump friend Ann and her portly mother, Lillian, the circus lover, were selling Girl Scout cookies.

  Katy abruptly reached across the seat and honked the horn long and hard, startling Mary. Katy leaned out her window and yelled at her friend, “Hey, my mom’s about to get us killed! Pretty cool, huh?”

  Chapter Sixty-two

  The intricately tiled wall indicated Bob and Klaus were getting off the Sixth Avenue local at the Twenty-Third Street–Ely Avenue platform. They took the stairs up to the street and were soon headed down Vernon Boulevard on the fringe of the gritty industrial neighborhood in Queens. Broken glass crunched under their feet as they walked past graffiti scarred walls.

  “We are nowhere near Aqueduct,” Klaus said accusingly. “I have played the ponies there. I know what I am talking about.”

  “Keep your pants on,” Bob said. “We’ll get to Aqueduct soon enough.”

  “Where are we going?” Klaus glanced over his shoulder nervously.

  “I’ve just gotta check one last building, then we’re done.”

  “What? You have almost gotten us killed twice!” Klaus stopped. “Are you even listening to me?”

  “No,” Bob said. “Not really.” He continued up with sidewalk.

  Klaus was unusually nervous; looking over his shoulder, around every corner, back, front, sideways, every conceivable direction from which someone might attack.

  “Your head’s going to unscrew if you keep doing that,” Bob said.

  They passed a burned out liquor store, a pawn shop, and a methadone clinic. When they came to a small store with a large “LOTTO” sign in the window, Klaus went in.

  A moment later Klaus was scratching lottery tickets and tossing them away. Bob picked up the discarded tickets, annoyed. “Hey, what’d I say about the littering?”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Klaus handed Bob the last ticket.

  “You know,” Bob said, “I think you may have a serious gambling problem. You ever tried therapy?”

  “You are not one to throw stones, my friend. You are a gambler too, you know. The difference is, you gamble with your family’s future.”

  Bob stopped. “That’s a cheap shot,” he said.

  “It’s true, but I understand why you do not admit it.”

  “Well I never thought of it that way,” Bob said.

  “Anyway, we still need a gun,” Klaus said.

  “Alright, alright,” Bob said. “We’ll get you a gun.” Bob went to a phone booth, a shroud of graffiti and urine. A discarded hypodermic lay on the floor by a rag. In the phone book they found a neighborhood gun dealer.

  The sign outside said: Hansen’s World of Guns.

  Inside Klaus handled the weapons expertly as he spoke the arcane language of weapons with the store owner. He was a large friendly man with a full mustache who seemed excited talking with someone who asked all the right questions.

  While Klaus shopped, Bob wandered about the store. A few minutes later, Klaus called Bob over. He was perplexed. “I don’t understand,” Klaus said. “What is this…cooling off period?”

  “Oh shit, I forgot all about that,” Bob said. “It’s so guys like us who might want to kill somebody on the spur of the moment can’t just go out and buy a gun.” Bob paused. “I used to think that was such a good idea.”

  “We absolutely must have a gun,” Klaus insisted. “I thought you could buy anything on the streets of this town.”

  “Well, yeah, you can, but you have to go to some pretty rough neighborhoods. And we really don’t—”

  Klaus hailed a cab before Bob could finish his speech on the dangers of East New York.

  Chapter Sixty-three

  The Cowboy looked country-chic in his satin Mets jacket, blue jeans, and boots. He looked back and forth between the house numbers and the scrap of paper with Bob’s address on it.

  He couldn’t seem to find the right house number. There was one house with an even number on the odd-numbered side of the street, a six where a nine was supposed to be. As the Cowboy looked around, he noticed a nosy neighbor watching from his porch, so he went over for a chat. The guy had a beer in one hand and a nasty little cigar in the other.

  “Hey, son,” the Cowboy drawled, “you know a fella name o’ Bob Dillon? And I don’t mean that old folk sanger.”

  Pratt sized up the Cowboy. “Listen, Hopalong, if you’re looking for some money from that shithead, you can just get in line. I’m first. You got it?”

  “Heck, friend,” the Cowboy said as sweetly as he could to someone he already wanted to kill. “I got money to give him. Who’re you?”

  Pratt lit up like a chain smoker. “I’m his landlord. How much you got to give him?”

  “You know,” the Cowboy said, leaning in toward Pratt conspiratorially, “I haven’t seen ole Bob in years and I’d really appreciate it if you could help me.” The Cowboy looked around, drawing Pratt in close so he could whisper. “Listen slick, why don’t you just let me in his place, so’s I can surprise him when he gets home.”

  “Yo, I ain’t lettin’ no strangers into my properties,” Pratt said. “Besides, like I said, he owes me money.”

  The Cowboy winked and reached for his wallet. “Ohhhh, I gotcha…Exactly how much does he owe ya?”

  “Uhhhh, 600 bucks,” Pratt said, not thinking fast enough to tell a $1,000 lie.

  “How about if I give you three?” The Cowboy winked again.

  “What am I, a friggin’ car salesman?” Pratt thought for a moment. “Make it 320 and you got the key.” The Cowboy handed the money to Pratt.

  “He lives right there.” Pratt pointed across the street. “I’ll get the keys, oh, and hang on a second…I got a couple of packages for that deadbeat, you can take those with you.”

  Chapter Sixty-four

  The gypsy cabdriver who had reluctantly agreed to take Bob and Klaus into East New York had fled his native Kurdistan two years earlier. The wretched living conditions, filth, disease, and poverty had been overwhelming. Roaming homeless in a craggy no-man’s-land surrounded by spiteful Syrians and antagonistic Armenians wore on a man’s spirit—and eventually crushed him. Yet after two years in New York behind the wheel of a cab, he had begun to miss his native land.

  Bob and Klaus rode in silence for
a while until Bob’s curiosity got the better of him. “Mind if I ask you something?”

  “Go ahead,” Klaus said in a tired voice.

  “Well, exactly how did you get into, uh”—Bob lowered his voice—”your line of work.”

  Klaus had expected Bob to ask this sooner or later. He looked out the window. “I’ve never told anyone this,” he said. “But my father was a terrible man. He beat my mother to death on my 15th birthday. The next day, I killed him.”

  Klaus saw all the color drain from Bob’s horrified face.

  “Just kidding,” Klaus said with a smile. “I was an orphan. I never knew my parents.”

  Bob was miffed at having his emotions manipulated. “I see,” Bob said. “So you went into the assassin business after failing as a stand-up comic?”

  “It was just a joke,” Klaus said. “How is it you say, lighten up?”

  “Forget I asked.”

  “No, you really want to know? I will tell you. From the time I was a little boy I wanted the world to be a better place than what it was. I read in the newspapers about the atrocities committed every day and I could never understand why so many people suffered so at the hands of evil and corrupt leaders.”

  “I felt that way as a kid,” Bob said.

  “Yes, but you didn’t end up as an assassin.”

  “Depends on who you ask.”

  “As I grew older my idealism intensified. I just wanted to make the world a better place, but I did not know how. I spent time in the military service and found I was very good with weapons. Then I realized how I could make my life a useful one. My own government hired me for my first job. After that I was on my own. I was adept at killing, and I believed I was making a difference. You know, a lot of people complain about the despots of the world, but I actually do something about it.”

  “You know, Klaus,” Bob said, “most people just contribute to Amnesty International.”

  Chapter Sixty-five

  Wolfe flipped the Dylan tape over, hit play, then returned to the Dillon file. Something was bothering him, but he couldn’t nail it down.