He raced down the hall to the Bug Room. When he returned, he had his exterminator cap in his hand. He snugged the cap tightly onto the Cowboy’s head, steady on top of a neck stiff from the coagulation of muscle proteins.
Bob gently pulled up a chair and sat down in front of his depressed friend.
“You know, Klaus,” Bob said calmly. “You’re right.”
“Yes,” Klaus said suspiciously. “Now go, time is short.”
2:20…2:19…2:18…
“No, I see exactly what you mean about life as an assassin. My problem is not only that the whole world thinks I’m a professional killer, but there’s also a big contract out on me. So every waking moment I’ll be worried about being killed, or Katy and Mary being killed to get at me. As long as I’m alive they’ll always be in danger.”
Klaus nodded, not making the connection.
“I’m afraid we all have to die,” Bob said.
“Bob, don’t play games,” Klaus said. “It is not your time.”
“Sure it is, Klaus. Mine. Mary’s. Katy’s. And yours too.”
“But there is no time to get Mary and Katy even if you wanted them to die,” Klaus said.
“Let me worry about that,” Bob said. “You say we can’t turn that bomb off, right? So I guess we’ll all have to go up in a big ball of fire.” Bob paused. “There will be a big ball of fire, won’t there? I mean, it is that kind of bomb, right?”
“Well,” Klaus said thoughtfully, “plastic explosives result in rapid decomposition as opposed to combustion. Do you have natural gas appliances?”
“Got a gas water heater,” Bob replied.
“Yes, then there will be a big ball of fire,” Klaus said.
“That’s great,” Bob said. “Perfect.”
Klaus knew Bob was scheming, but despite Bob’s impressive show of resourcefulness in getting them through the city alive, and in using his bugs to dispatch Reginald, Chantalle, and Wolfe, Klaus still didn’t hold out much hope for the ingenuity of the plan.
“Lemme ask you, Klaus,” Bob said as he inched his chair closer. “How much of a gambler are you?”
Chapter Eighty-two
Pratt stood at the window, swaying in an inebriated haze. He was looking at Bob’s house, waiting for the cops to arrive.
“I swear, Doris,” he shouted, “I don’t care if they’re shooting firecrackers or not. I’m throwin’ ’em out tomorrow!” He poured some more beer down his gullet. “I’ve had it with that deadbeat. I want him out! Didja hear me, Doris? I’m gettin’ ridda those shitheels tomorrow and we’re gonna raise the friggin’ rent and get some decent tenants over there! I’ve made up my mind! You can count on it!”
Pratt smiled a ten-beer smile as he considered how high he could boost the rent with new tenants.
“Yessiree, things are just about to turn around for Dick Pratt.” He returned to the curtain. “Goddamit, where are those stupid cops? They sure as hell got here fast that time you called about me hittin’ you! I bet you’ll never do that again, huh, Doris? I made sure of that!”
Pratt smiled at the thought of the lesson he had given Doris for that transgression.
“Well, screw ’em. Screw the cops! Who needs ’em?”
He went to the coffee table and took a cheap handgun from the drawer. “If they’re not gonna do anything about all that commotion, I’m gonna go over there and take care of it myself!”
Pratt stepped outside and felt a sturdy night breeze. He’d had it with Bob Dillon and his bugs. The time had come for Dick Pratt to take care of business.
With a beer in one hand and a gun in the other, he crossed the street and climbed the stairs to Bob’s front porch and banged on the door. “Goddammit, Dillon, I’ve had it with your shit! Open this goddamn door before I kick it in.”
00:03…00:02…00:01…
Pratt reared back and kicked the door with all his might.
And KA-B00000MMMM!!
Bob’s house exploded in a massive ball of fire that looked like a special effect that had escaped from another over-budget Schwarzenegger movie. Huge chunks of flaming debris and tiny bits of exploded insects rained down on the streets of Astoria.
Chapter Eighty-three
Fire trucks, ambulances, police cars, bomb squaders, and three of the coroner’s meat wagons clogged the street. The variously colored emergency lights danced on the smoke and steam that rose from what had been the Dillon home. The firemen were wetting down the embers at this point. What was left of the house after the explosion had burned to the ground, bugs and all.
Doris Pratt stood on the porch of her house smiling broadly as she spoke with the police. She had already identified the body in the street as that of her late husband. The hole in the back of his head was caused by his Parodi; like a pine needle forced through a telephone pole in a hurricane, the cigar had blown through the back of Pratt’s head when the bomb exploded.
Two men approached the coroner as he wheeled a gurney toward his van. The men flashed their badges. “I’m Parker, this is Hawkins. CIA. We’re looking for our boss, Mike Wolfe. You seen him?”
Parker thrust a photo of Wolfe at the coroner, who glanced first at the photo, then at the pompous young agents. He threw back the gurney’s blanket, revealing what looked like a very large, very burnt chicken. He smirked. “This him?”
Parker and Hawkins gagged at the sight.
“Fellas, all I got is what looks like three adult males, one adult female, and one child. The only one we could ID was a neighbor from across the street. You wanna see the rest of ’em?”
Parker and Hawkins declined and moved quickly to their car. Parker figured it out first. “That old son of a bitch was smarter than I thought.”
“You mean Wolfe?” Hawkins asked. “You don’t think that was him heading for the meat wagon?”
“Hell no, junior,” Parker said condescendingly. “Weren’t you listening? Other than the neighbor, there were two men, a woman, and a child. Think about it. Wolfe killed Dillon plus the wife and the kid he uses for cover. Klaus shows up too late to do the job and Wolfe gets him too. Two men, a woman, and a child. Then he blows the house as a diversion and hops a flight to Bolivia to collect a nice fee from Riviera, probably using a ticket Klaus had bought under a third name.”
He looked up at a jet flying into the night sky. “That’s probably him right there.”
Hawkins was impressed both by Wolfe’s plan and Parker’s deductive ability. “Wow. That’s some day’s work,” Hawkins said admiringly.
“And a ten-million-dollar payday,” Parker added as they got into their car.
“Sonofabitch.” Parker slammed his fist on the steering wheel. “I wish I’d thought of it.” He threw the car into drive and screeched off into the night.
Chapter Eighty-four
A UPS van arrived at the Beebe Avenue Mission with a delivery for Gertrude.
She asked the driver if he was sure he was delivering to the right place. The driver smiled and assured her they didn’t make many mistakes at UPS.
Gertrude thanked the driver and went inside, where she removed the airbill from the clear plastic on top of the package. The “FROM” section was blank.
“Hmmmm.”
She opened the package and found a cashier’s check for $50,000 made out to the Beebe Avenue Mission. There was also a note:
Dear Gertrude, I hope this helps you fix some of those broken dreams.
Sincerely, your friend Bob.
(P.S. I’m still trying to make the bug thing work. And Mary and Katy came back, just like you said. Thanks again and good luck.)
Gertrude smiled a big, satisfied smile and looked heavenward. “Lawdy, yes, we can fix plenty o’ dreams with this.”
***
Sunlight streamed between the boards of the r
ickety building and lit a pair of hands as they deftly attached a silencer to a handgun.
The gun quickly swiveled and fired. FWUMP!
An unusually large Pine Sawyer Beetle (Ergates spiculatus) disintegrated in a haze of smoke and bug juice.
“He shoots, he scores!” Klaus blurted.
A startled Bob turned to Klaus. “Hey! What’re you doing!?”
“I thought it was, uh, a squash beetle,” Klaus said sheepishly. “I didn’t want it getting into the pumpkin patch.”
“First of all, you know there aren’t any squash beetles east of the Rockies. Second of all, what did I say about the gun?”
“I know,” Klaus said. “Rats only.”
“That’s right.”
Chastised, Klaus locked his gun away in a steel box on the shelf.
“Thank you,” Bob said.
“Sorry boss, old habits, you know.”
Bob slapped Klaus on the back, then picked up two large boxes. “Now give me a hand with these will you? We need two more.”
Klaus picked up two more of the boxes and followed Bob out of the shed to a dirt driveway. In the bright morning sunlight the words on boxes became clear: “Assassin Bugs, Strain Five.”
With the snowcapped Cascade Mountain Range behind them, they approached a shiny new Chevy half-ton pickup. Perched on top of the truck was a big goofy-looking bug with comically geniculated antennae. On the side of the truck was a magnetic sign that said: “Bob And Klaus’ All-Natural Pest Control.”
They put on their brand-new exterminator caps and slammed the tailgate shut just as Mary came out of the beautiful old farmhouse carrying sack lunches. A moment later Katy came running around the side of the house, giggling and squealing as young girls do.
She ran up to Klaus with her hands behind her back. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” she said.
“What is it?” Klaus asked.
“You have to guess!”
“Alright, is it a flower?”
“No, silly, it’s a Tumblebug.” She held out her hand and showed him the greenish-black beetle.
“It’s beautiful, Katy. Thank you.” Klaus smiled and gave her a hug. “Would you put it in the terrarium for me?”
“Sure, but first I’ve got to find some cow shit for it to play on!”
“Katy!” her mother shouted. “It’s dung. Cow dung.”
“Whatever.” Katy scurried into the house.
Bob leaned out the driver’s side window and kissed Mary.
“Don’t work too late,” Mary said. “Remember Klaus, you’re going to that singles mixer tonight at the Y.”
“I hate those things,” Klaus said. “I would really rather just stick to the personal ads.”
“Let’s see,” Bob said, “ex-assassin seeks bug-loving nature girl. Enjoys long walks in the woods looking for predacious insects.”
“No,” Klaus said, “we must leave out the part about insects; most women find that a turnoff, I believe.”
“Well, just go to the thing tonight and see what happens,” Mary said. “We can do the personal ad next if you don’t meet anyone nice.”
Klaus waved good-bye as Bob piloted the truck with the big fiberglass bug down the dusty driveway and onto the paved road, heading off to another job. It was their third this week and it was only Tuesday.
They were half a mile down the road when Bob turned on the local Classic Rock radio station and was greeted with “Rainy Day Women #12 & 35.” Bob sang along, badly off key, until Klaus’ taunting and laughter made him switch to the all-news station.
After updating the African Republic Civil War situation, the news reader segued to a story about what many South American honey producers called Abejas bravas.
The American media preferred calling them killer bees, the Afro-Brazilian hybrid that had been working its way to North America since Dr. Warwick Kerr’s debacle in 1956.
It seemed the bees had killed again, this time in Los Angeles, and panic was beginning to spread. They had arrived in the lower United States several years ahead of schedule and there would be no stopping them now. The beekeeping and honey industries were near hysteria; they wanted some prompt action. The government was searching desperately for a way to manage these aggressive killers and didn’t know where to turn.
Pesticides, flamethrowers, genetics?
A sound bite from a Dow Chemical spokesperson indicated their scientists were creating a deadly new compound at this very moment. But Bob knew that wasn’t the answer.
He turned up the volume as they played another sound bite, this one from a confused member of the Agriculture Department.
“This thing could get out of hand real quick if somebody doesn’t come up with a way to stop these bees,” she said.
It struck Bob like a message from God. The radio may as well have been a burning bush.
And when he turned to Klaus he saw the biggest bug-eating grin he’d ever seen.
Afterword
In March of 1988, I moved to Los Angeles hoping to become a sitcom writer. Things didn’t go as planned…
It all started to go wrong in May of 1991. A screenplay brainstorming session with a former writing partner led to the germ of the idea that would lead to a screenplay called Pest Control. We finished a draft in September of 1991. A producer optioned the script for $4,000 in November of that year but the project went nowhere.
Two years later I decided to try writing Pest Control as a comic novel. Don’t ask me why. In my entire life I had never thought about writing a novel.
I started doing research in June 1993. When I had the first 100 pages under my belt, I took a “Novels In Progress” class at UCLA Extension. I finished a draft in the fall of 1994 and started sending query letters. After rejections from 124 agents, I got a call from Jimmy Vines who loved it and signed me as a client. On the first list of submissions, all the major publishing houses passed. But Jimmy told me not to worry, told me to start writing another book because he was going to sell Pest Control.
In July 1995, Jimmy Vines sent the manuscript to the New York offices of Spring Creek Productions, a film company headed by producer Paula Weinstein. The New York book scouts loved it and sent it to their Los Angeles offices on the lot at Warner Brothers Studios.
On August 3, 1995, Spring Creek Productions bought the film rights to Pest Control for $500,000 against $1 million (i.e., half now, the other half if/when they make it).
So, four years and 125 agents later, I was a novelist and an overnight success. Over the next few months, we sold the publishing rights in the U.S., Canada, the U.K., Japan, Germany, and Italy.
May 1996, Pest Control was published in the U.K. The Times of London called it “one of the funniest, most off-beat thrillers to hit the bookstalls in years…Fitzhugh does for New York what Carl Hiaasen did for Miami.” Not a bad start.
1997, Pest Control is published in the U.S., Canada, Germany, and Japan.
The Italians decided to wait for the film. Like me, they’re still waiting.
Many screenplay drafts are written and several directors are considered, but none Warner Brothers likes enough to make the movie.
For the next ten years, Jimmy Vines urges me to write a sequel to Pest Control but I explain that while I have the characters, I don’t have a good enough story. So I wrote six other books instead.
In early 2005, I finally figure out a story for the sequel and begin writing The Exterminators. Later that year, Jimmy Vines suddenly retires.
Then, out of the blue, ten years after Pest Control was published, a German Radio Production company buys the rights to produce it as a radio show. Go figure.
And a couple of months after that, and from even further out of the blue, I received an email from an attorney in New York who represented a theatrical producer who wa
nted to turn Pest Control into a musical.
Seriously? Yes, seriously.
July 2007, Canum Entertainment buys the stage musical rights for Pest Control.
Seriously. A musical with assassins and cockroaches.
August 2007, the German Radio version of Pest Control airs for the first time.
November 2007, a Romanian publisher buys the rights for Pest Control. Really? Ten years after the book is published someone wants to buy the publishing rights… in Romania?
April 2008, “Pest Control The Musical” hits the stage in Los Angeles to excellent reviews and sold out houses. It goes on to win the Los Angeles Ovation Award for Best Costume. Seriously, the best cockroach costumes you’ve ever seen.
June 2008, a Spanish publisher buys rights to Pest Control. Huh? It’s been available for eleven years, but okay…Keep in mind that there is no agent trying to sell these foreign rights; somehow (I’m guessing the German radio broadcasts are behind it) foreign publishers just keep showing up.
September 2009. I’m talking to Reed Farrell Coleman who is saying great things about his publisher, Busted Flush Press.
October 2009, I contact David Thompson, who (and I quote) “craps his pants” when asked if he’s interested in publishing The Exterminators.
In February 2010, David offers to publish The Exterminators as well as a reissue of Pest Control (the rights to which had just reverted to me). I accept his offer and we anticipate a publication date in the Spring of 2011.
In September 2010, David Thompson dies suddenly. A huge loss to the book world.
In April 2011, McKenna Jordon (David’s wife) decides to cancel publication of the books pending at Busted Flush Press.
In March 2011, at Left Coast Crime in Santa Fe, a chance conversation with Barbara Peters leads to a publishing deal for The Exterminators with Poisoned Pen Press.
In early 2012, nearly 21 years after the original idea for the original Pest Control screenplay, the sequel to the story is finally published.
Pest Control Page 29