MY PEN IS HUGE

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  “So if I were at a restaurant and said, ‘Excusi, missy. There’s no papery in the resti-roomie,’ would that work?” I ask.

  The driver—a middle-aged man wearing shorts and a sports jersey—looks at me in the rearview mirror like I’m quite possibly the biggest nerd-nugget he’s ever met.

  “Sorry. I guess I’ve got to work on my native lingo,” I mutter to myself and push up my glasses. The rest of the drive is uneventful. It’s another sunny morning with perfect blue skies, and I’m already itching for another day of ditching my work for some fun. But, alas, I’ve come here on an important mission, and I need a paid story. Bills, bills, bills. Why does adulting suck so hard? At least the story I’m working on is interesting.

  I have the driver drop me about a block from the Hofer home. It’s pretty early, so I want to check things out before I walk up. If there’s a car in the driveway, maybe I’ll wait until Albert Hofer comes out rather than knock on his door. Waking people up is rude and probably wouldn’t inspire him to talk to me.

  With my backpack on and my digital camera in hand, which I keep concealed under my T-shirt, I walk on the opposite side of the street, trying to look like I’m heading to the beach. The neighborhood is comprised of small lots with green gardens and very little space between each home. The Hofer house is white with tons of short bushes in the yard but doesn’t have a good place to spy.

  Ah. Here we go! There’s a tree with a big trunk in the front of the neighbor’s yard, so I dash behind it. Seems like a good spot to keep watch on Hofer’s front door.

  I peek around the tree and point my zoom lens toward the window of the Hofer home. The blinds are open, and I can see a man crossing through the living room.

  Wait. Who’s that? I lower the camera and observe a blond man in a gray jumpsuit casually walk up the driveway and crouch behind a bush to the left of the porch. The front door opens, and out steps a tall man, maybe in his fifties.

  It takes a moment for my brain to catch up, but the guy in the jumpsuit has a gun.

  Oh fuck! I start to scream just as a large hand covers my mouth, and I’m shoved facedown in the dirt. A heavy body holds me there, and a Pop! Pop! Pop! explodes through the air.

  “Don’t move,” a deep, low voice whispers. “Not a word, love.”

  Merrick. It’s Merrick. What is happening? My brain scrambles, trying to register everything. I want to move. I want to help that man. I know he’s been shot. I think I’m going to throw up.

  “Just stay still,” Merrick says. “It’ll all be over in a minute.”

  I don’t understand. Is he part of this? Why is he here? Why is he stopping me from helping?

  I hear someone scream—a young man?—and a car burning rubber as it drives off. The young man’s screams turn into wails and cries for help. More people start yelling, and the slaps of footsteps pound down the pavement.

  “I’m going to let you up, but do as I say, Gisselle. Don’t get involved. Don’t speak. Just follow me. Nod if you understand.”

  I don’t understand, but I do it anyway.

  “That’s a good girl.” Merrick moves off and plucks me from the ground as if I weigh nothing, like the time I fell from his sports car. He grabs my camera, and I don’t even check to see if it’s intact.

  Instead, I look up at Merrick, who’s ironically wearing yet another outfit matching mine—jeans and a plain tee—like we’re on some team.

  As if. Why did he keep me from warning that poor man?

  I’m about to open my mouth, when Merrick pushes a finger over my lips. “I promise I will explain. Let me get you away from here first.”

  I don’t know why, maybe it’s the atypical fear in his intense brown eyes, but my gut says I should do as he asks.

  Merrick takes me by the hand and leads me away, back between the two houses, across the street from what is now a horrible crime scene. For as long as I live, I will never forget the sounds of the young man who is now crying for help and sobbing. I know that must be Mitch Hofer, the nephew. Because Albert is dead.

  Leland

  Thank god I arrived when I did, not a moment to spare, as if fate had a hand in it—not that I believe in such rubbish.

  But after my meeting at the inn with Gisselle, I couldn’t shake the heavy feeling in my chest. I shouldn’t have let her leave. For her own safety, of course. Not that I have any interest in the damned woman or those wide green eyes, silky long brown hair, or her devious, sexy little smile that tells me she’s going to make me pay for every bad thing I’ve ever done and that I’m going to enjoy my penance as much as she will.

  Nope.

  Not interested.

  Nevertheless, I somehow ended up at her parents’ house the next morning. To say what? Part of me wanted to ask her to come back and work for me. The other part wanted to tell her to take a long, long holiday somewhere remote. She must know that she opened Pandora’s box with the whole Ripley story, because she’s made some serious, powerful enemies. In our line of work, that comes with the territory, but is she prepared?

  Then her mother, a lovely-looking woman who kept squeezing my biceps and saying, “Oh, you must work out,” sent me into a tailspin. “She’s in Australia.” I knew, I bloody well knew Gisselle had jumped with both feet into yet another shitstorm.

  She has no clue how dangerous this story about Augusto’s grandfather is. For fuck’s sake, I only just found out, and it was enough to send me running to the airport on the first flight out. The entire plane ride I kept thinking about my options: Email or text her—tell her everything and hope she believes me. But knowing Gisselle, she’d only run faster into the fire. The other option, to call the police, was a nonstarter because of the classified nature of the information I’d obtained. The only choice was to get to Gisselle and talk to her. I was only four hours behind her, and considering the time of her arrival, I doubted she would be running off to Albert Hofer’s house at two in the morning. Yes, I had time to catch her in person.

  I waited and waited all morning near the Hofer house, since I didn’t know which hotel she was at, but she never showed.

  I finally tracked her down that afternoon when she posted a picture on Instagram of a lamb in a T-shirt at the zoo. The caption read, “Now here’s a Leland I like!” The little bugger was pretty damned adorable. I saw him for myself after Gisselle had already left. Yes, Leland the Lamb got a good bum scratch and some food pellets. I even took a selfie with the little devil, though I’ll never confess it to anyone. Anyway, I managed to spot Gisselle a few stops later—is the damned woman an Olympic speed walker?—and followed her to her hotel. Given my state of complete exhaustion, I decided it would be best to come back early the next morning and speak with her then. Of course, the next morning, she was pulling out in an Uber right as I pulled up to the hotel. I got here to the Hofer house just in time to save her.

  Holding her soft hand, I walk her to my rental—a white sedan parked one street over—and come around to the driver’s side. I get in and close the door, noticing how Gisselle is sitting next to me, frozen and staring out the window.

  “Are you all right?” I rest my hand on her arm, but she doesn’t move. “Gisselle, tell me what’s happening.” I think she is in shock, and I can’t fault her for it. That was damned brutal.

  “What just happened?” she mutters, still focused dead ahead.

  “That was Kristoff Bones, a hit man, probably hired by the Kemmlers.”

  “Huh?” She whips her head in my direction.

  “The Kemmlers—Augusto’s family. They’re powerful people with a lot to lose.”

  “But,” she shakes her head like she’s trying to wake from a bad dream, “why would Augusto kill that poor man?”

  “I don’t think he had anything to do with this. Otherwise, he sure as hell wouldn’t have asked me to rummage around. Or you, for that matter.” I found out through my connections in the intelligence community that the name Hofer had come up in one of those dark-web chatrooms, a room Kristo
ff is known to frequent looking for potential work.

  My phone rings, and I answer it. “Yeah. Hi. All right. Keep us posted.” The call ends. I can’t tell Gisselle anything, especially the part about how a deliberate choice was made not to warn Albert Hofer he was in danger. A lot of people have died at the hands of Kristoff Bones, and many more would continue dying until he’s caught, which is why a decision was made: Allow Kristoff to attempt the job. Use Hofer as bait.

  Who made the decision? Don’t know. I don’t ask too many questions when it comes to these international intelligence affairs. What I don’t understand is why they allowed Kristoff to murder the poor bastard. They had surveillance right in the area. I wasn’t even supposed to go near the place—got warned off there yesterday, in fact—but I bloody well couldn’t allow Gisselle to get caught in the cross fire. Or worse, be seen by Kristoff.

  “Who was that?” Gisselle asks about the call.

  “A friend who works with the local police,” I lie. “They caught Kristoff a few blocks over.” I’d permit myself a sigh of relief, but that man is a cold-blooded, highly intelligent, grade-A psychopath. In my opinion, as long as he breathes, he’s a threat, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he escapes.

  “They caught him. So fast?” Gisselle asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “How?”

  I can’t let on that I know more than I should. She’ll have to come to her own conclusions or read the fake story in the papers.

  “Damned if I know.” I start the engine.

  “Are you shaking?” She stares at my arms.

  I suddenly realize that I am. I never shake or lose my wits. It’s what makes me incredibly godlike at my job. Not even when I dove in that flooded Ecuadorian cave to help those trapped miners—men I’d spent time with once for a story and grew to like. Not when the valve of my oxygen tank cracked, or when I had to hold my breath to swim out. I had no other choice, unless I wanted the world to assume I’d perished along with the men. I’m quite athletic and swim, hike, do mixed martial arts, and run ten miles a day. I figured if I pushed myself, I could hold my breath long enough to save them and me. Not even when I realized I’d made a small misstep exiting the submerged tunnel and I could die, did I panic.

  So why am I shaking now?

  I shrug. “Was in a hurry this morning. Forgot to eat after my workout.”

  Gisselle eyes me suspiciously. I can tell her mind is churning hard, the shock and adrenaline urging her to piece together what just happened. If she’s anything like me, she’s like a dog with a bone and won’t let go until she has the answers.

  “How’d you know I’d be there?” she asks.

  “Your mother told me you were en route to Australia. I put two and two together—it’s what I do.”

  “You went to my parents’ house?” she says, sounding offended.

  “I wanted to check on you, and I’m glad I did.” Even if it means that I just lost my big story, the one about the sausage peddlers. I didn’t show up to meet a contact—one of the sex slave men who’d agreed to give me an exclusive story—so he ended up calling the Enquirer, of all the bloody magazines. I don’t know how much they paid him, but I wasted months convincing him to go public.

  Scooped by the Enquirer. Me, Leland Merrick. It’s like a cheese grater against my pride, though that’s not what has me rattled.

  We pull out onto the main road, and my hands are still shaking.

  “Merrick, your face is all sweaty. You don’t look so good.”

  “I haven’t slept much these past few days, but I’m fine. Just need a moment to clear my head.” Why the hell can’t I breathe? I slow down and pull off on the gravel shoulder.

  She doesn’t say anything, and we both just sit there silently staring ahead as the cars pass by.

  My mind is grinding and grinding. I thought I was too late. I came up between the houses, certain I was going to get tackled by whoever was doing the sting on Kristoff, and then I saw Gisselle behind the tree. So easy to spot. I ran for her, all the while thinking, He’s going to see her. He’s fucking going to see her! I pushed her to the ground and prayed that I’d been quick enough.

  I release a breath and look at Gisselle. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  “It’s the job, isn’t it?” she says with a sad, questioning tone. “It’s the danger you were trying to warn me about.”

  I nod. “Yes, but watching someone die is never easy.”

  “But I could have stopped it. I could have screamed, and you tackled me.”

  “Kristoff would have still killed Hofer, and then he would have turned his gun on you and me.” He only would have needed a few seconds, which he had.

  She stares into my eyes for a long moment. “I almost got you—us—killed, didn’t I?”

  I don’t say anything, because I might actually be having a minor panic attack.

  She adds, “I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t want to share that story. I’d be dead if you hadn’t showed up.”

  She thinks I flew all the way to Sydney just to beat her to the punch on this story? Wrong. But I must be careful and not say too much. This is a very dicey situation.

  “It’s over. You’re safe. Kristoff was caught. That’s all that matters. I could really use a stiff drink.”

  She goes quiet for a minute. “Do you mind if we stop at the Taronga Zoo first?”

  Gisselle just witnessed a gruesome murder, and she wants to go to the zoo? “Sure.”

  “And, Merrick?”

  “Yeah?” I stare into her green eyes and feel a sense of calming peace. I don’t know why she has this effect on me all of a sudden.

  “Somehow you knew who that hit man was, which means you kept information from me about this story. Is there anything else I need to know?”

  I shake my head no. A lie.

  “Okay. I’m trusting you,” she says. “Just promise me, no more secrets. I don’t ever want to put you—or anyone—in danger like that again.”

  I understand what she’s saying: Had I trusted her and told her what I knew, she wouldn’t have come here. But I’m not so sure about that. When I received fresh information, right after seeing her at the inn, my first thought was that even the smallest whiff of the facts would have her too intrigued to walk away. Nevertheless, it’s all a moot point. I am not in a position to tell her anything. My only goal right now is to get her far away from this story.

  “Okay. No more secrets.” I know I’ll never be able to keep my word, which kills me. If there was ever a woman I wanted to be honest with, it’s Gisselle. But she doesn’t understand what I’m really involved in.

  “Thank you.” She releases a long, steadying breath. “Because if I find out you’re holding out on me and know more than you’re letting on about this morning, I won’t be able to forgive you. It’s too important a situation to leave me in the dark.”

  If I say there’s more but that I can’t tell her, she won’t be able to drop it. Dog with a bone. She’ll dig and dig, and the people I work with won’t be happy. If I lie, hopefully she’ll walk away and find another story, far away from this mess.

  “Nope. I told you everything,” I say.

  “Good. It means a lot that you trust me.”

  You can always trust me to keep you safe. I hope that counts for something.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Gisselle

  “That’s really strange,” I say, observing how Leland the Lamb, that they’ve dressed up again today in a tiny Taronga Zoo T-shirt, ran straight to Merrick. “Why’s he turning his ass toward you?”

  Merrick shrugs and nudges it away. “Off with you, you little bugger. Go find your mum.”

  “Awww…he looks like he’s going to cry. You hurt his feelings.” I crouch and offer Leland a handful of whatever this stuff is. Sheep kibble? Looks awful. The lamb nuzzles my hand, and I feel a wet tongue slide against my palm. Kinda gross, but he’s just too cute. “That’s right. You don’t listen to the icky mean man. He’s
just jealous because the name Leland suits you better.”

  Merrick frowns and gives me a harrumph! “Why exactly are we here again, love?”

  Oh no. He’s back to being Mr. Charming—love this and love that. I’m really not in the mood. Yes, I’m at a zoo, but that doesn’t mean I’m not feeling horribly disturbed. I just needed to hit pause and distract myself for a few minutes. This is my way of coping.

  “Yanno,” I say, “I like you much better when you’re being yourself. So feel free to drop the macho, debonair act.”

  “No act. I’m genuinely this charming and manly. Answer my question.”

  I stand and wipe the lamb slobber on my jeans. “I came here yesterday, and it was the first time in years that I can remember enjoying myself. No pressure to get good grades, to pay the rent while I hold down eighteen units, to prove to the world I can be anything I want.”

  His silky dark brows knit together. “But surely you must’ve had good times, going out with your mates—drinking beer, dancing?”

  I shrug. “Kind of? I mean, yeah, sure, I went out every once in a while, but it never felt fun. Something always nagged away in the back of my head—don’t spend too much, don’t drink too much, you should be studying right now.”

  “I never would have guessed that about you.”

  “I don’t think I realized it until yesterday.” I swivel my head and look at all the tourists and families. “I’ve never been out of the country. I’ve never traveled and gotten a taste of what I’ve been working so hard for.”

  “Which is?” he asks.

  “To change the world one story at a time.” I want the stories people wake up to and read in the paper to be about everyday heroes who are doing good things and making a difference—not some depressing crap about doom and gloom. I mean, think about it, if everyone is so focused on the world’s ugliness, then their energy goes into believing we’re all fucked. But if we put our collective energy into seeing the good, maybe we’ll find solutions instead of problems. Action follows thought.