Guns Will Keep Us Together (6 page)

Okay, he had me there. I was a snarky bastard. Paris was my best friend, but I had the bad habit of pushing him too far lately. I needed him.

"I'll go with you. Just don't expect any tears. After all, I wanted to kill him all through junior high."

We settled down to work, Paris on his laptop, me with the binders and pads of paper. That's how I like to brainstorm. We only had a few days left to come up with something brilliant, and I had to focus.

"What about giveaways?" Paris asked. I looked down at the paper and to my shock realized I'd been drawing a picture of the redhead from the bookstore.

"What do you mean?" I asked, casually trying to scribble out the picture.

"You know, some companies give out pens. Some give out calendars. Others do those stress squeezy thingies."

"You want us to give out calendars?" Now I knew the pod people had him. Wharton grads didn't hand out junk like that. Although we could do it as a gag to piss off the Council. Maybe we could do chimps in black suits with silenced pistols.

"Not necessarily. Maybe we could do those stress thingies in different shapes?"

I could just picture that. We could give out squeezy Colt .45's, or giant cyanide pills. Riiiiiiight.

I pushed back from the table. "Apparently, we're not only out of ideas—we never had any to begin with."

Paris sighed, and I knew I'd hit a nerve. "You're right. Slogans, logos and promotional materials don't sell what we do."

"Results do. That's the only thing people in our line understand."

He nodded. "All right. So maybe instead of coming up with some slick campaign, we should find out why our results aren't making as big an impact on our clients."

"Yes. We could do some cost analysis and research into who our competition is." Now we were getting somewhere.

"But how do we find out about the other agencies? It's not like they'd run an ad in the yellow pages or have a website."

Hmmmm. He had a point. But for once I felt like we were on top of this. "I don't know. We'll just have to figure it out. We still have a few connections. Let's use them."

"Will that be enough for the Council?" Undoubtedly he was still holding on to the idea of squeezy thingies shaped like ice picks.

"If we can provide the solution, they'll be much happier. And we'll throw in a chimpanzee calendar for fun."

 

 

 

 

 

That night, we changed clothes and headed to Skeevy's visitation. Mom had commandeered Louis from Gin, demanding grandma time, mumbling something about me not picking him up until Sunday night. To my surprise, I felt a little sad about not seeing the kid for so long, but I shook it off. After all, Paris and I could hit the bars after the visitation, and maybe I'd score. Hell, maybe I could pick up a hot little relative at the funeral home.

In spite of Skeevy, I'd really dressed up. A navy Ralph Lauren blazer, gold shirt, red tie and khakis, my hair tousled, and I looked like a prep-school smoothie. Look out, ladies.

Now I don't spend a lot of time at funeral homes (You probably think I would, wouldn't you?), but I didn't even know this one existed. I mean, the name Crummy's Funeral Home would stand out. If any business needed a marketing plan, I'd think this one would. Although I thought it was perfect for Skeevy.

Why in the hell would anyone use a place called Crummy's? Even engraved Mont Blanc pens and little squeezy caskets wouldn't help sell this place. I laughed as we approached the door, realizing someone had bigger problems than Paris and I did.

The outside of the building was bland. It was just a one-story, brick building with no embellishments. Inside was, well, beige. The carpet, walls, and furniture were beige. The art on the walls were different variations of beige. Even the morticians were dressed in taupe. Yeesh. I know it's a death industry, but enliven things up already. The only person who didn't look like a zombie was a beige-suited young woman with flaming red hair.

"Good evening," said the redhead from the library somberly. Then she looked at me. "Oh, it's you."

I was completely stunned (and more than a little excited that she recognized me). Now I knew why she needed that book more than me.

Paris introduced himself with great charm, to my strange irritation.

"Leonie Doubtfire." She shook Paris's hand, then reached for mine. "And you are?"

I said nothing, just stared at her hand as if it were a cobra ready to strike. (I say cobra affectionately. It was Great-Great Uncle Arkansas' modus operandi—difficult to import, but very Cleopatra.)

Paris nudged me, and I clumsily grabbed her hand. "Bombay. Er…Dakota Bombay." That was smooth. I'd never blown an introduction before.

"You must be with the Skeevy party," she said, and I nodded like an idiot. "They're in the Algonquin Room." She gave us a forced smile, then moved on to another couple who had just entered the funeral home.

All I could do was stand there, staring after her. My heart was beating a violent tattoo. What was wrong with me?

Paris nudged me again, and I shook myself out of the trance. He looked concerned but said nothing about my reaction. We followed the signs to the Algonquin Room and saw Old Skeevy laid out in his coffin at the head of the room. His family had chosen to bury him in his old gym uniform. Creepy. Seeing his corpse made me shudder, and I felt a ghost pain in my right shoulder. The geezer still scared the shit out of me after all of these years, in spite of the fact that he was dead and I was now a professional killer.

I turned my thoughts to more pleasant things, like Leonie Doubtfire.  What a weird name. What a weird-looking chick. Why couldn't I get her out of my head?

"Hey," Paris whispered to me, "I've got two of Skeevy's nieces willing to hit the clubs with us later." I looked in the direction he pointed and saw two petite blondes (who obviously hadn't inherited anything from the deceased) wiggle their fingers at us.

"Yeah. Sure," I responded in a fog. I watched as he went over and told them I was in. They giggled with delight. It could be fun. As long as their idea of a drinking game wasn't Russian Roulette, it might even be a good time.

For some reason, I took the opportunity to flee the room. I wandered the hallways of Crummy's, looking for…for what? Maybe I just needed a break.

"So," Leonie said from behind me. "Come here often?"

I turned to face her, somewhat pissed off. "How do you know I'm not a relative of the deceased and would find your comment inappropriate?"

She shrugged and walked away. I was just about to go after her and apologize when Paris grabbed my arm and steered me toward the door where the two Skeevy girls waited for us. As the four of us climbed into my car, I felt like a complete idiot. Maybe a little bamboo under the fingernails was what I deserved.

 

 

 

Prince Charmont:
You're the first maiden who hasn't swooned at the sight of me.

Ella of Frell:
Then maybe I've done you some good.

~Ella Enchanted

 

 

Saturday night was a total bust. Turns out the girls were Catholic (the real kind, not like the ones I knew in college who were Catholic only on Sundays) and didn't believe in fooling around. It's just as well. I wasn't interested. All I could think of was Leonie Doubtfire.

But why? She was totally not my type. The willowy redhead obviously wasn't blonde, didn't fall all over me at first sight, and there was zero giggling. A little giggling always went a long way with me.

And that's why I was at the funeral home again the next morning for Skeevy's last hurrah.

"I don't get it," Paris whispered. "I thought it was nice to go to the visitation, but why are we back?"

An old woman in a lilac polyester suit seated in the pew ahead turned around to glare at us.

"It's her, isn't it?" Paris persisted despite my attempts at ignoring him. He was pointing at Leonie.

"If you must know, yes. There's something about her I can't get out of my head."

"You came to a funeral just to pick up a mortician?" Paris asked.

Angry Lady in front turned around again. Apparently, she disapproved. I ignored her.

"I just wanted to talk to her."

"Jesus, Dak," Paris replied.

Angry Lady turned around again, "Do you boys mind? This is a funeral!"

I stuck my tongue out at her while Paris apologized. Real mature, I know.

I caught up with the object of my confusion after the ceremony. Skeevy was being cremated—which seemed fitting—so there was no gravesite burial.

"Um, hey," I said gallantly. "Would you like to go out and get a cup of coffee or something?"

Leonie frowned. Why was everyone frowning at me lately? "Why?" she asked, reducing me to the size of a castrated ant.

"Why not?" was all my lame brain could come up with.

She stared at me for a moment, her gray eyes sizing me up. I felt like I was being inspected for maggot infestation.

"Sure," she said, and I let go of the breath I didn't realize I was holding. "I'll meet you at the café on the corner in an hour." Then she turned and walked away.

I pretty much dragged Paris to the car, drove him to his house at 80 mph, then returned to the café to wait for my coffee date. That left me with thirty minutes, most of which I spent finding the right casual pose in my chair.

Of course the minute she walked in, I realized I had a bigger problem. What was I going to say to her?

"It's Dakota, right?" she asked as she sat. Her smile was fleeting, causing me some doubt. But I reminded myself that she was here, after all. And that could only be seen as a plus.

I nodded. "And you are Leonie." Ooh. Smooth.

"Now that we have our names down, what should we talk about? I take it you didn't want to meet me to discuss your future funeral arrangements." Was that…did I see a flash of a smile?

The words came to me as if Paris were my Cyrano, feeding me lines via radio from his car in the parking lot. Then I cursed myself for not thinking of having him do just that. "I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I was rude."

She waved her hand in the air. "Oh, that. No big. I figured you were just choked up."

Oh. Right. About Skeevy. Of course she'd think that. I was torn here because I didn't want
any
woman to think I was choked up over a creepy, geriatric gym teacher.

"Well, I also shouldn't have yelled at you at the library." And then, my inner Daniel Webster dried up. Cyrano failed me. Leonie had better come up with something to say or this would be a long coffee date.

"Oh, yeah." She ran long, white fingers through her blazing red curls. "I need that book. When I bought the mortuary, I didn't realize I had to keep the name. So I'll take any help I can get."

"You bought Crummy's?"

"Just a few months ago. Moved here from Oregon. I thought I could make it work." She sighed and shook her head. Her lips had this adorable little pout that made me want to nibble on them. I held myself back.

"So you really are a mortician, then?"

Leonie narrowed her eyes at me. "Not really. It's just my cover. I'm trying to re-animate human life using parts of several dead people."

A joke. I liked that. "I guess that was a stupid question."

She nodded in agreement, and I felt my stock go down twenty points. "It's my family's business. That and I have a morbid fascination with death."

I could relate to that—carrying on the family business, working with dead people. (Actually, they weren't dead when I started working with them, but that's just plain nitpicking.)  "What brought you here?"

"I didn't want to work at the family's home. I thought I'd strike out on my own. I saw the ad for this place in our monthly industrial rag and just took a shot."

The conversation was so different than any other I'd had with a woman I was interested in. (Actually, there usually was very little conversation at all.)  Leonie was serious, career-minded and intelligent. None of these were qualities I used to look for in a woman.

It took us two hours to get past the pleasantries: name, rank and Social Security number. Which I know you shouldn't give out these days. What surprised me was that I was having a good time.

Leonie looked at her watch. "Damn. I've got to run."

"So soon?" I asked as if I didn't know we'd been there over two hours.

She nodded, and then something miraculous happened. She smiled. And I felt my insides turn into primeval ooze. Nothing any woman had ever done before made me feel so good. Weird, eh?

"Tell you what." She leaned forward and looked me in the eyes. "Why don't I take you out for dinner two nights from now?"

I used every atom in my body to keep from jumping on the table and dancing lewdly. "Great! How about Taschetta's at eight o'clock?"

Leonie smiled again. "I'll meet you there." And then she left.

I was so exhausted and spent I thought I'd just come from an all-night orgy. (Man, I missed those parties.) Who knew women could be interesting? And a date. How cool is that? Maybe things were looking up!

After a few little Gene Kelly hops on the light posts outside (no rain though, which was good because it would have mussed my perfect hair), I finally made it to my car. I picked up Louis and a pizza, and the two of us watched X-Men movies until I realized it was way past his bedtime. Mom had told me to make it eight p.m., but it was well past ten already. I tucked my son into his bed, then collapsed into mine. My last thoughts before sleep claimed me were of Leonie and her pretty little pout.

 

 

 

 

 

  "What's this?" I asked Louis in regard to the yellow flier he handed me after school. Gin, Liv, and I sat on benches at the school's playground.

"It's a notice from the principal." Louis eyed me sternly. Romi and Alta shouted for him, and he ran off to play.

I scanned the note with a bit of awe. I was a parent now. I got important, goldenrod-colored memos from the school. How cool was that?