Guns Will Keep Us Together (7 page)

But something in the words made me read it again.

"What the hell?" I said aloud. Gin shushed me, and I waved her off. "It says they're banning the games of tag and flag football for being too violent." I looked at my sister and cousin. "Did you see this?"

Gin and Liv had the contents of their children's backpacks sprawled on the benches beside them. I made an effort to emulate them without really knowing why—other than that must be what all the cool parents do.

"Unbelievable," Gin cried. "It says running has the potential to cause collisions. And pulling the flags off the belt can result in chafing."

Liv nodded grimly. "I've heard of this. It's already going on in other states. I'm afraid this is what we're heading toward."

I rolled my eyes. "Why? Does this make any sense?"

Gin replied, "Not to us. But the area schools have been getting more safety conscious lately."

I made a face. "In thirty years, have you ever heard of anyone maimed on this playground?" Again they shook their heads. "I don't remember anyone dying from playing tag. It would be all over the news."

Gin cocked her head to the side. "It would be. Kid dies in bizarre tag collision. Children severed at the waist from tight flag football belts."

"Pretty soon, the kids won't even get to play on the playground," Liv chimed in.  "All they'll be allowed to do at recess is stand up against the building."

"That's screwed up—"I ignored Gin's shushing—"'cuz this stuff is safer than what we had. Now they have soft, rubber mats. We had skin-shredding gravel underneath."

Gin nodded. "And all the equipment is molded plastic with no seams or edges. We had splintered wood and rusty, jagged metal."

"Don't forget the kind of equipment," Liv added. "Merry-go-rounds that spun you into another county, two-story-tall slides with rickety ladders, butt-busting teeter-totters. None of those things even exist now."

She had a point. "We didn't even have helmets to ride our bikes with, elbow and knee pads for roller skating, car seats or use seat belts."

Gin added, "And yet I don't remember a single kid dying on any of those things when we were growing up."

I snorted. "Too bad we didn't have to take out any other kids back then. Apparently, playgrounds would've made very useful deathtraps, and we didn't even know it."

Liv and Gin shot me looks that burned through my skull, blowing a big, figurative hole out the back of my head.

"So what do we do about this?" I asked.

Gin shook her head. "I don't know. What do you think, Liv?"

Liv squinted up at the sky. "Well, we are card-carrying members of the PTA. I guess we could attend the next meeting and protest?"

That sounded too difficult, too boring, and too administrative. "Let's kill the PTA President…make an example of him and demand they rescind this." Now that was well within my skill set.

For a moment, I thought my sister and cousin were actually going to consider it.

"I'd give anything to do that, little brother," Gin sighed.

"Why? Who's the president?"

"Vivian Marcy." Liv said.

Oh shit. No wonder Gin wanted to kill her. That bitch had been horrible to my sister when they were growing up.

I didn't like her either. Once she discovered I was Gin's little brother, she tormented me too. Her nickname for me was "Dorkota." Thank God I became a stud in high school, or I'd have never lived that down.

"How the hell did she-woman get to be in charge of the PTA?" I asked.

Gin turned to me without missing a beat. "She seduced Satan and had his baby, enrolling the incubus at Kennedy."

"Or she killed the previous PTA president and took his place," Liv countered.

This lively discussion went on for some time. I sat back and watched Louis playing with the girls. He was showing them how to construct a DNA double helix using leftovers from their lunches. Who knew there were so many uses for Twizzlers and Cheeto balls?

Damn that kid was smart. As I sat there, I felt a sharp surge of affection for him. I was getting those a lot lately. Maybe this dad gig wasn't bad. Maybe someday, he'd dedicate his Nobel Peace Prize to me.

Of course, he wouldn't be a scientist. Louis was a Bombay now. And at six years old, he was a year late to begin his training as an assassin. Any day now, Grandma could summon us to Santa Muerta for the bloodletting ceremony.

It wasn't fair. I just got him, and I'd have to start turning him into a killer. Of course, then we'd have a lot more to worry about than flag football chafing. Damn.

 

 

 

"I came up with a new game-show idea recently. It's called The Old Game. You got three old guys with loaded guns onstage. They look back at their lives, see who they were, what they accomplished, how close they came to realizing their dreams. The winner is the one who doesn't blow his brains out. He gets a refrigerator."

~Chuck Barris, Confessions of a Dangerous Mind

 

 

"Why am I doing this again?" Louis looked up from the pieces of the .45 that littered my dining room table. I'd decided to start some of his training that night. So, I'd disassembled the gun to show him how to take it apart and clean it. Well, that and I still hadn't cleaned it from the last job. Mom had never tolerated dirty guns in the house when we were kids. Our rooms could look like they were trashed by the Sex Pistols, but guns had to be spotless 24/7.

"I'm just teaching you about guns." Okay. I'm a chickenshit coward. I thought I'd start small and wait until the blood ceremony to fill him in on everything.

Louis poked the bore brush through the gun barrel, sliding it in and out to loosen the dirt. He glanced up at me suspiciously but didn't say a word.

Mom showed up for her nightly
I have to make sure you are raising my grandson right
ritual. She frowned when she saw said grandson putting my .45 back together. I was pretty impressed he'd picked it up so quickly. She dragged me by the elbow into the other room.

"What are you doing?" Mom hissed.

"What?" I rubbed my elbow. "I'm starting his training."

"He's not ready! The poor kid just joined the family!"

"I know. I'm starting slow. I haven't given him the lowdown yet, just asked him to help me clean the gun. That's all."
God!
What was her problem?

Mom stuck around for dinner. Apparently Dad was fending for himself while she whipped up a three-course meal for me and Louis. I was actually surprised I had vegetables in my kitchen. Louis hugged her when she was done, and I did the dishes while she put him to bed with a story.

Finally, I got Mom out the door and tucked him in myself.

"Louis," I started, brushing some of his hair from his forehead. I screwed up my courage to ask him, "What was life with your mom like?"

"It was all right. She was a stewardess, so we moved around a lot. Mom told me her family was dead. I found out later that they weren't. They were just Republicans."

"Do you like it here?"

He nodded. "Yup. I love having a big family. The school is pretty good—even if it doesn't have a talented and gifted program. And Grandma's a good cook." He grinned crookedly, the gap between his two front teeth pronounced. How damned cute is that?

"Well, I hope I can be a good dad. I'm not used to this, you know? But I'll figure it out."

Louis rolled his eyes. "Duh. But it's okay. It's a steep learning curve. Besides, it's not like life with Mom was normal. Nitro glycerin is more stable than that."

I laughed. My kid made a joke. Albeit, a science geek/genius joke, but a joke nonetheless. "Good night, Louis." I kissed him on the forehead.

"Night, Dad." He winked, then rolled over and closed his eyes.

I couldn't sleep that night. There were too many things on my mind. Life used to be so simple. Kill one or two guys a year, sleep with more than 100 blondes a year, no pets, no commitments, and lots of play money.

After tossing and turning in bed, I got up and wandered through my condo with the lights off. I liked it like that. It was so quiet. Like it used to be all the time, actually. Shadows dozed throughout the living room, and I sank down onto the couch to watch the lights change as cars went by. It was weird to be wearing silk boxer shorts. I'd been a total nudist all of my life (to Gin's teenage horror and her sleepover friends' delight). But with a young, impressionable boy in the house, I thought I'd cover up somewhat.

Maybe I just needed to think. In all honesty, I hadn't had much time to do that. Not that I was ever much of a thinker, that is. When your philosophy in life is, "What the hell," you don't tend to ponder the big questions like "Why are we here?" (Although for many years I labored under the impression that I was here to be utterly adorable and give pleasure to women.) 

Things change. Now I had a different purpose. Maybe it was to finally settle down. You know, be a dad for Louis and a lover for Leonie—maybe more. These thoughts kept spinning around in my head as I sat there in the dark.

I had a split second to react to the glint of light I saw out of the corner of my eye. I wasn't alone. Fortunately, the idiot didn't know I was there.

I slowly turned my head in his direction, careful not to make the springs in the couch creak. There was a guy in my living room! And I'd say from the dark clothing and stocking cap he didn't enter my house by accident.

In my bare feet, it was easy to get the jump on him before he saw me. Creeping up behind the bastard, I carefully lifted a sculpture off my coffee table and brained him with it. He hit the floor with a thud—no idea what had happened. I looked at the statue of the nude woman in my hand. There was a little crater where her head used to be. Damn. I really liked that piece. Then it occurred to me that I probably shouldn't have stuff like this with Louis around. I toyed with hitting the thug again, but decided against it.

 

 

 

"Unhhhhhh…" The prowler started to come to, just in time to notice my incredible handiwork integrating rope with the kitchen chair. Scoutmaster Thompson would be so proud of me.  

I'd already pulled his wallet. What a dumbass. You don't take your wallet on a job!

"Hey, Bobby John!" I said brightly as he squinted at me.

"Yes, your head hurts and no, I won't untie you so you can touch it. You'll just have to trust me on this one."

Bobby John Drake's eyes grew really wide. If this were just a simple breaking and entering, he didn't expect this. I let him panic a little—which he did rather impressively once he discovered he was completely naked—before continuing. This was an old trick Uncle Pete taught me. When you're naked, you feel completely vulnerable.

"So, Bobby John." I clapped him on the shoulder amiably. "What brings you to my house at—" I looked at the clock—"two a.m.?" I smiled charmingly.

"What the hell, man?" Bobby John whined.

"I beg your pardon?" I asked.

"Why the hell have you tied me up? And what did you do to me?" Tough words. Unfortunately, they were punctuated with nervous squeaks.

I sat in a chair across from him. While he was out, I'd taken the opportunity to dress in jeans, a black cashmere pullover and loafers. I hoped he appreciated the irony of our role reversal.

"You ever seen
Reservoir Dogs
, Bobby John?" I asked.

He gulped, like they do in cartoons. "Yeah."

"Remember that scene with Michael Madsen, and the cop he has tied to a chair?" I laughed. It was a good scene. A bit graphic when he cuts the cop's ear off with the straight razor, but still good.

Bobby John responded by wetting himself. Good thing I had solid wood chairs and linoleum flooring. Apparently he had seen that movie.

"So, anyway," I drew my right leg up, ankle on my left knee. "What are you doing in my house?" I asked casually enough. It wasn't my fault the man started crying.

"Shit! Shit!" he sputtered. But no answers.

I got up and walked over to my silverware drawer, pulling it open. "I don't have a straight razor, Bob. You don't mind if I call you Bob, do you? It's just that calling a grown man Bobby John makes me want to torture someone." I pulled a butter knife from the drawer.

"I do have a dull knife though. I s'pose I could do more damage with that anyway."

"It's just a job, man!" Bob wept.

I sat across from him again. "What job would that be?"

No response.

I slapped my head. "You know what?" I got up and snagged a fork and a hot dog, bringing them back to the table next to him. "I think I could cause a lot more pain with a fork." I stuck the fork into the uncooked meat and raked it lengthwise until I had completely shredded the wiener.

"Some guy paid me to do it!" the man squealed. "I don't know who! He just gave me $500 to come in and check out your place!" The tears were flowing now, and Bob's skin was turning an alarming shade of red.

I crossed my arms. "Right. What a terrible cliché, Robert. You don't mind if I call you Robert, do you? It's just, I get the giggles when I say the name Bob. Did you know that's a palindrome? It's spelled the same way forward and backwards."

"I swear! That's it! I don't even know his name!"

"How were you going to report what you found back to him then?"

Bob's head looked like it was going to explode. He started to scream, and I gave him a right hook to the jaw.

"Sorry about that, Robert. I can't have you waking the neighbors." I didn't want to tell him I had my son a short distance away.

Bob nodded like he understood, then continued, "He was going to e-mail me. That's how I got the job in the first place."

I stared at him, "You took a job from a stranger over the Internet?" What a loser. If you can't meet them face to face, it's probably a setup. Grandma always said if it seems too good to be true, it probably is. Good old grandma. I really loved the gal. Well, except for when she'd been trying to kill me.

Bob sniffled. "I needed the money." And I had to agree. His now missing wardrobe looked like he shopped in the stealth section of Dollar General. "I wasn't gonna hurt you. Just find out who all lived here and the layout. That's it."