“Isn't there a dry cleaner in your neighborhood?”
“A hassle. I'd have to write my name on all the labels, on every sock, on the elastic band of my whitey tighties, plus haul six bags of clothes down the street. You want me to help you? I get five hundred a day, plus expenses. And you do my laundry.”
“And you'll kill him?”
“No. I don't kill people for money. Or for laundry. But I'll protect your guy from getting whacked.”
“Thank you, Mr. McGlade.”
She leaned down to kiss me. Not wanting to appear rude, I let her. And so she didn't feel unwanted, I stuck my hand up her skirt.
“You won't tell the police, will you Mr. McGlade?”
“Look, baby, I'm not your priest and I'm not your lawyer and I'm not your shrink. I'm just a man. A man who will keep his mouth shut, except when I'm eating. Or talking, or sleeping, because sometimes I sleep with my mouth open because I have the apnea.”
“Thank you, Mr. McGlade.”
“I'll take the first week in advance, Visa and MasterCard are fine. Here are my spare keys.”
“Your keys?”
“For my apartment. It's in Hyde Park. I don't have a hamper, so I leave my dirty clothes all over the floor. Do the bed sheets too—those haven't been washed since, well, ever. Washer and dryer are in the basement of the building, washer costs seventy-five cents, dryer costs fifty cents for each thirty minutes, and the heavy things like jeans and sweaters take about a buck fifty to dry. Make yourself at home, but don't touch anything, sit on anything, eat any of my food, or turn on the TV.”
I gave her my address, and she gave me a check and all of her info. The info was surprising.
“You hired a killer from the personal ads in Famous Soldier Magazine?”
“I didn't know where else to go.”
“How about the police? A divorce attorney?”
“My husband is a rich and powerful man, Mr. McGlade. You don't recognize his name?”
I flipped though my mental Rolodex. “Roy Garbonzo? Is he the Roy Garbonzo that owns Happy Roy's Chicken Shack?”
“Yes.”
“He seems so happy on those commercials.”
“He's a beast, Mr. McGlade.”
“The guy is like a hundred and thirty years old. And on those commercials, he's always laughing and signing and dancing with that claymation chicken. He's the guy that's abusing you?”
“Would you like to see the proof again?”
“If it isn't too much trouble.”
She grabbed my face in one hand, squeezing my cheeks together.
“Happy Roy is a vicious psycho, Mr. McGlade. He's a brutal, misogynist pig who enjoys inflicting pain.”
“He's probably rich too.”
Mrs. Garbonzo narrowed her eyes. “He's wealthy, yes. What are you implying?”
“I like his extra spicy recipe. Do you get to take chicken home for free? You probably have a fridge stuffed full of it, am I right?”
She released my face and buttoned up her blouse.
“I have to go. My husband gets paranoid when I go out.”
“Maybe because when you go out, you hire people to kill him.”
She picked up her purse and headed for the door. “I expect you to call me when you've made some progress.”
“That includes ironing,” I called after her. “And hanging the stuff up. I don't have any hangers, so you'll have to buy some.”
After she left, I turned off all the office lights and closed the blinds, because what I had to do next, I had to do in complete privacy.
I took a nap.
When I awoke a few hours later, I went to the bank, cashed Mrs. Garbonzo's check, and went to start earning my money.
My first instinct was to dive head-first into the belly of the beast and confront Mrs. Garbonzo's hired hitman help. My second instinct was to get some nachos, maybe a beer or two.
I went with my second instinct. The nachos were good, spicy but not so much that all you tasted was peppers. After the third beer I hopped in my ride and headed for the assassin's headquarters, which turned out to be in a well-to-do suburb of Chicago called Barrington. The development I pulled into boasted some amazingly huge houses, complete with big lawns and swimming pools and trimmed bushes that looked like corkscrews and lollipops. I double-checked the address I'd scribbled down, then pulled into a long circular driveway and up to a home that was bigger than the public school I attended, and I came from the city where they grew schools big.
The hitman biz must be booming.
I half expected some sort of maid or butler to answer the door, but instead I was greeted by a fifty-something woman, her facelift sporting a deep tan. I appraised her.
“If you stay out in the sun, the wrinkles will come back.”
“Then I'll just have more work done.” Her voice was steady, cultured. “Are you here to clean the pool?”
“I'm here to speak to William Johansenn.”
“Billy? Sure, he's in the basement.”
She let me in. Perhaps all rich suburban women were fearless and let strange guys into their homes. Or perhaps this one simply didn't care. I didn't get a chance to ask, because she walked off just as I entered.
“Lady? Where's the basement?”
“Down the hall, stairs to the right,” she said without turning around.
I took a long, tiled hallway past a powder room, a den, and a door that opened to a descending staircase. Heavy metal music blared up at me.
“Billy!” I called down.
My effort was fruitless—with the noise, I couldn't even hear myself. The lights were off, and squinting did nothing to penetrate the darkness.
Surprising a paid assassin in his own lair wasn't on the list of 100 things I longed to do before I die, but I didn't see much of a choice. I beer-belched, then went down the stairs.
The basement was furnished, though furnished didn't seem to be the right word. The floor had carpet, and the walls had paint, and there seemed to be furniture, but I couldn't really tell because everything was covered with food wrappers, pop cans, dirty clothing, and discarded magazines. It looked like a 7-Eleven exploded.
William “Billy” Johansenn was asleep on a waterbed, a copy of Creem open on his chest. He had a galaxy of pimples dotting his forehead and six curly hairs sprouting from his chin.
He couldn't have been a day over sixteen.
I killed the stereo. Billy continued to snore. Among the clutter on the floor were several issues of Famous Soldier, along with various gun and hunting magazines. I poked through his drawers and found a cheap Rambo knife, a CO2 powered BB gun, and a dog-eared copy of the infamous How to be a Hitman book from Paladin Press.
I gave the kid a shake, then another. The third shake got him to open his eyes.
“Who the hell are you?” he said, defiant.
“I'm your wake-up call.”
I slapped the kid, making his eyes cross.
“Hey! You hit me!”
“A woman hired you to kill her husband.”
“I don't know what you're—”
He got another smack. “That's for lying.”
“You can't hit me,” he whined. “I'll sue you.”
I hit him twice more; once because I didn't like being threatened by punk kids, and once because I didn't like lawyers. When I pulled my palm back for threesies, the kid broke.
“Please! Stop it! I admit it!”
I released his t-shirt and let him blubber for a minute. His blue eyes matched those of the woman upstairs. Not many professional killers lived in their mother's basement, and I wondered how Marietta Garbonzo could have been this naive.
“I'm guessing you never met Mrs. Garbonzo in person.”
“I only talked to her on the phone. She sent the money to a P.O. Box. That's how the pros do it.”
“So how did she get your home address?”
“She wouldn't give me the money without my address. She said if I didn't trust her, why should she trust me?”