Chance Assassin: A Story of Love, Luck, and Murder (45 page)
Read Chance Assassin: A Story of Love, Luck, and Murder Online
Authors: Nicole Castle
I picked up a garrote, startled by its presence in such a serene setting.
“It’s for cutting clay,” he said, as if he’d had to explain its existence before. I could just imagine the look on Frank’s face when he saw it. He would’ve freaked out. And I could understand why.
Even before I’d killed a man for money, I was different. I’d seen and experienced things they’d never comprehend. Things they
shouldn’t
comprehend. They needed to be sheltered from our way of life.
Especially
Casey. The kid was cutting clay with a fucking garrote.
“I got it at a yard sale.”
A
used
garrote.
With a chill in my spine, I thought of Charlie’s sister. Idaho was one state away. If he’d known about them, if Henry found out about them—
I set down the clay-caked murder weapon, realizing for the first time just how abnormal Frank and I were. Retirement wasn’t going to be as easy as not showing up for work. The life we led would never go away. We’d never see a length of piano wire and think of using it for anything but death.
Maybe Frank was right to distance himself from them. Maybe he
was
overstaying his welcome in their lives.
“You okay?” Casey asked, his hand on my shoulder. For a moment he looked concerned, but then he smiled again. “You zoned out there for a second, Vincent.”
I raised my eyebrows. I’d been zoning out a lot lately. “Frank said that you drew his mom. Will you show me?”
He nodded enthusiastically, going into a closet stuffed full of colorful fabrics. I could distinctly see a little black dress hanging next to a red leather jacket. It appeared to be the only dark garment he owned. I supposed nobody’s wardrobe was complete without one.
Casey reached up on the highest shelf behind some boxes. It was the kind of hiding place grownups used for guns when there were small children in the house. I wondered whether that’s where he’d hidden the sketch of Frank as the Count of Monte Cristo.
“He gets paranoid, you know,” he said, bringing down an eight by ten framed drawing.
“I know.”
He blew off a little bit of dust and handed it to me. “I guess he can hang it now, huh?”
God, the resemblance was incredible. He looked more like his mother now than he did as a little boy. She had the same dark complexion, the big, bright green eyes. I used to tease him about being part gypsy; a life full of innate superstitions and nomadic roving. But Sophie looked even more the part, like she’d be at home living in a caravan, reading tarot cards and ripping off tourists, or dancing with a goat like Esmeralda from
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
. It seemed odd that she’d been the one to encourage Catholicism. She looked more like she’d believe in witchcraft.
“We’ll hang it above the bed,” I said. I liked the feeling of her watching over us. The picture of my parents could go on the nightstand. They’d probably be scared of her.
“Do you think you’ll stay awhile?” he asked hopefully.
If we wanted to stand a chance of fitting in with proper society, this would be the best place to start. “Yeah, I think we will,” I said, and I headed back to the kitchen. The rest of the tour could wait. I missed my husband. I wanted that cake.
“Guess what, Mom?” Casey said, draping his arms around the chair Maggie sat in and setting his chin pointedly on the top of her head. “Frank’s gonna retire!”
She gave him a look that only a mother could muster. “Is that so?” she asked. It looked like he might be sleeping on the couch after all. She was not amused.
Frank shrugged and pulled me onto his lap. If he thought I’d protect him, he was mistaken. “V likes your car,” he said, steering the conversation to avoid the scolding he deserved.
She grumbled. It was obviously a source of irritation for her, and she didn’t realize he’d purposefully changed the subject. “Piece of shit’s acting up again,” she said, swallowing half her glass of wine in one disgruntled gulp.
Frank gave me a knowing look, like I’d be put to work very soon. So much for retirement.
Epilogue: Fortune
The bell chimed above the door, drawing my attention from the small portable DVD player I’d stuck beneath the counter. Casey had been nice enough to send me a couple of seasons of my favorite American soap operas to watch while Frank and I worked. French TV sucked on levels I never imagined possible.
A large, burly looking man approached the counter, his eyes focused on me. I reached for my gun, centimeters from the remote control that I used despite the player being within an inch of my fingers at all times. I left my hand hovering over the cold metal while he stepped forward. He had hard, dark eyes, and most of his face was covered with a walnut colored beard. There was a severe scar arcing over his right cheekbone.
He said something in French, and before I could tell him
je ne comprends pas
, Frank was standing behind him.
Frank spoke much more slowly, a habit he’d picked up so he wouldn’t have to repeat every word he said for my benefit.
I’m the manager.
We’d agreed that
I
was the manager, since he was the owner and I didn’t like being called shop boy unless he was punishing me for stealing from the till. Though, I had no issues with him relieving me of my duty when there was trouble.
Is there a problem?
Frank wasn’t armed, but he could take the down guy if need be. I’d seen him disable larger men without breaking a sweat.
The man proceeded to speak too quickly for me to really follow, something about his daughter and an apology, and then he was offering Frank money, gesturing to a very dour looking little girl pouting outside, barely visible behind the books stacked from floor to ceiling. She’d been in earlier today, I remembered her. She had hung about in the literature section next to where Frank was pretending to dust but really taking a three hour break with
La Reine Margot
.
Frank smiled the smile of a man whose life agreed with him after many strenuous years. As sexy as he looked when he was brooding, nothing got me hotter than seeing him smile like that. He was truly happy.
No, I
gave
it to her
.
Oh great, the little wretch had stolen from us. And Frank let her. I shifted the aim of my gun toward the little girl, then smiled to myself and released it.
The girl’s father blushed, apologizing again with his head lowered. He suddenly looked more like a young Santa Claus than Grizzly Adams’ French cousin the serial killer. He called his daughter inside, actually admitting fault and apologizing to her as well. She said something I imagined was the French equivalent of I told you so, then sidled up to her dad.
Frank shook his hand and they introduced themselves. The little girl’s name was Sophie. Of course it was. And even before he’d said, this is my beautiful, wonderful, completely understanding of my habit of collecting faux family members husband Vincent, he was offering the man a job.
The man, Bertrand, had hands that looked like worn leather shoes. He obviously wasn’t the shop boy type, but Frank had been contemplating hiring someone to run the place for some time. We were too inconsistent to ever make any money. Not that we needed it, but the shop had been open for months and we had yet to sell a single book. We’d just show up whenever we felt like it, sometimes unlock the door and sometimes just sit around in the dark or have sex in the backroom.
It was amazing how hot and heavy we could get when the sooner he ravished me, the sooner he could read. And I’d actually started to like the smell of dust that perpetually clung to his clothes and hair.
Even when we got customers, Frank had a tendency to scare them away if they happened to look at something he’d priced but had no real intention of selling. I feared the day when he finally read and memorized every book in the place, and had to set it on fire out of habit. I purchased books he’d never read at full price from other shops just to keep the shelves stocked and un-scorched. Now he was
giving
things away.
Sophie told him to take the job. Then she looked at me, smiled, and turned fuchsia before hiding her face against her father’s leg. Frank didn’t notice. I wondered what he’d say when I told him someone was vying for my affections. He’d probably give her another book, although he did deliberately introduce me as his beloved. Sophie squinted her eyes a little, as if she didn’t quite understand. She didn’t look the least bit discouraged.
Then Frank gave the stranger keys to the bookstore I’d bought him for his birthday, grabbed my hand, and told me in English that we were taking the rest of the day off. I pocketed the gun and reluctantly followed him.
“What do you think of him?” he asked.
I could’ve said any number of things; that he’d scared me, that I wasn’t entirely comfortable letting customers walk through the door, much less someone with a set of keys, or that he’d hired the man without consulting
moi le
manager. But I just smiled at him, sidestepping the perpetual pile of dog shit on the otherwise charming streets of Paris. After all, retired or not, we could always track down Bertrand and his nymphet daughter and kill them in their beds.
Acknowledgements
I want to thank my sister, for sticking with me through a great number of changes. She knew Vincent and Frank from the very beginning and truly helped me develop Vincent’s voice. To my mom, from whom I inherited my love of reading. To my unofficial sister, Vita Hewitt, who was the first friend I trusted enough to show my work, for her immeasurable support. I am eternally grateful to her and to her husband Bryan for my beautiful cover art. I wish to also thank Gabe and Hilary Powers for helping with the photo shoot. And to my friends Christina Hill and Elven Hillman, for their ego-stroking feedback and invaluable suggestions.
Thank you.
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