The Hitwoman Gets Lucky (Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman) (3 page)

Patrick shook his head. "No. This is more of a freelance gig."

"Don't do it!" God shouted from the bedroom.

He's a serial eavesdropper.

"I'd be the one hiring you," Patrick continued slowly.

I frowned. "You?"

"Uh-huh. I'd consider it a personal favor if you'd help me out." He let the request hang there, not saying he'd helped me out of more than one jam.

I swallowed hard. In the past I'd felt like Delveccio had put me on the spot with his requests, but those had just been business transactions. This was something more. It was a favor. A personal favor.

Sitting very still, Patrick watched me intently, waiting for my answer.

"You're who's always busy quoting Rule Number Three," I reminded him weakly.

"I know, Mags. If it wasn't important..."

Something in his voice, soft with a hint of desperation, panicked me. "I have my standards," I reminded him in a breathless rush. "I don't go around just killing anybody. They have to deserve it."

He winced. "I don't need you to kill anyone."

I blinked. "You don't?"

"I need you to help me steal something."

"Oh. Okay, sure."

"You're not going to ask what? You don't want to know who we're taking it from?" He sounded vaguely disappointed as though he thought my having pulled off a couple of contract hits had somehow screwed with my morality.

I bristled at the assumption. "I'm guessing you're not asking me to bankrupt a widows and orphans fund."

"No."

"I'm assuming it's not nuclear launch codes we're stealing?"

He shook his head.

"Whatever it is, it's a bad idea!" God chimed in from the other room.

The high-pitched squeaking sound the lizard made had Patrick glancing in the direction of the bedroom door. "Your lizard?"

I nodded, but pressed on. "So what is it I need to steal and who are we taking it from?"

"There's a certain flash drive I need to get my hands on," Patrick said slowly.

“Like for a computer?”

He nodded.

"Why?"

"It might have some incriminating evidence on it."

"Evidence to incriminate who?" I asked worriedly, afraid that it was me.

"Me."

I blinked. "You?"

Patrick nodded. "I may have screwed up."

"But you're not sure?"

"No. But if I did, I can't afford to have it floating out there. It would make me vulnerable."

"I understand."

"It's not going to be an easy job.” He stared at me intently, testing to see if I was up to the job.

"Nothing ever is," I said with a heavy sigh. "But I'll bite. Why not?"

"We need to rip off a professional thief."

That sounded almost as bad as having to kill a professional hitman.

"Does our thief have a name?"

"O'Hara."

I groaned inwardly. Another Irishman to complicate my life.

"Lucky O'Hara," Patrick elaborated. "Ever heard of him?"

I eyed the horseshoe at the end of the table. "The lucky part sounds familiar."

Chapter Two

Not only did Patrick want me to help him rob a thief, he needed to do it out of town, specifically in Atlantic City.

A few months earlier, when I was a carefree single gal with no responsibilities, taking a quick trip down to A.C. wouldn't have been a problem. Now, it's a colossal headache. Getting away for a weekend of larceny would take some serious explaining. I'd have to tell my aunts why I wasn't checking in on my niece on my assigned days,
and
I'd have to find someone to take care of God and Doomsday, since I was pretty sure I couldn't bring them to the casino with me.

While I wanted to help Patrick out of the jam he found himself in, his number one rule "Don't get caught" was swirling round and round in my head. Even God, when I asked him for guidance, couldn't figure out a way to help my murder mentor without causing a lot of suspicion. Needless to say, I didn't get much sleep that night.

Which meant I was dragging worse than usual at Insuring the Future the next day. If Harry noticed he didn't say anything, but there was no way Armani was going to let the circles under my eyes and the incessant imbibing of caffeine go without comment.

"What's wrong, Chiquita?"

We were sitting at our usual table in the lunchroom. She was eating a concoction of spaghetti noodles and cottage cheese. I was grateful that she'd chosen to eat something less revolting than usual.

"Nothing," I lied, poking my fork into the Lean Cuisine I'd heated in the office microwave and wishing I'd thought to grab the leftover baba ganoush instead of the frozen meal.

"Where's all the stuff I gave you?"

I pulled the shark tooth from my pocket and waved it at her.

"And the others?" she asked.

"Left them at home." I didn't tell her that my dog had tried to eat the rabbit's foot or that she'd puked up red dye on my bathmat while I was in the shower that morning.

"Something bothering you?" she asked.

Before I could reply, I saw Aunt Loretta making her way toward me in stilettos and a skirt that would’ve been too short on a woman twenty years younger.

I blinked, wondering if perhaps I had officially gone around the bend. Loretta didn't even know where I worked, let alone would she visit me at work, unless...

My heart stuttered.

My breathing stopped.

Unless something had happened to Katie. An image of my niece, so small and fragile in her hospital bed flashed before my eyes, causing me physical pain.

"Chiquita?" Armani leaned forward, her alarm evident.

I tried to get to my feet to meet my aunt in the middle of the room, but my legs were too weak.

"Yoooohooo, Maggie!" Loretta trilled as though I wasn't staring right at her.

Armani twisted to see who the clickety-clacking woman calling my name was.

"You need some lipstick," Loretta said, drawing near.

"Katie?" I choked out, my throat tight.

Loretta looked confused. "What about her?"

"Breathe, Chiquita," Armani urged, reaching across the table to shake my arm.

“Something happened to Katie?” I asked.

“What happened to Katie?” Loretta asked.

We stared at one another with matching horrified expressions.

“Are you two for real?” Armani asked. “Why are you here, Leslie?”

“I’m Loretta,” my aunt corrected haughtily as though someone mixing her up with her twin sister was the greatest insult.

“Okay, Loretta,” Armani mocked. “Why are you here, messing with my friend’s head?”

“Barry Manilow,” Loretta replied succinctly.

I blinked. “Katie’s okay?”

“Why wouldn’t she be?” Loretta asked.

“Barry Manilow?” Armani prodded, seeming intent on keeping the conversation on track.

“He writes the songs that make the whole world sing,” Loretta informed us.

“And he wrote the Dr. Pepper jingle,” Armani said. “I’m a Pepper, You’re a Pepper…”

I eyed her suspiciously, wondering how she happened to have that bit of trivia available to trip off her tongue. “You’re a Barry Manilow fan?”

“So what if I am?” Armani said a tad defensively.

I raised my hands in surrender. I had no desire to get into a fight with the feisty psychic. Instead, I turned my attention on my sexpot aunt. “What are you doing here? You scared me half to death.”

“Barry Manilow,” Loretta repeated.

I scanned her quickly, worried that perhaps, like me, she had a head injury and was suffering from some bizarre delusion.

“Theresa loved Barry Manilow,” Loretta elaborated.

This wasn’t crazy. Well it was, but it was true. My big sister, Katie’s mom,
had
been a rabid Barry fan.

“I bought her tickets for his show in Atlantic City,” Loretta explained.

“Do you want to sit down?” I asked, standing and grabbing her elbow to lead her to a seat.

“I bought them for her birthday,” Loretta continued.

I wondered if she was having some sort of mental break and had forgotten that Theresa had died in a car accident months earlier. I considered calling Aunt Susan for advice about how to handle her sister.

Armani, who knows full well that Theresa is in no position to sing along with “Mandy,” tapped the side of her skull with her good hand, indicating that my fears that Aunt Loretta had lost it were well-founded.

Loretta rummaged in her purse. I closed my eyes for a second, searching for an internal strength I wasn’t sure I had.

“I want to give them to you,” she said.

I opened my eyes and stared at her, noting that her make-up, while heavy, was applied expertly. “You what?”

“I want to give you the Manilow tickets.”

“But I don’t like Barry Manilow,” I said, ignoring Armani’s snort of outrage. Then, remembering that I needed to go to Atlantic City to help Patrick, I added hurriedly, “But I’d love to see him perform.”

Loretta beamed. “Oh good.  I know Theresa was planning on bringing you with her, so this will be a nice way to honor her memory.”

“She was going to ask me?” I asked, a painful lump rising in my thought.

Loretta nodded. “You don’t think she was going to bring Dirk the Jerk with her, do you?”

I chuckled, having never before heard my aunt refer to Theresa’s husband by the name I used for him.

“There are two tickets,” Loretta suggested. “You could bring a date.”

For a split-second I thought of Patrick. I wondered whether he’s a fan of Barry.

“And the hotel room is already paid for. You leave tomorrow.”

“I can’t,” I blustered.

Loretta squinted at me through her tarantula-like fake eyelashes. “Why not?”

“It’s my day to visit Katie.”

She waved dismissively. “Not to worry, Leslie already offered to sit with her since she’s going to be in the hospital anyway.”

Aunt Leslie, Loretta’s twin, has recently gotten clean and part of her plan to stay that way is volunteering at the hospital as some sort of over-aged, kinda-kooky candy striper.

“Oh.” Something tickled the back of my mind, something important I was forgetting.

“And Susan wants to babysit DeeDee,” Loretta crowed with a clap of her hands.

I wasn’t sure if she was proud of herself for remembering that the dog would need caring for or if she was amused that her sister who’d professed a hatred of dogs for decades was going to watch my Doberman Pinscher without protest.

“So you just go and have fun,” Loretta ordered, handing me an envelope. “This has the tickets and the hotel reservation… everything you’ll need.”

Armani eyed the envelope greedily. If Patrick didn’t need my help in A.C., I’d have gladly given it to her.

“Thanks, Aunt Loretta.”

“You’re a good girl, Margaret May.” She patted my cheek like I was four, then turned with a more than slight wobble due to the height of her heels and clickety-clacked her way out of the break room.

“Lucky!” Armani muttered as soon as my aunt was gone.

“What?’

“Lucky. You got lucky.” She jutted her chin at the envelope for emphasis.

I nodded slowly. She was right. Sort of. This was just the excuse I needed to leave town and help Patrick out with his little problem.

“I tried to get tickets,” Armani confessed.

“Oh.”

An awkward silence stretched between us. I knew she was angling for me to ask her to be my Plus One, but I wasn’t sure that was a good idea. After all, this wasn’t a pleasure trip; it was business. I poked my Lean Cuisine meal with my plastic fork, just for something to do. Soon our lunch break would be over and I could retreat to my desk to mull my dilemma over. I glanced up at the clock.

Seven minutes.

All I had to do was hold out for five minutes.  Knowing that I’d never last in the uncomfortable silence, I decided the safest thing to do would be to talk about something else. “So—”

“So you’re going to take me, right?”

Taking a deep breath, I said, "Wow, she scared the heck out of me. I thought there was something wrong with Katie." I shoveled a mouthful of plastic-tasting food into my mouth to indicate that this was just two pals shooting the breeze. Casual conversation.

Armani didn't respond. She just cocked her head to the side slightly and stared at me like an interrogator waiting for a confession.

I swallowed hard. "Of course I shouldn't have worried. Katie's doing well. She recognizes me and my aunts, and..."

"Are you gonna take me or not?" Armani asked. Something flickered in her eyes. I couldn't tell if it was anger or hurt that I hadn't already invited her.

A surge of guilt shot through me, lodging at the base of my throat, threatening to cut off my air. She'd been a good friend to me, especially over the past couple of months. All she wanted was to see Barry Manilow, and all that stood in her way was my unwillingness to help her out.

Glancing at the clock, I jumped to my feet. "I've got to make a phone call."

Disappointment shimmered in her gaze.

My sense of guilt grew heavier. I massaged the spot on my neck where it felt like the knot had taken root.

Stumbling out of the break room, I dialed the one number I had for Patrick. I needed his advice. This Atlantic City gig was his big idea. Walking into the parking lot, I listened to it ring, pacing up and down the lanes.

Once. I didn't even know if the number still worked.

Twice. It probably didn't. The man changed cars and phones on a seemingly daily basis.

A third time. I'd have to go back inside and break Armani's heart, destroy our friendship, and probably make my life a living hell. No one in their right mind ever crossed Armani.

"Mags?" Patrick's voice cut into my thoughts.

"Oh thank God!"

"What's wrong?" His voice deepened with concern.

"Manilow. If I don't...." I trailed off. I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath. I gasped for air.

"Manilow?" Patrick asked. "Who's that?"

"You don't know who Barry Manilow is?" How could someone not know the man who made the whole world sing?

A tinge of annoyance crept into Patrick's tone. "Of course I know who Barry Manilow is. I just don't know why you're calling me about him. Aren't you supposed to be at work?"