“I’m not trying to be a pain here,” I insisted. “I’m just wondering how you got the gig of terminating me without any previous murder credits.”

  “I sorta fell into the job. You know how it goes.”

  “You padded your résumé, didn’t you?”

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  “You did! You lied about your experience! What are you going to do if your boss finds out?”

  “I didn’t lie about anything.”

  I shook my head and made a tsk-tsk sound. “Lying by omission is still a lie.”

  “You know what? I’ve had way more than enough of you.” Victor pointed the knife at my throat. “Got anything else to say before I gut you?”

  “That’s not where the knife should be pointed if you’re planning to gut me.”

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”

  “I’m just saying. Not many guts in my neck.”

  “Sure there are.”

  “Do you even know what a gut is?”

  “That’s it. You’re dead, Mayhem.”

  “My name’s not Mayhem.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “Are you looking for Andrew Mayhem? He lives next door. Shorter guy, glasses. . .”

  “You said you were Andrew Mayhem.”

  “Your knife made me nervous. I wasn’t thinking.”

  He looked at me for about three seconds as if trying to decide if I was lying, and then clearly decided that I was, in fact, lying. “You know what? I’d kill you for free,” he said.

  “How much are you getting paid?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Of course it’s my business! I have a right to know my market value. How much?”

  “I don’t discuss salary with anybody. And it’s time for you to die.”

  “You keep saying that, and yet my guts are still sealed up in my neck.”

  Victor looked so angry and frustrated that I thought he might scream. I used the opportunity to strike.

  “Did you just throw a fucking juice box at me?” he asked, rubbing his forehead.

  “I did.”

  “You. . .you. . .there’s something wrong with you, man! How is it possible that nobody else has murdered you yet?”

  “See, Victor, you’re not listening. This isn’t about me. It’s about—”

  He began to pace around my living room, wildly swinging the knife. “You know what, I didn’t even want this crappy job! I was happy at the Wal-Mart! I’m just trying to earn enough money to go back to school! I didn’t ask to get hit in the head by a goddamn juice box!”

  I noticed to my horror that the juice box, which lay on its side, had leaked some grape juice onto the carpet. Helen was going to go ballistic when she got home. The juice boxes were never, ever to be consumed in the living room. Granted, the rule was intended for my children, Theresa and Kyle, but I’d get in just as much trouble. Damn.

  Victor continued pacing back and forth across my floor, alternating between shouting in frustration and muttering silently. I kind of felt sorry for him. I still held the straw, and tried to figure out how good my chances were of plunging it into his eye when he wasn’t looking.

  Suddenly he turned to me, eyes wide with fury, raised the knife over his head, and brought it down toward my face—stopping a few inches from my nose.

  It occurred to me that a substantial portion of my plan had revolved around the idea that I would break out my lightning-fast reflexes to escape from danger at the exact moment when Victor finally snapped. But if Victor hadn’t stopped the knife’s downward trajectory by his own choice, I would probably have a blade sticking deep into my face. ’Twas not a pleasant thought.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Victor lowered the knife. “This job sucks,” he said.

  “Most jobs do.”

  I realized that my palms were sweating profusely now that I’d come so close to being stabbed in the nostrils, and my stomach kind of hurt. What had happened to my lightning fast reflexes? The knife could have gone all the way through my nose and up into my brain! I’d be dead! And then Victor would collect his paycheck even though he was a below-average assassin!

  I wiped my palms off on my jeans, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

  “Did I scare you?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “I bet I did.”

  “Okay, yeah, you did, but that knife looks sharp, all right? You can’t expect me not to be a little uncomfortable when you’re trying to stab me with it.”

  “I bet you almost wet your pants.”

  “Would it make you feel better if I had?”

  He shook his head. “That would probably be awkward.”

  “Yeah, for me too.”

  He sighed. I sighed back.

  “Why didn’t you finish stabbing me?” I asked.

  “Dunno.”

  “Are you having second thoughts?”

  “Maybe. I just. . .do you ever feel like you’re playing a part that isn’t really you? I mean, I feel ridiculous in this spiked jacket. What do you think?”

  “Honestly, I thought the jacket was pretty cool.”

  “It’s too hot. And it doesn’t fit right in the back. And these spiky things keep scraping on furniture and stuff. I wonder if I should just give up the whole idea of killing people for a living. I don’t think I’m cut out for it. I like being the lovable guy. I like being cuddly.”

  “Cuddly is good. So how much trouble will you get in if you don’t kill me?”

  “I’m not sure. Not too much. He was only paying me fifty bucks.”

  “Fifty bucks? Fifty?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My life is only worth fifty dollars? Are you kidding me?”

  “Is that low?”

  “Of course it’s low! Holy crap, I was thinking you were making at least five figures, probably six!”

  “I made seven dollars an hour at Wal-Mart.”

  “I can’t believe you would kill me for fifty bucks. That’s just insulting. Who hired you?”

  “Todd McBride.”

  “Don’t know him. But people try to kill me every once in a while. It’s just part of being me. But. . .fifty bucks? You’d pay an exterminator more than that to kill some bugs! Perhaps you should leave.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry this didn’t work out.”

  “Me too. I’ll resign in the morning. I didn’t really want to see sliced flesh anyway.” He turned around, took a step toward the kitchen, then hesitated and returned his attention to me. “You know, I’m out fifty bucks.”

  “Yeah, and. . .?”

  “Maybe you could pitch in a little. It doesn’t have to be the whole fifty, but something for my time would be nice.”

  “I’ll be honest with you. Paying somebody not to kill me would feel sort of like paying for sex.”

  “You’re just saying that because your wife monitors the finances, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m saying it because it would make me feel icky.”

  Victor frowned. “Oh.”

  “Sorry.”

  He stood there for a moment, silent.

  “Well, do you have any of those juice boxes left?”

  “I think there’s one in the fridge.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t take the cherry one.”

  “Okay.”

  Victor wandered into the kitchen and rummaged through the refrigerator. I heard him leave and sat on the recliner for a while, more than a little annoyed. I couldn’t even get back into my book.

  Still, at least I was alive. And I’d helped Victor realize that the life of a killer-for-hire wasn’t for just anybody with access to a bladed weapon. So the evening wasn’t a total loss. In fact, since I now knew that my lightning fast reflexes needed to be honed, I had fodder for self-improvement.

  If you really thought about it, it was a very worthwhile experience.

  I returned to the novel, feeling good.

  Then Helen came home and I got in trouble because I forgot to clean up the grape juice on the carpet. So the rest of the night sucked.

  KEN BRUEN

  KEN Bruen won the Shamus Award for the Best Novel of 2003 for THE GUARDS, the book that introduced Jack Taylor. He’s also written eighteen other novels, including the latest Taylor book, PRIEST. Ken has a doctorate in metaphysics (to confuse them, he says.) He lives in Galway, Ireland, but insists all of his influences are American.

  When asked about literary hitmen, he responded, “I see them as the last of the samurai.”

  Visit Ken at www.KenBruen.com.

  PUNK

  Ken Bruen

  DON’T GIVE ME SHIT ABOUT GHOSTS

  Things that go bump in the night

  The fuck are you kidding?

  I’ve seen enough monsters walking round to give any tough guy nightmares and the sooner they got put in the ground, the better When I hit sixty, I got out. . .my line of work, you kill people for a living, it takes its toll and you know what, it was getting stale, kind of lame, no buzz there no more. Sure, it was a regular gig, I’m not bitching, let’s get that clear from the off, I want to whine, you’ll know.

  But I had the bucks stashed, nice little investment plan and figured, enjoy.

  My roots are Irish, I’m not saying it helps to be a Mick in the killing business, we don’t have the edge in it, ask the Italians, but I like to think I brought certain poetry to my work, an artist if you will Truth to tell, and I always tell the truth, I can’t abide a liar, give me any scumbag, don’t care what he’s done, he fronts up, I can cut him some slack but a liar, whoa, don’t get me started, the thing is, I was getting slow, the old reflexes were zoning out.

  And I just didn’t have the taste for it, you got to love what you do, am I right.

  Don’t read me wrong here, you listening, I didn’t love killing. . .I’m not some psycho. I relished the details, the planning, and the clean efficiency of dispatch.

  My Mom was Irish, came over on the boat, got a job as a cleaning lady and then met my old man, all he ever cleaned was his plate. She was from Galway, reared me to stories of the Claddagh, the swans, the old streets of what used to be a Spanish town, and the music, ah, the wild mix of bodhrans, uileann pipes, spoons, fiddle, and the keening voice.

  Jeez, she’d a grand voice, hear her sing. . .Carrickfergus, fuck, that was like a prayer in action. She was real hot on religion, mass every Sunday, confession, the whole nine Get this, my old man was an atheist, believed in nothing, especially not work, he wasn’t violent, just feckless, found a woman who’d pay the freight and let go. When I was 17, big and okay, a little mean, I slung his ass on out, him whining “Where am I going to go?”

  I said

  “Try the track, you spend most of your life there anyway.”

  My Mom would have taken him back, Irish women, that demented loyalty, but I was running the show then and she was real proud of the money I was producing. I heard he got him some other woman in Canarsie, like I give a fuck Good riddance

  I’d done my first job for Mr. Dunne, he’d told me

  “Kid, I got a guy giving me lots of grief, you got any ideas on that?”

  I did

  The guy is in the East River

  Mr. Dunne never asked for details, just handed me a wedge of serious change, said “You’re my boy.”

  I was

  He used me sparingly, a full year before he had another problem and I took care of that too.

  Automobile accident.

  Grimaldi’s was the place back then and he took me out for dinner there, said, handing me an envelope “Get a good suit, we’re putting on the Ritz.”

  He talked kind of odd but I respected him

  The staff there, falling all over him, and he said

  “See kid, this is juice and you. . .you’re my main supply.”

  I was mid bite on the biggest steak I’d ever seen and swallowed it sweet, asked “Really?”

  He was drinking wine, lots of it, I never cared for it, give me a cold one, I’m good, and a nice shot of Jameson to round out the evening, what more do you need? He said “See, I don’t have to do a whole lot now, I hint. . .you want the kid on your sorry ass and presto, the problem’s gone.”

  He ate a half mountain of mashed potato, awash in gravy, then said “You’ve a dark future ahead of you kid but you need to be real careful.”

  I pledged I would.

  And I was

  My Mom got sick last year, the cancer, and on her last night, she took off her wedding band, the gold Claddagh, put it on my finger, croaked “Go to Ireland for me gasun (son)”

  I tried to give her back the ring, me heart was tom in a hundred ways and she near screamed “I worked for that piece of gold, you think I’m letting it sit in a box in the cold ground.”

  It’s on my right hand, the heart pointing out, means I’m on the lookout I’m not

  Women talk

  I don’t do talk

  My last job, I don’t really like to dwell on it, it was before Mr. Dunne got his, a two bit loan shark gutted him, left him spilling his mashed potatoes all over East 33rd and Second.

  Mr. Dunne had summoned me, looked bothered, said

  “Frank, I have a real delicate situation.”

  I was no longer the kid, had moved too far along for that. He lit a cigar, his face serious, continued “There’s a teenager, seventeen years of age, name of Gerry Kane, he’s knocked up my niece and is fond of hitting her, I want him brought to his senses, nothing major, you understand but he has to understand how to behave, you reading me?”

  I had thought I was

  It went south, badly

  I’d given him a few slaps, the way you do and the punk, he pulled a knife Can you fucking believe it?

  A knife. . .

  On me?

  Didn’t he know anything

  And it got away from me, first time ever, I lost it, big time, they say I scalped him and other stuff I’m not making excuses, trying to justify me own self or nothing but I’d been doing a lot of speed, you think you can just kill people and get by on the odd brew with a Jameson chaser Grow up

  He had the most amazing blond mop of hair, like Brian Jones before the swimming pool and wait till you hear this, he was seventeen, right? And on his right arm, was the tattoo, Semper Fi. . .the little bastard, I had my buddy buy the farm in Desert Storm and this piece of shit, this thrash, this nothing, was wearing it. . .for fashion?

  That section of skin, I threw in a dumpster on Flatbush The shit hit the fan, naturally and maybe it was just as well that Mr. Dunne got diced by the loan shark.

  I was finished in the biz.

  So, I made my move, liquidized my assets, sold my Mom’s house, and flew to the West of Ireland Rented a little cottage in Oranmore, a beautiful village on the outskirts of the city.

  There’s a little river runs right by my window and get this, you can fish it, got me some nice trout and cooked the suckers me own self.

  My cottage looks just like the one in The Quiet Man and the locals, they’re real friendly, the one place in the world where they love Yanks. They’re not too nosy, I go to the local on a Saturday night, buy for the house and they like me a lot, well, they like my dollars Same difference.

  They even try some matchmaking, a widow named Theresa, she comes round after the pub on Sat and I give her a workout, she thinks I’m very quiet but her, she could talk for Ireland, and does I like to read. . .you’re going laugh to your socks off but I read poetry, that guy Yeats, the fucker had it. . .sings to me, there’s a small bookstore, mainly secondhand stuff and they keep any poetry for me.

  I’m getting me an education

  I was reading. . .A terrible Beauty. . .

  Jeez, like some awful omen that

  I had that marked with my Mum’s memorial card when. . .when. . .how do I describe the beginning.

  I had a log fire going, the book on in me lap, a wee drop of Jameson by my arm when there was scratching on the door. . .I figured some stray dog.

  I opened the door and no one there, then noticed a small envelope on the step, took it inside, reckoning it was another invite to some local event. Tore the flap and inside was a single sheet of paper with the words. . .Semper Fi Okay, so it knocked a stir out of me

  I’m not going to argue the toss

  But I’d been down this road

  When I arrived in Ireland, before I got this cottage, I had to stay in Galway, in a hotel, no hardship there, but the city, it was like mini America. . .Gap, Banana Republic, McDonalds, all the teenagers talking like hybrid rejects from The O.C.

  And in the pubs, on tap, freaking Millers, Bud, Pabst. . .the fuck was going on?

  And then I saw him, the blond kid, working the stick in a pub on Quay St. . .the spit of Gerry and he smirked at me. . .like he knew. . .said “You’re a Yank. . .been there. . .Dunne that. . .”

  Unnerved me, fuck, gave me a shot of the tremors but I was lucky, a local skel, a bottom of the pond dealer, hooked me up to my beloved speed and once I got that in place, I knew what to do Scalped him

  Yeah, see who Dunne that?

  I have his blond hair in my trunk

  And figured that was that

  Now this

  Who was fucking with me and why

  The next Sat night, I’m in the pub and Dolan, the owner, a smarmy schmuck, asks “You met Gearoid?”

  What?

  I couldn’t even pronounce it, one of those dumb Irish names that you need to be German with a bad lisp to say, so I went “Who?”

  He smiles, indicates a group of young people drinking, yeah, bottles of Bud, tequila chasers, and I see the Brian Jones look alike, Dolan says “That’s him, he’s got his own band. . .named Punk. . .he’s hoping to get to America, you might give him a few pointers.”

  I got the fuck out of there, leaving a full pint of Guinness on the counter.

  I was back home, draining a double Jameson when Theresa came round, all concern, Dolan had told her I took a turn and she was fussing, like a freaking hen, the speed was hitting max in my blood and the Jameson was whispering to it, not whispering anything good. I asked “That nephew of his, Garage. . .is it?”