Suckers - Jack Kilborn [8]
“Is it just about the money, though?”
“Sure.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I kill for money. That’s what an assassin does. When I slit your throat, I won’t feel a thing.”
I wasn’t happy that the conversation had turned to slit throats, and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “How many people have you killed?”
“I told you, you’re my first.”
“You haven’t killed anybody? Not even for recreation?”
He shook his head.
“What about animals?”
“No animals.”
“Have you ever flushed a goldfish?”
“Look, I don’t need to have dozens of corpses stacked in my closet to deal with somebody like you. I can kill you. It’s not a problem.”
“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 resume, 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. T’was not a pleasant thought.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Victor lowered the knife. “This job sucks,” he said.
“Most jobs do.”
I realized