Chance Assassin: A Story of Love, Luck, and Murder Read online

  “Where are your parents?” Frank asked.

  “It’s my turn to ask the questions,” I said sternly.

  “I have to go to work.”

  “Cheater,” I said. I knew he was only fleeing to avoid any more talking. The man was impossible. “My parents are dead.”

  “Were they good to you?”

  I stared at him. No one ever asked that. They’d always jump right to the apologies, as if their being sorry changed anything. “What if they weren’t?”

  “Then you’re better off without them,” he said plainly, cold and detached. But it was too late. I was already getting choked up.

  “Yes, they were good to me,” I said with my head down.

  “How did they die?”

  I wiped my eyes. It had been awhile since I’d talked to anyone about it. The social workers dried up pretty quickly once I’d gotten placed in the first of many foster homes, and Mark had never liked discussing the negative sides of life. “Car accident,” I said. “They were killed instantly.”

  “Were you in the car?” Frank asked. He didn’t flinch at the word killed. Not like someone else would.

  “In the backseat,” I said. I didn’t remember any of it. The entire day was a blur. But I’d been told the details. The other driver had a blood alcohol content three times the legal limit. He’d crossed over the center line and hit us head on. My dad had tried to swerve, but it was too late.

  The man who killed them had come to visit me after he got out of jail. He said he was sorry, and we ended up sharing a bottle of schnapps in the backseat of his still wrecked Ford, parked halfway on the dead lawn of my current foster home. I gave him a blowjob, then threw up on his lap. I didn’t apologize.

  “I’m sorry, Vincent,” he said. It was interesting that he didn’t give his condolences until after he’d learned that I was in the vehicle. I wondered whether death seemed less significant to him, being that he caused it for a living.

  “What about your parents? Are they still alive?”

  “No,” he said. I had a feeling he was only going along with this because he’d made me cry. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he flipped the inquisition back on me as soon as I calmed down, but for now he was allowing it, just to appease me.

  “Were you close?” I asked.

  “With her, yes.”

  “Not him?”

  “We barely knew each other.”

  “They weren’t married then?” I guessed.

  “He was.”

  “Ouch.”

  Frank smiled. He’d been doing that more and more, and it brought me endless pride to know it was because of me.

  “Were you really close with your mom?” I asked, and judging by his expression, he’d hoped I’d lost my train of thought.

  “What kind of question is that?”

  I shrugged, then sniffled a little to remind him that he’d upset me earlier. My parents loved me because they loved each other. I was a part of them, which made me a great substitute when they couldn’t be together. But mostly I was left to my own devices, mainly television, while they stared into each other’s eyes. When I thought of them, it was usually as one parental unit, instead of two individuals. Momanddad. It was fitting that they’d died together. It was fitting that they’d forgotten to take me with them.

  He scowled at me. “Very close. She was all I had.”

  “When did she die?”

  “I was young. I don’t remember.”

  “Did you live with your dad after that?”

  “No,” he said, and I could feel the room get colder. He was done with this subject for now. “What did your parents do before they died?”

  “Took turns getting fired,” I told him. I’d thought I would have to change the subject, but he’d taken the lead. “They were like two teenagers in love. They’d skip work to hang out with each other and then wonder why they couldn’t pay their bills. He was really good with cars, so usually she was the one to lose work. I get my lack of talent from her.”

  “You’re very hard on yourself,” he said.

  “But I’m conceited, so it makes up for it.”

  “You’re beautiful. You have every right to be conceited.” As soon as he realized what he’d said, he blushed violently. “I am so sorry.”

  He stood up like he couldn’t get far enough away from me. I thought he was afraid I’d get the wrong idea, but his body language wasn’t defensive. It was more like he was ashamed of himself. Could he possibly think I’d be insulted by his compliment?

  I wasn’t sure what to say. “That’s okay,” I said. It wasn’t the same as when other men called me beautiful. With them, it meant I’d be donning knee pads. With Frank, it meant uncomfortable silence. And the last thing I wanted was for Frank to be uncomfortable or silent. I tried my best to reassure him, whatever his concern may have been. “I’m practically a girl anyway. Don’t worry about it.”

  “No, you are not,” he said quickly, still avoiding eye contact. “You say shit like that you’re no better than Charlie.”

  “I was trying to make you feel better,” I said. I didn’t like being compared to Charlie, especially because Frank was absolutely right. I’d been known to use words like faggot in a derogative manner, not just toward myself but toward any slightly effeminate male. It was hard not to when I’d gotten so accustomed to hearing it. As much as I hated when someone called me anything remotely offensive in that way, it had infiltrated my vocabulary to the point that I rarely even noticed when I used it.

  “I should have said handsome,” Frank muttered under his breath. Language was clearly an insecurity for him, though I couldn’t see why. He spoke better English than I did, and I never would’ve figured out what the accent was if not for the way he’d said Paris.

  “So you’re a little ESL. It doesn’t change the fact that I’m pretty,” I said.

  “I’m a little what?”

  “Um…European. You say my name with a French accent.”

  “Do I?” he asked. “Merde.”

  I laughed. I knew that word. “Is Vincent a French name?” I asked. As far as I was aware, my ancestors were all Irish. The name had been passed down from my grandfather, the first Vincent James Sullivan.

  “Not specifically, but it’s more common in Latin based languages,” he said, then he repeated my name a few times, making sure to say it like I had. “Sometimes it slips.”

  “French is pretty. I don’t see why you bother speaking English at all, much less with an American accent.”

  “Because I’m in America,” he said. “I like blending in.”

  “You don’t blend in,” I told him. “You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

  He paused for a moment. “Charlie says that you fancy me. Is that true?”

  That hadn’t been the word Charlie used. He would’ve told Frank that I wanted to fuck him, or something lewder. I watched him carefully, trying to gauge how he’d react. Would he be mortified or would he just blush again and get over it? Whichever it was, I was fairly confident that he wouldn’t punch my lights out, so I went ahead and answered. “Yes, I fancy you,” I said.

  The color that was just beginning to fade returned to his face. “Vincent, you’re―”

  “I am fully aware that you’re straight, Frank,” I said, hoping he realized that I wasn’t as devious a homosexual as Charlie had described me. “I’m not gonna hit on you…much. You have nothing to worry about. It isn’t contagious.”

  “I know it’s not contagious,” he said, shaking his head disparagingly. “And it’s nothing to be ashamed of. As far as I’m concerned, it’s no one’s business but yours and the person you’re with. Actually, I take that back. In your case, the police should be involved.”

  I tried to playfully smack him, but he moved out of my reach as fast as a snake striking. God, he was quick. “Don’t tease me.”

  He sat back down on the bed. “I mean that, Vincent.”

  “Because he gave me a black eye?”
>
  “That, and I’m sure he’s older than you are. You’re still a minor.”

  I hadn’t even told him about Mark yet. I was positive that wouldn’t go over well. But it was comforting that Frank seemed just as concerned about my welfare as I was about his. Not since my father died had a man showed an ounce of care for me that wasn’t sexually motivated.

  “I had nowhere to live, Frank,” I said. When I’d first run away, I’d tried staying in a homeless shelter. That was a nightmarish experience. A man who’d been missing teeth had tried to fuck me in the shower, and it had scared me so much I refused to go back. After that, I’d met a CPA who was separated from his wife, and the rest was history. “Guys my age don’t have their own apartments.”

  “What about getting a job?”

  “The only thing I’m good at is giving head, and I don’t want to be a prostitute.”

  Frank flinched. Talking bluntly about sex obviously bothered him more than talking about death. “That’s not true, Vincent. I’m sure you’re skilled at other things.”

  “Easy for you to say, Mr. fluent in seven languages but never speaks.”

  “Your father knew about cars,” he said, ignoring my comment. “Didn’t he teach you anything?”

  “Yeah,” I said sadly, “but I’m not into it.”

  I’d actually been eager to follow in his footsteps. But that was before they’d died. I got nervous even riding in a car now, and the one time Mark had tried to teach me how to drive, I had a panic attack and ended up in tears. I knew I wouldn’t be able to bang out a single dent without visualizing how they got it, much less even look at a vehicle that had been totaled in an accident. Not to mention how someone like me stuck out amongst the grease-monkey mechanics. It was one thing to tag along with Daddy and play in the tires, but I’d always been a bit of a joke to the other guys in the shop. Someone like me would get laughed out of the garage if I ever presented my résumé.

  “You’re lying,” Frank said. He’d seen right through me.

  “So?”

  “I had trouble starting my car this morning,” he said like a bad actor reading a line. “You want to try and fix it? It beats making Charlie bring me a new one.”

  “You probably need to replace your battery,” I said. I thought he was just trying to remind me how much I liked working on cars, but then I realized he was serious. “You’d really get a new car instead of going to a mechanic?”

  “I have trust issues.”

  “And Charlie calls me a princess.”

  “Oi!”

  I laughed. I would have built him a car if he’d asked me to. “Yeah, I’ll take a look,” I said confidently, though I could already feel the anxiety building.

  He gave me his keys and followed me outside. My hands were shaking as I got in the driver’s seat, leaving the door open so my feet could remain on the pavement.

  I’d only once sat in a BMW before, and that was nothing like this one. It had been a fairly old car, with a fucked up suspension. My father was fixing it, and after I got sick at school he took me back to the garage with him instead of dropping me off at home. He let me sit inside while he worked on it. I pretended like I was driving. Then I threw up all over the upholstery, and he called Mom to come get me.

  Frank’s car was much nicer. For one thing, it was brand new. It still had that smell, and there wasn’t a single speck of dust to tarnish the interior. I’d have cut out my own stomach before even thinking of puking anywhere near the heated black leather seats.

  It took me two tries to get past my nerves and put the keys in the ignition, but when I did, it started up fine. I glared at him and turned it off. “There is nothing wrong with this car, Frank.”

  “I guess it was just cold,” he said with a grin. “And speaking of…” He took off his coat and handed it to me. “I do not want you going out again without a coat, understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. I put it on immediately, wanting his warmth all over me, wanting to breathe nothing but his scent of expensive aftershave and danger. It made me feel more secure behind the wheel when I could imagine him being close enough to touch.

  I would’ve checked my reflection in the appropriately named vanity mirror; reflective surfaces, like televisions, always called for my attention; but I knew in advance that I’d be disappointed. The only time I’d ever worn black was at my parents’ funeral. I was too pale for it. It washed out my face and made me look like a ghost.

  Then Frank said “It looks nice on you” and I vowed to never wear anything else.

  “How much do I owe you for the car?”

  I rolled my eyes. Suddenly, the screeching sound of Charlie’s beastly vehicle was filling the air. I hadn’t even realized that the sun had started to go down. Obviously, Frank hadn’t either. Charlie was a little early for dinner delivery, but mostly we’d just lost track of time.

  “Thank you for the book,” he said sincerely, then he motioned for me to put the jacket under the seat. It was too late for me to run back inside and pretend like nothing was going on. The Warden was already within sight. “Play along,” he added, leaning against the side of his car with his back to me and lighting up a cigarette.

  Charlie parked right next to us, getting out of the metal monstrosity with his usual grin. Ever since I could talk, I could distinguish the make and model of any car within sight, and quite a few by sound. Charlie’s car had me stumped. It was like the devil picked up a handful of scraps at a junkyard, smashed them together, and made it run by magic. It was the color shit would be if shit could rust, and it leaked oil by the gallon. Frank should’ve shot the thing and put it out of its misery.

  “Car trouble?” he asked, peering down at me from behind the cigarette he’d already stolen from Frank.

  Frank held out his silver lighter, snapping it shut when Charlie pulled away with a mouthful of gray smoke. “It wouldn’t start,” he said calmly.

  “You could’ve called me, Frankie boy. I’d have picked you up.”

  “Young Vincent told me he could fix it,” he said, his voice condescending. I had to admit, Frankie boy was a pretty good actor after all. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he disliked me as much as his buddy.

  “Really?” Charlie asked doubtfully. “And how’s that working out?”

  “We’re about to see,” Frank said, looking back to me with cold eyes. It took all my concentration not to get an erection now that he was being mean to me again. He was really fucking sexy when he was hostile. “Well, go ahead. Start it.”

  I sighed and turned the key, not at all surprised when the car came to life. I couldn’t help but smile at the two of them, gaping at me with the same shocked expression.

  “Huh,” Frank grunted, flicking his cigarette to the pavement by my feet. Never once had he touched it with his fingertips.

  “Will you look at that?” Charlie exclaimed. “What was wrong with it?”

  I glanced quickly toward Frank, hoping for some sort of signal as to whether The Warden knew enough about vehicle maintenance to see through our ruse. I could make up a list of things that would’ve taken me since lunchtime to fix, but none that were likely to occur in a new car. And certainly not any I could fix without tools.

  “I left my lights on,” he said, taking the heat off me completely. “Vincent walked over to pick up a new battery when he was done eating.”

  “Nice kid,” Charlie said. “I guess you earned your meal this time.”

  “Yeah,” I said under my breath, getting out of the car and handing Frank his keys back. “Can you let me back in the room? It’s cold out here.”

  Frank had already slipped the key out of my pocket by the time Charlie stepped in. “I got it, kiddo. You’d better head off to work.”

  I followed Charlie to the door, risking one last glance at Frank in the parking lot. He did not look very happy with being told what to do, but he still smiled at me and mouthed see you tomorrow.

  Frank started coming by every morning to take me to
breakfast. The majority of the time, our discussions were about me; the death my mom and dad, my childhood, my lack of ambition. We even talked about what happened after I collapsed at the door, a good deal of which Charlie neglected to mention. Apparently, I’d woken several times during the two days I thought I’d been out cold. I’d complained about being in pain, and more than once asked for my parents. I had even requested that Frank lie down with me, which he did just to piss Charlie off.

  He and I had spent hours talking, and yet I knew very little about him. Getting information from the source was even more difficult than getting it from Charlie had been. It was a lot of guesswork with Frank, and unless the question was specific enough, all I ended up with were yes or no answers. Then, to make it even harder for me, when he didn’t like the question he’d refuse to answer at all.

  The only time I ever got any details was after I’d screamed in frustration when his vagueness started giving me a headache, or if the question he’d asked me was particularly sensitive and had left me close to tears. When I was upset, all bets were off. Frank hated talking about himself, but he would’ve told me his deepest, darkest secrets if it meant that I’d feel better. Luckily for him, I didn’t take full advantage of his Catholic guilt, and I let him stop talking when I could tell he was getting tense.

  There was something about him that made me feel like I didn’t have to hold back. I’d told him things I’d never told anybody, and we had barely met. Maybe it was because he rarely interrupted. He hardly spoke at all when I was talking, unless something really bothered him, like when I told him about Mark. He’d called him a pervert and said that if he ever ran into him he’d do something very unprofessional, which he meant, and I took, as the opposite. Professional was exactly what it would be, because murder was his profession.

  Frank said that he only ever killed for money. It was something he felt strongly about. But he assured me that he’d give me a really good discount, and would even chip in. I knew he was just saying it to show he cared. I’d never be able to afford his services. And I wouldn’t want to. If he worked for me it would put a strain on our relationship. Though it did make me laugh when he’d bring up the fact that the people he killed were often referred to as “marks.”