Greatest Hits - Book 5
Paris Bombay is looking for lasting love—a real woman to share Harvey Wallbangers with—which isn't easy to find when you're a member of history's most prolific family of assassins. Instead, he ends up with a lethal assignment that isn't his, a reluctant role as the new Bachelor on a reality TV show, and a slew of menacing death threats. Paris knew life as a Bombay wasn't easy, but if this assassin is going to find the love of his life, he's got to find out who's threatening his life first…
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Chapter 1
I knew one thing: as soon as anyone said you didn't need a gun, you'd better take one along that worked.
- Raymond Chandler
"Paris Bombay!" Perry, the announcer shouted. I flinched inwardly. The rose they gave me still had thorns and I was sweating like a fat guy in a sauna in this tux under these stage lights.
"The time has come!" He continued. "Who are you going to choose? Cin, or Teri?" I felt a clock ticking inside my head and it made me think of the bombs my cousin Dak and I used to make as kids. How did I get into this mess? I never wanted to star on The Single Bachelor: Bachelor No More - Ever. Great. Cin and Teri are looking at me thinking I'm about to make a decision. How do I tell them I can't?
It all started two months ago. And it was all my sister, Liv's, fault.
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“But, I just finished a job!” I protested. And if you think it was easy taking out an African warlord using only a plastic hotel key (hint – it’s all in the wrist), you’re kidding yourself.
“Well I can’t do it! Alta has the state science fair and Woody is trying out for the Olympic Archery team! It’s the finals!” Liv folded her arms over her chest and pouted. She actually pouted. And that’s when I knew I was screwed.
“We’re not supposed to do each other’s assignments.” I whined, even though I could feel myself giving in a little. And when I say “assignments” I mean contract killing…just to make that clear. I’m an assassin. So is my sister, my dad, my cousins and my grandmother. Well, actually, Grandma Mary is retired.
The Bombays have been contract killers since ancient Greece. After four millennia of wet work, you become pretty good at it, and we are the best. Every child born a Bombay joins the family business, whether we like it or not. Retirement is something that only happens when you are old enough to join the Council. All jobs are handed down by the Council. If you screw up…let’s just say the consequences are dire.
On the plus side, we are each independently wealthy, world travelers who can creatively kill anyone with anything. I’m serious. I’ve seen (or participated in) death by mangoes, scotch tape and once – a cleverly placed cotton ball. We are allowed to pick our own modus operandi, as long as the work is done and the Bombays aren’t implicated. Technically speaking, we only have one or two assignments a year. Assignments we are not allowed to pass on to other Bombays.
Liv threw her hands in the air – a gesture of futility she knew would work on her little brother. “It’s bad enough I can’t do both of the kids’ things! Todd and I have to split up to go! And I won’t pick whether your precious nephew or adorable niece feels abandoned on their big day! I just won’t do it!”
I sighed the sigh of capitulation. And Liv knew it. I have to give her credit for not gloating. I would’ve.
“Okay, fine.” I walked over to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of chardonnay. “I’ll do it.” After uncorking the bottle, I handed my sister the first glass.
Liv threw her arms around me and kissed my cheek. I saw that coming. It was what she did every time she needed me to cover for her. I could write the dialogue for these conversations. She always won, and I always lost.
After she left (with a small, in-your-face victory dance when she thought I wasn’t looking), I opened the envelope with the information on the Vic and this assignment.
Chuck Plimpton was a big time tv producer who ran a human trafficking ring for his string of sweat shops on the side. The problem (well, besides the human trafficking ring) was that Chuck was a hermit. No one had taken a picture of him in years. He didn’t go to parties or awards ceremonies. Rumor had it he liked to spend all his time “playing” with his employees.
Oh yeah, and he also threw money at television. He’d produced some real winners in the past; Orgy Island, Nuns in Vegas, and Scared Straight (which featured gay men being forced to live in trailers and buy their clothes at Goodwill - and lasted only two episodes due to a network boycott led by Lady Gaga). I never watched reality tv. But something about Orgy Island made me think I should catch up.
I’d heard about Nuns in Vegas. It was the only show he had that didn’t live up to its premise. Of course, it was a huge hit as a result. Chuck thought he had a “fish out of water” story here. Bring ten nuns from Iowa – from an order that lived as humbly as a medieval peasant with leprosy – and plant them in a suite at the Bellagio, giving them each $1 million to spend by the end of the show. Chuck was sure these little, old ladies in habits would try to spend it on charity.
What he didn’t figure on, was that the Sisters of Perpetual Poverty were hardcore gamblers and professional alcoholics. They embarrassed a bevy of slutty Playboy Bunnies and made a Gangsta Rapper cry on the first episode, then poured money into male escorts and the roulette wheel on the other shows. The ratings were ridiculous. The nuns were excommunicated. And Chuck was an even richer bastard than before.
The problem would be getting to him. Chuck never left his compound except for auditions for his next show. Even then, he was in a private room behind two-way mirrors, surrounded by bodyguards. I wondered how Liv had thought she could do it. But then, she’s a soccer mom, so she can really multitask.
But this was no longer her concern…it was mine. By now the house was dark. When did night fall? I flipped on the lights and turned off the Sinatra playlist on my iPod. Fumbling through the fridge I managed to find some brie and a mango. I sliced it all up and brought it back into my living room with a Harvey Wallbanger.
I wasn’t surprised to find that Netflix had all of Chuck’s shows in their video streaming library. I went to the first episode of Orgy Island, and hit “play.”
I had no idea you could film such things and air them on prime time. People are animals! Don’t they have mothers? Who signs on to a reality show and doesn’t know they’re going to look like idiots? I mean, seriously – the one episode with the banana and snake…really?
Right now, I couldn’t worry about that. I needed a plan to get in, take out the Vic (our cute family name for our victims) and get on with my life.
Well, if I had a life to get on with, that is. The fact of the matter was that I didn’t do much. My cousin Dak and I used to hit the town a lot, with the occasional trip to more exotic locales. But since he got married and had kids, his priorities have changed.
I’ve had dates. Okay, well I used to have more. But do you know how hard it is for an assassin to hit the dating scene? And we’re forbidden from having real Facebook accounts by the family Council. They kind of have a “leave no trace” policy.
I tried speed dating once. It was like running my hand through a meat grinder and rolling what was left in lemon juice. I met four women named “Kaetlynne.” And that is the best thing I can say about any of them.
For a while, my Aunt Carolyn Bombay tried fixing me up. I hate blind dates. No, I’d rather run into the perfect woman while browsing in the poetry section of a bookstore, or at a jazz concert in a smoky lounge. So far, all that’s happened is I’ve been banned from the poetry section of Borders for “weird loitering” and you’d be surprised how little you can see in a dark, smoky lounge. At least from the chest up.
My cousins and sister were all married. And of all of them, I’m the one who wanted to find someone special and settle down. It couldn’t be that hard if they did it. Could it? And yet, that certain someone eluded me.
I opened up my laptop and decided to put more energy into nailing Chuck. Kill Chuck first, then date someone wonderful. How hard could that be? I had to focus. So I googled Chuck.
It only took fifteen minutes to hit the jackpot. Turned out Chuck would be auditioning single men for some bachelor show. Approved candidates had to report in a few days to the studio in LA. Fine. I’d go there to audition and literally, blow Chuck Plimpton away.
First, I had to fill out an online application. No problem. It would all be lies because I had no intention of following through with it. Well, I had to use my real name because they’d be checking it against our drivers’ license, which told me they’d been burned in some strange way before. Okay. Fine. Paris Bombay. It’s not like I’d make it any farther than the audition.
These shows were stupid. Who really believes that a man can be put in a house full of women and actually find his one, true love? And these women! They all supposedly fell in love with whoever this moron bachelor was. Love was more meaningful than that, right?
I was one of those guys who really appreciated women. I’ve always thought of them as equals in every way. Girls in high school and college loved me. I was the boy-next-door (who just happened to like cleaning guns and shooting a sniper rifle) who turned into the unfortunate role of best friend instead of boyfriend.
The only thing I couldn’t tolerate was bimbos – women who thought it was okay to act like idiots to get a man’s attention. Unfortunately, as Dak’s best friend, they were most of the women we went out with, until his wife Leonie came along. In my humble opinion, these women who played the part of slutty girlfriend, hoping for a diamond from one guy she shared with twenty other losers was the worst of all. Give me a woman with a brain any day. Hopefully, I wouldn’t even meet these shallow girls who would fight like cats over the character I was applying for.
So I filled out the application in a way that would get me in the door, but not much else after. Was I wealthy? Yes. Bombays have outrageous trust funds due to four millennia of “wet work.” What was my idea of a perfect date? A picnic on the beach at sunset sounds cliché enough to work. If I was a fish, what kind of fish would I be, and why? Are they serious? Okay, okay. Um, I’d be a salmon, swimming upstream, against the flow, to be with the, um, girl salmon I love.
After hitting send, I put the laptop down and picked up the phone to call my cousin, Missi.
“Paris?” I heard her ask. Of course she’d have caller ID. Hell, for all I knew, my inventive cousin could see the color of my boxer shorts. They are black, if you must know.
“Hey Missi. I have a job and I need some advice.” I smiled as I said this. Missi was the inventor of ways to kill people for the Bombays. She’d come up with everything from exploding wacky wall walkers to plants that could suck the oxygen out of room.
“What’s the scenario?” She asked. This was good, because Missi tended to get sidetracked easily. Bring up a silencer make and she’d tell you how trout explode when you pressurize them.
“I’ll be in one room while my Vic is behind a two-way mirror, flanked by security.” Hmmm, now that I said it aloud, it seemed harder than it originally had. Maybe there was another reason Liv didn’t want this gig.
“Wow.” Missi said. That got my attention. Missi never said anything other than give me a few hours before. “It might take me a couple of weeks.”
What? “Oh, okay.” I cleared my throat. “You know what, Missi, don’t worry about it. I can come up with something.”
“Really? Are you sure?” Came the doubtful reply.
I nodded, as if she could see me. “Yes. I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”
“Okay!” Missi sounded cheerful before the phone went dead in my hand.
I was on my own. Damn.