The Hitman's Guide to Housecleaning

chicks in sight.
    Sickreader prepares a wonderful breakfast table with coffee, toast, and two boiled eggs that instantly make me think of Dikan’s balls. What the hell do they mean it was my fault? My fuck-up? I killed the right guy. Then it turns out he was FBI. That’s not my fault. I should be mad at them .
    “If you will be so kind, Father Friendly? We always ask the guest to say the table prayer,” Goodmoondoor says when we are seated.
    “Yes. Of course.”
    Again I have to regret not having killed Tarantino instead of this priest guy. But then again, it wouldn’t have been easy to mess with the writer of Kill Bill. Yeah, I guess I was lucky. At least the clergyman looked a bit like me. At least they believe I am him. That’s pretty low profile, I guess.
    OK. Here we go. Table prayer. I bow my head and close my eyes.
    “Dear God, dear beloved God. Thank you for this…for those eggs. Thank you for…thank you for having Friendly…friendly people around here. Thanks for sending me up here to this beautiful island and meeting those beautiful…those good and kind people. Thank you for giving me safe harbor in the sea of trouble. And breakfast as well. Amen.”
    Not too bad. They murmur their “amen,” and then it’s smiling time again.
    “Do you have many people in your organization, Father Friendly?”
    I lose my grip on the situation here. Accidentally it’s Toxic who answers. “About forty.”
    “Forty thousand?”
    “Forty thousand? Oh, yes, about forty thousand. Forty thousand registered members. But we have millions of people tuning in each week.”
    I remind myself to ask for the latest ratings report the next time I meet my program producer.
    After breakfast they show me to my room on the upper floor. I’m back to Catholic school. A crucifix hangs over the bed and two studio photos of Jesus Christ are on the opposite wall. White linen, white curtains, white rug.
    They tell me I must be tired from the long flight. I say you bet and then use the opportunity to tell Goodmoondoor that I cannot possibly go on TV tonight.
    “I’m sorry, but I just have to be totally relaxed when I go on TV. If God is to speak through me, I have to be totally empty inside.”
    I pause briefly, regretting using the wrong words. He looks at me like a freshly cuckolded llama. Big eyes, long teeth, hairy neck. His wife whispers something about my jet lag before I continue:
    “I mean, I’m just saying that nothing can be in the way, so that his word can travel through me. No tiredness, no nothing…I always have to be in super shape for TV.”
    “But,” he finally says, “I said on my show that you will come tonight and talk to the people.”
    “Oh? You did?”
    “Yes. I cannot cheat my promise to them. They are very faithful people.”
    Poor guy. He looks heartbroken. But I have to think of my LPP.
    “How many people watch the show?”
    I guess, for the small time TV-man, this question is a no-no. He gets all tangled up in his face, like a politician faced with a difficult question, and comes out with an excusing laugh.
    “We have many people watching.”
    I see. He only has ten viewers.
    “OK. We’ll see. You just call me, in the afternoon.”
    I don’t know what in the hell I’m doing. I give him my NYC number. The priest gives his colleague a hitman’s number.
    “OK, that’s good,” the Good Man says. His smile is back but a bit dented from the shock I just gave him. “You can stay here today and get a rest. Just be like in your home. We have to go to work now. In the TV station.”
    From my window I watch them board the fancy SUV. The believers always seem to have the best cars. God knows how to reward his people. Of course he knows you do need an SUV to reach heaven. The preacher’s wife wears a skirt and has lovely legs. If she were the only woman in our platoon and we were stuck in the mountains for a month, I’d start dreaming about her on Day 12.
    I’m left alone in the house. Despite the glacial spring outside, the rooms are warm like a July midnight in Memphis. That’s where I carried out a rather clumsy operation under an ugly bridge. When it comes to killing, I’m no racist, but shooting black people has never been my favorite. There’s nothing fresh about that.
    I strip to my true self, happy to get away from God’s collar, Friendly’s shirt, and Igor’s jeans, and crawl into bed. How soft, how cozy. And how incredibly quiet. It’s almost too much. It’s the loudest