"What are you doing?" Leonie had her arms folded over her chest. "Are you crashing the Lutz visitation?"

"Yes. I thought I'd come find you, since you've been too busy to return my calls." I said calmly, with only a smidge of defensiveness.

Leonie looked to her right and left before speaking. "That is so wrong, Dak! You can't stalk me like this."

"What are you talking about? I just wanted to show you some support."

"By pretending to be a colleague of Mr. Lutz's? Are you joking?"

"I could be a colleague. How do you know I'm not?" That's right, boy. Hang on to your dignity! That's right, boy. Hang on to your dignity!

"Because Mr. Lutz was the fat man in a circus side show," she said grimly. Okay, she had me there. Come to think of it, the urn was was enormous (I just thought the widow was being dramatic). And there was that woman with the beard. . . . enormous (I just thought the widow was being dramatic). And there was that woman with the beard. . . .

"All right, fine! I came here to find you." I pouted.

Leonie sighed and brushed a stray loop of curls from her face, "Look, Dak. I just need some time on my own for a while. Don't call me or stop by. Just give me space."

My jaw was hanging down to my knees. Somehow I managed to close it. "You're . . . you're breaking up with me?"

"It's more complicated than that. Someday I'll explain it to you, but I can't now. Okay?" Leonie patted me awkwardly on the shoulder, then left me alone.

Oh, my God. I just got dumped by a redheaded mortician in a funeral home named Crummy's, after pretending to be a circus freak at the visitation I had just crashed. I was pretty sure there'd be no bouncing back from this. I just got dumped by a redheaded mortician in a funeral home named Crummy's, after pretending to be a circus freak at the visitation I had just crashed. I was pretty sure there'd be no bouncing back from this.

Chapter Twenty-seven.

"I wonder if I have become smaller or has the bedroom Always been the size of a western state. The aspirin bottle is in the medicine cabinet Two hundred miles away, a six-day ride, And my robe hangs from the closet door in another time zone."

-Billy Collins, "Saturday Morning," Questions about Angels Questions about Angels

"And then she walked out of my life forever. She thought I was a loser and a geek," I said to Paris as I slumped over my scotch at some bar.

Paris raised his eyebrows. "You're quoting movies now? Man, you've got it bad. What is that . . . Casablanca Casablanca?"

"Ghostbusters. But that's beside the point." I was on my third drink and starting to realize that this might've been a bad time to take up drinking scotch. But Coney drank scotch, and he was soooooooo cool. I guess I thought maybe it would rub off on me. But all it was doing was getting me drunk. But that's beside the point." I was on my third drink and starting to realize that this might've been a bad time to take up drinking scotch. But Coney drank scotch, and he was soooooooo cool. I guess I thought maybe it would rub off on me. But all it was doing was getting me drunk.

Paris shook his head and motioned to the bartender for another Harvey Wallbanger.

"What's up with these fifties girlie drinks, anyway?" I slurred.

"What are you talking about?" Paris asked.

I motioned dramatically toward his glass, "Harvey Wallbangers, Pink Cadillacs, Grasshoppers, and Manhattans. That's what I mean! You had to tell the bartender how to make them! What's next? An Old-fashioned?"

"Ooooh," he replied, "I haven't tried one of them. I'll have that next."

"Dude"-I stabbed a finger at him-"you drink like Zsa Zsa Gabor."

Paris looked pissed. "No, I don't! Frank and Dino and the other Rat Packers drank this stuff!"

I drained my drink and signaled for another. "That was fifty years ago, and they're all dead. Drink something normal!"

"Oh, like you? I've never known you to drink scotch before. A little hung up on Coney?" Paris snorted.

We were stepping out into dangerous territory here. And I was really drunk. If Paris would just quit wiggling like a rubber pencil and stop dividing into two people, I'd let him have it.

"I'd rather emoolate him." I frowned. "Emy-oolabe. Emulake."

Paris sighed and rolled his eyes. "Emulate?"

"Right! Instead of a bunch of dead actors." I nodded sharply, which was a mistake, because now there were three Parises.

"All right, Mr. Sunshine. Time to take you home." Paris threw some money onto the bar, and I watched as it got up and danced a jig. He wrestled his arm under me and dragged me out to his car. The whole time I felt as if I were walking through water-upside down.

On the way back home I vaguely remember him calling my mom and asking her to keep Louis overnight and take him to school the next day. I couldn't help smiling. Paris was so responsible. He was not only my wingman, but my son's as well. Why couldn't I be more like that?

"I love you, man," I said to my cousin as he tucked me into bed. Paris rolled his eyes and left me alone in my room, with its spinning ceiling.

I woke up around noon the next day, following a dream where I was being chased around a 1950s casino by Sammy Davis Jr., who was pissed because I accidentally dropped his glass eye into my drink. And let me tell you-he ran like the wind.

Man. I should not not try new alcohol again. try new alcohol again. Right. Like it was the scotch's fault. I splashed some more water on my face and looked in the mirror, barely recognizing the gray ghost with purple bags under his eyes. Right. Like it was the scotch's fault. I splashed some more water on my face and looked in the mirror, barely recognizing the gray ghost with purple bags under his eyes.

I was just brushing my teeth for the tenth time when the doorbell rang. I spit quickly, then, grabbing a robe, answered the door.

Paris stood there with a grin and a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. "You look like hell."

I snatched the box and nodded. "Yeah, I just got back."

My cousin followed me into the kitchen and started making coffee. "Wait, I know that one." He absently tapped his fingers on his forehead. "It's from Heathers Heathers, right?"

I nodded. For some reason, lately I could only think in movie quotes. Which was okay, because words had failed me with the only woman I'd ever love. Oh, brother. Oh, brother.

"Dude," Paris said as he munched on a maple doughnut. "You reek."

"If it weren't for the doughnuts, I'd throw your sorry ass out of here." He was right. I just didn't want to hear it. The huge quantity of scotch I drank was now saturating my pores. There wasn't enough soap in the world to get rid of the smell.

"Well, I've got some news that will cheer you up. Neil came through with the last assassin. He's in Portland, Oregon. I booked us a couple of flights for tonight."

Neil. Neil. My brain scrambled to pin an identity on that name. Oh, yeah Oh, yeah. Our contact at the CIA. Old friend in college who liked Air Supply. He was helping us nail the National Resources guys.

I opened one eye and squinted at him-mainly because that was all I could manage. "That will cheer me up?" Actually it made me feel worse, as I remembered I'd promised Louis I wouldn't travel so much.

Paris seemed to sense my inner protest. "We're only one more kill away from clearing this assignment. Then you can spend the rest of the year ruminating on how your life has become an ironic tragicomedy."

He rose to his feet and slapped me on the back. It felt like getting hit with a baseball bat and sounded like a sledgehammer hitting concrete. "I'll pick you up at five. Pack for cold, rainy weather. Gin's going to pick up Louis from school and keep him till we get back. Ciao! Ciao! " "

I heard the door shut-it sounded like cannon fire. I finished off the pot of coffee and the box of doughnuts, then took a long, hot shower. Maybe Paris was right. Getting this job done would be a huge relief. Leonie could wait. I could win her over again when I got back. At least, I desperately hoped I could.

Somehow I managed to convince myself that everything would be all right in the end. After all, the Council was likely to give us time off for accomplishing two or three years' worth of work in just under a month. Then I wouldn't have to shuttle Louis between Mom and Gin, and I could get my head straight about Leonie.

Her image came immediately to mind. Leonie's tall and slim body, with her creamy, pale skin and bright, curly red hair. Her face with its elegant, yet elfin features. And those eyes that could turn me into a slave.

But what really caused a lump in my throat was who Leonie was. Funny and smart-she didn't put up with my crap, and seemed to be the only one to see me for who I really was. With a shock I realized that her (considerable) physical attributes came in a distant second to her personality. Another first for me.

But that would have to wait. I opened my suitcase and began to pack for Portland, thinking of how happy Leonie would be when I got back and she realized I really, truly loved her. In this fantasy, Louis went on to cure cancer and win the Nobel Peace Prize-which would be ironic for an assassin.

Chapter Twenty-eight.

I'm pretty sure there's a lot more to life than being really, really good-looking. And I plan on finding out what that is.

-Derek Zoolander, Zoolander Zoolander

My head stopped hurting by the time we landed in Oregon. As I stepped off the plane the cool, wet air made me feel a little better. By the time we got to the Super 8 motel I was feeling like my old, brokenhearted self.

"Neil gave us this address." Paris handed me a slip of paper. "He didn't have a name, but I Googled it and found out it's a guy named Fred Costa. He lives alone. Should be pretty easy."

I forced a grin and took another swig of water. My skin tone was starting to come back after the serious dehydration of the night before. I didn't like the bags-under-the-eyes look.

"So," I said, "we go tonight. Let's get this shit knocked out."

We must've been sitting in that rental car for hours, watching Vic's house. It was kind of cute-not at all what I expected for a male assassin, but who knows how people think? I sure didn't have a clue what was going on in Leonie's mind. Okay, enough of that. Get the job done and then I can get her to tell me what's going on. Okay, enough of that. Get the job done and then I can get her to tell me what's going on.

At eleven thirty p.m. the final light went out in Fred's house. Paris and I slipped up to the house a half hour later. Picking the lock on the back door was pretty easy. That was just plain sloppy: A good assassin would be more conscientious of his security. Oh, well, in a few moments it wouldn't matter anyway.

We moved quietly through the house, trying to locate our (hopefully) sleeping Vic. The inside of the house was even more feminine than the outside. Everything in every room screamed that a woman lived there. I whispered my concerns to Paris, but he just shrugged. As we approached the bedroom I prayed silently that there wouldn't be a Mrs. Vic in bed with Fred.

This worry proved needless, as we found him snoring away on a mattress on the floor. Paris pulled out his LED penlight to confirm the kill by locating the Woody Woodpecker tattoo. We'd been so freaked about the last two jobs we wanted to make this one work.

He'd just flashed the light on when I noticed there was no tattoo. Of course, Fred woke up and noticed that there were two men dressed all in black shining a flashlight on him. I aimed my gun at him.

"Who are you? What do you want?" A clearly terrified Vic scrambled to a sitting position, clutching his sheets as if they would protect him against bullets. That was funny.

Paris growled (which made me look at him in surprise). "Are you part of National Resources?"

The man's face screwed up in confusion. "No. What's that?"

"Are you Fred Costa?" I asked in exasperation.

He nodded. "Yeah. Who are you?"

Paris turned to me. "I don't think this is the guy."

I kept my eyes trained on Fred. "He must be the guy. Our source gave us this address. You Googled him, for chrissake."

Paris shook his head. "He doesn't have the tattoo."

I was getting annoyed with this line of conversation. "We didn't check Garth for the tattoo, and we took care of him." I watched Vic to see if the name Garth caused any recognition. But Fred just sat there with a blank look on his face.

"Who the hell is Garth? What tattoo?" Vic whined.

Paris never lowered his flashlight, keeping Vic completely in the dark as to what we looked like. "It's not him," he said simply.

I thought about this for a moment. There was no way I wanted to gun down an innocent man. However, I was just one step away from being able to focus on Louis and Leonie. Family had to come first.

"Don't," Paris said quietly.

Fred was beginning to whimper now. "Is this because of that prank with the donkey and the mayonnaise? Because if it is, I'll never do it again! I promise."

I was just about to ask him what he was talking about when I remembered I was on a job.

"Look!" I shouted at Paris. "Our connection gave us this address. He said this was the place. We can't worry about whether or not he has the right tattoo. Let's finish this and move on!"

I kept the gun leveled and snapped off the safety. The click seemed to drive Vic mad.

"No! Please! It's not me! It's a mistake!" he pleaded. I rolled my eyes. Like I hadn't heard that one before.

"Please!" Vic continued. "It must've been the previous owner! I've only lived here acouple of weeks!" He closed his eyes and flinched, like that would protect him from bullets too.

Paris pushed my arm down. "Wait. Let's hear what he has to say. I really think we might have the wrong guy."

I rolled my eyes and agreed. Paris confirmed the address with Vic, who acted like a condemned man who had gotten a call from the governor at the last minute.

"Yes! That's right." He nodded like a nervous bobble-head doll. "But I just moved here. The house has been on the market a long time. The previous owner moved." A strange look came over his face. "Wait! I still get the other guy's mail! I'll show you!" He started to get out of bed, and I raised the gun again, stopping him midway.

"Just tell us where it is. We'll get it," Paris said calmly.