"Why? Who's the president?"

"Vivian Marcy," Liv said.

Oh, shit. No wonder Gin wanted to kill her. That bitch had been horrible to my sister when they were growing up. No wonder Gin wanted to kill her. That bitch had been horrible to my sister when they were growing up.

I didn't like her either. Once she discovered I was Gin's little brother, she tormented me too. Her nickname for me was "Dorkota." Thank God I became a stud in high school or I'd have never lived that down.

"How the hell did she get to be in charge of the PTA?" I asked.

Gin turned to me without missing a beat. "She seduced Satan and had his baby, enrolling the incubus at Kennedy."

"Or she killed the previous PTA president and took his place," Liv countered.

This lively discussion went on for some time. I sat back and watched Louis playing with the girls. He was showing them how to construct a DNA double helix using leftovers from their lunches. Who knew there were so many uses for Twizzlers and Cheetos balls?

Damn, that kid was smart. As I sat there I felt a sharp surge of affection for him. I was getting those a lot lately. Maybe this dad gig wasn't bad. Maybe someday he'd dedicate his Nobel Peace Prize to me.

Of course, he wouldn't be a scientist. Louis was a Bombay now. And at six years old he was a year late in beginning his training as an assassin. Any day now Grandma could summon us to Santa Muerta for the bloodletting ceremony.

It wasn't fair. I just got him, and I'd have to start turning him into a killer. Of course, then we'd have a lot more to worry about than flag-football chafing. Damn. Damn.

Chapter Ten.

"I came up with a new gameshow idea recently. It's called The Old Game The Old Game. You got three old guys with loaded guns onstage. They look back at their lives, see who they were, what they accomplished, how close they came to realizing their dreams. The winner is the one who doesn't blow his brains out. He gets a refrigerator."

-Chuck Barris, Confessions of a Dangerous Mind Confessions of a Dangerous Mind

"Why am I doing this again?" Louis looked up from the pieces of the .45 that littered my dining room table. I'd decided to start some of his training that night, so I'd disassembled the gun to show him how to take it apart and clean it. Well, that and I still hadn't cleaned it from the last job. Mom had never tolerated dirty guns in the house when we were kids. Our rooms could look like they were trashed by the Sex Pistols, but guns had to be spotless twenty-four/seven.

"I'm just teaching you about guns." Okay, I'm a chickenshit coward. I thought I'd start small and wait until the blood ceremony to fill him in on everything.

Louis poked the bore brush through the gun barrel, sliding it in and out to loosen the dirt. He glanced up at me suspiciously but didn't say a word.

Mom showed up for her nightly I-have-to-make-sure-you-are-raising-my-grandson-right ritual. She frowned when she saw said grandson putting my .45 back together. I was pretty impressed he'd picked it up so quickly. She dragged me by the elbow into the other room.

"What are you doing?" Mom hissed.

"What?" I rubbed my elbow. "I'm starting his training."

"He's not ready! The poor kid just joined the family!"

"I know. I'm starting slow. I haven't given him the lowdown yet, just asked him to help me clean the gun. That's all." God! God! What was her problem? What was her problem?

Mom stuck around for dinner. Apparently Dad was fending for himself while she whipped up a three-course meal for me and Louis. I was actually surprised I had vegetables in my kitchen. Louis hugged her when she was finished, and I did the dishes while she put him to bed with a story.

Finally I got Mom out the door and tucked him in myself.

"Louis," I started, brushing some of his hair from his forehead. I screwed up my courage to ask him, "What was life with your mom like?"

"It was all right. She was a stewardess, so we moved around a lot. Mom told me her family was dead. I found out later that they weren't. They were just Republicans."

"Do you like it here?"

He nodded. "Yup. I love having a big family. The school is pretty good-even if it doesn't have a talented-and-gifted program. And Grandma's a good cook." He grinned crookedly, the gap between his two front teeth pronounced. How goddamned cute was that?

"Well, I hope I can be a good dad. I'm not used to this, you know? But I'll figure it out."

Louis rolled his eyes. "Duh. But it's okay.

It's a steep learning curve. Besides, it's not like life with Mom was normal. Nitroglycerin is more stable than that."

I laughed. My kid made a joke-albeit a science geek/genius joke, but a joke nonetheless. "Good night, Louis." I kissed him on the forehead.

"Night, Dad." He winked, then rolled over and closed his eyes.

I couldn't sleep that night. There were too many things on my mind. Life used to be so simple. Kill one or two guys a year, sleep with more than a hundred blondes a year, no pets, no commitments, and lots of play money.

After tossing and turning in bed I got up and wandered through my condo with the lights off. I liked it like that. It was so quiet. Like it used to be all the time, actually.

Shadows dozed throughout the living room, and I sank down on the couch to watch the lights change as cars went by. It was weird to be wearing silk boxer shorts. I'd been a total nudist all of my life (to Gin's teenage horror and her sleepover friends' delight). But with a young, impressionable boy in the house, I thought I'd cover up somewhat.

Maybe I just needed to think. In all honesty I hadn't had much time to do that. Not that I was ever much of a thinker. When your philosophy in life is, "What the hell?" you don't tend to ponder the big questions like, "Why are we here?" (Although for many years I labored under the impression that I was here to be utterly adorable and give pleasure to women.) Things change. Now I had a different purpose. Maybe it was time to finally settle down. You know, be a dad to Louis and a lover to Leonie-maybe more. These thoughts kept spinning around in my head as I sat there in the dark.

I had a split second to react to the glint of light I saw out of the corner of my eye. I wasn't alone. Fortunately the idiot didn't know I was there.

I slowly turned my head in his direction, careful not to make the springs in the couch creak. There was a guy in my living room! And I'd say from the dark clothing and stocking cap he didn't enter my house by accident.

In my bare feet it was easy to get the jump on him before he saw me. Creeping up behind the bastard, I carefully lifted a sculpture off my coffee table and brained him with it. He hit the floor with a thud-no idea what had happened. I looked at the statue of the nude woman in my hand. There was a little crater where her head used to be. Damn. Damn. I really liked that piece. Then it occurred to me that I probably shouldn't have stuff like this with Louis around. I toyed with hitting the thug again, but decided against it. I really liked that piece. Then it occurred to me that I probably shouldn't have stuff like this with Louis around. I toyed with hitting the thug again, but decided against it.

"Unhhhhhh . . ." The prowler started to come to, just in time to notice my incredible handiwork integrating rope with the kitchen chair. Scoutmaster Thompson would be so proud of me.

I'd already pulled his wallet. What a dumbass. You don't take your wallet on a job!

"Hey, Bobby John!" I said brightly as he squinted at me. "Yes, your head hurts, and no, I won't untie you so you can touch it. You'll just have to trust me on this one."

Bobby John Drake's eyes grew really wide. If this were just a simple breaking and entering, he didn't expect this. I let him panic a little-which he did rather impressively, once he discovered he was completely naked-before continuing. This was an old trick Uncle Pete taught me: When you're naked, you feel completely vulnerable.

"So, Bobby John." I clapped him on the shoulder amiably. "What brings you to my house at"-I looked at the clock-"two a.m.?" I smiled charmingly.

"What the hell, man?" Bobby John whined.

"I beg your pardon?" I asked.

"Why the hell have you tied me up? And what did you do to me?" Tough words. Unfortunately they were punctuated with nervous squeaks.

I sat in a chair across from him. While he was out I'd taken the opportunity to dress in jeans, a black cashmere pullover, and loafers. I hoped he appreciated the irony of our role reversal.

"You ever seen Reservoir Dogs Reservoir Dogs, Bobby John?" I asked.

He gulped, like they do in cartoons. "Yeah."

"Remember that scene with Michael Madsen and the cop he has tied to a chair?" I laughed. It was a good scene. A bit graphic when he cuts the cop's ear off with the straight razor, but still good.

Bobby John responded by wetting himself. Good thing I had solid wood chairs and linoleum flooring. Apparently he had seen that movie.

"So, anyway"-I drew my right leg up, ankle on my left knee-"what are you doing in my house?" I asked casually enough. It wasn't my fault the man started crying.

"Shit! Shit!" he sputtered. But no answers.

I got up and walked over to my silverware drawer, pulling it open. "I don't have a straight razor, Bob. You don't mind if I call you Bob, do you? It's just that calling a grown man Bobby John makes me want to torture someone." I pulled a butter knife from the drawer.

"I do have a dull knife, though. I s'pose I could do more damage with that anyway."

"It's just a job, man!" Bob wept.

I sat across from him again. "What job would that be?"

No response.

I slapped my head. "You know what?" I got up and snagged a fork and a hot dog, bringing them back to the table next to him. "I think I could cause a lot more pain with a fork." I stuck the fork into the uncooked meat and raked it lengthwise until I had completely shredded the wiener.

"Some guy paid me to do it!" the man squealed. "I don't know who! He just gave me five hundred dollars to come in and check out your place!" The tears were flowing now, and Bob's skin was turning an alarming shade of red.

I crossed my arms. "Right. What a terrible cliche, Robert. You don't mind if I call you Robert, do you? It's just that I get the giggles when I say the name Bob. Did you know that's a palindrome? It's spelled the same way forward and backward."

"I swear! That's it! I don't even know his name!"

"How were you going to report what you found back to him then?"

Bob's head looked as if it were going to explode. He started to scream, and I gave him a right hook to the jaw.

"Sorry about that, Robert. I can't have you waking the neighbors." I didn't want to tell him I had my son a short distance away.

Bob nodded like he understood, then continued: "He was going to e-mail me. That's how I got the job in the first place."

I stared at him. "You took a job from a stranger over the Internet?" What a loser. If you can't meet them face-to-face, it's probably a setup. Grandma always said that if it seems too good to be true, it probably is. Good old Grandma. I really love the gal. Well, except for when she's been trying to kill me.

Bob sniffled. "I needed the money." And I had to agree. His now-missing wardrobe looked like he shopped in the stealth section of Dollar General. "I wasn't gonna hurt you. Just find out who all lived here and the layout. That's it."

I sighed and pulled the blue Springfield Armory .45 from the back of my jeans and placed it on the table. Bob's eyes almost burst.

"That's all you know?" I asked patiently.

There was a moment of silence, and I toyed with bringing up the pawnshop scene from Pulp Fiction Pulp Fiction, but Bob seemed to be telling the truth. He was just a broke, two-bit loser who did something stupendously stupid-like break into the condo of a professional assassin. Of course, he didn't know that.

"What's this guy's e-mail address? Does he have a name?" I asked, talking to Bob but looking at the pistol. I loved that gun. It was a gift from Mom on my fifteenth birthday. It was unregistered, of course, and came with a hand-tooled calfskin holster.

He didn't miss a beat. "Says his name's Doc Savage."

If I were a dog, Bob would've seen my ears prick up. "Really? The Man of Bronze?" My inner ten-year-old geek kicked in, and I was suddenly transported to my parents' attic, knee-deep in Kenneth Robeson novels.

Bob squinted at me. "That name mean something to you?"

"I believe I'm the one in charge of this inquisition, Mr. Drake. You don't mind if I call you Mr. Drake, do you? I do prefer to distance myself from my victims."

I smiled as he shuddered. The name did, in fact, mean something to me. I'd always wanted to be just like Doc Savage: independently wealthy, surrounded by willing and knowledgeable henchmen, blond hair and glowing tan, scouring the world for evil. I'd read all the books and seen the Ron Ely movie a million times. I even wanted a 1930s roadster for my first car, but Mom said it would stand out too much. Bombays never call attention to themselves. So instead of a cool car, I got what all the other kids got-a stupid Chevy Citation.

"That's all I know," Bob stammered, "I . . . I . . . I swear!"

I knew he was telling me the truth. There was nothing more to get out of Bob. I slapped a piece of duct tape over his mouth and held a liberal dose of Gin's special knockout drug over his nose until he passed out.

He'd be unconscious for at least ten hours, easy. But what should I do with him? I mean, I couldn't let my little boy come to breakfast to find an unconscious naked man tied to a chair. After about ten minutes of intense thinking, I dragged him into the cleaning closet, threw a blanket over him, and locked the door. That should hold Bobby John Drake till I figured out what the hell to do with him. The question was, what did this all mean?

"Um, Dad?" Louis stood in the doorway of the kitchen, his small fists rubbing sleepy eyes.

I felt a little twinge inside my heart. I was starting to love it when he called me Dad. "What is it? You should be in bed."

Louis looked around the kitchen, then frowned. "One of the chairs is missing, and it smells like a dog peed in here." His eyes rested on mine. "We don't have a dog."

I know you are supposed to be honest with kids, but I couldn't think of a logical explanation. So I went with the next best thing-making him think he was hallucinating. Putting my hands on his shoulders, I turned him gently toward his room.

"All four chairs are there, and no one had an accident on the floor. You're still dreaming. Back to bed now."

To my immense relief Louis shrugged and went back to his room, shutting the door behind him. After cleaning up the kitchen, I sat in the living room for a long time trying to figure out what to do next.

A couple of hours later, as I fed my son his Lucky Charms (they are are magically delicious) in the living room so he wouldn't notice the missing chair in the kitchen, I still didn't have a clue. Zip, zero, magically delicious) in the living room so he wouldn't notice the missing chair in the kitchen, I still didn't have a clue. Zip, zero, nada. nada. Not one single idea what to do with the man in my cleaning closet. When I got back home from dropping Louis off at school, I pulled Drake out of the closet, still attached to the chair. Not one single idea what to do with the man in my cleaning closet. When I got back home from dropping Louis off at school, I pulled Drake out of the closet, still attached to the chair.

He stared at me while I dragged him to the kitchen and whimpered as I pulled the tape off of his mouth.

"Okay," I said amiably, "where were we?"

Bobby John Drake shook his head, indicating he wasn't much of a talker as of late.

"What kind of grown man goes around as Bobby John?" I asked him. When he didn't respond, I continued: "Not interested in talking?"

"I don't have nothing else to say."

"That's too bad." I started looking through cupboards. "Now, where did I put that rusty ice pick?"