Page 13 of Assassin Anonymous

The notebook is the key.

Why did he take the notebook?

“Mark,” Astrid says.

“Yeah.”

“The money? Also, I’d love to get the bathroom cleaned up. I can deal with a little mess”—she looks around and shrugs—“but this is a lot of blood.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure.” I get up slowly. The stitches tug, but they hold. “Let me get washed up.”

As Astrid exits the room she says, “I have some clean clothes that may fit you.”

“I’ll go to my place, get the cash, and bring it back.”

She reappears with some folded clothing. “I’d offer you a clean towel but I don’t think I have any left. And take my number. I’m not letting you disappear on me again until I get paid.”

It would be hard to impress on her that the reason I deleted her number is that I needed to put all forms of temptation behind me. Not having someone to tend to my more serious wounds made the idea of getting wounded a lot less appealing.

But it was sad, too. She was a big part of my life for a long time. Part of my routine. She saved my life more than once, and sometimes we’d share some laughs while she fixed me. It’s why I’m one of the few clients who has her home address.

I miss the way she laughed: high and energetic, like a pop song.

What’s the use of explaining that? Where would I even start?

“Okay,” I tell her, and read off my cell. She calls me, then hangs up, so I have her number again. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

—

As I approach West Third and Sullivan, even with the windows closed, an acrid, chemical smell creeps into the cab’s interior. That, coupled with the flashing lights, makes me think this night is about to get a whole lot worse.

We turn the corner and black clouds of smoke spill into the night sky from halfway down the block and six floors up.

See also: the approximate location of my living room.

I toss a fifty at the driver, yank the door open, and dive out. I nearly break into a sprint through the snarl of traffic, but the stitches demand I slow down.

I experience an immediate sense of relief when I make it to the crowd of people standing on the outskirts of the emergency response and find Ms. Nguyen holding a gray plastic cat carrier. She sees me approach and hoists the carrier above her head.

“We were afraid you were up there,” she says. “He came down to my fire escape.”

I take the carrier and P. Kitty shifts around inside, crying at the lights and smell and general disturbance. I place him down and throw my arms around Ms. Nguyen. She returns the hug with enough strength to make the wound on my stomach flare, taking my breath away.

I always suspected he snuck through the window and climbed down to hers for treats. I kiss the top of her head and tell her, “Thank you for not listening to me.” Then I lift the carrier to eye level and peer inside. P. Kitty, in all his dumb orange furball glory, looks at me and offers a little hiss.

“Love you, too, buddy,” I tell him. Then I turn back to Ms. Nguyen. “Is everyone okay?”

“Yeah, I think so,” she says.

The other residents are lucky; there’s a firehouse around the corner, so the FDNY must have responded within a minute or two, minimizing the damage to the rest of the building. My apartment may be smoldering ruins, but it’s just stuff. My money is safe, from both the fire and whatever damage ensues. I can always come back for it. But I can’t get another P. Kitty and for that I owe Ms. Nguyen more than she’ll ever know. Once I get into my safe I’ll pay off her rent for the rest of her life.

My perception finally catches up with reality and I know there is no way this can be a coincidence. It must have been the Russian, or someone working with him. So I guess I can say, with some degree of confidence, this is personal. The air is that tight kind of cold that makes it hard to draw a full breath. Plus the Vicodin is kicking in. Within seconds my head is spinning.

Ms. Nguyen sees this and puts her hand to my chest.

“Just breathe,” she says.

Four in, hold for four, out for four, empty lungs for four.

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