The Ethical Assassin

I had to consider the possibility that it was Chitra’s foreig

Whatever it was, I wasn’t alone in admiring her. Even Ro

I felt a comforting rage- comforting because of its familiarity and because it had nothing to do with the murder, which for a moment I could tuck into a neat little compartment toward the back of my brain. I could understand why Ro

I knew almost nothing about her, but I was already certain that Chitra was smart, and Chitra was discerning, but she was also from India. She had been here since she was eleven- she’d told me that in a brief conversation I had strategized into existence the previous Saturday night- but she was still from a foreign country. She spoke English well, having studied it even before moving here, but she spoke in the formal way many foreigners had, suggesting they’re always tripping over something, always making decisions, worried about mistakes.

To me, her foreig

Ro

My position was just fine for the moment. The previous week, after a couple of rapidly consumed cans of Miller beer, I’d managed to work up the courage to sit next to her and casually introduce myself. She’d listened to my bookman advice, laughed at my bookman war stories- a genuine laugh, too, an infectious, almost convulsive giggle that came with mild torso rocking. She talked about the novels she liked, how after the summer she would be starting at Mount Holyoke, where, she had already decided, she would do a dual major in comp lit and philosophy. She loved living in the United States, she said, but she missed Indian music and street food and the dozens of varieties of mangoes you could buy in the markets. The conversation had been marvelous and full of promise, but I hadn’t initiated it until two in the morning, and I had hardly overcome my initial nervousness before she a

I saw her the next morning but did nothing more than smile politely and say good morning, lest I betray the fact that I liked her. Now I kept still, averted my eyes for as long as I could before sneaking glances. Then I watched them talk while trying not to think about the dead bodies I’d seen that night. Though “dead bodies” already seemed a bit of sanitizing. I hadn’t seen dead bodies, I’d seen bodies becoming dead. That, surely, ought to keep me from dwelling on Chitra, on the graceful length of her neck, on the vaguest hint of cleavage that peeked out from her white blouse. It ought to have, but somehow it didn’t.

Meanwhile, the Gambler had started talking. He’d been saying something about how it was all in the attitude, about how the people out there wanted what we had to sell.

“Oh yes, my friends,” he cried out. His face was darkening, not with the blood red of exertion, but with the vibrant pink of exuberance. “You know, I see them out there every day. They’re out in front of their homes with their plastic swimming pools and their Big Wheels and their lawn jockeys. You know what they are, don’t you? They’re moochie. They want to buy something. They’re looking around with their greedy little eyes, and they’re thinking, What can I buy? What can I spend my money on that is going to make me feel better about myself?”

The Gambler stopped and unbuttoned the collar of his blue oxford and loosened his tie with one finger like Rodney Dangerfield not getting respect. “See, they don’t understand money. You do. They want to get rid of it. They want you to have it. You know why? Because money is a good thing to have. You know those songs? You know the ones- they tell you money isn’t important. Only love matters. That’s right. Love. You get together with your special love, and as long as you have each other, nothing else counts. You can live in a run-down shack as long as you have love. You can drive a beat-up old car as long as you have love. That’s awful pretty.”

And then he did that odd thing. His arms were out, flailing wide, as if he were about to hug a bear, and he just paused, held the pose in the air. He didn’t do this every session, not even every weekend, but I’d seen him do it three or four times before. It was weird theater, but the crowd loved it. Everyone broke out into applause and cheers while the Gambler held the position for twenty, maybe thirty seconds, and then he went back to his rant.

“Yeah,” he said, as though he hadn’t been playing statue, “those words are nice, but those songs don’t tell you about when the guy from that better neighborhood drives by in his brand-new Cadillac on his way to his beautiful home, and he winks at that in-love woman standing in front of her run-down shack. See, now that beat-up car don’t seem like it’s enough.

“Those people you sell to, they’re looking for something. And so are you. They’re looking for what you can give them- a sense of doing the right thing. My Lord, friends, it is so beautiful. You believe in God? You better thank God right now for helping you to find this job, this job that lets you help others while you help yourself.”

This went on for another half an hour. The Gambler made those who had scored feel like royalty, and those who had blanked would burn to get back out there and try again. He possessed and harnessed an incredible energy that I saw and understood, even though it left me unmoved. Where everyone else fed off his enthusiasm, I saw a core of mea

“Now, there’s one more thing,” the Gambler told the crowd. He was winded, slightly bent, and breathing deeply. “I just learned that there may be a reporter who’s interested in us. I don’t know the details, but he’s go