The Ethical Assassin

“Thanks.”

“I’ll let you get back to your su

“You bet.”

Though B.B. couldn’t see her eyes, he felt sure they were closed now, and the gum chewing resumed with its lulling bovine rhythm. He stayed a moment longer than necessary, staring in train-wreck style at the folds of fat emerging from under her white suit. Her breasts were surprisingly small considering her magnitude. It must be hard on a woman, he thought, to be so massive and not even have the bust to show for it. Still, there were some men who found obese women attractive. It was a fu

B.B. strolled over to the boys, who were playing at the other end of the pool. They splashed around the deep end but seemed capable-enough swimmers. They darted back and forth, up and down, while talking about a comic book character called Daredevil. From what B.B. could tell, this Daredevil was blind and so sounded like a low-rent sort of superhero.

“How you young men doing today?” B.B. asked. He sat on a chaise across from them and smiled a new smile, the one that he knew neglected, aimless boys- boys in need of a role model- found reassuring.

“Fine,” one said, and the other echoed in mumble. The older one, who was probably about twelve, was blond and tan and fit, with firm pecs, a flat stomach, and tight little arm muscles. His nose was a bit too long and too narrow for him to be truly handsome, and he had a bit of a receding chin, but he didn’t look weak for it. No, with his trim, lithe physique, he wasn’t the kind of young man who took crap from bullies. The other boy, much darker and covered with unsightly freckles, was probably closer to nine. He was thi

B.B. cracked his knuckles and leaned forward. “You like this blind superhero, huh?”

“Yeah,” said the blond kid. “Daredevil.”

“It’s a shame,” B.B. observed. “The way they force that stuff on you. You can’t turn on kids’ programs anymore without seeing someone in a wheelchair or on crutches or missing an arm or doing sign language like a monkey. And now they’re giving you blind superheroes? They want you to look up to some blind gimp beating up on bad guys with his cane?”

The blond kid didn’t say anything. The younger one said, “I’m sorry.” He said it very quietly, and he held his head so far down that the water bubbled around his lips.

“And the Hulk,” B.B. said. “Half the time he’s a loser egghead, and the other half he’s a big green moron. What the heck is that?”

“I don’t know,” the little kid bubbled.

“Now Superman,” B.B. said. “There’s a superhero for you. He’s smart and strong, and he’s that way all the time. He pretends to be a dweeb, but that’s only to put people off guard. And Batman. You know why I like Batman? Because he’s really a regular guy. He doesn’t have any superpowers. He’s just a man who wants to do the right thing and uses the resources he has to help him do it. And he’s got Robin to help him. He’s Robin’s mentor. I like the way they work together, the way they learn from each other. That’s how it is between a mentor and the boys he helps.”

“They’re DC,” the blond kid said.

Something twisted in his gut. Something ugly and mean and judgmental was now stomping toward him like an ogre. “What does that mean?” He felt his face grow hot. Were these kids calling him a queer?

“We don’t read DC comics,” the boy said. “We read Marvel. DC is, you know, stupid.”

Okay, they weren’t calling him a queer. Just stupid. Well, that was fine. Kids often had this notion that adults were somehow dorky or clueless. He could live with that for now. Let them spend some time with him and they’d know better.

“Yeah?” B.B. asked. “So, who else do you like?”

“I like Wolverine,” the boy said defiantly. “I read mostly X-Men.”

“That’s great,” said B.B., who lamented a world in which kids read a comic book called The Ex-Men. What was going on, exactly? Blind guys and transsexuals? “Listen, I was thinking about heading out to get some ice cream. You boys like ice cream?”

“Ice cream,” said the beautiful blond kid with an unmistakable note of caution in his voice. A sort of “Who wants to know?” kind of tone.

The thing you had to remember, though, was that these were kids, and they had thoughtless, neglectful parents, the sorts of parents who instilled fear in their kids because they couldn’t be bothered to teach them how to distinguish between dangerous strangers and kind people who wanted only to help. They knew adults often told them not to do things, but they also knew that adults often had their heads up their asses. The trick was to get them to see that the “Don’t go off with strangers” rule didn’t apply here, couldn’t apply here, not when this stranger had their best interests at heart. Once you broke down those barriers, you were home free. “There’s an IHOP down the road. I thought you boys might want to get an ice cream with me.”

“Really?” the little kid asked. “What flavor?”

“We’re not supposed to,” the older boy said, looking at his brother rather than B.B. “Our dad said we had to stay here. And he says we shouldn’t talk to strangers.”

There it was, regular as clockwork. “I’m sure your dad means that you shouldn’t talk to bad men. I can’t imagine why he would have any problem with you talking to a nice man who wants to buy you ice cream. Anyhow, my name is William. Everyone calls me B.B., and I work with young men like you every day. I’m a mentor.”

They didn’t say anything.

“We’re even staying at the same motel,” he continued. “I’m over in room one twenty-one. What are your names?”

“I’m Pete and he’s Carl,” said the little one.

“Pete and Carl. Well, it looks like we’re not strangers anymore, don’t you think?”

“I want strawberry ice cream,” the little one said. He nearly sang it. Too loud for B.B.’s taste. The last thing you wanted was a bunch of meddlers getting involved in what they didn’t understand. “I don’t like chocolate.”

“Forget it.” His brother shook his head. “I can ask my dad when he gets back tonight.”

“Tonight?” B.B. asked, letting the judgment and incredulity seep into his voice. Caution was one thing, but they were standing in their own way. When was the next time they were going to meet someone who was willing to help them, to make them feel important and special, in control of their own destinies, if not their lives, at this moment? “You want to wait until tonight? I’m going for ice cream now. It’s hot, and I want ice cream, but I can wait a few minutes if you want to run upstairs and get changed. How fast you think you can be ready?”

“Five minutes!” the younger one said.

“Wow, that’s fast.” B.B. gri

“Even faster!” the little kid shouted.

It was hard to keep a little triumph from creeping into his smile. Jesus, he was on a roll.

“I don’t think we should go,” the older one said.

B.B. shook his head sadly. “Well, if your brother wants to go by himself, that’s okay, too. You sure you want to stay alone?”

Doubt stretched its shadow across his face. His feet twirled anxiously in the water. He bit his lip. “We’re not either of us going?” It was a question, not a statement.

“Just because you don’t want ice cream doesn’t mean your brother shouldn’t enjoy it. I think it’s wrong to deny things to other people because you don’t want them yourself. That’s what they call being selfish, Carl.”

“Yeah,” his brother agreed.

“I don’t know,” he said again, which was not exactly a yes, but certainly a retreat from “We’re neither of us going.” B.B. was gaining momentum; he could feel it. The thing here, he knew, was to go with the flow, to keep it outside of his head. If he thought too much about it, if he concentrated too hard, he would say the wrong thing and blow it. Stay in the zone.

“What’s going on here?” the sunbathing woman asked. She now stood directly behind B.B., hands on her massive hips, sunglasses propped on her head. Her exposed brown skin glistened with suntan oil. Glimpsing her over his own sunglasses, he was struck by the prettiness of her eyes. Not that B.B. went for fat bossy cows, but still, there was no denying it- they were stu