The Hitman's Guide to Housecleaning

and let it ring again. The sound is very luxurious, as if designed to remind the owners about their money. I then go to the door and open it. Heartbeat is Disco now. Two policemen are standing out on the porch. Black jackets, white hats.
    “Hallo,” they say in pure Icelandic.
    “Hchello,” I say with a thick Slavic accent.
    “Oh, sorry. Do you speak English?”
    “Hchyes…a little.”
    “Is Christian home?”
    Is this a Christian household? That’s a strange question. Maybe they’re not the police. Maybe they’re just two priests on hood patrol. “Hchyes, I think is Christian home. But I no live here…” I say in my best immigrant English.
    “Can we speak to him?”
    “Hchim?”
    “Yes. We want to speak to Christian.”
    Their accent is strong, like a wrestler on cocaine.
    “Ah, I see. No. Christian no home now. No.”
    “Who are you?”
    “I am Tadeusz.”
    “Polish?”
    “Hchyes. I work in hchouse. Christian no home,” I say with wet white paint on my nose.
    “Okay. We are looking for a bald man in priest clothes. Have you seen anyone running around here?”
    “No. Zorry. A bald priest?”
    “Yes. He has no hair on his head and is wearing a priest uniform. He is a very dangerous man. A criminal. We are looking for him.”
    “Criminal priest?” I ask them, remembering Dikan and his “Stupidity is the best disguise.”
    “Yes. He is wanted in America.”
    “I think they hchad enough criminal priest in America?” I say.
    The two Icelandic policemen give away gentle smiles, beg me good-bye, and wish me luck with my painting job.

CHAPTER 12
MR. MAACK
    05.20.2006 – 05.21.2006
    I have never lived in such a big house. I quite like it, I have to say. Suddenly exile is excellent. Escaping the holy house was a big relief. Now I don’t need to put on a stupid smile in the morning or walk the shiny floors like Christ on water. Getting Friendly off my back was like dumping a loud girlfriend with a Texan accent and a cell-phone addiction.
    I spend the rest of Saturday night home alone, enjoying the European Song Contest 2006 on my big new surround-sound flat screen, which looks more like a fat screen, actually. The counting of the votes was always my favorite. Some screaming Finns in Halloween costumes take home the trophy. Bosnia & Herzegovina comes in third. Severina finishes at number thirteen with only fifty-six votes, all of them coming from the former republic of Yugoslavia. Even the Serbs feel bad enough to give us ten points. Or it was their dicks voting. Apparently the rest of Europe hasn’t seen Severina’s sex tape. If we are ever to win this fucking thing again, we need to create more Balkan states.
    The fridge is full of food. I make a late-night omelet for the hungry hitman in hiding. I take it in the billiard room downstairs, trying to keep low profile and lights off. My landlords are Kristján Þ. Maack and Helena Ingólfsdóttir, and it seems they’ve been enduring these names for about sixty years. The photo albums show a happy mustached couple smiling in all the right places from Florida to Slovenia. They seem to travel for a living. The kitchen calendar shows March in Kenya, April in Bulgaria. Probably thinking of me, Helena has marked this weekend: London, London, London, London. They’re due back on Monday.
    After a long and eventful day, I’m happy to go to their bed. It’s big as a boxing arena, with his and her corners. I can’t find the gloves, but I can see that she’s reading some Italian cookbook and he’s reading Cosa Nostra: A History of the Sicilian Mafia. Fucking Talians all the time. How about some press for the honest and hard-working men of the Croatian Mafia? How about some books, some films, some fame? Fuck it. Even some ugly-named nobody on Gun-Free Island is reading about the pasta-poopers. I sleep on her side, reserving my last waking minutes for a survey of my strange situation. What’s next? I could either kill them when they return and stay here until the fridge is empty, or use the ticket Igor bought me at the airport. I don’t see any other possibilities.
    I spend Sunday at home, enjoying a long and luxurious breakfast, trying hard to read the article that accompanies my photo on the back page of the newspaper that came through the front door late last night. The headline reads: Mafíumorðingi á Íslandi? Sounds like Mafia something in Iceland. The question mark is reassuring. There is a mention of Father Friendly and Goodmoondoor’s