The Hitman's Guide to Housecleaning

over in Queens and put him away in a heap of fake Levi’s jeans and then covered his ugly face with an old Pepsi Max sunbrella. On my way back to the car, I noticed some friends of his had arrived too late for the coffin-free funeral. My old Croatian heart skipped from waltz to death metal, and I turned quickly around. For the next ten minutes I ran like a hurdler at the Obese Olympics through the waste of some six thousand nuclear New York families, all the time heading for the river, and finally sought shelter in a rusty old container full of ancient teddy bears that, strangely enough, smelled of grilled cheese. The Federal Bastards sealed off the area, so I ended up spending the night with them. It was a sleepless night of Manhattan skyline, cold container, and smelly bears. For the empty stomach, the smell of food is like perfume to a boner.
    In the morning hours it was a bit lovely to see the rooms in the United Nations Building light up, one after the other—their reflection in the East River scrambled by the running water. It was way before sunrise. I guess every nation on earth has its own office in the building, and the lights in each room are programmed to go on at the same time the sun rises in the country it belongs to. I watched 156 sunrises that night. Before number 157 broke, I was in the river. The ice-cold stream brought me down to a different dumpsite. It was more like a Web site, actually, full of net-like lines and cables.
    In the mouth of the Midtown Tunnel, I found a cab. The driver had a problem with the fact that my clothes were all wet, but I took out my gun and dried them in an instant.
    Toxic is traveling under the name of Igor Illitch. I was born in Smolensk now, in 1971. I’ve been born all over the place. Once I held a German passport that gave me a pretty happy childhood in the then-capitol Bonn. I even made the effort, on my way through the Rhine valley, to concoct some idyllic childhood memories. Father Dieter worked as a janitor at the Russian embassy, and mother Ilse was a chef at the American embassy. Every night was cold war, with me being Berlin, a wall between my eyes. Though I’m no actor; I don’t mind getting a new life once in a while. In fact, I’ve always enjoyed that part of my work. You get a break from yourself. Except for my weekend as a Serb back in ’99. Then I really felt like killing the man I had become.
    But even though they’ve had me born in different cities, they usually use the same year, the right one: 1971. I was born the day before Hajduk finally won the championship after some twenty years of waiting. My football-fanatic father believed I was a good-luck charm and called me “Champ.”
    The highway snakes its way through Brooklyn. I look at all the advertisements with almost-tears in my eyes. I just don’t want to leave this town. We pass a big blue billboard: “Eyewitness News at Seven – WABC-TV New York.” Three days in a row my face was there, “…known in Mob circles simply as ‘ Toxic ’.” But it was never more than a flash. No big story, like the ones they do on the mass killers. Those guys become household names in one day while the honest and hardworking men and women of the assassination industry are only mentioned in passing. The nation that measures everything in money sucks up to amateurs instead of us professionals. I guess I will never fully understand this country. I love New York, but I don’t get the rest.
    The suburbs quickly thin out, and soon we enter the land of liftoffs and landings. Igor’s passport sits in my breast pocket, like a Gucci bag made in China. Behind it my heart beats the drum of doubt.
    “ Doviđenja,” Radovan says outside the International Departures Terminal. I forbid him to follow me inside. His sunglasses scream for the FBI like a gay on a hot tin roof. Stupidity is no disguise for the stupid. I shaved off all my hair this morning and tried my best to dress Russian: black leather jacket, the ugliest jeans in the closet, and Puma Putin running shoes.
    Before I left, I turned around in the doorway and fingerkissed my flat screen goodbye. Munita asked me if she could take care of my place while I was away, but I told her no. We don’t have thrust-trust yet. The sex bomb won’t tick for six months without exploding, and I don’t want some Peruvian prick drying his dirty after-sex-sweat on my Prada towels.
    The check-in goes smoothly. A shallow blonde with deep dimples tells me not to worry