The Hitman's Guide to Housecleaning

I’m still without my habitual working tool, and to tell the truth, I didn’t fancy another assemotional one. I don’t need two more Friendlys on my back. I also came to the conclusion that Igor was no longer an option.
    I used to think my mistake of presenting myself as Igor at the gates of this country, instead of being Father Friendly all the way from JFK, was a bit of dumb luck, but now I’m not so sure. The fact that Mr. Friendly was traveling on the Icelandair flight that night, but then never showed up in Iceland, must have triggered suspicion in some high places. And when they identified the dead body in the airport bathroom as Friendly’s, they made the easy calculation: his killer was traveling on his ticket that night. They will have then checked the list of passengers and identified them all as guilt-free, glacier-loving tourists except for this one guy. And then the passport controller’s report that night must have given Igor away as a potential Friendly-killer. So leaving Iceland in Igor-disguise is a risk I won’t take. I don’t want to spend the next thirty years eating thirty-two-cent meatloaves and listening to Snoop Dogg thumping out from the next cell. I’m a Creed fan, for crying out loud. I’d rather stay here nameless, gunless, and aimless in The Land of the Ten Degrees.
    The walk from Guard the Beer to Reykjavik is almost one hour long. A white police car goes by. I keep my cool. It’s like walking a tightrope. I have to maintain my concentration all the time. One look to the left and I might fall. Into federal hands.
    I walk the same route that Gunholder drove me on day one. I’m going to her house. The butter-blonde is my only hope now. I didn’t dare calling her. Her phone must be bugged by now. I have no reason to believe that she’ll be waiting for me with balloons and brownies, but somehow my Balkan animal instinct tells me she will show me something else than the door.
    I stroll down the barren sidewalk along the Miklabraut . Here I meet the first passerby of the night. A thin gray-haired man comes jogging towards me in a red T-shirt stained with sweat. His face is filled with horrible pain, as if he was playing Christ on the cross. It’s only a matter of years until jogging will be banned along with smoking. I had five jogger friends in NYC. We used to meet in Central Park four times a week, just to keep in shape for the honeys. I managed to quit after six months, but they couldn’t kick the habit. Three years later, three of them had lost all their weight. Well, I have to admit that for a very good reason one of them became my #32, a sad story really, but the other two both died from jogging-related conditions.
    As the tortured jogger passes me, I manage to cover my face by pretending to lift my hat in greeting, like some old-school movie man. I have to be careful. I’m a household face in Iceland now. My picture was even on the TV news earlier tonight. It was the same photo they had in the paper, a terrible mug shot from the early Toxic days in Germany. I look different now, more cheeks and no hair, but a clever face-reader would identify me on the spot.
    The sun seems to be setting at last as I enter the old town. Still there is no sign of darkness. It’s bright as a morgue at midnight. Here the cars are all still, parked outside the small houses, but there are also some passersby to stay clear of. I get lost for a good while, but finally I find Gunholder’s bulletproof house. She’s not home. I use my Swiss knife to get inside.
    In the days since Wednesday, she has only added to the mess in her apartment. How can she live like this? Even an old footman from the Homeland War wouldn’t survive for three days in this dump. All the ashtrays are overflowing, and the situation has called for extreme measures: A small frying pan is sitting on top of the TV, filled with ash and broken butts. Clothes are everywhere, covering floor and furniture like a colorful snowfall. Here and there an empty beer can stands like a tombstone in the snow, a memorial to a long dead party. The bedroom looks to be growing dirty linen, and it smells like a gym. I spot two mags lying at my feet. One is called Dazed & Confused, the other one is Slut Magazine . What did I tell you? The holy couple have produced a ho.
    I take off my coat, hat, and scarf, and start emptying the ashtrays and picking up clothes. In forty minutes’ time, the place looks like it could be photographed for The