The Hitman's Guide to Housecleaning

the “Kodak Moment.” This all-American happy-go-lucky thing that forces you to smile into the eyes of the future that can only take you for an innocent imbecile who doesn’t know anything about anything, who only has killed two or three people, and yet he’s smiling like he just won an Olympic medal. Looks more like the Special Olympics to me.
    I prefer mug shots.
    I search too for Senka, my ex-girlfriend, the missing chapter of my life. Ever since the war ended I’ve been trying to track her down, without success. I owe her an oprosti .
    Gunholder’s shift at the café starts at ten. “Have a nice day,” she says and leaves me with a smile that I keep warm until she comes back. At first I thought I heard her say, “Have an ice day.” But even she thinks ten in the morning is too early for sarcasm. My ice machine. The slut of my sleepless dreams. My prison guard, my priest. In the afternoons she works for the local music festival called Airways or Airwaves, doing phone calls and other type of secretary work. She’s on speaking terms with tons of pop-stars, some world famous celebrities you’ve never heard of.
    “You ever had Creed up here?”
    “Greed?”
    Forget it. This is never going to work out.
    She usually returns around seven or eight, always equipped with food, usually some Thai or Chinese takeout that she has to pay for. After dinner she usually puts on some Icelandic weirdo music, doing her best in introducing me to people like Mugison, Gus Gus or the black sounding Lay Low . I tell her that if she could arrange a gun for me, I could do wonders to the promotion of Icelandic music. Her laugh is slightly offended. But her curiosity is piqued. I watch her smoke while she keeps the questions coming like an intern in the Oval Office. “If some of your victims belonged to other ‘organizations’ they must have tried to kill you, right?” Right. “Have you ever known any of them, your victims?” You bet. She’s fascinated by my job. I finally have a fan.
    “And do you remember them all, your victims, I mean?”
    “The professional ones, yes.”
    “But not the war ones?”
    “No. The soldiers are all blurred, but I’m really proud of my hitman work. I always try to do a good job. ‘Victim first’ is my motto. I try to make it as easy for them as possible. Nearly all of them have died instantly. No time for regrets or anger or anything. It’s just biff! and you’re gone. Like turning off a machine. No pain, no nothing. They couldn’t have asked for a better service. I always prepare everything perfectly: the timing, the place, the angle, everything. And I’ve studied the human body like a doctor. Where to aim for the quickest result and stuff like that. If this were a category at the Olympics, I’d be the Mark Spitz of the killing world.”
    “And what’s the most difficult thing about it?”
    “To hit, of course. To hit the guy in the head, the heart, or the butt, if you find yourself in that position. But in that case you have to make sure the bullet travels straight up his spine. Butt shots are really angle-sensitive. It’s like playing pool.”
    “So you have to like…practice?”
    “Sure. You have to be in good shape. I had to give up cocaine because of it. You need a steady heart for this kind of work.”
    “Wow. And you keep count of them? The dead ones?” she says with big blue eyes. I got her in perfect Lewinsky mode.
    “Yeah. Well. I don’t really count them. You sort of remember them. It’s a bit like, I mean, you remember all the guys you’ve slept with, right?”
    “Well, I’ve tried to forget some of them,” she says with a sexy grin.
    I can’t resist.
    “How many in all?”
    “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t count them. Forty maybe.”
    Slut.
    “Forty?”
    “You think that’s a lot? My friend has done a hundred and forty or something.”
    There we have it. Tarantino has 139 fuck-in-laws in Iceland. He better update his Christmas card list.
    “And you’ve done sixty-seven?” she continues.
    “Girls? No, you mean hits? Yes. Sixty-seven. Sixty-seven suckers down. Sixty-seven pigs in the oven.”
    “And you really remember all of them?”
    “I try to keep their memories alive.”
    “And you think about them?”
    “No. Never.”
    “You don’t feel bad about any of them?”
    “No.”
    “How is that possible? You have no conscience?”
    “It’s frozen, I guess. You feel bad about any of your…?”
    “My bedfellows?” she says with an