The Hitman's Guide to Housecleaning

about my bags. I will see them again in Zagreb. Seems they have direct NYC-Zagreb flights for luggage only. Immigration requires self-control. I put on my Igor expression while the officer admires the Chinese handiwork. Then two over-proud security guys make me deliver phone, wallet, and dimes. Jacket, belt, and shoes. In the middle of my coin-cash, they spot an object that makes my heart skip from samba to rock. Turns out my ugliest jeans contain a lone bullet, a beautiful golden 9mm from the Browning Hi-Power semi-automatic that Davor presented me with on my arrival in New York.
    “What is this? That’s a bullet! No?” a small Long Island Latino woman in uniform asks me in her horrible mall accent.
    “Oh…Yeah. That’s a…That’s a souvenir,” I hit back.
    “A souvenir?”
    “Eh…Yes. It…It was removed from my brain,” I say, trying to look like the thing did permanent damage to it.
    She buys it and lets me go after giving me a full-body massage.
    I’ll never get used to this no-gun traveling thing. It’s not in a man’s nature to cross countries or oceans unarmed. Fucking 9/11 makes me really want to shoot bin Laden. But I can’t, since I’m not allowed to carry the gun on the plane.
    I’m starting to look forward to Zagreb when two Feds suddenly appear and make their way towards the people standing at the gate, tickets in hand. I’m the last in line. There is no denying it’s them . I can smell undercover all the way from Jersey, like a dog in heat. They’re sporting the usual H&M jackets and sunglasses, all stitched up in the classic FBI hairdo straight out of DC. The look is sort of “official casual,” quite shiny and a bit curly, like Michael Keaton’s in Multiplicity .
    I immediately duck for cover behind waiting passengers, pick up my bag, and start walking away from the gate, in the opposite direction of the undercover agents. Doviđenja, Zagreb. My heart’s pounding, but I do not allow myself to look back. Don’t ever look back on danger! Mother used to say. I walk for some six fucking minutes, my shaved skull turning into a fucking fountain on the way. Airport hallways are endless. People stare at me like I was carrying Saddam’s balls in my bag. Finally I spot the everyman sign and take a swift turn to the left. Inside the bathroom I catch my breath and dry my head. While they dry their hands, three businessmen look at me as if I were a Russian arms dealer waiting for a customer. Finally, I set back out on the open sea. Not clear. I immediately hurry back inside the bathroom as I spot one of the Michael Keatons. I know he didn’t see me, though. He was walking by.
    I go into one of the stalls and pretend to do what I’m thinking. What the hell can I do now? I can’t possibly go back to my gate. Too risky. The Keatons will be waiting for me there, smiling like silly relatives. But then, what?
    The answer comes to me in the shape of a belt, the tip of a belt that introduces itself from below the wall between my stall and the next. I wait for a few moments and pray to God. Finally the owner of the belt finishes and leaves his stall. As I open the cheap door, our eyes meet in the mirror over the row of sinks. God seems to have heard me: just like Igor, Belt Man is shaved to the bone. Two bald and chubby fellow travelers, they look remarkably similar, though Belt Man wears almost invisible glasses and is a bit older than Igor. But he won’t get much older now. Igor puts him out with a near-silent punch in the back of his head, right in the G-spot. His glasses fall into the sink as his head hits the mirror. There is no blood. The fellow is quite heavyset, even more so than me, but still I manage to deliver him into the same stall where he dropped his final shit on this earth, and close the door behind me.
    I take his pulse. No heartbeat.
    The adrenaline pumping more slowly, I’m rather horrified to realize that #67 is a holy man. He’s wearing a white clerical collar around his neck, plus black shirt, black jacket, black coat. White skin. I search for his ticket, passport, and wallet and pooha! Toxic Igor has a new name: Rev. David Friendly. Born in Vienna, Virginia, on November 8, 1965. I can go for that. I’ve never been an American before. Where is he going? “Reykjavik,” reads the ticket.
    Sounds like Europe. With some difficulty I manage to remove the coat and jacket from the holy man’s chubby torso and then start unbuttoning his shirt, sweat pouring off my head