The Hitman's Guide to Housecleaning

whisper to my good old doorman:
    “It’s Tod again. Did you call her?”
    “Yes.”
    “And what?”
    “There was no answer. So, I went upstairs.”
    “And…? Was she there?”
    “The apartment was empty.”
    “Empty?”
    “Yeah. But there was this strange smell. A very strong smell.”
    “What kind of a smell? Body-smell? Sweat?”
    “A kind of like, body-smell, yes.”
    “Well, fuck her,” I try not to shout into my brand new Icelandic phone, shaking with wrath inside the loud sleeping bag.
    “So I checked all the rooms, sir,” he continues.
    “Ah ha?”
    “I checked all the rooms, sir…The bathroom, the kitchen…”
    “Uh-huh?”
    “All the windows were closed. I checked all the windows. They were all closed.”
    “OK.”
    “Finally…I don’t know why really…I opened the fridge.”
    “The fridge?”
    “Yes. I opened the fridge, and…”
    “Some food gone bad? I left some food?”
    “I’m sorry sir, but I don’t really know how to tell you this.”
    His deep baritone voice turns even more serious than normal.
    “What?” I ask, trembling with excitement.
    “Her head was there, sir.”
    “Her head? In the fridge?”
    “Yes, sir. Her head stood there, on a plate. The…the face was all swollen, yellow, and blue. But…”
    “But?”
    “But it was her. I recognized her. It was your friend.”
    “On a plate?”
    “Yes, sir. In the fridge. It was rather…”
    “Only her head?”
    As I say this, it dawns upon me that Munita is dead.
    “Yes, sir. Only her head. I couldn’t find her body.”
    “But you could smell it?”
    “Yes, I guess so. It might be there somewhere.”
    “What kind of a body-smell was it?”
    “What kind?”
    “Yes. Was it pussy? Pussy-smell?”
    What the hell am I saying? My sick old Croatian mind. I deserve to die. Oh, Munita. Why did you have to cheat on me with a mobster? I cheated on you with a nice little ice-mouse. I guess I should cry now. Your head in the fridge! Those lovely lips turned cold. Those eyes with a frozen glaze. Your hair like cold noodles. What about your body? They ate that already? And now your soul, your beheaded soul, is hugging its limbless parents in heaven. Oh, Bonita…
    “Yes. I guess you can say that, sir. Pussy…but very strong,” my doorman says into my right ear.

CHAPTER 17
THE HOWLING HITMAN
    05.23.2006
    I come downstairs. I don’t care anymore. I open the hatch and bring down the staircase. They wake up of course. Truster comes at me with a flying fist, as if I was a simple burglar. I stop his blow in mid-air, holding his arm in my hand. He’s pretty strong, but of course he was never a soldier. The girl cools her brother down and asks me what the hell I’m doing?
    “I don’t care anymore.”
    She looks at me with a frozen face and Truster looks at her, even more bewildered.
    “You know him?” he asks her in Icelandic, which must mean I don’t look like a priest anymore.
    She doesn’t answer. He’s naked except for some crazy underpants. Homer Simpson looks at me out from his crotch, a tongue in cheek. She wears a dark blue T-shirt that says “Sorry” in white. I’m fully dressed. I got my running shoes on. Igor’s running shoes. Gun follows me out of the apartment and down the staircase asking all kinds of questions that I do not answer. And I avoid looking at her face. It would spur the wrong thoughts.
    I don’t care anymore. I go outside. Bye.
    It’s very early. The streets are even more silent than during the day. They’re beyond silence. Reminds me of All Dead Village. It’s bright as hell, but cloudy. One big massive and foggy cloud hangs low over the city like a lid on a saucepan. It seems to be sinking lower and lower. It has the light-gray color of ice. As ever, the temperature is that of a refrigerator.
    A fucking fridge.
    I’m looking for a plate to put my head on.
    I walk down the street. I haven’t got the faintest idea where I’m going or what I’m doing. I just have to go somewhere. When your head turns dead, your feet take over. I’m a walking headless chicken spurting blood from my sore, sore throat.
    Between the houses I can make out The Pond. A silly looking swan sails slowly between a roof and a light pole. They put her head on a plate. Why the fuck did they do that? To scare me? The more I think of it, the more it smells like Talian cooking. In their language your girlfriend’s head in the fridge translates into heavy shit. Why can’t they just come find me and kill