5We're not supposed to tell anyone we're not really the Batcher family. The people that sent us the notice told us to keep it very secret, only letting people know after we've killed them, and sometimes not even then. Our neighbors, of course, have to be completely unsuspecting; that way they can't reveal anything if questioned.
The kids constitute our largest problem. Both of them are on teams: Kevin in baseball and Michelle in soccer. Zandi and I take our turns driving them place to place, usually while the other is out finishing a job. Both kids know, of course. They think it's extremely cool. They tell their ankle-biter friends that their parents work for the government. Of course, it doesn't need to be known which government.
It work out well, actually; Batcher's not at all an elvish name. It ends in "r," but that's about all: elvish is a wispier tongue. There are no hard g's, no clumsy b's. Not sure why T let us keep it: probably because it was already our married name. Zandi says it would've been to complicated to change it in the first place.
It was Zandi who pulled me into all of this in the first place. He told me that a friend of his had "this frickin' awesome-sounding goverment job," as he put it, that he could hook us up with. I had still been trying to quit smoking, back then, and Zandi was having trouble keeping two coins together. We had been banned from a couple of the local casinos because of his temper, my fists, his raucousness, my cheating, his debts, my blades… the list went on. In fact, we weren't allowed at the schools anymore, or the museum, or the community center, or the fire station (pulling that alarm was fun.) Zandi was raised Catholic, but I don't think a church would even take us anymore.
Anyhow, he said his friend had said if we wanted to get this job, we'd have to come to the Mazinet that Friday night at eight. We arranged for the kids – no sitter needed; even at seven and five they could handle themselves and knew which drawers to stay out of – and went to follow up.
Mazinet was exactly what an American thinks a French restaurant and bar should be like. The name was the only thing even vaguely French about it; the rest of the place was washed plastic and tile, and not particularly clean tile at that. The front was stucco, but once you got into the alleys at either side the façade was dropped and the place was aluminum siding. Four or five plastic tables stood outside, beach umbrellas open, all occupied.
Zandi drove the car by once, not slowly enough to be noticed, while I scoped the place out. There didn't seem to be anyone watching in particular, but with Zandi's crowd, caution was more than advisable. "Full house tonight," I remarked, head still turned to the right.
"Yeah. You see anyone there?"
"Aside from all the people? No, not really."
"Che." Zandi gave a noise of frustration, but I come hear him smiling. "C'mon Deeni, seriously."
"Yeah, I know, I know what you mean. No, no police 'r anything." I leaned back away from the window, cricking my neck at him. "None a your gangster friends, either."
"They're not gangst-"
"Okay, they carry guns, have a group name and sign, and accost people at various intervals. Na, that's not gangster behavior at all."
I ticked these off on my fingers, but stopped as Zandi reached over from the steering wheel and encased my hands in one of his own. He glanced away from the road for a moment too look me directly in the eyes. "Deeni. They're not gangsters. 'Kay?"
"A'right, a'right." Zandi looked back at the road and took his hand away, just in time to make the turn onto Whittacker. There was a parking spot easily available, and Zandi pulled the Evo directly into it. I continued to scan the road as he went through the motions of parking, but we were still sitting there, a moment after he pulled the key out. Finally Zandi turned and looked at me.
"…accosting people at various intervals."
I knew it was alright, then. "Yeah, that's right," I averred, unable to keep from grinning at him. "Wha'd'you think they did with their time."
"I dunno," Zandi shrugged as he opened the door and swung his legs out. Her turned back and leaned on the roof. "I kinda thought they were more into drugs."
PTG: Right. Been busy and absolutely blocked for much too long. Got tired of not writing. Wrote.
I think I've seen movies where the main character(s) had "government jobs" and then get swept up into something too big to handle. But oh well. It's happening here, too.
Besides, punk/gangster elves are too good not to write.