Free The Hitman's Guide to Housecleaning by Helgason Hallgrímur Page B

we get ten degrees here in Iceland,” Sickreader explains.
    Poor guys. I’m happy if I only get ten more minutes up here.
    In the morning Father Friendly visits various churches and volunteer organizations where they treat him like the pope on tour, fill him with coffee and cookies, and load him up with booklets and brochures that show off their good work. They’re building a kindergarten in Kenya, a primary school in India. The priests are all men, the volunteers all women. I make my objections to Goodmoondoor once we’re in the car.
    “I’m worried to see all those women working outside their homes,” I say.
    “It’s all right because they are not paid,” he answers and winks at me in the funniest way.
    My afternoons are usually my own. I walk around the city LPP-style, moving slowly down Liquor Vicar, the main street, women-watching and window-shopping, forever seeking the gun of my dreams. I follow my weight all the way down the hill, to the main square, which looks more like an empty parking lot than a city plaza. In a warm bookstore near the square, you can buy Handgun Magazine , the hitman’s favorite. Seems Smith & Wesson has a new model out. “Easy on your hand, easy on your target.” Pretty close to the “guilt-free gun” that we hangmen have been dreaming about for six hundred years. I wrap my scarf around the collar before paying for the mag at the cash register. One more local wonder girl, a Day 3 type, hands me the receipt. It’s a well-known fact that Croatia has the most beautiful women in the world, but Iceland might be a close runner-up. They are very different, though, those butter-blondes from our dark-haired ljepotice . From a bench by the big pond behind the cathedral, I watch the ducks and swans sail about. It’s a beautiful setting, really, perfect for a cigarette. But I won’t break my five-year abstinence from tobacco, even though I guess I’ve got good excuses to do so. Have to take care of my health. Instead I read about this innovation called NSK (No Spill Kill) made possible by the new, revolutionary bullet from Eagle Eye “big enough to ice your victim instantly, but so small that it won’t spill any blood at all.” Only in the most God-fearing, Christian country on the planet would they allow such a publication. Who’s buying it up here, on Gun-Free Island? I throw it in the garbage before entering Café Paris. The butter-blonde is on duty. I suck in my stomach and pick one of her tables.
    The priest is worried about her relationship with her dad and asks her if she dislikes him.
    “I think my father is more interested in God than his own children,” Gunholder strikes back, unusually hostile, while she cleans the table with a wet rag, head wagging like a sistah.
    “Well, we are all God’s children. Sons and daughters of the Holy Father,” I respond, all Friendly.
    “Holy Father, holy shit. Where is the holy mother then? She’s a virgin. Wow. Great. The church is good only for stupid white men,” she spits out. She leaves with her cloth and tray. I have to say that I’m pretty impressed, but Father Friendly thinks otherwise. When she returns with his latte, he says, “Your parents are holy people and I think they deserve your respect.”
    “They’re not holy. Not committing sins for some years doesn’t make you holy. An inactive alcoholic is just as much an alcoholic as the one who’s drinking.”
    Wow, this one is way too deep for me. I concentrate on her lips instead. Behind the heavy church gates of my priestly exterior, I keep a crazy Croatian army dog. Sooner or later he will break out of this fucking dog collar and start licking those glistening strawberry lips.
    I’m supposed to be back at the holy house by six. I usually travel by cab, even though I could fly from New York to Boston for the same amount. Igor can afford it. Money’s never an issue in our game, though Friendly’s American Express Gold card probably has a higher limit. But using his