The Sniper

It appeared, wherever she was, Anya wasn't going to be gone for long. To pin it down, I started looking for calendars, daytimers or something along those lines that might give us a clue. As I started looking on her desk, Shooter came into the room, holding a bottle of lube and a large vibrator/dildo in his hands.

"Hey, Spotter," he quietly called, "take a look at this. I found it on the table next to her bed. This thing must be nine-inches long, and I swear its at least two- or two-and-a-half inches thick. Our girl must like 'em big!"

"Just put 'em back, exactly where you found them," I hissed at him, and I went back to the task at hand.

Then I saw the answering machine, and bingo, I hit the jackpot. I played the first message.

"Anya, darling," came a woman's voice, "remember the limo is going to come for you at 6:00 A.M. for your flight to the Bahamas. Yes, my love, I know that is far too early to wake up, but you can sleep on the plane. Just throw a couple of days clothes in your bag — they will supply the bathing suits, and we are going to be on one of those really remote islands, so you don't need to dress for the night-life, because there isn't any. Two days only, this time, and you will be back in your own sweet bed. Ta Ta," and she hung up.

So there it was. We had missed her because she had left three hours before we expected to see her. And now we had to hang in here for two days, until she returned.

We left the condo, locked it behind us, and returned down the elevator. We were lucky and the doorman was busy with one of the tenants as we left, so all he could do was wave goodbye to us. We waved back, and got out of there.

We returned to our camo-taxi and Shooter had the driver drop us off in the Theater District. Our driver had ditched the beard and turban, and today he looked and sounded like a Jamaican. He was always proud of getting his disguise right, and not falling out of character. Jeez... A 'method' get-away-driver — no wonder I go crazy working this job. God knows, I needed a drink.

We walked into a bar, across the street from this theater with a huge evil-looking image of a green lady on the marquee.

Once our eyes adjusted to the lower light in the bar, we walked up and took a seat. Cupid seemed to know his way around. A young guy, who must have been a bartender, walked over when he saw us. He didn't look pleased.

"OK boys, I don't want to be mean or anything, but you're not allowed to be in here unless you're twenty-one!" he told us.

Then an older guy, who had been serving a drink at the other side of the bar, looked up.

"Excuse me, Mike. Could I have a word," the older guy asked.

The young guy stepped away, and the older man started talking to him in a quiet voice. We could still hear him; we got great ears, me and Shooter.

"Mike, them guys aren't kids. I know one of them. Shooter, they call him. They are part of the cast of," and he jerked his thumb to point across the street, "Wicked. They're Munchkins in the play. You don't want to piss off the theater people, so be sensitive. OK?"

Mike responded OK, but then the older guy, who Shooter called 'Gus' walked over to us.

"Sorry about Mike, guys. He don't know the theater crowd yet. Hope you'll cut him a break. Tell you what, let me get you the first round on-the-house," he offered.

"Thanks, Gus," replied Shooter, "No problem at all. I'll take a Daniels and Diet Coke. Gotta keep the weight down, ya know!" Gus grinned at him and nodded.

"And you?" Gus asked looking at me.

"Do you have Herradura Tequila up there?" I queried.

"Sure. Finest kind!" was Gus' experienced assessment.

"Great. How about an Herradura Margarita, rocks, salt on the rim," I requested.

"Coming right up," Gus said, and then turned around to fix the drinks.

I looked at Cupid.

"Shooter, I don't think there are any Munchkins in 'Wicked,' " I quietly told him.

Shooter was eyeing some hookers at one of the tables in the room, smiling and making eyes at them, sitting with his back to the bar, his elbows resting on it. Without looking at me, he replied,

"Who cares? Gus saw 'The Wizard of Oz' once, and is convinced that there are Munchkins in 'Wicked.' He decided that on his own, the first time I was in here. I'm not gonna argue with him."

I shrugged my shoulders. Why should I care? It got us our drinks.

A couple of hours later, accompanied by a couple of New York's vast horde of mercenary sex services providers — who also, it turned out, had a 'thing' for Munchkins — we staggered out of the bar and back to our room. I haven't been in an orgy like that since Caligula took us home to introduce us to his sisters.

It was good that the next day all we were doing was waiting for Anya to return from her Caribbean photo shoot. We were exhausted after staying up all night, and had hangovers to beat the band. In the morning, we both boffed the girls a couple more times, then we all got dressed and went out for brunch.

When Cupid was sending the gals home, he told them that they were some of the most licentious women he'd met since Madame Pompadour. They replied that he must be mistaken, because in New York City you couldn't even get a license for what they did! Blonds!

The rest of the day we just kicked back, trying to recover. By Zeus' beard, I could barely walk, I was so sore in my vitals. Cupid must have been in similar shape, because he didn't even suggest going out that night. We ate at a fast-food place, went back to the room and slept. Tomorrow was the day — make or break, we had to do the hit on Anya Petrova.

Early the next A.M. found us back across the street, using the same stinking cardboard box as a blind, waiting for Anya Petrova to walk out so we could shoot her with the arrow of love, just in time for her to fall in love with her NYC pol.

I didn't tell Shooter, because I didn't want to make him nervous and also, it was on a 'need-to-know' basis, but this op was important.

I didn't know all the details, but with Anya at his side, this guy was going up in the world. First, Mayor of NYC, then Governor of New York, Senator, and finally a shot at the top-slot — President. But for some reason, he needed to have Anya as his wife, completely and totally in love with him for the plan to work.

We were both so nervous about this op, that we had arrived hours early to set up. We were not going to mess up again. Now, the hard part — waiting.

About ten minutes before we expected Anya to show, I started scanning with the binocs again. Since I knew where her condo was, I even took a quick look up. The angle didn't let me get a good sighting on her, but I could see her hands opening the shades. I would expect to see her coming out right on time to go to the gym, and her regular, daily appointment with her personal trainer. Just like she had been going two days ago.

The seconds passed, and the time was almost on us. I whispered to Shooter.

"One minute to ETA. Winds gusting, estimate seven to ten clicks from right. Distance, 26 yards," I gave him the data.

"Ready for go-ahead," Shoot replied, letting me know he was not going to let me down again.

I scanned the area. There he was, Golden boy, walking at his normal pace, at the regular time, about half-a-block away. The intersection of the two love-birds should be good. The op was a go.

I glanced at my watch. Seconds now. Back to the binocs.

Then she was there. The door opened and out came Anya Petrova, our target. I could see the doorman's lips moving, and Anya laughing at what he said as she walked by. There was a rustle next to me, and I could sense as much as see out of my peripheral vision, Cupid/Shooter suddenly standing, pulling back the bow string.

"It's a go! Target approaching," I warned him.

"Target acquired," he replied.

A quick scan to Golden boy revealed he was still on time, in place, walking into the set-up.

"Fire when ready," I said, with an unusual intensity.

That was when all hell broke loose.

I started to swing the binocs back to Anya, when I caught a glimpse of movement. I swung the binocs back.

From the side, there was a small, fast body, running towards the rendezvous point. It was that fucking poodle that Shooter had tagged two days earlier, running as fast as his little paws would carry him towards Anya Petrova! He was coming up at an angle from our side of the street, between Anya and Golden boy. Neither Anya nor Golden had noticed the dog.

"ABORT, ABORT!" I started to shout, but I heard the twang of the bow, and knew it was too late. All I could do was cross my fingers.

As I watched through my glasses, the damn poodle ran right into Golden boy's path. Golden didn't see him, and the two collided. The dog yelped as he was caught between Golden's legs, and Golden yelped as he fell flat on his face, on top of the stupid, love-sick hound.

By this time, Shooter could tell something had gone terribly wrong.

"Shit, shit, shit," I heard him repeating to himself.

I couldn't take my eyes off the scene. I flipped back to Anya, just in time to see the arrow hit. The little shock of the arrow's impact showed briefly on her face, followed by 'the look'. The critical time, when the subject looks for the person or object on whom to lock his/her affections. But Golden was laying on his face fifteen-yards away.

"Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap," was Shooter's manta now.

Right at that moment, a limo stopped in front of the building, and out of the door came this guy. Not the 'Golden' boy, some other guy.

He took about two steps up towards the building.

Anya was about 5' 10" in her running shoes. This guy was maybe 5' 7", with two-inch inserts in his loafers. She had long blond, shimmering hair; this guy had short dark hair, and was bald on top. She was built, well, like a fashion model. He was built like a wrestler, carrying a few extra pounds. Anya's face was like an angel's, amazingly beautiful. This guy's face was, being generous, plain, but friendly. When she smiled, you were in heaven. When he smiled, you were glad you weren't in a dark alley, late at night.

None of it mattered one whit.

Anya looked at him with 'the look.' Her eyes got soft, a smile lit her face.

He looked at her, and I will guarantee, only being able to see the back of his head, that he had that 'look' too. Without any of our arrows.

"Wow, wow, wow! You are the most gorgeous woman I've ever seen," came his voice, with a thick New York accent. He was standing there, frozen in place, just looking at her.

"You are not lookink bad yourselves, handsome," came Anya's reply in her heavy Russian accent. "I'm Anya, darlink. Vat is your name?"

"Well, Anya darlink, my name is Sam," he replied, in a bantering tone, like he had encounters with the most beautiful women in the world every day.

She laughed, her voice like bells.

"You are teasink me, Sam. My name is only Anya!" she coyly teased back.

"Well, 'only Anya', jeet?" he asked.

"Stoh? I mean, pardon?" she replied with a quizzical look on her face.

"Jeet?" Shorty repeated.

"I am so sorry; my English is not being too good. Vat is this 'jeet'?" came her completely mystified response.

"Oh, sorry, I'll talk slower — 'di chew eat? Hows about a cuppa java, or better yet, some knoshes? I know a great deli not far from here," he asked, not quite believing his fortune.

"Ah!" Anya's face lit up with understanding.

"Am I eatink yet this morning! Nyet. But this would not be interferink with your time?" she asked.

"Baby, you can interfere with my time whenever you want, twenty-four/seven! I can go looking for another parking structure to buy any day of the week. Come on, Anya, this way," he said, and he took her hand and led her to the waiting limo. They crawled into the back seat together, and the car disappeared into the morning traffic.

That was the last I would see of Anya for a long, long time.

About then, Golden, the loser City Councilman came limping past Anya's building. About two-minutes too-fucking late. The poodle was running around like a crazy thing, wondering who had snatched his woman from him, like a big dog grabbing away his bone. Golden tried to kick the poodle and missed, falling on his ass this time. The poodle nipped his ankle and ran away.

I just stood there in shock for a minute. Then I turned around to find Shooter.

He was laying there behind me, flat on his back, his bow off to one side where it had come out of his hand. His eyes were open, staring up, not blinking.

I walked over and stood there looking down at him.

"Tell me what I think happened, didn't happen," he pleaded.

"Sorry, Shooter. It happened," I sadly confirmed.

"It's fucking Helen, all over again," he stated flatly, as he pulled himself up into a sitting position.

"No, Shooter, it's not that bad. Shit happens. Sometimes things are beyond our control. Besides, it's not your fault that the God's had promised Helen to half the Kings of Greece. You did what Aphrodite told you to do, and that was an op to fix up Helen with Paris. And Aphrodite is the boss. So stop beating yourself up about it. I'm sure that this thing with Anya is nothing like Helen," I said, trying to console him.

He was just sitting there on the pavement, looking miserable.

"They went to war for ten years that time. Troy, burned to the ground. I always liked Troy, they had some great bars there," Cupid reflected. I helped him stand up, dusted off his back side, picked up his bow and handed it to him.

"What do we do now?" I asked. "Back to Olympus?"

"Not me. I'm thinking about taking a vacation in, say, Greenland for a couple of months. They tell me it's beautiful at this time of the year," he said, in rather unconvincing tones.

"It's winter. It's all snow at this time of the year. What's with Greenland, anyway?" I asked, wondering what kind of weird idea Shooter had this time.

"I'm gonna find me an Eskimo woman, and disappear for the next six-months or year, where no one will come looking for me," he told me. I nodded. None of the Gods would bother going to Greenland and searching among the Inuit to find a sulking Cupid, that's for sure.

Later I saw the announcement of the marriage between Anya Petrova, Russian supermodel, and Sam Silverman, the NYC Parking Garage Magnate. No one and I mean no one, knew what to make of the whirlwind romance of Anya and Sam, followed by a huge wedding out in the Hamptons. Mutt and Jeff, they said, a badly matched pair that wouldn't last. I knew better.

It was years later when I discovered that there was more to the Anya/Sam story than meets the eye.

I was undercover, working as a busboy at the Russian Tea Room, when in walked Anya Petrova-Silverman and her long-time agent — the woman whose voice I'd heard on the answering machine almost a decade before. They were seated at a table that was close enough to my station that I could listen in pretty easily.

"Anya," her agent asked, "You've been married to Sam for almost ten years; you've had seven children with him and now you tell me that you are thinking about an eighth! What is the attraction? You are even more beautiful now than you were ten years ago. You could have any man you wanted. What is it about Sam?"

"Darlink, Sam is so sveet, he is the kindest man I know," answered Anya.

"He's short," came the reply.

"He is vonderful father to our chiltren," came Anya's repost.

"He's bald," the agent answered back.

"He lufs me, and is completely loyal," was Anya's reply, a glazed look of love in her eyes, just thinking of her Sam.

"If you don't pick out his clothes, he dresses like a slob!" was the humorous response.

"He is filthy rich, dushka," Anya said, laughing by this time.

'Come on, you're holding out on me. I can tell," the agent insisted.

"Ho-K, Ho-K, I am tellink you, but this is completely between friends, da? Very bolshoi secret." demanded Anya.

Her agent nodded in assent.

"My Sam, he is havink, how you say, 10-inch cock, 3-inches diameter — very big round, you see? With this cock," her voice got low and husky, "he is fillink me. He is fillink me completely. And he is fillink me every morning, and every evening, sometime twice in evening."

Anya's agent sat there in stunned disbelief.

"OH MY GOD!" she finally stammered.

Anya smiled and agreed,

"Da, Booszhe moi!" (Yes, My God!)

I though back to the huge dildo that Shooter had found in her room. I guess he was right — she liked 'em big! I went away that afternoon with a smile. Good for Sam and Anya.

In fact, Sam and Anya were almost certainly a better couple than she and Councilman Golden would have been. When he was running for Mayor of New York City that year, he was arrested for lewd conduct and soliciting in a public restroom in Central Park, while campaigning on a 'return to morality' platform. I don't think that his political career would have survived THAT, even if he'd been married to Anya.

Maybe Shooter didn't do so bad after all!

*

I hope that my transliterations of Russian words aren't too confusing. There are several 'standards' for converting Russian words from Cyrillic to the Latin alphabet, but I couldn't find 'My God', for example, so I just did my best.

Thanks to the several readers who made comments and corrections on this story. Alas, as I can never leave well enough alone, I've made numerous changes since I received their editorial corrections, and have no doubt inserted new errors, for which I have only myself to blame!