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Frenchie didn’t want any of this to happen. He didn’t want to work for Nina, he didn’t want to go to Russia, he didn’t want Kimiko to have to murder people like he used to, and he most definitely didn’t want her to pretend to be a hooker for it. It felt terribly wrong, like the extra sexist icing on an already burned merde-fuck-pute cake. But it really didn’t matter what he wanted. Things happened to him anyway, best he could do was bend with the blows. Or learn to like them.
They’d gotten Kimiko a dress, all tacky glittering silver sequins, straight from the bottom of the Eurovision dumpster, just like the Russians loved it. Tiny little heels she obviously couldn’t walk in, because as far as he knew she’d never worn heels before. A faux crocodile leather clutch. Extra strong 24/7 all-weather hairspray. And makeup, lots of it, all that artificial make-believe for the real sex worker look. Except what they had forgotten about was that none of them knew how to apply that stuff, least of all Kimiko herself — Well, not quite none of them.
“I’ve painted Janine’s face before, for her birthday,” M.M. said, leaning over Frenchie’s shoulder to look at the pile of makeup on a cigarette burn pitted table.
“That’s very sweet, but Kimiko is not going as a tiger,” Frenchie replied, shooing him away with a flittering wave of the hand.
M.M.’s kindly critical gaze wandered to Kimiko, who was sitting on a chair opposite of Frenchie with her feet drawn up and her arm wrapped around her shins. Both of them were huddling conspiratorially close together as usual.
“Just trying to be helpful.” M.M. shrugged as he walked off. “Someone’s gotta do it.”
“Someone is going to do it. Just give me a damn moment to get in the zone.”
M.M. had more to say about the zone but Frenchie blocked it all out, looking with great focus at the contents of a pink plastic bag he’d poured out over the table. So they had foundation that was at least two shades too dark for Kimiko, enough contour sticks to give her the drag queen makeover, two types of cheap eyeliner that would definitely smudge within the span of an hour, blue mascara, fake eyelashes but no glue, an almost white brow liner, some pink glitter eyeshadow for twelve year old girls (and that was a generous estimate) and no lipstick at all. They were fucked; majorly fucked.
“Merde! Which of you philistines bought this crap?” he shouted over his shoulder.
“I did,” Butcher grumbled. Somehow he’d materialized at Frenchie’s other shoulder. “You’ll have to make do with it. I know you only shop at Sephora, Becky, but I couldn’t find their Siberian outlet.”
“Becky. Funny. Very funny.” Frenchie squint-smiled aggressively up at Butcher. “Becky wants you to get out of her face or she’s going to get hysterical!”
Still chuckling to himself about his brilliant joke, Butcher followed M.M. to a rack of guns. If he’d called Frenchie a faggot too, it would be a new daily record in workplace harassment, like he was playing discrimination bingo. Frenchie was about to get angry again in Butcher’s absence, his mind spinning itself into a rage like a trembling chihuahua left out all by himself in front of the supermarket, when Kimiko yanked him right out of it.
It doesn’t matter what he thinks, she signed with wide gestures. He doesn’t matter.
Frenchie nodded. She was right, she was always right. He’d have to get the job done. And he’d seen women put on makeup a thousand times before, how hard could it be?
Famous last words.
It wasn’t just that he’d watched women do it. He’d had a bit of practice before, applying it to himself for special occasions and he thought he’d been quite decent at it, decent enough for those kinds of twilight venues he frequented then, where visibility was admittedly rather low, all red lights and dark rooms. Usually he’d worn heavy eyeliner, a bit of geometric face paint, maybe some lipstick if he felt really slutty. Mad Max without the desert and with more leather. The kind of look that made you look interesting and sexually available, but not like you were confused about your gender.
On occasion he’d tried it on girlfriends too, the usual story: we are drunk and high and giggling, I put makeup on you, you put makeup on me. I look like the prettiest bearded woman you’ve ever seen and now you’re questioning your sexuality. You look like a circus clown, to be honest. We make out anyway. The next day you complain about your skin breaking out.
And sometimes Cherie had made him do it just as a power trip, sitting cross-legged like a sultry buddha on the bed with one foot resting on his crotch, while he carefully drew on her lipstick, trying to ignore the tantalizing play of her toes. Oh, Cherie, Cherie… the woman that got them all into this. He couldn’t even be mad at her. She’d played her cards well.
Frenchie sighed, cracked his neck left, right and left again, pulled down his currently absent and therefore imaginary goggles and picked up the foundation. “This might sting a little,” he said and got to work.
The end result was quite passable. He’d had to improvise a bit, mix a couple of products together, which was basically the same as cooking drugs, chemistry for dummies. It was Kimiko who did her eyeliner like she always did (Frenchie noticed every day when she did not have it on and worried his head about it). The rest of her face — well, what it was slathered in — was his creation. The hair then was a whole ‘nother issue. He had to watch a couple tutorials on his phone, thank Google for the bright new future.
Once he was done, he passed Kimiko a hand mirror. She looked at her reflection and snarled. “I know, I know,” Frenchie said and despite it all he had to smile. She joined in, ever his perfect mirror.
And then they had to move fast, it was getting late. Kimiko disappeared to the bathroom and reappeared shortly later, wearing the dress. She’d shaved her legs and there was a lot of leg on display. Her bra was stuffed, Frenchie could tell. He wasn’t exactly leering but when Kimiko turned to him, he nevertheless felt caught out and quickly looked away, staring with great interest at the restless hands in his lap. He still saw her coming his way, naked feet pitter-pattering across the dirty floor.
Is it okay? she signed. It was not okay, yet he nodded profusely.
With a growing feeling of unease, he watched her slip into her heels and stumble to the van. She got in the passenger seat, he would be driving. Butcher, M.M. and Hughie were too busy to come along or maybe Butcher just didn’t give a fuck about the serfs he’d sent off to do his bidding. So it was going to be him and her all alone, no backup. Just Kimiko by herself, really. What could Frenchie possibly achieve where she didn’t succeed?
Maybe run his mouth, as usual. He still knew a bit of Russian from his time in Nina’s service, enough to figure out if shit was about to hit the fan (or pick up milfs at the local Magnit). Kimiko didn’t understand a word of it of course, but that probably wouldn’t be an issue, few of those girls in her field of work did. She wasn’t going to be discussing Dostoyevsky with the pig that had bought her body.
The unease that Frenchie had felt before was now growning into full blown anxiety. He felt twitchy. It didn’t help that during the unbearably long ride Frenchie didn’t really want to look at Kimiko. Something about that outfit was disturbing. It just wasn’t her. More than that, it really felt like they were selling her. Like he was. If anything happened to her — and he didn’t want to think about what could happen although the images kept creeping quite insistently into his mind — it would be his fault. Again.
The target’s villa looked as tacky as you’d expect from nouveau riche bastards who made their money by sifting through the ruins of Stalin’s empire. Frenchie stopped the van and quickly scanned the surroundings, taking note of routes of entry and escape, of guards, dogs, guns. Just in case. Meanwhile, Kimiko took a deep breath and reached for the door handle.
“You know, if it could be me getting in there with the swine — in a minidress, heels and all that,” Frenchie said and tried to crack a smile that he really didn’t feel like. “I’d do it.”
Kimiko’s cat-mouth-shaped smile was unaffected by her getup, cute as ever. Stay safe, she signed. I’ll be back.
And she wobbled off to do her killing. She looked gorgeous, of course, not because but in spite of it all.