Bust (16 page)

Angela seemed surprised, but Max was pretty sure she was acting.

She said, “Herpes? What the hell?”

“You don’t have to deny it anymore — I just came back
from my doctor. Irritation my ass. You knew you had herpes and you didn’t even tell me.”

“You went to a
doctor
? When?”

“This morning. Come on, I don’t have time for this bullshit. Just admit it.”

“Are you sure he isn’t making a mistake? I mean how can he tell without a blood test?”

“They don’t take a blood test, they take a Pap smear, but it’s herpes all right. He’s treated tons of cases before.”

“Well, I didn’t...” Angela lowered her voice and continued, “I didn’t give it to you.”

“Then where did I get it, a fucking toilet seat?” Max noticed that the left side of her face looked slightly purple, said, “What the hell happened to you?”

“Oh, it was nothing,” Angela said. “My roommate opened the bathroom door last night and it hit me. I’ll live.”

But Max, not paying attention, said, “Well, if I didn’t catch it from you, you got it now, so you better go see a doctor and pretty damn soon.”

“Maybe your feckin’ whore of a wife gave it to you,” Angela said.

Her temper was coming out and the fire in her eyes was ferocious.

“My wife?”

“Yeah. How do you know she wasn’t doing it with some bollix behind your back?”

Max considered this for a moment. Deirdre having an affair? It seemed crazy. Then he imagined Kamal naked, on top of her, and a sick feeling started to build in his stomach. Kamal was the only other man he knew about who’d had any sort of contact with Deirdre and he remembered how unusually upset he’d been to hear about her death. But that was crazy. He’d never heard Kamal even
talk
about a woman before and, besides, he
was almost positive the guy putted from the rough.

“That’s crazy,” Max said. “No guy would’ve been interested in Deirdre and besides — you have to have sex to get herpes and Deirdre and I didn’t exactly have an active sex life.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” Angela said. “If you don’t believe me it’s your feckin’ problem, not mine.”

There was quiet knock on the door. Max said, “What is it?”

The receptionist who was temping this week poked her head into the office. She said to Max, “There’s a man here to see you.”

“A man?” Max said, looking at Angela. “I don’t have any appointments this morning, do I?”

Angela shook her head. Max said to the girl, “Did he say what his name was?”

“No. But he said it’s very important that he speak to you.”

“It’s probably a fucking salesman. Tell him to leave his business card and we’ll get back to him if we’re interested.”

“He said he’s not a salesman.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“I think he’s telling the truth. He’s in a wheelchair. He said he won’t leave till he sees you.”

“A wheelchair? Jesus H., he’s probably working for some handicapped charity. He’s—”
A wheelchair. Jesus fuck.
Max looked at Angela, then quickly looked away and said, “I’ll go see him.”

Max went toward the front of the office, rubbing the back of his neck to help ease his suddenly pounding headache. He managed not to scratch his groin but, Jesus Christ, he wanted to.

The man in the wheelchair was waiting near the reception desk. He had a thick black beard and dark,
serious eyes. He was a big guy, stocky, looked Italian or maybe Spanish. Was it the same guy? Max wasn’t sure. The retard at the hotel had been in shadow. But two guys in wheelchairs showing up in one week? What were the odds?

Max said, “Can I help you with something?”

The man extended his hand, said, “You certainly can. Name’s Bobby Rosa.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“I want to talk to you and I got a hunch you’re gonna want to listen.”

It was the same guy, all right. Wanting to break the bastard’s teeth, Max said, “Look, I don’t know why you’re here, but you’re lucky I don’t get you fired for what you did. I would’ve but we felt sorry for you because you’re retarded.”

Bobby smiled proudly. “You really thought I was retarded, huh?”

Shit, Max thought. If the guy wasn’t a retard maybe he wasn’t a housekeeper either.

Looking around, Bobby said, “Nice place you got here. You must have, what, ten thousand square feet? What kind of rent you pay?”

Max looked over at the temp who seemed to be busy typing. Lowering his voice and stepping away from the reception desk, Max said, “Look, if you don’t get the hell out of here right now, I’m going to get someone to take you out. Got that?”

Bobby said, “You got a good set of balls on you for a little guy. It’s no wonder you’re such a successful businessman.”

Max said, “You want me to call the cops, I’ll call the cops.”

“You’re not gonna call anybody.” They were both talking in low mutters now, but the fucking temp was
probably listening to every word. Still, it’d look worse if Max asked her to leave them alone, wouldn’t it?

“Yeah?” Max said, leaning close to Bobby’s ear. “And why won’t I?”

“Because,” Bobby said, “I have some pictures here that I doubt you’re gonna want the cops to see.”

Max noticed now, for the first time, the manila envelope on Bobby’s lap.

“Why don’t you come into my office?” he said.

Max went right to the bar and started making a stiff vodka tonic, his groin itching like hell. Bobby wheeled in behind him, stayed by the door.

Without looking at Bobby, Max said, “Now what the fuck are you talking about, pictures? Is this some bullshit joke ’cause if it is, I’m not laughing.”

“Sit down,” Bobby said.

Max, holding his drink at the bar, turned around slowly.

“What did you say?”

“I told you to sit down.”

“Look, if you think I’m gonna let you get away with any more of this bullshit just because you’re paralyzed, you’re out of your mind.”

Bobby took out a five-by-seven glossy and slid it across the desk. Max looked back and forth between Bobby and the photo several times, then walked slowly toward his swivel chair. Although he was scared out of his mind, he tried to keep his cool. But when he sat down his hands were already shaking. He looked up at Bobby, whose face was expressionless. Who was this guy, some detective? The only explanation Max could think of was that Harold and Claire Goldenberg had hired him to investigate the murders.

“So who the fuck are you?” Max asked.

“Under the circumstances I think I should be the one asking the questions, don’t you?”

“Are you a detective?”

“No, I’m not a detective.”

“Then who are you?”

“I’m the guy’s got a picture of you fucking your secretary while your wife’s not even cold in her fucking grave. Might get some people thinking, you know what I’m saying?”

“What do you want?”

“What do you think I want?”

Max stared at Bobby for a few seconds, wondering if the guy was crazy — he sure as hell looked crazy — then he got up and went back to the bar to make another drink. He said, “You like vodka?” thinking that maybe he could warm the guy up.

But Bobby said, “I don’t drink.”

“You have liver problems?”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t drink. Is it because you have a bum liver?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I just don’t like what alcohol does to my brain.” He touched his index finger to his head, said, “I like to stay sharp upstairs.”

“I know what you mean,” Max said, turning on the charm, starting to schmooze with the guy. “The only reason I drink is to keep my HDL up and my LDL down — doctor’s orders.” Max drank half the drink in one gulp. “What’s your LDL?”

“My what?”

“Your bad cholesterol level.”

“I don’t pay attention to that shit. But yours... I figure yours is right off the goddamn chart. Am I right or am I right?”

Max, walking back to his desk with the drink, said, “I hope you’re kidding, Bobby. I mean, you must be in your
forties, right? I probably have about ten years on you, but you should still start thinking about HDL and LDL. Believe me, problems can sneak up on you, especially if you have a high-fat, low-fiber diet. And you especially need to watch yourself, I mean being crippled and all. You probably don’t get your heart rate up a lot.”

Bobby, glaring, said, “Thanks for the medical advice.”

“No problem,” Max said, resting the drink on the desk. “Now, Bobby, look. You can see I’m a nice guy, can’t you? I mean I’m concerned about your health and everything. And you seem like a pretty nice guy to me. We’re both older guys, been around the block a few times — we probably have a lot in common we don’t even know about. So what I want to know is why can’t you just be straight with me and tell me exactly who you are and why you took that picture.”

“Why I took that picture? Because if I didn’t have that picture you wouldn’t pay me the quarter of a million dollars you’re going to.” He seemed like he was getting a big rush from this, fucking with a big shot businessman. Yeah, this was probably the highlight of this loser’s life.

Max’s hand was shaking, but he said, “Why the hell would I pay you one cent? So you have a picture of me screwing my executive assistant. Big shit. I could’ve hired someone to take that picture myself if I really wanted it.”

Max forced a laugh, but Bobby stayed deadpan.

“You’re going to pay me a quarter of a million dollars cash on Monday morning at nine o’clock,” Bobby said. “If not, a copy of that picture’s going to the NYPD.”

Max stared at Bobby. Finally, he smiled, said, “That was a joke, right?”

“I’ll be here at nine o’clock sharp,” Bobby said. “I want the money in one suitcase, two at most. How you get it in there is your problem.”

He started to back away from the desk.

Max said, “Whoa, whoa, hold up a second. This is all bullshit. I mean you’re kidding, right?”

Bobby started wheeling away. Suddenly, Max was feeling light-headed and he wasn’t sure whether it was drunkenness or panic. He said, “Hey, get back here.”

Bobby stopped, turned around slowly.

In a hushed voice, Max said, “Look, usually I’d tell you to take a hike, but I really don’t need this bullshit in my life right now, so here’s what I’ll do — the picture for a thousand bucks.”

“My price is non-negotiable,” Bobby said.

“Come on, a quarter of a million dollars? You have to be out of your fucking mind.”

“I know a lot more about you than you think,” Bobby said. “I read the papers, but I also use my head, I put two and two together. ‘Grieving husband’ my gimp ass.”

Max said, “Look, even if I wanted to give you that kind of money, I don’t have it.”

“Monday — nine
A.M.
sharp. Oh, and you can keep that copy of the picture.” Bobby looked up at the poster of the blonde on the Porsche. “Maybe you wanna hang it on the wall.”

After Bobby left, Max poured himself another vodka tonic. His head was spinning and he had lost sensation in his face. Feeling dizzy, he opened his door and called for Angela to come into his office. When she came inside, Max was lying on the couch, holding his head.

“What’s wrong?”

Max told her to lock the door, then motioned with his hand weakly toward the desk and the picture. Angela picked up the photo, stared at it for a few seconds, said, “That bollix.” Then she started smiling, said, “I look pretty good, don’t I?”

Max snatched the photo and said, “I can’t believe this day is happening. First herpes, now this!”

“What did he ask for?”

“The bastard wants two-fifty K or he’s going to the police.”

“So?”

“So, did you hear what I just said? Are you an idiot or something? Once the cops find out about me and you they’ll be on our backs for good.”

“That wasn’t nice.”

“What?”

“Calling me an idiot. You do that in Ireland, you better be holding more than a fookin drink.”

“Jesus, I feel like I’m gonna throw up,” Max said. “What the hell are we supposed to do now?”

“I’ll get you some coffee.”

“Fuck coffee! There’s only one way out of this,” Max said, and he covered his face with his hands. How the hell did it come to this? “Can you get in touch with your cousin today?”

“My cousin?”

“I think we have another job for his friend Popeye.”

“What about your coffee?”

“Fuck the coffee.”

“I would, but I don’t fancy the blisters.”

A
LLAN
G
UTHRIE
,
Two Way Split

The coffee burned Dillon’s tongue. He was in the Starbucks beside Penn Station, and he spat out the scalding liquid, going, “Fookin thing.”

A guy, yuppie-looking, gave him a long stare. Dillon was up for it, was he ever, glared at the guy, snarled, “The fook you looking at?” He was delighted how his New York accent was coming along, and the brogue still riding point. The guy quickly looked away. But Dillon was antsy, needed to wallop someone, some bastard needed a hiding and soon. When the compulsion hit him, as it did more and more, he had to have an explosive interlude, blow the cobwebs out.

He got out of there, an employee asking, “Everything okay, sir?”

Dillon paused, then said, “Hunky fucky dory yah wanker.”

Translate that.

It was evening, the darkness bringing out the predators, skells in abundance. Even though Forty-second Street was now more a tourist attraction than a sleaze zone, it still had pockets of peril and Dillon had quickly found them. He stood in a doorway near Ninth Avenue, saw a lost Japanese tourist, camera hanging from his neck, a T-shirt with “Giuliani Rules” on it.

Dillon moved fast, hit the guy from behind, his knife out and the nip’s throat sliced before he could mutter, “Banzai.”

Dillon said, “Call it quits on Pearl Harbor a cara.”

But, for fook’s sake, all the guy had was plastic. Where were the bucks? He also had a packet of Menthol Lights and a Zippo, with the inscription
Small change.
No truer words. Dillon kicked him in the head for good measure and, as he headed up the block, he lit a menthol, enjoying the crank of the lighter, thinking, Johnny Cash and Zippos, it was a mighty country.