Bust (14 page)

Angela was still crying like a Brit. Dillon went in the bathroom to take a leak and think, admired the way the pin caught the light when he tousled his hair in the mirror. He asked his own self, “Do I look like I just killed a cop?” The tinker’s curse crossed his mind, but he shook himself free of it and said, “You look a poet me man.”

When he came out, Angela was staring down at the cop, her eyes getting wider. Dillon looked over and said, “Jaysus, fuck me.”

The cop’s eyes were open and blood was dripping out of his mouth. He was trying to talk.

Dillon went into the drawer in the kitchen cabinet and took out a big butcher knife. He came back and jabbed the knife into the cop’s chest. The cop’s shirt turned redder, and the blood puddle grew, but his eyes closed for good. Dillon nearly admired the way the fooker had clung on to life, had tried to hang in there. But a butcher’s knife, it doesn’t do argument.

Angela was still crying, making noise now. Dillon slapped her in the face and said, “Shut up, yah hoor’s ghost,” and then went into the bathroom and washed his hands.

Dillon didn’t know how things had gotten so fucked. After he sold the jewelry he’d taken to that Chinaman, he was planning to leave Angela and New York City. He’d always heard Miami was nice. He saw himself chilling out down there, smoking dope, lying on the beach and writing poems all feckin’ day. To hell with moving into that rich fellah’s house uptown. It was a stupid plan anyway — never would have worked. He was just going to hang out with Angela a little longer, till things cooled down, then it was
slan, alanna.
But, now, the stupid woman had fucked everything up — bringing home a cop right into her kitchen. Now, all of a sudden, Miami was in jeopardy.

He came out of the bathroom, went to the closet and took out two bed sheets. He tucked one of the sheets under the cop’s fat body and then rolled the body onto the rest of it. Then he put the second sheet around the same way and went to the phone and called Sean, one of the other Prov-eens that hung around the boyos. Luckily, Sean was home. Sean was second generation Irish — thus more Irish than the real thing, used to be in the FDNY — and now he drove a livery cab. He said he’d definitely
come to the city from Queens to help Dillon out, saying with his stutter, “N-n-nothing to pray about.”

“Is the trunk of yah cab empty, Sean?” Dillon asked.

“W-w-why?”

“You’ll find out me man.”

After Dillon hung up he got two blankets out of the closet and he took the blanket and the sheet off the bed. Blood was soaking through the sheets that were currently wrapping the cop. Grabbing the cop by the feet, he dragged the body into the bedroom area, out of the blood puddle. He wrapped the body up the best he could. It didn’t look very neat, but at least the blood wasn’t leaking through anymore. Next, he got the mop and started mopping, wringing out the red water into the kitchen sink. He could mop like the best of them, prison taught you that. He got rid of most of it, but there was still a big red stain on the floor.

Dillon had nothing to do except wait for Sean, so he watched more
Flintstones
and some
Bugs Bunny
— American cartoons were feckin’ mighty — then had another wee dram of Jameson. Well, you would, wouldn’t you, after killing a Guard? After
Bugs Bunny
he watched some of the Knicks. He was gradually teaching himself about American sport, mainly to fill in the hours. He had learned that when you lose a game
you choke.
Jaysus, he loved that,
you choke.
And even better, if you lost a game, they said, Y
ou got your arse handed to you.

He glanced at the trussed body and said, “You got yer arse handed to yah, fellah.”

Finally Angela stopped crying. She went into the bathroom and came out, wiping her face with a towel. She sat down next to Dillon, held his hand, and said, “I’m sorry — I really, really am. I didn’t mean to do any of this. He followed me home — I had no choice. It’ll be all right, won’t it? I mean nobody’s come to the door so maybe
nobody heard the bloody shots. If they did, maybe they didn’t know what it was. Maybe they just thought it was a car backfiring or firecrackers or some shite. I mean the plan’s still gonna work, right? We’ll still get married, won’t we? And we’ll still get all of my boss’s money too. You’ll see. It’s just gonna take a few months, right?”

He vaguely wondered why, all of a sudden she was speaking like an Irish version of Tony Soprano’s wife.

“Whatever,” Dillon said. He knew none of this was going to happen, but he never saw the point in telling a woman what he was thinking.

During the Knicks post-game show, the buzzer rang. First Dillon made sure it was Sean, then he buzzed to let him up.

Sean was like a caricature mick, red hair, skinny as a rail and with that death-white skin and freckles. He spoke with a stammer, especially when he was drunk, which was most of the time. He drank Guinness like water and spiced it up with Jameson. In the bag, he’d pick the hottest woman in any pub, sidle up to her, and go, “I-I-I d-d-d-dr-drive a c-c-cab. W-w-will you g-g-go ou-ou-out wif me?” Then the left side of his face would begin to twitch, ensuring that any dim hope went right down the toilet. But he had a streak of ruthlessness that rivaled Dillon’s own. It was rumored he’d killed a priest, the worst sin of them all, and said, “I’m going to hell, going to have me own self a time first. The priest will be waiting for me, keep the fire nice and toasty.”

At the door Dillon said, “You leave your cab double-parked like I told you to?”

“Y-y-y-yes,” Sean said. Then he noticed the body on the floor. He said, “Ih-ih-ih-is it a nun?”

“No, tis nothing,” Dillon said. “Just a rent collector.”

You want an Irish guy on yer side, kill a snitch or a rent collector, and you have their undying loyalty.

“G-g-good on yah,” Sean said.

Angela was scrubbing the stains off the kitchen floor with a sponge and Mr. Clean. She said hello to Sean. Dillon said, “Sean, say hello to Angela.”

Sean said, “I d-d-drive a c-c-cab. Will you g-g-g-go ou-ou-out wif me?”

Dillon shook his head, said to Angela, “We’re just going to drive uptown, dump it somewhere, and that’s it.” And to Sean, “You’ll be back home in like a half hour.”

Then Dillon and Sean picked the body up — Dillon lifting from the head, Sean from the feet. The body wasn’t as stiff or as heavy as Dillon expected.

“W-w-w-w-what if s-somebody sees us?” Sean asked.

“We have to be quiet, that’s all,” Dillon said. And then, remembering Lauren Bacall, he said, “You can be quiet, can’t yah, you just put your lips together and shit the fook up.”

Jesus, he loved that broad, Bacall, she was a real dame, a ball-buster and with serious edge. Dillon wondered if she had any Irish in her. If not, he’d have been glad to supply some.

Dillon opened the door and listened closely to make sure nobody was in the hallway or coming up or down the stairs. Then he said, “Let’s go.”

They went down the two flights of stairs like they were carrying a piece of furniture. At the bottom of the stairs Sean walked too fast and the cop’s head banged into the wall.

“Jaysus, yah bollix,” Dillon said. “Take it easy, will yeh?”

They opened the first door into the vestibule then Sean stopped suddenly — his eyes staring ahead. Dillon turned around and saw a man coming up the steps into the building. There was no time to go back upstairs. They just had to move to the side of the vestibule and let the man pass.

Dillon had seen the guy in the building before. He was a typical nancy white guy — wore a suit every morning, going to work. He’d never said a word to Dillon before, but this time he smiled and said, “Moving out?”

He looked drunk and he smelled like alcohol. He was wearing one of his suits, but the tie was on loose.

“No,” Dillon said. “Just tossin’ away me old rug.”

“Cool,” the man said.

He passed by Sean and disappeared up the stairs.

Sean said, “L-l-l-l-l-let’s just g-g-g-g-g—”

“Just shut yer stammerin’ mouth and start movin’,” Dillon said.

They carried the body out to the street. There was no one passing by and no cars were coming. Moving fast, they stuffed the body into the trunk and got inside the car, a dark blue Chevy Caprice. As they were driving up First Avenue, Sean went, “W-w-w-what if that guy c-c-calls the c-c-c-c-cops?”

“No, he was fucked up and he’s a pillow biter, they don’t do cops, if you follow me drift?” Dillon said. “He saw fooking nuthin.”

“Nobody’s s-s-s-s-stupid enough to think that w-w-w-was a rug.”

“Just move it along, yah arsehole,” Dillon snapped.

Cursing to himself and shaking his head, Sean continued to drive uptown. Dillon couldn’t stand the quiet anymore and turned the radio on to a good local Irish station and cranked the volume. When they got to Eighty-sixth Street, Sean said, “Where are we headed?”

“Harlem,” Dillon said. “St. Nicholas Avenue.”

Dillon had used his idle time to walk around Manhattan and he already knew the city as well as a native. At 125th, they cut over to St. Nicholas and continued uptown.

At 144th, he said, “All right, this looks about right. Slow down.”

They turned on 144th and stopped in front of an empty lot of rubble. The streetlights were burnt out on the entire side of the street.

“Come on,” Dillon said. “Let’s do this fast as we can.”

Sean opened the trunk and they lifted the body out. It was so quiet they couldn’t even hear the traffic noise from St. Nicholas Avenue. There were only the sounds of a dog barking and some kids screaming, maybe a block or two away.

Stepping over the garbage and rubble, they continued walking into the darkness. A few times Dillon, going
Fookin thing,
slipped and almost fell. Sean was beginning to whine, asked, “How m-m-much farther?”

“Shut yer trap,” Dillon said. Then, when he thought they were far enough away from the street, he said, “All right, right here. Drop it.”

They let the body fall, then they started covering it with whatever garbage was lying around. It was impossible to see anything, but Dillon picked up what felt like wood, paint cans, dirt, whatever. When it seemed like the body was covered he said, “That’s all right. They’ll never look for a dead Guard here anyway.”

“A dead
w-w-w-what?”
Sean gasped. He was almost out of breath. “Are you d-d-d-d-demented?”

“What?” Dillon said.

“You s-s-s-said it was a r-r-r-rent collector.”

Thinking,
Vive la difference
, Dillon said, “Yeah? So?”

“J-J-J-Jaysus,” Sean said like he was going to go for Dillon. “I don’t believe it, I c-c-c-could murder yah. The Boyos told us s-s-s-s-stay clear of the G-G-G-Guards.”

“It doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“B-b-but G-G-G-Guards. That’s like b-b-b-blasphemy.”

Dillon stepped back and felt a sudden piercing pain in his foot. He almost screamed, but stopped himself in time. He realized he must have stepped on a nail or
something, but didn’t want to look at it until he was back in the car. Then he said, “Let’s just get the bejaysus out of here.” He was thinking,
Just me fooking luck to get that tetanus thing.

Back in the car, the pain in his foot was even worse. He turned on the car’s overhead light and saw the head of a thick nail coming out of the bottom of his sneaker. He had no idea how deep it was wedged into his foot, but it felt like it was hitting bone.

Driving down St. Nicholas Avenue, Sean said, “There b-b-b-b-better not be b-b-b-blood in the b-b-b-boot of me v-v-v-vehicle.”

Dillon yanked off his tennis sneaker — a three-inch-long rusty nail came off with it. He said, “Fook, and I just bought these shites at Modell’s.”

He had made someone else’s world a hell, and someone had made his world a hell. Supply-chain management for human suffering.

J
OSEPH
F
INDER
,
Company Man

In the back seat of the cab, Max Fisher put on his curly blond wig. He knew he looked ridiculous — like a goddamn clown — but he figured it was better than nothing. He was still paranoid about why Detective Simmons never came back to talk to him and the last thing he needed was to be seen checking into a hotel room with his executive assistant.

When he went to work this morning he had no idea he’d wind up where he was now. His plan was to have a normal day at the office, get back to work, keep his mind occupied. But he had no idea how fucking tempting it would be to see Angela sitting at her desk, wearing one of her skirts that barely covered her butt-cheeks. Usually, he’d find some way to get her into his office and they’d have a quickie, but he knew that anything like that would be impossible today, and probably for a long time. Everyone was talking about how a detective was here last week, asking everyone questions about him and Deirdre, and if anybody had any “theories” about what might have happened. This proved to Max that he wasn’t being paranoid — Simmons was definitely on to him.

Trying to bang Angela now would be nuts, but Max couldn’t help himself. Knowing she was so close by, wanting her so badly, was driving him wild. Before
lunchtime, he called her into his office, but left the door open. As she went over Max’s schedule for the rest of the day, Max winked at her. Angela saw him, immediately smiled as Max wrote, “I have to be with you” on a pad and slid it across the desk to her. She wrote back, “How?”

Like two students passing notes back and forth in a classroom, Max and Angela plotted out their strategy for meeting later on at the Hotel Pennsylvania. He figured it would be better to meet at a big hotel, where there was a lot of activity, than at a small hotel where they were more likely to be noticed. He often set his clients up with call girls at the Hotel Pennsylvania and they never had any problems. Besides, they were planning to take precautions. They’d arrive separately, check in under phony names, and he’d wear a wig. The wig was his idea. Angela wrote that she could go buy him a nice one during her lunch break. He tried it on in his office, knowing right away that it made him look like Harpo Marx, but deciding that it was worth it to be alone with Angela.