Bust (23 page)

“I really don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about,” Max said. There it was again,
foggiest
.

“You want to keep playing games, be my guest,” Bobby said. “It won’t matter soon anyway.”

“How the hell did you get in here?” Max said, his throat tightening again.

“Don’t blame the girl at the desk,” Bobby said. “I’m good at getting into places I’m not supposed to be. But I think you already know that.”

“Look, if you’re not out of here in two minutes I’m calling the cops.”

Bobby laughed, then said, “You still don’t realize what kind of trouble you’re in, do you? You sent Dillon after
me, but that was your last card — you shot your load.”

“Dillon?” Max said. “Who the hell’s Dillon?”

“You know him as Popeye, but his real name’s Dillon. It doesn’t matter now anyway because he’s out of the picture.”

“What do you mean, out of the picture?”

“Not what you think it means. He’s working with me now.”

Max couldn’t believe this was happening, that this freakazoid in a wheelchair was really here again, trying to ruin his life.

“Oh, and your executive assistant,” Bobby went on, “the one I got in that picture with you — Angela, I think her name is. I don’t think she’ll be coming into work anymore, so you might just want to clean out her desk.”

“Why? Is she working with you too?”

“No, she’s really out of the picture, and I think you know exactly what I mean.”

Max picked up the phone and said, “That’s it. I’m calling the cops.”

“I’d think about that a second,” Bobby said. “I mean what are you gonna tell them?”

Max paused, realizing Bobby was right, and replaced the receiver.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Max said, feeling like he might start to cry. “What did I ever do to you?”

“You were just in the right place at the wrong time,” Bobby said. He took out a mini-cassette recorder from the pocket of his windbreaker and placed it on the desk. He said, “You want to do the honors or should I?”

Max didn’t move so Bobby went ahead and pressed the play button.

“Did Max Fisher hire you?”

“Ary Christ, what do you care, you’re not a Guard.”

Max looked at Bobby, but Bobby was looking down at the tape recorder, smiling. There was more conversation, something about Bobby holding a gun, then Popeye said:

“Yeah, okay, he hired me.”

“To knock off his wife?”

“Yeah.”

“And what about the college kid — the girl?”

“T’was a bit of bad timing, as the tinkers say back home.”

“And what about the cop?”

“Him I would’ve killed for a shot of Jameson.”

Bobby pressed the stop button and said, “Oh, one other thing. I don’t want a quarter of a mill anymore.”

“Yeah?” Max said weakly. “What do you want?”

Bobby leaned forward in his wheelchair, then said, “Everything.”

Before Angela left for work, she checked to see how Dillon was doing in the bathtub. The Drano had burned through the top layer of skin on his face, turning it yellow and gooey, but at this rate it was going to take weeks until his whole body was dissolved, if it dissolved at all. Meanwhile, the room stank so bad she could hardly breathe. It figured that Dillon would come up with some stupid idea that had like zero chance of working.

Then she saw something glinting in the gooey yellow. For one awful moment, she thought maybe his gold tooth fell out and her stomach heaved. But it wasn’t a tooth, she realized, it was the pin, and she muttered out loud, “What’s with that feckin’ pin?”

She picked it out, real careful not to touch any of Dillon, going under her breath, “Sweet Jesus, oh Sweet Mother of all Heaven.”

She put the pin on the sink, figuring she’d stash it in her handbag later. The pin was tarnished from the Drano, but compared to Dillon himself it was in great shape.

Angela had already mopped up most of the blood off the floor and reluctantly she washed her hair in the kitchen sink. Even after she blew it out, it still looked flat. And, to make things worse, although the wound on her thigh had stopped bleeding, it still looked pretty bad and she couldn’t wear a skirt to work.

She was running so late she decided to take a cab. It was a nice, cool day and it felt good to get out of that stuffy apartment. As the cab headed up Third Avenue, Angela decided that she would have to slowly get her life back together. First she was going to have to get the apartment clean and wash Dillon down the drain, then she could start worrying about a relationship again.

But now that Dillon and Bobby were both gone, she wondered if she should go back to her original plan and get married to Max. She still thought he was an asshole, but the whole experience with Dillon had taught her that she had no idea what she was doing when it came to judging men. At least Max was rich and, when it came right down to it, what was more important than money?

It was ten-fifteen when Angela arrived at NetWorld. The door to Max’s office was closed and she didn’t feel like bothering him. So she turned on her computer and started to catch up on some work. When Max came out of his office he stopped and stared at Angela for a second or two, like he was surprised to see her.

“What happened to you?” he asked.

At first, Angela thought Max was talking about her being an hour and a half late, but then she realized it had to do with the bruise on her face. Where Dillon had
punched her she had a big black-and-blue mark that her makeup couldn’t hide.

“Oh,
that
,” Angela said. “My roommate swung another door into me again. She’s a real ejit.”

“You should get rid of those swinging doors,” Max said seriously, “or that stupid roommate.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Angela said, thinking about Dillon dissolving in the bathtub.

“Why don’t you come into my office?” Max said. “I need to dictate a letter.”

Angela followed him into his office and sat down on the couch. Max was already sitting at his desk.

“First of all,” Max said, “I have to talk to your cousin.”

“My cousin? What for?”

“Never mind what for, just give me the goddamn number.”

“I don’t have it.”

“What do you mean, you don’t have it? You had it yesterday.”

“Why do you need to talk to him?”

“To find out if his friend Popeye — I’m sorry,
Dillon
, is still alive.”

“Dillon?” Angela asked.

“That’s Popeye’s real name,” Max said. “At least that’s what Ironside told me.”

Angela was confused.

“Mr. Average White Man in the wheelchair,” Max continued. He was here about a half hour ago. He told me that you ‘wouldn’t be coming in anymore’ and that Dillon was ‘out of the picture.’ But since you’re here I’m starting to think he’s full of shit about everything.”

“Bobby Rosa was here?”

“Yes,” Max said. “Don’t you pay attention to a goddamn word I say?”

“But he’s dead.”

“Then I guess it was a ghost who was just in here, trying to blackmail me again. And my question is, Why? If this Popeye —
Dillon
— is supposed to be on our side, why isn’t he killing the people he’s supposed to kill? Why is he telling Rosa that I hired him? The only thing that makes sense is they’re working together, and that they’ve been working together all along. Why else would Bobby go into that hotel room that night unless he knew we’d be there? So what I’m gonna do is call that little mick and say ‘Tell the cripple to back off or I’m taking you down.’ And I’m serious. I have the name of a top-notch lawyer now and I’ll pin this whole thing on him. I don’t need all this bullshit in my life right now — I have a business to run.”

Max’s face had turned red during his long speech and he was breathing heavily. He looked like he might croak at any moment. But Angela had something bigger on her mind — Bobby was still alive. She had to talk to him, figure out some way to get him off their backs.

“Sorry, Max,” Angela said standing up. “I have to go to the bathroom. Oh, but wait, I have something for you.” She rummaged in her bag and took out the book. “It’s a present. Sorry I didn’t have time to wrap it.”

It had crossed her mind to give him the pin too, but she kind of liked it.

Max took the book cautiously and Angela said, “Don’t worry, it’s not gonna blow up.”

Max gave her a look as if he wasn’t so sure. Then, squinting at the book, holding it at arm’s length because he didn’t have his reading glasses on, Max said, “
Wisdom of Zen
? What’s this crap?”

“It’ll bring you peace,” Angela said, thinking about Dillon again, lying there in her bathtub, all yellow and Zen-like.

“I get enough of that Zen peace talk shit from my asshole chef,” Max said. He flipped the book onto his desk then
demanded, “What about your cousin’s phone number?”

“I think I better call him,” Angela said.

“Why can’t I call?”

“He has a bad temper — you know how Greeks are. If you call and he thinks things got messed up he might start going crazy.”

“I thought your cousin’s Irish?”

“Half Greek, half Irish. Like me.”

“I don’t know what the fuck’s going on anymore,” Max said, shaking his head in frustration. “Just get me another meeting with Popeye today before five or I’m calling the cops. And close the door on your way out, will ya? I have to do my breathing exercises.”

Diane Faustino from Accounting was talking to Sheila in Payroll near Angela’s desk and Angela wanted to talk to Bobby in private. So she went to the back of the office, to the supply room. She called, but there was no answer. She went back to her desk, but it was impossible to concentrate. Max came out of his office every couple of minutes and asked if she had made “that call yet.” Angela kept saying, “Yeah, but he’s not home.”

Max was getting to be a real pain in the ass. Angela couldn’t believe that less than an hour ago she was seriously considering spending the rest of her life with that loser.

After waiting for about half an hour, Angela went back to the supply room and dialed Bobby’s number again. This time he picked up.

Bobby was about to get into the bathtub when the phone rang. He lifted himself back into his wheelchair and went out to the living room. He answered the phone on its sixth ring.

“May I speak with Bobby Rosa please?”

It was an official-sounding older woman. Bobby figured it was another one of those asshole telemarketers. Even though he’d put himself on the national do-not-call list, those fucking cold callers kept hassling him twenty-four-seven. If she was a telemarketer, he was going to do what he always did when those pricks called his apartment — tell her Bobby Rosa had died. That usually got him off whatever list he was on.

“Why do you want to talk to him?” Bobby said.

“Is this Mr. Rosa?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“It’s very important that I speak with Mr. Rosa.”

“Yeah? And why’s that?”

“My name is Estelle Sternberg from the Jewish Home for the Aged. I’m afraid I have some bad news regarding his mother. Who am I speaking with please?”

“What happened to his mother?”

“I’m afraid she passed away last night,” the woman said.

Bobby paused, letting the news sink in, then he said, “Yeah, well, this is Bobby so you can tell me what happened.”

Ms. Sternberg explained that Mrs. Rosa had died in her sleep the night before. She asked Bobby if he wanted any assistance in making the funeral arrangements.

“No, I’ll take care of it myself,” Bobby said, thinking, Well, at least I didn’t have to shoot her.

When he hung up, Bobby realized he was starving and he decided to take his bath later. He hadn’t had pancakes in a long time so he cooked some up the way he liked them, with a lot of butter. Then, as he was eating, it hit him. He lost it, wheeling around his apartment, screaming and throwing things. It wasn’t good enough — he needed to start shooting shit up. He was on his way to the closet to get a piece when he heard the phone ring.

He picked up, going, “What?”

“Bobby?”

Fuck, it sounded like Angela. How was that fucking possible? Was Dillon completely fucking incompetent?

“Yeah,” he finally said.

“You know who this is?”

Straining for a Mr. Nice Guy tone, he said, “ ’Course I do, sweetheart. How’s it going?”

Why, why was that cunt still alive and his mother was dead? What kind of fucked up world was this?

“I can’t talk much right now,” Angela said. “I’m at work. You won’t believe what’s been going on. I can’t even believe I’m talking to you.”

“Yeah,” Bobby said. “Me neither.”

Angela lowered her voice to a whisper, said “We don’t have to worry about Dillon, I mean Popeye, anymore... I got rid of him last night.”

“What do you mean
got rid
of him?”

“I can’t talk about that right now.”

“Is he dead?”

“Yeah,” Angela said.

“You killed him?”

“You know, Bobby, I really think we should talk about that somewhere private. Can you meet me somewhere or something?”

Bobby might have left Angela alone forgotten about her — but it was too dangerous now. She knew about three murders and had committed one herself, meaning the cops would be after her soon, if they weren’t already. If she was arrested she’d flip on Max Fisher, and after that the million-dollar photo of Max and Angela would be worth about as much as any of the other pictures he had taped to the walls.

Besides, he was in the mood to go kill somebody, let off some steam.

“Sure,” Bobby said. “I can meet you. Let me think a sec.”

“How about tonight?” Angela said. “I could stop by your place on my way home from work.”

“Nah, I don’t think we should wait that long,” Bobby said. “I wanted to get out of the house anyway today. I know, let’s meet in Riverside Park this afternoon. How’s two o’clock work for you?”

I would extricate myself, I was sure, though I thought, too, of what I’d told the police, how the killer was still out there, and I felt a sense of danger beneath the veneer of the moment, everything about to break loose.