Bust (28 page)

“Since when do you care what happens to Angela Petrakos?” the dick asked.

“Since I asked her to marry me,” Max said.

Max spent most of the day on the phone with his remaining clients, trying to shore up relationships. He also called some of the clients who had canceled their service agreements last week and asked for second chances. Most said they were sorry, that they were still going to take their business elsewhere, but he was able to sweet talk some into saying yes.

For the first time since before Deirdre was murdered, Max felt like his life was getting back on track. He was the kind of guy who worked best under pressure; it showed what he was made of.

He went to the gym in the morning, worked hard all day, then went to visit Angela at night. He was feeling healthier than he had in years. He felt a little bad about some of the things he’d done, but he also knew that somewhere inside him there was another Max Fisher, a better Max Fisher, and somehow he was going to let that Max Fisher out. He couldn’t wait to let the world see the new model. Hell, he might even start leaving tips.

Nah, no need to get stupid.

In the mirror that morning, he said to himself. “You’re a good person. Sure, you’ve had some tough luck, but suffering makes the man.”

He was pretty sure the Zen book would have this type of crap in it.

A minor hitch developed in McCullough’s case when the doorman at Bobby Rosa’s building came forward, claiming that Angela and Dillon had visited Bobby’s apartment on successive days. McCullough claimed that his client had been blackmailed by Bobby, and that she was at the building that night to ask for the sex pictures back. McCullough also speculated that Dillon was “the jealous type” and that he may have gone to confront Bobby, suspecting that Bobby and Angela were having an affair. As for the body in the bathtub, McCullough
claimed that Angela was trapped in an abusive relationship and had killed Dillon in self-defense. The Drano was evidence of how desperate and illogical she had become. Angela’s cuts and bruises backed up the self-defense claim and several people at the office came forward and vouched that they’d seen Angela arrive at work with a nasty black eye prior to the murder. Regarding the other sticking point, the code to the alarm, McCullough suggested that Dillon had forced Deirdre Fisher to give him the code to the alarm the evening of the murders, which was why he was able to reset the alarm before he left.

Max didn’t think there was any way in hell the police would buy McCullough’s bullshit. They were going to indict Angela and then, under pressure, she’d break down and implicate him. But then McCullough called him at work with the incredible news. The police had held a press conference announcing that the investigation was officially closed — Thomas Dillon and Thomas Dillon alone had committed the murders of Deirdre Fisher, Stacy Goldenberg, and Kenneth Simmons. Apparently, although it was clear that Max and Angela were having an affair, the DA’s office didn’t think they had enough evidence against Max to pursue a case against him. They also felt that Angela, as a battered woman, would be viewed as sympathetic by a jury, especially after it was announced that Dillon was also linked to the vicious slaying of a Japanese tourist. According to an Op Ed piece in the
Post
, the Mayor may have urged a quick resolution to the case as well, the start of the summer tourist season being a bad time for stories about a tourist having his throat cut to be in the news.

Two days after the case was closed, Angela was discharged from the hospital. She was transported out of the premises in a wheelchair and then she stood up and limped into Max’s arms. Thanks to his Viagra he had a
powerful hard-on, wanted to bang the living crap out of her right there. That night, he took her out to a romantic candlelight dinner at Demi on Madison Avenue and surprised her with a two-carat diamond engagement ring from Tiffany’s. It was worth every penny it had cost to see the way her eyes lit up when she held it. Who said money couldn’t buy happiness? Some dumb bastard who bought discount, probably.

Max started to go to the ashram a few times a week with Kamal. He listened closely as the swami talked about “the universal unconscious” and “the inner self.” He started to read books on Buddhism and Eastern philosophy and he did relaxation exercises and meditated two or three times a day. Hell, he was born for this shit. Even the itching had eased and the blisters were fading. That Buddha, he delivered, no question about it.

One weekend, Max took Angela to a yoga retreat in the Berkshires. They had a great time meditating, chanting, going to yoga and exercise classes, eating macrobiotic food, and taking long walks in the woods. When they came back to the city, Max felt completely cleansed. He felt as if he had been asleep his whole life and had finally awakened. The new Max Fisher was a kinder, more relaxed person who treated his newly hired employees with respect. He realized that for most of his life he’d been on the wrong path. His ego and desires had been controlling his actions while his true self was trapped underneath. Though he knew this didn’t justify or make up for anything he had done, he also knew the things he’d done weren’t his fault either. His ego had decided to kill Deirdre, and now that his ego was gone, the killer was gone too. He also felt a new sense of humility about himself and sensed that people understood he was a man who’d risen above great suffering to
become even more compassionate. He knew it wasn’t just his imagination, people were looking at him differently. There was no use for false modesty now — he might as well display it for the goddamn world to see. He couldn’t wait to talk about his entire journey someday on
Oprah
.

Then, one afternoon, his new executive assistant — a petite Indian girl whom Max had hired because she was a Buddhist; her breasts weren’t even B-cups — came into his office and said there was a man waiting to see him.

“Who?” Max asked.

“He wouldn’t say, but he said it was important.”

“All right,” Max said. “Send him in.”

Max shut off the CD of Tibetan chants he was listening to on his PC and then a short, very thin man, completely bald, with a big crooked nose entered his office. He was wearing jeans, sneakers, and a hooded sweatshirt, so he definitely wasn’t a salesman.

“Can I help you with something?” Max asked, smiling.

“Yeah, I think you can,” the man said. His voice sounded very hoarse, like a chain-smoker’s, or maybe even one of those people you saw sometimes who’d had throat cancer and talked through a machine.

“Why don’t you take a seat?” Max said. “Make yourself at home.”

“That’s all right,” the man said weakly. “I don’t mind standing. I’ve been standing all my life, you know what I mean?”

Max thought,
Yeah, standing, waiting for a bus
, because he wasn’t the type who’d ever have a car. Max had a message for him,
The bus wasn’t coming, pal,
but with his new spirituality, he decided to treat the poor loser like one of the Buddha’s own. Yeah, he was a loser, shit on the bottom of his heel, but Max wouldn’t be the one to tell him.

Max assumed the man was looking for work, maybe as an installer, doing punchdown for machine rooms, something like that. Max decided that because the man looked like he was in need he would hire him no matter what his skills were. The Buddha would be pleased as hell about that, right?

Max noticed that the man was looking above him, at the framed picture of the Dalai Lama he had hung above his desk.

“You meditate?” Max asked.

“No,” the man said in that scratchy voice.

“You really should try it. If you want, you can come down to my ashram some time. I’ll introduce you to some people.”

“Nah, that’s okay,” the man said. “I don’t believe in that religious shit.”

Feeling sorry for the man for being un-enlightened, Max said, “Well, you just call me if you change your mind. So do you have a resume?”

“What?”

“Do you have a resume with you?”

“Why would I give you a resume?”

“To get a job. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

The man smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile.

“I didn’t come here for a job. I just came to talk to you, Mr. Brown.”

Max glared at the man, suddenly dizzy. He had quit drinking, but he suddenly craved vodka. Fucking Buddhism, where was it when your nuts were in the blender?

“Sorry,” Max said. “What did you just call me?”

“Mr. Brown.”

“I think you’re in the wrong office,” Max said. “My name’s Fisher — Max Fisher.” He wanted to rip the Dalai Lama to bits.

“I know your name,” the man said.

“I get it,” Max said. “This is some kind of joke, right? Angela put you up to this.”

“Nobody put me up to anything,” the man said.

Max hoped that this wasn’t happening, that there was some explanation he couldn’t imagine.

“Then why are you here?” Max’s voice was almost as weak as the man’s.

“I want one million dollars in cash by tomorrow at five
P.M.
,” the man said. “I’ll come back here to pick it up.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Max said, standing up. “Who the hell do you think you are, barging into my office like this? You know what I think I’m gonna do? I think I’m gonna call the cops.”

Max reached for the phone.

“I don’t think that would be a smart idea.”

“Really? Why not?”

The man took a mini-cassette player out of his sweatshirt pocket and held it up for Max to see. Max stared at the little machine, as if in a trance. He barely heard Dillon with that death-knell accent say, “
Yeah, he hired me
,” before his left arm went numb.

Later, sitting in the bar of the Mansfield, Max was getting shitfaced on Gimlet, whatever the hell that was. He wasn’t even sure how he’d gotten to the bar. He remembered realizing, finally, that he wasn’t dying of a heart attack — no, the fucking Buddha wouldn’t put him out of his misery that easily; that Buddha, his ass was so fired — and running out of the office. At first, Max was planning to head to the ashram to center himself, but then he thought, Fuck it, and went to a bar. He started on Stoli, and worked his way up to liqueurs and other shit. He’d hit one or two or maybe three other bars on his way to the Mansfield —
hey, who was counting, right?
— and was still
wearing his business suit, although it was wrinkled and stained and where the hell was his tie?

He finished his third Gimlet, screamed for another, then fumbled for his Blackberry. Muttering, “Where the hell... goddamnit... shit,” he checked his two jacket pockets at least five times each before finding the thing in one of them. He thought he’d called Angela something like four hours ago to tell her how fucked they were, how they were gonna have to give the man everything, and to come meet him at the Mansfield. He called her again and was leaving another goddamn message when the next Gimlet arrived and he screamed, “Just get your ass over here, woman!” and he clicked off, knocking over the Gimlet in the same motion. The liquid stained his pants, making it look like he’d wet himself.

After Angela passed through Homeland Security — the guy had given her a nice little squeeze — she headed for the bar. The bartender smiled and asked her what she was having.

“A large Jameson, please.”

“Are you Irish?”

“I am.”

“Going on vacation?”

“I’m going home.” Her engagement ring sparkled in the light for a moment and she added, “Home is where the heart is.”

“Yeah, like that book I read in high school,” the guy said smiling, “
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter
.”

Angela didn’t get it, said, “I don’t get it.”

Then she noticed the guy staring at her chest.

“I like that pin,” he said, although she knew it wasn’t the pin that interested him.

She took a breath, expanding her bust for a couple of moments — why not make the poor guy’s day? — then she
let the breath out slowly and said, “Thanks, it belonged to me mother, the only legacy she left. It represents our hands reaching out to each other. It’s my new good luck charm, I think.”

“Wow, that’s so cool,” the guy said. He must’ve polished that same glass, what, five times?

Angela finished the Jameson in one long gulp, said, “Ta,” and walked away, swinging her hips, her chest fully expanded.

Hey, you got it, you gotta strut it, right?