Once a Crooked Man (34 page)

Max turned away. There was something unusually attractive about this girl. Under the frailty was a toughness that was appealing. Taking her by the arm he pushed her over to a chair at the poker table.

“You said you work for a travel company?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she replied, and put her shoe back on.

As she straightened up Max took her purse from her shoulder and emptied out the contents. He glanced at her passport and then carefully examined everything else. Finally he opened a long business envelope and extracted a sheet of typewritten paper. “‘Honeybee Travel,'” he read. “Is that you?”

“Yeah,” she replied, and gave another sniff.

Glancing at his watch, he asked, “What time they open?”

“What?” she asked.

“Honeybee,” he said, and pointed at the paper. “Are they open now?”

“My boss lives over the shop. He answers the phone all hours. Keeps his clients happy that way.”

Max pulled a phone out from his pocket and dialed the number on the letter heading. “Hi there,” he said. “I'm trying to locate a friend of mine. I understand she works for you.” He covered the mouthpiece. “What do they call you?” he asked.

“Elizabeth.” She pouted. “Elizabeth Carswell.”

His hand dropped. “Her name is Elizabeth. Yes. Oh. It's ‘Lizzie.' I see. That's right. But she still works for you? I see. No, no message. I'll call when she's back. Yeah, sometime next week.”

The girl called Lizzie gave him a defiant stare as he rang off.

“Satisfied?” she said.

“Is that your boss?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Sort of.”

“About your friend Murphy,” he said.

“I told you he was not my friend. I knew as much about him as I do about you.”

“But you came over together?”

“Yes.”

“What did you talk about on the flight over?”

“I told him what I did. He told me about his work. Acting and all that.”

“Like what?”

“That he did a movie with Tom Cruise but they never worked together. That he did work on the stage and on the TV. And he reads them books people listen to in their cars.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Nothing else?”

“No. Just small talk. Look, what's going on? What is this place and why am I here? And how come I got mixed up in your affairs? What sort of business is it may I ask?”

Max came back over and looked straight down at her. “How come an attractive girl like you isn't married? You got a boyfriend?”

“No, not right now.”

“How come?”

“Too busy I suppose.” She folded her arms. “When you said Harry drowned did that mean you killed him?”

“No. He jumped off my brother's boat.”

“Why'd he do that?”

“He was scared.”

“So scared that he jumped?”

“Yes.”

“So you killed him!”

“If you like.”

For a moment there was silence.

“What do you do when you're not working?” Max asked.

“Are you coming on to me?” said Lizzie.

Max paused. Lizzie's frankness and candor was new to him.

“Maybe. Answer my question.”

“I run a lot. In cross-country races. Track meets. And I go to the cinema. Listen to music. All the usual sort of things.”

“You have a good life.”

“Yes.”

Lizzie started to put her belongings back in her purse.

“Yet you don't have a regular boyfriend. That surprises me.”

She held up her lipstick. “Do you mind?” she asked.

Max shook his head and watched patiently as she painted her lips a weird shade of purple. “If all you came for was a good time, I could give you that.”

“What?”

“I could give you a good time,” he repeated.

“For what in return?” she asked, and blotted her lips on a Kleenex.

“Whatever you want,” Max said lightly. “Just take it as it comes. When did you last eat?”

“What makes you think I'm that sort of girl?”

Max laughed. “Every girl is that sort of girl. Just depends on the price.”

“Yeah? You sound as if you've had a lot of experience.”

“You could say that.”

“To answer your question, it was lunch yesterday.”

“You want something to eat?”

“What exactly do you do, Max? When you're not abducting and killing?”

“How do you know my name?”

“Your friend called you Max. Back in that cellar. I take it what you do ain't legal.”

“Would it bother you if it wasn't?”

“No. Not really. I mean, why should it? If I was back home it might. But being here makes it all kind of unreal, if you know what I mean.”

“No, I don't. Tell me.”

“I've been to the films, Max! I watch the telly! I've seen what life is like in America. Especially New York and all the Mafia and all that. I mean it's all pretty wild, isn't it? Look what's happened to me and I've only been here a couple of days!”

“Do you watch much porn?”

“No, not much. I had a boyfriend once that liked it, but it never did much for me. All the people was so unattractive and all pale and pimply. Why do you ask?”

“That's one of our businesses. Sex tapes, magazines, CDs and the like. We have some pretty hot stuff with some pretty good-looking studs and chicks.”

“Doing what?” she said wryly.

“You name it, we got it.”

“Just people humpin'?”

“Not at all. We market a quality product. You'd be surprised at the difference.”

“Do your customers know the difference?”

“Many of them do. They keep on ordering. At least they used to. Things are slack right now.”

“That's a poor choice of words, if I may say so.”

Max looked her for a moment and then asked, “So what's it to be? You want to come upstairs and eat or shall I put you back in there until we figure out what to do with you?”

“Bit of a Hobson's choice.”

“What the fuck is that?”

She smiled broadly, finished filling her purse and threw it over her shoulder. “I can see I'm going to have to teach you a few things.”

“Come on,” he said, heading out.

Upstairs, Max led the way through the dining room into a brightly lit kitchen. A short, dark-haired man with a mustache was wiping down the steel counters. Max hung up his jacket on a row of hooks and rolled up his sleeves.

“Ciao, Nando. Buona sera,”
said Max.
“Pochi clienti stasera?”

“Sì,”
replied the other.
“Nessuno dopo le nove e un quarto. Maurizio ha mandato tutti a casa. Posso preparare qualcosa per lei e la signora?”

“No grazie. Lo faccio io.”

Nando took off his soiled whites and threw them with the towels into a laundry basket in the corner. Picking up his cap and coat, he wished them good night. The front door was unlocked, opened, closed and relocked.

Max took an apron from a pile of clean linen and pulled it over his head. “I hope you still eat beef,” he said. “I'm no chef but I can do steaks.”

“Sure,” she said. “Sounds great.”

The gas popped when it was lit and the jets burned blue beneath a big iron grill.

“What is this place?” she asked. “Where is everybody?”

“It's called Mazaras,” he replied. “It's named after the house in Sicily where my family used to live. A little village called Mazzarone. My chef and his staff mostly come from Calabria. Right now they're all on their way home or to their favorite bars getting drunk.”

“Your chef? You own all this?”

“Yes,” replied Max, opening the door to a large icebox where he selected two thick porterhouse steaks.

“I'm impressed,” she said with a smile.

Max brushed them with olive oil, covered them with freshly ground black pepper, gave them a shake of sea salt and dropped them with a sizzle on the grill. A small black skillet was oiled and set on the grill. Into it went thick slices of onion.

A delicious aroma rose as Max opened an icebox and pulled out a bag of washed arugula leaves and a bowl of cherry tomatoes. From the overhead rack he took down two big white plates and loaded them with the green leaves. A razor-sharp knife made short work of slicing the tomatoes. Checking his watch, he lowered the flame slightly.

Max watched the meat. Lizzie watched Max. Then she remembered Harry and a wave of guilt swept through her body.

“Are you cold?” said Max.

“No,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”

“You were shivering. We can turn off the air-conditioning.”

“No thanks. I'm fine.”

“Have some wine. That'll fix you up.”

“That'd be great,” she replied.

Max unlocked a cupboard, took out a bottle of Sagrantino di Montefalco and swiftly pulled out the cork, using a device on the wall.

“You eat here a lot?” asked Lizzie.

“All of the time. Except when I'm at home.” He turned off the gas, scooped the steaks onto the plates and gave each a fresh grind of pepper. “Bring the bottle,” he said, and picked up the plates. Setting them down on a table in the dining room, he lit the candles and poured out the wine.

“Blimey,” she said wryly as she sat down. “Soft lights, fancy wine, now all we need is the sexy music…”

Max walked over and reached behind a curtain. Soft music came through invisible speakers. Raising his glass, he said somewhat ironically,
“Santé!”

“Bottoms up!” she replied, and they both drank. The wine was smooth and sexy. With her steak knife she cut off a piece of meat and popped it into her mouth. “If you got your own restaurant, how come you stay in such good shape?”

“I worry a lot,” he retorted.

“What about?”

“You ever run a business?”

“Only worked in one.”

“You'd be amazed at what you gotta do every day. Decisions to make. People coming to you for advice. There's always something and every little thing adds up and raises your blood pressure.”

Lizzie scooped up some onions. “Who do you talk to at the end of the day? Is there a Mrs. Max waiting for you?”

Her captor's hands stopped moving imperceptibly. His face tensed and then relaxed. “Now there's a question,” he replied.

“Does it have an answer?” she persisted.

“Not yet, no.”

“Tried it before, have you? Or just not met the right girl?”

“How's the meat?” he said abruptly.

“Fine, thanks,” she answered, and then added with a grin, “thick and juicy. Just the way I like it.” Then she asked, “Where's home?”

“New Jersey.” A small dimple appeared in his left cheek as he too smiled. “You're an inquisitive little fucker, aren't you?”

“I'm having a hard time figuring you out. You're not what I expect when it comes to villainy. And I'm curious about you,” she said, and took a drink. “You own the whole of this building?”

“Yes.”

“What's all them doors up there?”

“What?”

“When I come in earlier we walked past a bunch of doors with names on them, like Paris, Rome, Berlin.”

“Which would you choose?” he asked, and poured more wine into her glass.

“Depends what for,” she answered. “Art and all that stuff I'd pick Paris. For nightlife I suppose I'd go to Berlin. For food there would be no contest; I'd go to Rome.”

For a moment she stared hard at him.

“You know Max, you're the first man I've met that could do more in the kitchen than boil water.”

“Thank you. What about your old man?”

“My dad?”

Max nodded.

“I never ever saw him in the kitchen.”

“How come?”

Lizzie waited for several seconds before answering.

“Dad was in the travel industry. In fact, he started Honeybee. But just when the business was showing a profit he was killed in a car crash. I never really knew him. Sad, really. What was your old man like?”

“Old-school. Strict. Spoke Sicilian most of the time. Generous to a fault. Started every day with a shot of
Grappa
and died of old age.”

Dinner was over and Max stood up. “Come on,” he said amiably, and blew out the candles. “Time for the European tour.”

They made their way back up the stairs. Max opened the door marked Berlin and ushered her inside. The theme was distinctly Teutonic, catering to the leather and chain crowd. In the center was a raised bed-like platform covered in shiny black rubber. On three sides hung the paraphernalia of sadomasochism and bondage. The fourth wall and the ceiling were both mirrored. The floor was covered with the same red carpet as the hallway. The lighting was strategically placed bare red bulbs.

“I see,” she said. “Thirties Berlin, storm troopers, swastikas, Marlene Dietrich with black stockings and red lips.”

His move caught her completely off guard. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he flipped her onto the platform. Her purse dropped to the floor. Before she could object or cry out he had slipped her wrists into restraints at the top corners. Tearing off her skirt and panties, he equally swiftly secured her ankles as well. In a matter of seconds Lizzie was spread-eagled on her back and naked from the waist down. Her eyes closed as her whole body screamed. Nakedness meant nothing. The threat of whipping meant nothing. It was the terrifying feeling of being unable to move. Tugging helplessly at the restraints she began to perspire as she rolled from side to side.

“All right, Miss Lizzie Carswell or whoever the fuck you are,” he said as he walked slowly around the room, “it's time to cut out the bullshit.”

“I've told you,” she sobbed. “I met him in a coffee shop. He asked me…”

Something stroked her foot and slid up the inside of her thigh. Max had a leather whip in his hand that went up one side and down the other three times, each time stroking her sex. Dropping the whip to the floor, he kicked off his shoes and pulled off his shirt and pants. His erection throbbed up and down to the beat of his pulse. Lizzie's heart was pounding twice as fast as usual as he knelt on the black rubber between her feet, bent down and gently licked his way up and down the same route as the whip handle. Lizzie could feel his warm breath.