“Going somewhere?” Max demanded.
Doug shook his head, cast a betraying glance at the bag in his hand. The tension increased with each breath Keely drew and she pressed a hand against her stomach. The apartment’s interior intensified the queasiness begun during her ascent up the fetid staircase.
“Alone, Doug?” Max’s gaze flickered around the squalid room. “No roommates?”
“You kiddin’? Place ain’t big enough to keep a goldfish.” Doug decided to go with a placating grin. “Hey, I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding, buddy. A mistake.”
“Yeah.” Max wasn’t smiling. “And you made it, buddy, when you got close enough for Keely to recognize you.”
Doug retreated a step, his smile collapsing into sullenness. “You’re crazy, bustin’ in here, accusing me like I’m some kind of criminal—”
“A meat cleaver’s missing from Feast of Italy. You were seen by Keely’s car with one in your hand. How much is Flo paying you?”
Doug shook his head, his glance darting around the room as if searching for an escape avenue. “Don’t know any broad by that name. Now, get outta of my apartment before I call the cops!”
“Call them, Doug. Ask for Detective Gayla Gifford.” Max’s voice was smooth, but the menace was there, under the quiet tone. “She wants to ask you a few questions.”
Doug’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed. “I don’t have to talk to nobody if I don’t want to. Now, get out of my place!”
“Not until I’m convinced you’re not hiding a cleaver with the name ‘Feast of Italy’ engraved in the handle. Police need search warrants, caterers don’t.”
Doug was about the same height as Max, but Max had the advantage of a muscular build and grim determination. The two faced off until the waiter backed away, rubbing his hand over his mouth to smooth away the nervous twitch of his lip.
Without taking his eyes from Doug, Max gestured toward a wooden baseball bat propped in the corner. “Like to hit, do you, Doug? Nothing like smashing a few balls, is there?”
Clutching the gym bag, Doug made a guttural noise of protest when Max grabbed the bat and sauntered over to study an old poster which held a place of honor over the television set. Madonna, posed in black lingerie, smiled down at him. Casually, Max hefted the bat and took a practice swing.
“Hey, man, cool down. We can talk—”
Max cocked the bat over his shoulder. “Got something to tell me, Doug? If not, I’ve thought of a great way to relieve tension. I feel really stressed out. What with a valuable piece of my kitchen equipment missing—”
Doug cursed again, but in resignation rather than anger, confirming Keely’s opinion of him as a coward. His aggression seeped away like air from a leaky balloon. “I’m begging you, man, don’t bust up the place. I only did what I was told.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Max’s voice remained deceptively soft, his body tensed like a batter awaiting a delivery from a fastballer. “Who told you? I need a name. Now!”
Doug rubbed his left palm down the thigh of his jeans. “I dunno. He was just a voice on the telephone.”
“And what did this ‘voice’ command you to do?” Max stalked closer, backing Doug up against a sagging arm chair. “How did you locate Keely at Mimi’s?”
“I followed her from her studio. That lot was fenced off, private—a good place to do the job. The guy told me to slash her tires and leave that message.”
Doug hadn’t taken his eyes off the bat in Max’s hands. His grin was a mirthless reflex in a lifetime of fruitless placation. “The spray paintin’ was easy, but didja ever try to slice up a steel-belted radial? I kept hacking away, sweatin’ bullets in case some ladies walked out of that fancy store…”
Keely was in no mood to sympathize with the hardships of a vandal. “How much did he pay you? You didn’t agree to harass me for the fun of it.”
Max lowered the bat, allowing Doug to recover some of his equilibrium and his surly look.
He smirked at Keely. “Butt out, pretty lady. You oughtta be grateful I didn’t—”
Before he finished the sentence, Max was on him. Dropping the bat, he grabbed Doug by the shirt front and slammed him against the wall. The gym bag slipped from the waiter’s grasp and thudded to the floor.
“Watch it!” Max gritted through clenched teeth. “Tell the pretty lady what she wants to know. Or I’ll do something about that bad attitude of yours, starting with your mouth.”
Doug let out a sound mid-way between a yelp and an oath, his hands tugging fruitlessly at Max’s wrists. His expression changed from fear to anger. He spat in Max’s face, triggering an explosion of the latent violence that had been building since they’d entered the room.
The two men lurched away from the wall in a primitive, savage dance, the only sounds harsh breathing, grunts, and thudding feet as they grappled. Max brought his knee up with brutal intent. Doug yelped and bent double, clutching at himself, before falling to the floor.
Keely cried out in unison with Doug. She’d felt oddly detached, distracted by her own weakness, but Max’s merciless blow had forced her to face the harsh reality of their combat.
Max’s face was implacable. He kicked the bat out of Doug’s flailing reach and it rolled to Keely’s feet. While the other man moaned and twitched, Max made a quick tour of the apartment, glancing into other rooms.
“Place’s a regular sty.” Max looked down at Doug who, mewling softly, struggled to a sitting position. “Convinced I mean business? I’ve taken exception to the threat you painted on Ms. O’Brien’s car. I assaulted you in front of a witness. Care to swear out a complaint against me?”
Doug shook his head, a hank of hair straggling across his eyes. In a voice rusty with pain, he muttered, “No cops.”
Max had the same ruthless, dangerous air as Mel Gibson’s Mad Max. Evidently, Doug thought so, too. He pulled his knees to his chest and ducked his head.
“Come on, jerk face! Answer me.” Max grabbed his shirt front and hoisted him to his feet. “Who paid you? How much?”
Breathing hard, Doug blurted, “Two hundred bucks.”
“You value yourself cheap. Method of payment?”
“Cash. Half in an envelope shoved under my door, the other half after the job. But I didn’t do it for the money. He had something on me, man. I had to cooperate!”
“What did he have on you?”
Doug shook his head and was promptly thumped back against the wall. Dust and bits of plaster rained down from the ceiling to whiten his bony shoulders.
“Wrong answer!”
“Nothing important, man. Nothing, I swear—”
Max twisted Doug’s shirtfront until he made a choking sound. Keely impulsively started forward with the half formed intention of intervening, but Max turned his head and gave her a look that stopped her in her tracks.
He turned back to Doug. “I’m losing patience. I don’t want to beat the truth out of you, but believe me, I will!”
Doug’s lips twisted into a feeble sneer. “Go ahead. I’ve been black and blue more times than I can remember. You ain’t got the guts to kill me, but the dude on the phone does. His voice was deader than a graveyard—gave me a creeping chill.”
Keely’s heartbeat quickened. Doug wasn’t the imaginative type given to dramatics. His caller had to be the same person who’d phoned her last night. She shared his instinctive terror of betraying the man with the cold, deadly voice.
“Businesses die. Just like people.”
Like Doug, Keely had been helpless to fight back, powerless to escape. The words smeared on her car in blood red letters, “Next time—your face” danced before her eyes.
Keely was fed up with being a victim, of being an onlooker while others fought her battles. Almost in a trance, she felt a smooth, wooden shaft in her hands and realized she’d picked up the baseball bat.
Doug noticed the object in her hands and managed a mocking laugh bordering on hysteria. “Go ahead, l
ady. Take your best shot at me! This just ain’t my day.”
It was as though someone else had taken control of Keely’s body. Her feet moved across the shabby rug until she found herself standing in front of the television set. Madonna looked down with a pouting smile, her mouth ripe with promises.
Keely wanted to run, to escape the smells of cigarette smoke and rotting food, of stale sweat and spilled beer. Pungent odors pricked her soul. The air was thick with the residue of violence, the familiar stench of poverty and wretchedness, of terror and despair.
From a distance, she heard Max’s voice. “Keely?” She hated Doug for living in squalor, hated Max for bringing her here. The bat felt solid in her hands. Powerful. The fire kindled by Flo’s taunts and fed by threats, vandalism, and Keely’s bitter sense of helplessness erupted. A pulsing band encircled her temples; black spots danced before her eyes.
Her muscles tensed. Again, Max’s voice—the words fading to an indistinct buzz in her ears. Called from its grave by sensory stimulation, a buried memory rose to possess her.
A man’s hand, thick knuckles covered with curly, black hair, reached toward Keely. She whimpered. No retreat. Her back’s against the wall. Her heart’s jumping into her throat, her hands clutch the neckline of her nightie in a futile, protective gesture.
A distant female voice, sweet and slurred by liquor, crooned the chorus of “My Wild Irish Rose”.
“Mama!”
Keely trembled like a leaf in the wind, her knees knocking together below the ragged hem of her nightie. Her favorite. The one with pink kittens prancing around the hemline.
The man whispered, his breath thick with whiskey and onions. “I didn’t know Moira was hiding such a little sweetheart! Don’t be scared. You’ll like it when I touch you, baby. You’re gonna be just like your momma some day.”
Keely loathed the rasp of his sweaty hands over her skin, the stench of his foul breath washing her face. But, most of all, she hated his terrible prophecy of her future.
Keely wanted to scream, to smash his lumpy potato nose with her fists, but she stood paralyzed. She called to her mother, but the warble from the bathroom continued unabated and the cheeping cry stuck in her throat—
The shattering sound of broken glass jolted her back to the present. Keely gaped in shock at the broken television screen before her.
She pivoted, the bat dangling loosely between her tingling palms. Shaken, she opened her mouth to apologize, but Doug spoke first.
“You broke my TV!” Rivers of sweat poured down his fearful face. He appealed to Max. “Did ya see that? She’s nuts!”
Max looked equally stunned. Keeping a wary eye on Doug, he approached Keely with caution. His gaze traveled from the busted television to her face in disbelief.
Keely’s mouth trembled, she felt tears pressing like a migraine behind her eyes.
“Keely.” That was all Max said, just her name, but shared pain reverberated in each syllable. He held out his hand.
God, what was wrong with her? It was an appeal to the heavens. She’d been punished for priding herself on her mental toughness by losing control.
She crumbled. Tears poured down her face. Clutching the bat, she bent her head and wept.
Max whirled and jabbed his fist into Doug’s rib cage. The man yipped in startled protest.
“Go ahead and holler, Doug.” Max felt no pity, only cold rage. “Women and kids get beat up in rat holes like this and no one ever answers their screams. Keely’s in danger and you know who’s responsible. How did the voice on the phone force you to cooperate? What did he have on you? Drugs?”
“Back off! Don’t hit me again!” Doug panted like an overexcited puppy. “I ain’t a pill freak or a peddler—and I don’t got the habit. Cocaine’s for losers.”
He stopped, his gaze sweeping over the room. “Losers with a sight more bucks than I’ve got. You gotta understand, the dude knew about the wallets I took at the wedding—even though I dropped ’em when the calvary—I mean, cops—came. He threatened to flip on me, tell them I did the liftin’.”
So Doug had been the pickpocket at the Postwaite wedding! Max heard Keely gasp as the import of Doug’s confession sank in.
The waiter was still babbling. “I’ll tell you everything if you let me get a head start on the dude who hired me. I’ll blow town tonight, I promise. Just don’t let your old lady near me with that bat. She’s freakin’ crazy!”
“What happened?”
“I lifted a couple leathers when the band marched in. When I heard sirens, I unloaded ’em. Since I was wearing them stupid white gloves, I didn’t leave no prints, but the man says he’s got a witness who’ll swear to the cops I was the thief. Markin’ her car wasn’t personal—I’m not an enforcer.”
Max released him. “Why did you take the cleaver from Feast of Italy?”
A shrug. “He suggested I use somethin’ from your place.”
Realizing Doug was telling the truth, Max swallowed his frustration. They were no closer to uncovering the identity of the man who was terrorizing Keely. If Flo was involved in this ugliness, she’d covered her back trail well.
“Can you remember anything that would help me identify the man who ordered the vandalism?”
Doug shrugged and massaged his ribs, his mouth pouting. “Naw. He was a voice. I ain’t got the second installment but I figured she,” he gave Keely a bitter look, “recognized me in the parking lot. I was on my way out the door—in case she fingered me to the cops, when you two showed up.”
“Where’s the cleaver?”
Doug wiped his brow with the sleeve of his sweat shirt. “In a trash barrel along with the can of spray paint.”
“Let’s take a little trip, Doug.”
“A trip?” Doug looked blank and then his eyes widened. “You mean a ride, don’t you? No, thanks. No, thanks, man.”
“This ride isn’t going to end with you in cement overshoes.” Max jerked his chin toward the front door. “Show us which trash barrel. Then we’ll stop at the police station for a chat with Detectives Gifford and Dawson.”
“I’ve got priors, man! That black woman’s a barracuda and her partner eats guys like me for breakfast. I talked to them, remember?” Doug touched his throat as if to reassure himself his flesh was clear of teeth marks. “Hey, you agreed to let me go!”
“How did you get Anna Marie to hire you?” Max was genuinely curious. His aunt’s screening standards were more stringent than those of the FBI.
“Told her I worked in my family’s restaurant in Alabama. Got my mom to front for me when your aunt checked my references. I didn’t plan on rippin’ anyone off. But I couldn’t resist the opportunity of lifting a few fat wallets.”
He looked wistfully at the door, gauging his chances for escape, before lifting his hands in surrender. “Okay, you’ve got me. I wanna get this behind me. Let me grab my smokes and I’ll be right with you.”
Doug bent over the gym bag. Max, fearing his prisoner might be going for a concealed weapon, lunged. But instead of unzipping the bag, Doug simply swung it up from the floor, catching Max square in the forehead. His skull seemed to explode and he went down like a felled tree.
Fireworks pinwheeled before his eyes; his head rang like a church bell. Determined fingers pried open his right eyelid. Groaning, Max winced from the intrusion of light. Although the fingers persisted, he squeezed his eye shut again.
“If you don’t wake up, I’m calling an ambulance!”
The voice pierced the fog in Max’s brain. He opened his eyes and squinted into Keely’s blurred face.
“Get the license number of that truck?” he muttered.
“Were you completely out?”
“You mean did I hear tweeting birds and see stars? I—wait! Where’s that creep, Doug?” Max pushed himself to a sitting position and promptly toppled forward, his face mashed between Keely’s breasts.
She neither squealed nor wriggled, simply shifted the position of his throbbing head until he
could breathe. Her hands cradled him with the soothing expertise of a mother comforting an injured child. “A bit dizzy, are we?”
Max gritted his teeth. “Where’s Doug?” he rasped into the fabric of her blouse. “Scumbucket blind-sided me with an anvil—”
“I wish I knew more about concussions.” Keely maneuvered Max until he was propped in a sitting position against the overstuffed arm chair. “After you dropped like a lead balloon, Doug went out through the bedroom window and down the fire escape.”
Max was swamped by another wave of nausea. Both the chair he was leaning against and the carpet beneath him stank of dust and mildew. When he was certain he wasn’t going to upchuck, he muttered, “You could have tried to stop him. Mark McGuire couldn’t have handled that bat better than you did earlier.”
“Doug’s opinion aside, I’m not freakin’ crazy. My destructive outbursts are limited to objects that can’t fight back.” Keely leaned over to peer intently into Max’s eyes.
Her hair swung forward, brushing his cheek. He suppressed the crazy desire to bury his face in the silken strands. “If you’re looking for answers, I’m fresh out.”
“There are no answers.”
Keely’s voice and eyes were so bleak that Max reached out instinctively to touch her. She caught his hand in both of hers, held on to him like a drowning woman. Their faces were so close Max fantasized that if Keely shut her eyes, he would feel the feathery whisper of her lashes across his skin.
Max wanted to reassure her, but he remained tongue-tied. Then Keely’s mantle of vulnerability slipped from her shoulders as suddenly as it had appeared.
When she spoke, it was in the detached voice of a nurse explaining a procedure to a patient. “You’ve got a lump the size of a golf ball on your forehead. Fortunately, your pupils are the same size. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do if they’re not.”
Utterly drained, Max raised a heavy hand to touch the side of his throbbing head. By some miracle, his skull didn’t explode. “How could socks and underwear feel like a ton of bricks?” he asked weakly, gesturing at the gym bag.
Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes Page 15