Bust

by Ken Bruen

  After dancing for about a half an hour, Angela got down from bar, suddenly exhausted and dizzy. A sweaty Puerto Rican guy came over, holding Angela’s stockings, and said, “Yo, I’m Tony. I think you dropped somethin’.”

  Angela was drunk and everything else that happened that night was a blur. As she put on her stockings and bra and the rest of her clothes, Tony bought her a shot of tequila. Then he said, “I like the way you was dancin’ up there – you got all the moves. I like that accent too. You sound like that bitch from Braveheart.”

  They started making out, touching each other all over, then Tony brought her back to his place in Spanish Harlem. She wound up spending the weekend.

  It turned out Tony made good money, as a union plumber, and Angela thought, Sex, money, a big apartment – she had it made. Then, one night, they were hanging out, watching a DVD of 24 when Tony pressed pause and said, “Yo, I got a wife in San Juan.” Just like that, like it suddenly occurred to him.

  Angela looked at him, said, “So you can divorce her, can’t you?”

  “Naw, naw, it ain’t like that,” Tony said. “I got three kids too and they all comin’ over to live with me next week. Sorry ’bout that, yo.”

  Angela couldn’t believe it. She’d spent all this time with this prick and let him do all that shit – tying her up, giving her a golden shower – then he says he has a fucking wife and kids! She literally became her mother, going at him like the very best of Irish women – clawing at his eyes, kneeing him in the balls, tearing out clumps of his hair. After she tore a bracelet off his hairy wrist, she took off and left him crying in front of the paused scene of Keifer Sutherland screaming at somebody. A couple of days later, Angela had the bracelet appraised. She expected it to be a fake and was stunned to discover it was white gold from Tiffany’s, worth a couple thousand bucks. It cost five dollars to have the clasp fixed and she wondered if maybe her luck was changing.

  As it turned out, her luck was changing all right, but not necessarily for the better.

  The first change was that Dillon arrived from Ireland and bought her a silver Claddagh ring and a bottle of Black Bushmills, “the cream of the barley,” he said. Dillon had that sly smile and those gross yet irresistible lips and said, “Mo croi, I’m stony.”

  He had to translate, that she was “his very heart” and what girl could resist that shit? A few weeks later, after they decided to move in together, he said, “Trust me, allanna, and we’ll be in the clover.”

  Then the second change came – she caught herpes. Dillon swore he didn’t have it, so she figured Spiros or Tony must’ve given it to her.

  Then the third change: A job came to her out of nowhere. She’d applied for the position weeks ago and sick of would-be employers focusing on her shitty typing skills (she could only do twenty-four words a minutes with mistakes) and lack of experience (she’d never had an office job above receptionist), she decided, To hell with it, she’d get the job like she got men – with her body. She dressed for the interview in sheer black pantyhose, patent heels, and a killer short skirt.

  Dillon, reading his Zen book, looked up at her, smiled, said, “That position for typing or fucking?”

  She’d answered, “Either way, I’m good to go.”

  Her appointment with Max Fisher, CEO of NetWorld, was for two o’clock and Angela arrived at the office half an hour early. The receptionist kept her waiting on the couch in the lobby for over an hour, and Angela got so pissed off she was about to leave. Then Max came into the lobby. Angela watched his gaze shift from her face down to her legs, then slowly back up again. When his eyes fixated on her bust, she thought, Gotcha.

  She had.

  During the interview, Max continued to eye her with his jaw hanging partly open. Angela thought Max was probably the most disgusting and pathetic guy she’d ever met. He was like some overgrown thirteen year old, with that picture of the blonde on the Porsche on the wall and the way he kept staring at her tits, with the tip of his tongue showing between his teeth. Angela said to herself, There’s no way in hell I’m working for this loser. Then Max offered her a salary of sixty-four thousand a year plus full health benefits and three weeks vacation.

  On her first day, Angela could tell that Max was seriously into her. It was more than just staring at her all the time and flirting. A couple of times when they were alone in his office he put his hand on her leg and one time he said he had knots in his shoulders and asked her to give him a massage. She figured, What the hell? The man had money, money she wouldn’t get by blowing him off. Also, she liked the attention. Dillon hadn’t been around very much lately. He was always staying out late, saying, I need to hook up with the boyos. The boyos meant the guys from the Ra, Dillon’s name for the IRA.

  But after only a few weeks, Max started to disgust her again. She couldn’t stand his old, flabby body, and she hated the way he never stopped complaining. If he wasn’t talking about his wife, saying things like how he was “ready to trade her in for a newer model,” then he was whining about his heart or some other medical problem. And what was with all that crap music? One day he’d told her he’d teach her to appreciate “the nuances of the composers.” She’d had to look up nuances in the dictionary, then realized how full of shit he was.

  Max was like somebody’s grandfather. She didn’t know why she’d ever gotten involved with him. After taxes, sixty-four thousand dollars wasn’t as much as she’d thought it would be. Max had bucks, she knew that, but he was a real tightwad. Yeah, he had the townhouse and the Porsche, but he never took trips or bought nice clothes. And when it came to tips he had deep pockets, but short arms. If she was going to see any serious amount of money out of the relationship, it wasn’t going to be by just sleeping with him.

  Meanwhile, Dillon still hadn’t gotten her an engagement ring or talked about setting a wedding date. One night, Angela brought it up while they were lying in bed in the dark and Dillon said, “Mo croi, I gave you a Claddagh ring, that’s as married as it gets. We get some green together, I’ll bring you down to Vegas, do a Britney special, okay?”

  Angela didn’t want a fancy wedding. She just wanted to go to City Hall, maybe invite her father, her friend Laura and a couple of cousins and that’s it. But Dillon wouldn’t hear of it till they were, as he always said, “loaded.”

  He said it low-dead and she wondered for the hundredth time, was he fucking with her mind? She was Irish, and she knew how that worked. They did it just because they could, it was the national pastime. It explained the national sport, hurling, that cross between hockey and murder, played with no helmets unless you were, like, “a fag” or something. Talk about head-fucking.

  To get revenge, Angela went with Max for a weekend to Barbados, telling Dillon she was going to Greece for an aunt’s funeral. She came back more confused than ever. She didn’t like Max any better, but she was still pissed off at Dillon. She wanted things to work out with him, but she knew they never would, because of money. He was always talking about how he wanted to have expensive cars and to live on the beach and not have to worry about working.

  One day, Max’s wife Deirdre came into the office and had one of her fights with Max. Deirdre was a nasty spoiled rich hag who’d probably never worked a day in her life. She wore designer clothes and expensive jewelry and always seemed to be coming and going from a manicure or an appointment with her hairdresser. Angela didn’t know what they were fighting about today, but it didn’t matter because it was always about something stupid. Angela heard Deirdre cursing at Max, then Max called her a “fucking bitch” and then, finally, they were both quiet. Max had told Angela that Deirdre was manicdepressive and was on medication, but Angela thought Max was just as pathetic for fighting with her all the time. She was sick – what was his excuse?

  On her way out of the office, Deirdre stopped by Angela’s desk and ordered, “Call Orlando at Orlo and confirm my three o’clock appointment.”

  Deirdre was wearing the same perfume that Max had bought her
, but she used so much of it that she stunk up the whole office. She was overweight, but confident, swinging her big butt, walking on her three-inch pumps, a push-up bra making her chest look like a freak cartoon. Her short hair was dyed a blond that seemed almost orange and she was wearing her usual full face of makeup, like someone had just hurled it at her, letting it stick wherever.

  “Why don’t you call him yourself?” Angela said, wanting to add “yah dumb cunt.”

  Deirdre stopped and looked back at Angela with her mouth open, like she was shocked. “What did you just say?”

  “Call him yourself,” Angela said. “I’m not your fookin’ slave.”

  “I would suggest you not speak to me that way,” Deirdre said, “if having a job is important to you. You girls, you come over here, think you have cousins in the NYPD, think that dumb accent is the ticket to the good life. Well let me tell you, Maureen O’Hara is no Halle Berry, if you get my drift.”

  Deirdre laughed snootily then marched out of the office.

  “Fuck you,” Angela whispered then, the mick blood boiling, added, “yah fecking hoor’s ghost!”

  Angela knew that Deirdre couldn’t get her fired – Max would just laugh if Deirdre complained to him – but she still didn’t like being put down by some uppity bitch. It just didn’t seem fair that Deirdre and Max had all that money and lived in that great townhouse. Angela knew if the shoe were on the other foot, and she was the rich lady, she’d be gracious, treat her inferiors with respect, helping out the poor, giving her old Donna Karan or whatever to Goodwill. She’d do a lot of stuff straight from her heart like that.

  It was so frustrating – if only Angela had Max’s money, she knew her life with Dillon could be perfect. Then the thought came to her for the first time: why couldn’t they have Max’s money? All he had to do was divorce Deirdre – whom he hated anyway – and then he and Angela could get married. Max would eventually have a heart attack and die and Angela and Dillon would be set. But when Angela brought up the divorce idea to Max the next day he said he’d never even consider it. He was so cheap he’d rather stay with a wife he hated than give half his money away in a divorce settlement.

  What could you expect from a bollix who didn’t tip?

  That was when Angela came up with the murder idea. The way she saw it, it was the only way things could ever work out with Dillon. The key was, she had to explain it to Dillon the right way. She couldn’t say, “I’ve been screwing my boss for three months, you want to help me kill his wife?” She’d have to bring it up another way, tell him, “I know a way to get all of my boss’s money, you want to help me?” Naturally, he’d say yes, once he found out exactly how much money he stood to make. He’d drop that Zen book in a hurry, replace it with a gun in jig time, that was for sure. Then she’d say that it would mean she’d have to fool around with Max a little. She’d say “fool around with him a little” on purpose, make it sound like it wasn’t something serious.

  When Angela told Dillon, he said he thought it was a great idea. He didn’t even have a problem when she got to the part about “fooling around a little.” He said, “But you can’t say I’m gonna do it. You gotta tell him it’s a friend of yours or some shite like that.”

  “I’ll say you’re a friend of my cousin’s, but I need a name.”

  “Tell him I’m Popeye.”

  “Why Popeye?”

  “’Cause he ate spinach and we should keep the deal green.”

  Angela laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I’m just imagining my boss’s face,” Angela said, still laughing, “when he finds out a guy named Popeye is gonna kill his wife.”

  “It was dumb to ask for ten,” Angela said to Dillon. “You should’ve just stayed at eight.”

  Angela and Dillon were sitting in the dining area of her apartment eating Apple Jacks and milk. The place was maybe four hundred square feet and there was no separate kitchen or living area. There was just a small area against one wall for the kitchen appliances and a countertop and a larger area with barely enough room for a full-size bed, a dresser, a small table and folding chairs from Bed Bath amp; Beyond, and a fourteen-inch color TV.

  “He said yes, didn’t he?” Dillon said. “You should be thankin’ me. I got us two thousand extra dollars. You know how many Protestants I’d have to kill for that? A lot.”

  “You could’ve blown everything,” Angela said.

  “Blowing stuff is what I do, it’s me birthright. That stupid fooker is going to bring us all that money. You should have seen his face – how scared he was.”

  Dillon’s mutilated lips looked even uglier when he said this, as if he relished putting the fear of be-jaysus into someone.

  “He was scared?”

  “Fook yeah.” Dillon started laughing. “You know what I told him? I told him he better not be home when I was there ’cause if he was home I might pop him too.” Dillon was laughing harder. “I don’t know how I didn’t start laughing my arse off right then. But I kept looking at him like this…” Dillon made a serious face, his ruined lips making his features even more horrific. “It was like I was feckin’ Michael Collins when he was arranging to kill the Brit agents, you should see that fillum, it’s mighty. It was like I could see him thinking, Uh-oh, this fellah wouldn’t be codding. It’s amazing how somebody so rich could be so feckin’ stupid.”

  “He’s stupid all right,” Angela said, “but he’s not as stupid as you think. I mean a guy doesn’t make so much money, own a company like that, being stupid.”

  “That’s not true,” Dillon said. “Look around sometime. There’re a lot of stupid people in this city, and a lot of feckin’ rich people too.”

  Dillon took his last bite of Apple Jacks, slurped down the flesh-colored milk, then reached for the bottle of Jameson. He poured a shot, called it his eye opener, and drained it. He waited for the liquid to hit his stomach, then gave what he called his delicious shudder.

  Angela had a minor scare when Max said, “The only thing I’m worried about is this Popeye character.” Everything had been going well, but now she was afraid that he would find out about everything.

  Later that day, Angela had another scare when Diane in accounting came up to her at the coffee machine and said in a hushed voice, “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  Angela knew that when a woman asked another woman that, it was a given that some kind of bitchiness was on its way.

  “Sure,” Angela said.

  Diane was always trying to lose weight – lately she was on The Cabbage Soup Diet. Maybe she was going to ask for some diet advice, get some crack in that Angela should try the diet too, not that she needed to lose weight or anything because she looked so good. Yeah, right.

  But instead Diane said, “Is there something going on between you and Max?”

  “Max?” Angela said.

  “You know…” Diane said, “I mean you’re always going into his office, locking the door…”

  “Who told you that?”

  “No one. I just noticed it myself and I was just wondering, that’s all.”

  “There’s nothing going between me and Max,” Angela said as though the idea repulsed her. But, just for effect, she held her stomach like she was going to throw up and said, “That’s really disgusting. I mean, how gross is that? Could you imagine going down on that flabby belly?”

  “I knew it couldn’t be true,” Diane said. “I mean, it’s bad enough working for him. Who would want to sleep with him?”

  Angela hoped Diane would forget all about it, but she’d have to watch her closely just in case. Then, walking away, she thought, And hon, the diet, it’s like, not working.

  That night Angela said to Dillon, “You know what that asshole said to me today? That I should add a cup size to my breasts.”

  They were in bed, passing a joint back and forth. Dillon took his hit and passed the joint to Angela then said, “So?”

  “So?” Angela said. “What do you mean,
So?”

  “I mean, So? Like so what so.”

  Jesus, he sure knew how to annoy the shite out of a person.

  “What? You don’t like my breasts either?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Dillon said. “I happen to like your tits, but I like your arse better.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Angela said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Angela sat up, looking down at her breasts. “I don’t care what anybody says – I like them just the way they are.”

  Dillon sat up and started rolling another joint under the lamp on the night table. Angela, leaning over, started kissing his back and stomach. He had the smell of peat, the smell of the bogs, but she liked it. She said, “You know what else he told me. He said he wants to marry me.”

  “So?” Dillon said. “You gotta marry him so we get his money, right? That’s the plan, right?”

  “Yeah,” Angela said.

  She’d been hoping Dillon was going to propose himself one of these days. Dream on.

  Dillon licked the edge of the rolling paper and sealed the joint. He lit up and took a long hit, then passed it on to Angela. Dillon said, “Dunno why I smoke this shite, it hasn’t had an effect on me since the eighties. Now you give me a double of Bushmills, I can whistle the whole of the Star Spangled Banner.”

  She’d always gotten a big kick out of this – Dillon claiming that pot had no effect him. Meanwhile, he’d smoke a joint, then pick up a shot of Bushmills and try to put it in his ear.