Bust

by Ken Bruen

  “I’m not your bitch,” Angela said.

  Now, his voice getting all gentle again, he asked, “What’s that, mo croi?”

  “Shut up.”

  He laughed. “That’s funny,” he said. “I really like that, mo croi.”

  Angela sat at the kitchen table and started taking off her wet shoes.

  “Food, now!” he roared.

  “You could’ve ordered in something yourself,” she said.

  “And have a delivery boy come up here and ID me? It’s all on the news and shite. They’re talking about how that cop you brought up here is missing and they got a cartoon of me in the paper, tis the spit of me too. That Chinese hoor informed on me arse, the one I dumped that jewelry on in Chinatown. What if the cop I did told other cops he was following you last night? I’ve been sitting here all day, waiting for the cops to show up – Jaysus, it’s worse than the Falls Road, waiting for the Brit patrols.”

  “I told you you shouldn’t sell that jewelry.”

  “Well, I did and get this right in yer dumb head, you don’t tell me dick. You have two jobs, and both begin with f. One is food.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Yeah, and that’s the other one.”

  “If we wind up in jail now it’s because you sold that jewelry.”

  He got up suddenly, a bad sign, and said, “I don’t do jail, get that?”

  There was something in his voice. “That’s it,” Angela said. “I’ve had it.”

  She marched past Dillon and went into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. He banged on the door, demanding that she come out, going, “Where the hell’s me dinner?” Angela covered her ears with her hands and sat down on the toilet seat, squeezing her eyes shut.

  He was pounding on the door, now saying, “I’m too hungry for this shite. I’m going to ring for some takeout but you have to go to the door to pay for it. I’m not kiddin’ yah.”

  Angela turned on the shower to drown him out, but it didn’t work till she got in. As long as she kept her head under the water, his ranting was just part of the white noise.

  When she came out, wrapped in a towel, Dillon was still in his underwear, now watching a basketball game.

  Noticing the layers of Band-Aids over the bottom of Dillon’s right foot, Angela said, “Did you put peroxide on that like I told you to?”

  “You addressing me?” Dillon asked.

  “Yeah, I’m talking to you,” Angela said. “Why wouldn’t I talk to you?”

  Dillon went back to watching TV. He muttered along with the play-by-play, “Move yer ass mothfookers,” trying to sound like a New Yorker.

  “So?” Angela said, putting on a bra. “Did you or didn’t you put peroxide on that?”

  “Couldn’t be bothered,” he said.

  Angela leaned forward, taking a closer look at the foot.

  “You probably need a shot for that, you know, or you’ll catch tetanus.”

  “I’ll catch anorexia if I don’t get me grub,” he said.

  Angela finished getting dressed – putting on jeans and a black T-shirt with “My Boyfriend’s Out of Town” in red across the front. She sat down on the bed next to Dillon and rested a hand on his lap. For a while there was silence except for the sports commentator babbling, then Dillon said, “I was watching South Park before and Kenny is dead again, you see that one?”

  “I think so,” Angela said.

  The food arrived and Angela and Dillon sat on the bed together eating the shrimp lo mein and barbecued spare ribs directly from the cartons. Finally, Angela decided it was a good time to break the bad news.

  “Something happened today,” she said, “but before I tell you you have to promise not to get mad at me.”

  “What?”

  “You have to promise.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’re gonna get angry,” Angela said. “I can tell it already.”

  “Just tell me what the fook it is, you’re spoiling me dinner.” Christ, she thought, she never saw a man eat so much and still stay skinny as a wet rodent.

  Dillon’s nostrils flared. He looked the same way he did before he stabbed that cop.

  “All right,” Angela said. “Remember how I told you I was with my boss last night at that hotel?”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Well something happened that we didn’t know about. Something that could be bad.”

  “Stop whining and tell me what it is.”

  “Well, there was this guy,” Angela said, “and he took some pictures of us.”

  “You mean like a Guard?”

  “No, not a cop – definitely not a cop. He was in a wheelchair and – anyway, he came to the office today and he showed the pictures to Max.”

  “What were the pictures of?” Dillon asked.

  “Just of us, you know… in bed together.”

  “So? What’s he going to do with them, beside play with his own self?”

  “If the police see them it’ll show that me and Max were together, that we could’ve planned the murder.”

  “But the police haven’t got the pictures, the gimp in the wheelchair does.”

  “That’s where the bad part comes in. He wants money for them. A lot of money.”

  “You mean he’s trying to blackmail you?”

  “He’s trying to blackmail Max.”

  “And you’re sure this fooker isn’t a Guard?”

  “I don’t know what he is,” Angela said, remembering again how Bobby Rosa had looked at her. “But Max thinks it’s a big problem. He wanted me to get you to get rid of him.”

  Dillon sat calmly for a few seconds and Angela thought, Hey, that wasn’t too bad. Then he suddenly threw his carton of food against the wall on the other side of the room. Angela covered her ears as Dillon stood up and kicked the top of the TV set with his right foot, then roared as the pain hit his already inflamed sole. He said, “You’re going to get the hiding of yer life, you hoor’s ghost!”

  Dillon began hitting her in the face, slapping her with his open hands. Angela didn’t know how she got out of the apartment. She ran down the stairs, nearly tripping several times. She walked toward Second Avenue, not realizing for several minutes that she was barefoot.

  She went into the Rodeo Bar, on Second Avenue and Twenty-eighth Street. She sat at the dingy half-empty bar and then realized she had no money. She told the bartender she was “waiting for a friend” and stared at the hockey game on TV.

  She became aware of a guy sitting on the stool next to her. He was young, around twenty-three, in a business suit and she saw a couple of other guys – his friends – giggling to each other. The guy said, “Hey, is this Woodstock or something?”

  Angela was confused for a second then realized he was making fun of her for being barefoot.

  “Just leave me the feck alone, yeh arsehole!”

  The guy, looking terrified, went back to his friends.

  Angela left the bar and headed toward home. She approached her apartment building, hoping Dillon had calmed down a little. Food and weed usually took his edge off, but she knew it was only a matter of time before he really lost it. Then she thought about Bobby Rosa again. The guy was really into her – that much was obvious. And, yeah, he was in a wheelchair, but there was something about him that made her think he could take care of himself. But could he take care of Dillon?

  Angela didn’t have the key to her apartment. She kept ringing the buzzer, but Dillon wouldn’t answer it. Finally, after nearly an hour, someone leaving the building let her in and she went upstairs. The door to her apartment was open.

  Dillon was sitting on the bed, watching videos and reading his damn Zen book. He said, “I wouldn’t go in that bathroom if I were you. That fookin Chinese food, it was off.”

  Angela went to the fridge and poured herself a glass of soda.

  Dillon said, “While I was in there on the bowl, shittin’ out me organs, I was thinking this guy in the wheelchair is our problem too. I don’
t trust that bollix, Max. If he cracks, he’s taking us down with him. You know that, right?”

  Angela didn’t answer.

  Dillon said, “So my question is how much should I charge?”

  “Charge?”

  Dillon glared at her like she was stupid.

  “For blasting a guy in a wheelchair.”

  Sixteen

  Muggers are plain creepy.

  DUANE SWIERCZYNSKI

  Max said to Kamal, “Have you ever had herpes?”

  They were in Max’s kitchen where Kamal was busy cooking Max’s macrobiotic meals for the rest of the week. Three pots were going on the stove and Kamal was chopping up beets and potatoes.

  “Herpes?” Kamal said pausing with the cutting knife in his right hand. “Why do you ask that?”

  “No reason,” Max said. “I mean it’s not like I think you’re gonna infect the food or anything like that. It was just something that was on my mind.”

  “No,” Kamal said, still looking confused. “I do not have any venereal diseases.”

  “Ah-ha,” Max said. “So you haven’t been tested for herpes.”

  “No, I do not believe so. Unless it was part of my regular physical examination.”

  “Very interesting,” Max said. “Very very interesting.”

  Now Max was almost one hundred percent sure that the little Indian guy had been banging Deirdre, probably had been banging her for some time. The last time Max had had sex with her must have been three or four months ago and he must have caught the virus then.

  “You can just admit it,” Max said.

  “Admit what?” Kamal asked.

  “That you and Deirdre were, you know… a couple. Don’t worry, I won’t fire you or anything like that.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about,” Kamal said.

  “Come on,” Max said, “you think I’m blind? I saw how much time you and Deirdre spent together. It’s obvious you two were very close.”

  “I admired your wife a great deal,” Kamal said, “but I could never imagine having relations with her.”

  “Not even one time,” Max said, “just for the hell of it?”

  “I’m offended that you would even ask me such a thing. I am a Sikh from Punjab – we are very spiritual people. We don’t sleep with other men’s wives, not even if we wanted to, and I did not want to sleep with your wife. No offense but, western women, they have a peculiar odor – it’s from eating meat perhaps. I like the smell of curry and spices, if you can understand.”

  Max stared at him deadpan, thinking, Is this guy for real?

  Then Max demanded, “You swear to God?”

  “Why should I-”

  “If you didn’t do anything you shouldn’t have a problem swearing to God about it.”

  Kamal slid the potatoes and beets into the steamer then said, “I do not believe in God the same way you do.”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Max said. “Then do you swear to the Buddha about it?”

  “The Buddha does not ask anything to swear to it. The Buddha is not a singular being or concept. The Buddha is all things.”

  Max picked up a plate and held it up. He said, “Fine, so let’s say this plate is the Buddha. Do you swear to this plate that you never banged my wife?”

  Kamal looked at Max like he was crazy, then said, “I did not do anything with your wife. I’m giving you my word which should be enough, now please, do not say any more disrespectful things about the Buddha. It is very, very hurtful to me.”

  The little rice eater looked like he was about to cry.

  Max stared at him for a few seconds and decided that he was probably telling the truth after all. But if Kamal didn’t give the herpes to Deirdre that meant that Max must have gotten it from Angela.

  “Eh, just forget about it,” Max said. “What difference does it make anyway?”

  Max went to the fridge and poured himself a glass of skim milk.

  “You know, you should really consider joining me at the ashram sometime,” Kamal said, stirring the big pot of brown rice. “I think it would very healing for you.”

  “I’m Jewish,” Max said.

  “Our guru welcomes people of all faiths,” Kamal said. “And meditating and chanting can be very cleansing. It can help you to become at peace with your inner self.”

  “I’m not gonna sit on the floor and chant like some hippie,” Max said. Then he wondered if he could meet some classy Indian woman at the ashram. Hell, he could do rice and, for a decent lay, he’d chant till the crows came home or till the whatever fucking birds they had in India came home. Besides, what the hell was he doing with Angela anyway? He used to think he was in love with her, but lately he wasn’t so sure. She had a nice body and that great accent, but there wasn’t much more going on there. What had he been thinking?

  “Lemme ask you something,” Max said. “Do women come to these ashrams?”

  “Yes, of course,” Kamal said. “The spiritual journey is not just for men.”

  Kamal was trying not to smile. Was something funny?

  “Yeah, lemme ask you something else,” Max said. “Are they well-endowed?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Tits. Do they have big tits?”

  Kamal waited a few seconds, checking the vegetables, then said, “Some of them do, yes.”

  “In that case, maybe I’ll give the hippie shit a shot,” Max said. “I mean after I get through with my mourning of course.”

  Then he looked away and glanced at the copy of the Daily News on the table. Some Jap tourist got his throat cut on Forty-second Street and the police had no suspects. Max chuckled, thought, I guess Times Square ain’t no Disneyland after all.

  Seventeen

  I lose it, flapping about in the rain and kicking the hell out of the dog. I don’t deserve this. I don’t fucking deserve all this fucking bad luck and this stupid fucking life.

  RAY BANKS, The Big Blind

  The next day another Manhattan murder was the lead story on the six o’clock news. The rat-gnawed body of forty-one-year-old Homicide Detective Kenneth Simmons of the 19th Precinct had been discovered by some children in an empty lot in Harlem. The body had two gunshot wounds and a stab wound to the chest. The police had released a police sketch of a suspect in the case – a white male, approximately five-five or five-six, maybe 130 pounds, with gray hair, last seen wearing an old leather jacket and dirty blue jeans and new sneakers. On Monday morning, the suspect had been spotted in a pawnshop on Bayard Street in Chinatown selling jewelry that was stolen during the recent murders of two Upper East Side women. Police believed that he might be a suspect in those murders as well since Detective Simmons had been working on that case when he was killed. People with any information regarding the case were urged to call a special police hotline number or 577-TIPS.

  Watching the news report on the TV in his living room, Max had no doubt that the guy in the police sketch was Popeye. His face was too fat and his eyes and nose looked different, but everything else, down to the leather jacket, was definitely him. Max didn’t know what that guy was going to fuck up next. Was the stupid prick determined to wipe out the population of Manhattan? He’d read once that the Irish were truly demented. Well, no argument there.

  Sitting at a table in the back of Famiglia Pizza on Fiftieth and Broadway, Max saw Popeye limping up the aisle. After Popeye sat down, diagonally across from Max, with a big cupful of ice, Max said, “What happened to your foot?”

  “Fook me foot, yah suited prick,” Popeye said. Then looking around nervously he said, “Nobody followed yeh here, right?”

  Dillon was fingering a gold pin in his leather jacket, like it was a talisman or something. The Irish and their goddamn superstitions.

  “Not that I know of,” Max said.

  “Yeah, well you better be sure,” Popeye said. “I shouldn’t even be here now. I should be in Florida, writing me poetry.”

  The idea of this bloodthirsty animal writing poetry was too much
for Max. What was that old joke? If you threw a stone in Ireland, you’ll probably hit a poet, usually a bad one.

  Smiling, Max asked, “How do your poems start? Roses are red?”

  Popeye had the cup up to his mouth, sucking out an ice cube. When his eyes peered over the cup, Max said, “Don’t look at me.”

  Sucking on a cube, Popeye said, “What?”

  “You heard me, you little cocksucker.” Max laughed. “Just sit there and keep looking straight ahead and don’t look at me. If you look at me one time I’m getting up and leaving here and you’ll never see me again.”

  “I like that, the little bollix showing some spunk,” Popeye said. “But are you on medication? You’re the one who can’t look at me.”

  “Not anymore,” Max said. “Now I’m calling the shots.”

  “You’ll be calling the fookin mortuary, I haven’t time for this shite.”

  “Then find time, because you’ll be here as long as I want you to be here.”

  “Yeah, and if I get up, walk out, what will you do, use more obscene language?”

  “Go ahead. You’re the wanted criminal, not me.”

  “If I’m fooked, you’re coming to hell with me.”

  “You can’t prove anything,” Max said. “What are you going to do, say I hired you to kill my wife? I really doubt that the police’ll take your word over mine. I’m a respected businessman. Who the fuck are you?”

  “Did you say fook to me?”

  “I told you not to look at me.”

  “Bollix, I’m legging it.”

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

  Popeye paused, half-standing, then sat down again and said, “Why not?”

  “Think about it. You need this guy out of the way as much as I do. You don’t know what evidence the police have on you. Maybe you left something in my house that night – something you forgot. Or maybe they found some of your blood or hair there or they got something off that piece of shit you left on my rug – thanks very much for that, by the way. What was that, your idea of a fucking housewarming present? It wasn’t very bright, with DNA and all that other shit the cops have these days. I don’t know what it feels like to die by lethal injection, but I imagine it’s not very pleasant.”