Bust

by Ken Bruen

  Popeye started to move his right hand. Bobby went, “Move one more fuckin’ inch I’ll put a hole in your head.”

  “Jaysus, take it easy fellah.” Popeye said. “No harm, no damage done. Just take it fookin’ easy, me man.”

  Wondering if the guy knew how stupid he sounded, Bobby said, “Take your hand out of your pocket slowly. It comes out with anything – I don’t care if it’s your fucking house keys – I’m gonna start shooting.”

  For a moment, Popeye remained still, then he showed his empty hand.

  “Now your jacket. Drop it on the sidewalk, and take five steps backwards.”

  Cursing in Irish under his breath, Popeye slowly took off his jacket and let it fall.

  “Now back up.”

  Popeye backed away a few steps, then Bobby slowly wheeled himself forward one-handed. Keeping the gun aimed, he leaned down, picked up the coat and removed a switchblade from one pocket and a. 38 from the other. He put the gun and the knife in the pocket of his windbreaker.

  “Okay, dickhead. We’re going for a walk.”

  Bobby said to his doorman, “I want you to meet my cousin Popeye – he’s visiting from out of town.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Popeye,” the doorman, an old guy, said.

  Inside his apartment, Bobby ordered Popeye to sit on the couch and Popeye said, “Okay, so who told you about me? Fisher?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You knew my name. Jaysus, I knew I should never’ve trusted that prick. When did he put you on to me?”

  “I think, under the circumstances, I should be the one asking the questions,” Bobby said, aiming the gun.

  “You think I’m gonna sweat you, some fuck in a wheelchair? Lemme tell yeh, fellah, I’ve had weapons aimed at me by the very best. I’ve had an Orange bastard, fueled on anti-Papal hysteria, believing the only good Catholic was a dead one, put a an AK-47 in me mouth and I survived that, so you think I give a shite’s fuck about you and yer feckin’ Glock?”

  “I said I’ll be asking the questions,” Bobby said calmly, “and this is the last time I’m gonna tell you that.”

  Popeye didn’t flinch – he barely even reacted. The guy must be a pro, Bobby thought. He was keeping his cool anyway, like he really didn’t give a shit if he lived or died.

  “Why’d you kill those two women?” Bobby asked.

  “I didn’t kill nobody.”

  “It’s not exactly a big secret anymore. The police have that picture of you going around.”

  “You mean that snap in the Post? You telling me my nose looks like that?”

  “Did Max Fisher hire you?”

  “Ary Christ, what do you care, you’re not a Guard.”

  “A what?”

  “A cop, yah bollix.”

  “No, I’m not a cop,” Bobby said. “I’m just the guy holding a gun on you. I’d think you’d want to answer my questions, but maybe you don’t. Maybe you just want me to shoot you.”

  Popeye thought about this a second. Maybe he did want to live because he said, “Yeah, okay, he hired me.”

  “To knock off his wife?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And what about the college kid – the girl?”

  “T’was a bit of bad timing, as the tinkers say back home.”

  “And what about the cop?”

  “Him I would’ve killed for a shot of Jameson.”

  “What?”

  Popeye smiled out of the corner of his scarred mouth, said, “Where I come from, a Guard is a bonus.” Then he pulled up his shirt to cover his face and said, “Jaysus, what the hell is that smell?”

  Bobby couldn’t smell anything unusual, but it was possible he had farted or shit in his pants. He was about to check when Popeye lowered his shirt and started sniffing some more.

  “Me lady been here?”

  “Who?”

  “Colleen with a bust on her to die for. Name of Angela. Was she here?”

  Bobby shook his head, smiling, thinking, I should’ve fuckin’ known . All that bullshit, saying, If you want to know the truth I think a wheelchair’s kind of sexy. She’d just been manipulating him, playing a game with the poor cripple, leading him around by the nose – or by the dick, more like it.

  Still smiling, Bobby said, “Angela, huh?”

  “Yeah, Angela, the hoor’s ghost. Funny, smells like her scent mixing with the shite. Would you open a window? It’s killing me, mate.”

  Bobby, not smiling anymore, didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “Open a fuckin’ window yourself, if you want to. I don’t give a shit.”

  Popeye slid one of the panes open, letting the noise of traffic and blaring horns into the apartment along with the breeze.

  “So how did you meet Angela?” Bobby asked.

  “I met her in Ireland, at a pub.”

  “And you guys live together?”

  “More than that, I gave her a Claddagh ring.”

  “So it was Angela’s idea to knock off Fisher’s wife?”

  “Would love to take the credit me own self, but the idea was hers.”

  Bobby, thinking, That bitch, said, “And what were you planning to do then?”

  “She was going to marry him.”

  “Then what?”

  “The best part. I’d get to blast Fisher.”

  “And you thought this would work?

  “Was working till you came along, fellah. Now, come on, why don’t you put the gun down? If you shoot me what’ll you do with me body? You have the doorman right downstairs. So how about you just let me go? When I get Fisher’s money, I’ll give you a nice cut, how’s that?”

  Bobby, keeping the gun aimed at Popeye, wheeled to the bookshelf and took down a folder with several pictures.

  “Why don’t you take a look through these?”

  Popeye came over and snatched the envelope from Bobby. He looked through the pictures quickly, then handed the envelope back and said, “So?”

  “So?” Bobby said. “That’s your Angela, right? What do you think now?”

  “I knew you had these. Angela told me all about them.”

  “Does she look like she’s enjoying it?”

  “Are you trying to get me riled?”

  “You know why you thought you smelled her before, you fuckin’ idiot? Because she was here.”

  “Why was she here?”

  “To fuck my brains out, for one, and, I gotta admit she was pretty damn good at it.”

  “What do I care? She fucked Fisher too – lots of times. I don’t do jealousy, mate.”

  Feeling stupid and sick, Bobby said, “She also came here to try to get me to kill you.”

  “Eh, that’s bollix.”

  “She told me you were coming after me. She wanted me to get rid of you for her.”

  “Why would she want me dead?”

  “Who the hell knows? Maybe her plan was to marry Fisher and then kiss your ass goodbye, man. Hell, maybe she was even planning to hire a hit man to knock you off.”

  “Ah, you’re talking shite, that dosh was for us. I fooking earned that.”

  Bobby put the gun down in his lap, said, “That’s just what she told you to get you to kill Fisher’s wife. All along they were planning to fuck you over. If I hadn’t come along they probably would’ve ratted you out already, but then they thought they still needed you, to get rid of me.”

  “I’ll tell you what I think. I think you would have made a good Brit, cos you like fookin with me head.”

  “Jesus Christ, why the fuck would I lie to you? I have the pictures, I have the gun, I don’t have to help you. I’m just telling you the way it is. They’re gonna tell the cops you killed those two women, they’ll say they had nothing to do with it. They’ll say you were fucking Angela, you got jealous, you broke into Max’s townhouse to kill him, but he wasn’t there and the women were, so you did them instead. And who’s the judge gonna believe? You know a guy like Max Fisher is gonna hire some hotshot lawyer. The judge won’t
give a shit about you. And once the press starts calling you a cop killer too, forget about it. Meanwhile, Angela and Max’ll be living happily ever after.”

  There was no sound in the room other than the noise of the traffic in the street outside. “So what’re you saying?” Popeye finally asked.

  “It’s up to you how you wanna handle this,” Bobby said, “but I know what I’d do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’d go by Angela’s tonight, teach the bitch a fuckin’ lesson.”

  “Keep talkin.”

  “Then, I’m just gonna throw this out there – maybe after you take care of Angela we can work together.”

  “Doing what, changing your diapers?”

  “What I did before I landed in this fucking chair, asshole. Hit banks, jewelry stores, anywhere where there’s money.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “To make some money, Popeye. You like money? First we’ll soak Fisher for all he’s worth, then we’ll move on to bigger and better things. See, this picture shit – it’s just a sideline for me. I’m into armed robbery – pulled some of the biggest jobs on the east coast. I got a few jobs I’m lookin’ to pull right now and you can be in my new crew.”

  “What do you need me for?”

  “I can handle a gun, but I can’t muscle people the way I used to. You ever do any muscle work, Popeye?”

  “You’re fooking codding me, muscle work is me middle name, leaning on fookers, tis me birthright. I did some protection work for the Ra, the IRA to you.”

  “The IRA?” Bobby said, impressed. “That’s great. So you already have some useful experience. So what do you say?”

  Popeye thought about it, said, “What about the Guards? I can’t be waiting around New York, you know.”

  “You ever hear of Willie Sutton?”

  “Is he gonna be in our crew too?”

  “No, he was a bank robber from the old days, the best who ever lived. Anyway, when the cops were coming after him he used to dress in disguises. One time he was living right next door to a police station and they never found him.”

  “Fookin A. My kind of fellah.”

  “So what we’ll do,” Bobby said, “is put you in some disguises. Or – I got a better idea – I know a guy out in Long Island City – you know, a plastic surgeon. He specializes in cons on the run.”

  “Any chance he can make me look like Colin Farrell?”

  “Those guys can work fucking miracles.”

  Popeye smiled, stuck his hand out, said. “In that case, tis a deal, mate.”

  Twenty-One

  I put on the suit and hey, I was Dillon Blair; same shit-eating smile. You wear a suit like that, you get a hint of why the rich are so smug. Later, in Bedford Hill, a hooker said “Suit like that, you want to play busted?” “Play what?”

  “I sit on yer face and you guess my weight?” Like I said, the suit was a winner.

  KEN BRUEN, The Hackman Blues

  Angela woke up when Dillon came home and turned on the light. He was wearing his leather jacket and was holding a big white shopping bag. He looked angry. Angrier than usual. Without saying a word to Angela, he went into the bathroom, still wearing his jacket and carrying the shopping bag.

  Squinting, still half-asleep, Angela remembered what was supposed to happen tonight and obviously hadn’t happened. Bobby was supposed to take care of Dillon for her, but something had definitely gone wrong. Was Bobby dead? He must be if Dillon was still alive. Angela prayed that she was still sleeping, that this was a nightmare and that she’d wake up any second.

  Dillon came out of the bathroom, still wearing his leather jacket.

  “So?” Angela asked. “How did it go tonight?”

  Dillon stared at Angela for a couple of seconds then said, “How did what go?” His tone had a combination of sarcasm and amusement, but he wasn’t smiling.

  “You know what – with Bobby Rosa, the guy in the wheelchair.” She swallowed. “I mean did you kill him like you were supposed to?”

  “Why the fook do you care?”

  “I’m just asking. Jaysus, I have a right to ask, don’t I?”

  Again, Dillon stared at Angela for a few seconds. His mutilated lips seemed to be wet, like a pair of ugly snakes. Angela had no idea what was going on. The only thing she could think of was that he had found out about her and Bobby’s plan. But this didn’t make any sense. Bobby would never’ve told Dillon about that unless Dillon had tortured him. Imagining Dillon torturing a poor guy in a wheelchair and enjoying it – she knew he’d enjoy it, all right – pissed Angela off big time.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Angela said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “I can look at you any way I want to,” Dillon said.

  “Well, I don’t like it when you wet your lips like that, so just stop it.”

  “You think there’s something wrong with me mouth?”

  “I don’t think anything,” Angela said. “I just don’t like it when you do that. It gives me the creeps.”

  Dillon stuck his tongue out and slowly ran it along his upper lip, then his lower. Then he said, “I’m going to miss that shite you talk.”

  “What do you mean, miss it? Where are you going?”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, still smiling.

  “Look,” Angela said. “I wish you’d just tell me what’s going on here. It’s late and I have to get up to go to work tomorrow.”

  He laughed out loud, said, “Missing work is not really something you’ll have to be bothered about.”

  “Did you kill Bobby Rosa?” Angela asked. “Did you torture him first?”

  “Why you care so much about Bobby Rosa?”

  “I don’t. I just want to know what’s going on.”

  “Maybe I did have some fun with the bastard. What’s it to you?”

  Dillon’s left hand came out of the jacket pocket holding the gun he had used to kill those women and the cop. He aimed it at Angela. There was glint in his eye, part sexual, part adrenalin. He was having the time of his life.

  “What’s that for?” Angela asked.

  “It’s for you acting like you’re a tinker and you just stole me wallet.”

  “Stop pointing that thing at me.”

  “I never told anyone about the tinker, you know.”

  “I’m gonna scream my feckin’ ass off,” Angela said.

  Dillon grinned, said, “Go on. Pretend you’re trying to steal me money.”

  “I’m serious,” Angela said.

  “Try, go on, put yer hand in me jacket.”

  Dillon’s right hand came out of the other pocket holding a switchblade. The blade sprang open and he lunged forward, slicing Angela across her right thigh. A deep gash opened and blood spread in a thick stream down Angela’s leg. Dillon laughed. Again, Angela was struck by the thought that this had to be a nightmare. She didn’t feel any pain yet, and everything was happening too fast, like it wasn’t real. But then the pain kicked in, like a stick of dynamite exploding in her leg, and Angela knew that in dreams you weren’t supposed to feel pain like this. She grabbed a pillow from the bed and put it over her leg to stop the bleeding. It didn’t help. Her leg was wet and hot. She sat down.

  Dillon sat next to her on the bed and held the switchblade against her neck. He said, “Snatch me wallet yah tinker.”

  Angela’s mouth was trembling. She couldn’t speak. Dillon was grim-faced now, ordered, “Go for it, go for me cash.”

  “No,” Angela said.

  Dillon looked like he might slash Angela again. She started to scream as he pushed her down onto the bed. All she had on was a pair of panties; he got one hand in under the waistband, slid the switchblade roughly under the fabric, and sawed through it with two strokes. He yanked the tatters off her body. Holding her down with one hand, he took down his jeans and underwear with the other. Angela cast around desperately for a weapon. Dillon had the switchblade in the hand that was holding her down �
�� she didn’t know what had happened to the gun.

  There was a glass on the night table where she’d left it after swallowing a couple of Midols before going to sleep. She grabbed the glass and smashed it against the side of Dillon’s head. He let go of her, brought his hand to his head and brought it away bloody. Angela looked at her hand and saw she was still holding about half the shattered glass, a jagged, splintered wedge dripping water and blood. She slashed the edge across Dillon’s throat.

  Dillon tried to scream, but couldn’t make a sound.

  Angela freed the blade from Dillon’s fist and managed to slide out from under him. He turned to reach for something, maybe the gun, and Angela lunged forward, sinking the blade in his back till it couldn’t go any further. She tried to pull it out, but the blade was stuck. Angela stood back in horror as Dillon stood up. He stumbled a few steps, looking into her eyes, then he collapsed in the middle of the floor, where the circular throw rug beneath him promptly soaked through.

  She couldn’t believe it had been so easy to kill the fucker.

  Angela turned on the stereo to some pop station. It was eighties night and Debbie Gibson was singing “Only In My Dreams.”

  The pain in Angela’s thigh, which she’d forgotten in the moment, was back now in full force and blood covered her entire leg. Angela stepped over Dillon and went into the bathroom and rinsed her leg in the shower. She knew she should probably get to a hospital, but she also knew there was no way she could do that now. She didn’t have any gauze, so she put some paper towel over the wound and wrapped it up with painting tape.

  When she turned off the water, she thought she heard a noise in the other room. She waited, even held her breath, but there was nothing; the sound must’ve come from another apartment. She remembered what always happened in those horror movies, how whenever it seemed like the killer was dead, it turned out he was still alive. Angela wished she had taken the gun or something with her into the bathroom. She opened the bathroom door slowly and peeked her head out. She relaxed when she saw Dillon still lying on the floor in the same position she’d left him in, his wide-open eyes looking up at nothing. It annoyed her that the bastard looked so fucking relaxed, even Zen-like.