Bust

by Ken Bruen

  Max’s face had turned red during his long speech and he was breathing heavily. He looked like he might croak at any moment. But Angela had something bigger on her mind – Bobby was still alive. She had to talk to him, figure out some way to get him off their backs.

  “Sorry, Max,” Angela said standing up. “I have to go to the bathroom. Oh, but wait, I have something for you.” She rummaged in her bag and took out the book. “It’s a present. Sorry I didn’t have time to wrap it.”

  It had crossed her mind to give him the pin too, but she kind of liked it.

  Max took the book cautiously and Angela said, “Don’t worry, it’s not gonna blow up.”

  Max gave her a look as if he wasn’t so sure. Then, squinting at the book, holding it at arm’s length because he didn’t have his reading glasses on, Max said, “ Wisdom of Zen? What’s this crap?”

  “It’ll bring you peace,” Angela said, thinking about Dillon again, lying there in her bathtub, all yellow and Zen-like.

  “I get enough of that Zen peace talk shit from my asshole chef,” Max said. He flipped the book onto his desk then demanded, “What about your cousin’s phone number?”

  “I think I better call him,” Angela said.

  “Why can’t I call?”

  “He has a bad temper – you know how Greeks are. If you call and he thinks things got messed up he might start going crazy.”

  “I thought your cousin’s Irish?”

  “Half Greek, half Irish. Like me.”

  “I don’t know what the fuck’s going on anymore,” Max said, shaking his head in frustration. “Just get me another meeting with Popeye today before five or I’m calling the cops. And close the door on your way out, will ya? I have to do my breathing exercises.”

  Diane Faustino from Accounting was talking to Sheila in Payroll near Angela’s desk and Angela wanted to talk to Bobby in private. So she went to the back of the office, to the supply room. She called, but there was no answer. She went back to her desk, but it was impossible to concentrate. Max came out of his office every couple of minutes and asked if she had made “that call yet.” Angela kept saying, “Yeah, but he’s not home.”

  Max was getting to be a real pain in the ass. Angela couldn’t believe that less than an hour ago she was seriously considering spending the rest of her life with that loser.

  After waiting for about half an hour, Angela went back to the supply room and dialed Bobby’s number again. This time he picked up.

  Bobby was about to get into the bathtub when the phone rang. He lifted himself back into his wheelchair and went out to the living room. He answered the phone on its sixth ring.

  “May I speak with Bobby Rosa please?”

  It was an official-sounding older woman. Bobby figured it was another one of those asshole telemarketers. Even though he’d put himself on the national do-not-call list, those fucking cold callers kept hassling him twenty-four-seven. If she was a telemarketer, he was going to do what he always did when those pricks called his apartment – tell her Bobby Rosa had died. That usually got him off whatever list he was on.

  “Why do you want to talk to him?” Bobby said.

  “Is this Mr. Rosa?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “It’s very important that I speak with Mr. Rosa.”

  “Yeah? And why’s that?”

  “My name is Estelle Sternberg from the Jewish Home for the Aged. I’m afraid I have some bad news regarding his mother. Who am I speaking with please?”

  “What happened to his mother?”

  “I’m afraid she passed away last night,” the woman said.

  Bobby paused, letting the news sink in, then he said, “Yeah, well, this is Bobby so you can tell me what happened.”

  Ms. Sternberg explained that Mrs. Rosa had died in her sleep the night before. She asked Bobby if he wanted any assistance in making the funeral arrangements.

  “No, I’ll take care of it myself,” Bobby said, thinking, Well, at least I didn’t have to shoot her.

  When he hung up, Bobby realized he was starving and he decided to take his bath later. He hadn’t had pancakes in a long time so he cooked some up the way he liked them, with a lot of butter. Then, as he was eating, it hit him. He lost it, wheeling around his apartment, screaming and throwing things. It wasn’t good enough – he needed to start shooting shit up. He was on his way to the closet to get a piece when he heard the phone ring.

  He picked up, going, “What?”

  “Bobby?”

  Fuck, it sounded like Angela. How was that fucking possible? Was Dillon completely fucking incompetent?

  “Yeah,” he finally said.

  “You know who this is?”

  Straining for a Mr. Nice Guy tone, he said, “ ’Course I do, sweetheart. How’s it going?”

  Why, why was that cunt still alive and his mother was dead? What kind of fucked up world was this?

  “I can’t talk much right now,” Angela said. “I’m at work. You won’t believe what’s been going on. I can’t even believe I’m talking to you.”

  “Yeah,” Bobby said. “Me neither.”

  Angela lowered her voice to a whisper, said “We don’t have to worry about Dillon, I mean Popeye, anymore… I got rid of him last night.”

  “What do you mean got rid of him?”

  “I can’t talk about that right now.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Yeah,” Angela said.

  “You killed him?”

  “You know, Bobby, I really think we should talk about that somewhere private. Can you meet me somewhere or something?”

  Bobby might have left Angela alone forgotten about her – but it was too dangerous now. She knew about three murders and had committed one herself, meaning the cops would be after her soon, if they weren’t already. If she was arrested she’d flip on Max Fisher, and after that the million-dollar photo of Max and Angela would be worth about as much as any of the other pictures he had taped to the walls.

  Besides, he was in the mood to go kill somebody, let off some steam.

  “Sure,” Bobby said. “I can meet you. Let me think a sec.”

  “How about tonight?” Angela said. “I could stop by your place on my way home from work.”

  “Nah, I don’t think we should wait that long,” Bobby said. “I wanted to get out of the house anyway today. I know, let’s meet in Riverside Park this afternoon. How’s two o’clock work for you?”

  Twenty-Three

  I would extricate myself, I was sure, though I thought, too, of what I’d told the police, how the killer was still out there, and I felt a sense of danger beneath the veneer of the moment, everything about to break loose.

  DOMENIC STANSBERRY, The Confession

  When Angela told Max she was taking a late lunch, Max said, “What about that phone call?”

  “I’ll try again from the street,” Angela said. “I have to go – I have a two o’clock appointment at my hairdresser.”

  Angela had just said this as an excuse to get out of the office, but on the way downstairs she decided that getting a haircut would be a good idea. Maybe she could get a blow out and a wash every day until she could start using her shower again.

  Angela took the 1 train from Times Square and got off at Ninety-sixth Street. Bobby had said he wanted to meet on the Riverside Park promenade, between the Hudson River and the tennis courts.

  Angela’s bruises and cuts were still bothering her, especially the one on her thigh, but she knew she’d feel better once she figured out a way to get Bobby out of the way. Maybe she’d sleep with him again if she had to. He had B.O. and he wasn’t the best-looking guy in the world but, she had to admit, there was something kind of hot about wheelchair sex.

  She entered Riverside Park at Ninety-sixth Street and walked toward the river. She came to the underpass Bobby was talking about and went through to the promenade. It was a clear, sunny day, about seventy degrees. There were a few old men sitting on benches and other people out
jogging and walking their dogs. Angela got to the spot Bobby had described and looked around. She didn’t see him anywhere. She checked her watch – a few minutes after two.

  She was tired and her thigh was hurting worse than before. She wanted to sit down, but all the benches nearby were either taken or covered with bird shit. She went back toward the water, leaned against the railing, and stared out toward New Jersey.

  Bobby was waiting on a path on the wooded hill behind the tennis courts. The trees had blossomed a few weeks earlier so there was good cover. From his position, he had a nice, clear view of the promenade. Angela wasn’t there yet, but when she showed up he’d be ready for her. In the big front pocket of his windbreaker he had a stainless steel. 44 snub nose Mag Hunter. Yeah, fuckin hardware – it made the man.

  Angela would be about sixty yards away – a tough shot for most people, but point-blank range for Bobby. He was already getting flashbacks of all the towelheads he’d taken down in Iraq, the sheer rush he’d get when he had those sand rats in his sight.

  A few minutes later, Bobby saw Angela walking along the promenade. For some reason she was limping. She looked pale and drawn, not nearly as sexy as she had the other times Bobby had seen her. He remembered what she’d said, about the wheelchair being “kind of sexy.” An old song began to play in his head, Where was the love?

  When she got to the spot where they were supposed to meet Bobby took out the Mag and fitted on a silencer. Man, just holding a loaded gun again got Bobby juiced.

  He looked around to make sure there was no one nearby, watching him, then he raised the gun and aimed at Angela’s chest.

  Angela limped toward a bench and looked like she was about to sit down, then she turned and went back toward the railing of the promenade. She put her hands on the railing and looked out across the river. Bobby was locked in on a spot right between her shoulder blades, figuring he’d give it to her in the back. But when Bobby fired, the bullet tore through Angela’s right thigh instead, his chair bucking from the recoil. Angela fell back against the railing, then her legs buckled and she coiled onto the cement. Bobby fired again, but the angle was shitty and this time he missed completely, the bullet whizzing by above Angela’s head. Bobby cursed and fired again. The bullet hit the concrete on the promenade and ricocheted into the Hudson. Angela was on her knees now. He fired two more times – one bullet entered the left side of her stomach, the other, finally, ripped through her chest. Now Angela was on her side, covered in blood. Bobby twisted off the silencer, put it and the Mag back inside his windbreaker, and wheeled out of the park, thinking, Who sang that goddamn song?

  Twenty-Four

  Everyone knows what he has to do next and sticks to it. It’s a simple way of life, and one that allows a man to get the most out of his simple pleasures, without cluttering up his swede with plans stretching too far hence.

  CHARLIE WILLIAMS, Deadfolk

  Sherry, today’s temp receptionist, buzzed Max’s office and told him there were two police officers here to see him. Was there a tiny smug tone in her voice?

  “Shit,” Max said. “Tell them I’ll be right out.”

  Max had been calling Andrew McCullough all afternoon and the bastard wasn’t returning his calls. And Angela still wasn’t back from lunch so Max didn’t know what was going on with her cousin and Popeye. As he opened his office door Max promised himself that this time he wouldn’t say anything without some kind of lawyer present, even if he had to use fucking Darrow.

  Louis Ortiz, the detective who had questioned him the other night, was standing next to the reception desk, next to a tall, older man with a mustache whom Max had never seen before. Ortiz and the older guy were both wearing plain gray suits and they both had serious, angry expressions.

  Max thought, Uh oh, and wished he’d taken a look at that freaking Zen book. Maybe if he had he’d be relaxed, he wouldn’t be shitting fucking bricks right now.

  “Hello, gentlemen,” Max said, trying to stay as calm as possible. “Can I help you with something?”

  “You can get your coat,” Ortiz said.

  “Am I under arrest?” Max asked, trying to make it into a joke.

  “We’re taking you in for questioning,” Ortiz said.

  “What if I don’t want to go?”

  “You don’t have a choice,” Ortiz said.

  “I don’t understand,” Max said. “What’s going on?”

  “Angela Petrakos was shot earlier today,” the tall man explained, “in Riverside Park.”

  The words took a few seconds to register.

  “Angela Petrakos?” he said. “You mean the Angela Petrakos who works for me?”

  Several people in the office had been eavesdropping. Now people were talking at once, asking the detectives what was going on. Finally, Ortiz, talking above everyone, said, “This is police business. You’ll all be briefed as soon as it’s appropriate. Right now we need to talk to Mr. Fisher. Mr. Fisher, are you gonna come with us or am I gonna have to cuff you?”

  Ortiz had a malicious grin, looking like he wanted to cuff Max more than he wanted his next meal.

  Suddenly, the office was quiet. Although he was still looking at Ortiz and at the other detective, Max could sense that everyone else was staring at him. He remembered watching Law and Order, the ones with Jerry Orbach, and he was tempted to say, I think I need to get lawyered up. But instead he said, “Let me just get my coat,” and he went back into his office. When he came out, wearing his sport jacket, a larger crowd had formed.

  “This isn’t a vacation day,” Max said, above all the other voices, using a tone of authority, of steel. “Come on everybody, let’s get back to work.”

  A few people went back to their desks, but a large group remained near the front of the office. No one seemed to feel sorry for Max. Actually, the bastards seemed happy to watch him being taken away. Max couldn’t understand this. He’d always been a good boss. He only fired people when they deserved to be fired and hadn’t he just announced a ten-percent raise?

  On the way to the precinct, Max remembered the appointment he had made with Mr. Takahashi for this evening at six-thirty. Sitting in the back of the car, Max asked the detectives up front how long this questioning was going to take.

  “As long as it needs to,” Ortiz said.

  “Seriously,” Max said. “I have an important appointment with a client in less than two hours. Am I gonna have to reschedule it or not?”

  The detectives looked at each other as Max reached into his jacket for his Blackberry. The car stopped short. Ortiz got out and opened the back door.

  “Give me that fucking thing.”

  “What’s the big deal?” Max said. “I’m just making one call.”

  Ortiz reached for the Blackberry. Max wouldn’t let go and, turning away, he elbowed Ortiz in the face.

  “You fucked up big-time now,” Ortiz said. “I’m gonna book you for disorderly conduct and assaulting a police officer.”

  Max thought Ortiz was kidding until he pulled him out of the car and cuffed him.

  At the precinct, after he was booked, Max used his one phone call to call McCullough. McCullough was still in the office, thank God, but he was in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed. Max screamed at the secretary, demanding to speak with him. The secretary said, “I don’t enjoy being spoken to this way” and was about to hang up. Max begged her to stay on the line and then he left a message that he had been taken into police custody and to please come to the precinct as soon as possible.

  Max was put in a holding cell with two other men who looked homeless. One of them was lying on the bench, passed out, handcuffed to the bars. The other guy was squatting in the back of the cell, his hands crossed in front of his knees, mumbling to himself. They were both wearing ripped, dirty clothes. The whole place smelled like piss.

  Max had been waiting in the cell for nearly two hours when McCullough finally showed up. Max was disappointed by how he looked. He was expecting an older, seasoned guy, but M
cCullough looked like he was right out of law school. He had short blond hair and light blue eyes and he didn’t look a day over thirty. He pulled a chair up outside the cell and spoke to Max through the bars.

  “Sorry I couldn’t get here any sooner,” McCullough explained, “but I’ve had a chance to speak with a couple of detectives, so hopefully I can give you an idea what’s going on.”

  “Just get me the hell out of here,” Max said.

  “I’m working on that, but legally they can hold you overnight, or until a judge can see you downtown.”

  “If you think I’m spending a night in jail-”

  “Let’s not worry about that right now. The important thing right now is why you’re here. I understand you assaulted Detective Ortiz.”

  “I didn’t assault anybody,” Max said. “I was just trying to use my Blackberry and I accidentally elbowed the guy in the face.”

  “Yeah, well, you’ve got bigger problems anyway,” McCullough said. “The detectives seem to think you had something to do with the murders of your wife and your niece and Detective Kenneth Simmons, as well as the attempted murder of Angela Petrakos. Now before I can agree to represent you I need to know the truth – did you have anything to do with any of those crimes?”

  Max remembered The Godfather, Diane Keaton asking Al Pacino if he was in the Mob. Max stared into McCullough’s eyes for a few seconds, trying to get his face to look like Pacino’s, then said, “Absolutely not.”

  “Alrighty,” McCullough said, opening a small notepad, “so now we can get down to business. Let’s talk about Angela Petrakos first – she’s your executive assistant, I understand?”

  Max nodded.

  “She was shot this afternoon in Riverside Park, a little after two o’clock.” Max thought there was a prissy tone in McCullough’s voice and he noticed that the man’s teeth were capped. The caps were bad news. They were a sign of self-absorption, the last quality in the world you wanted from your lawyer.