Bust

by Ken Bruen

  A cop on duty recognized Max immediately.

  “Hold it right there, Mr. Fisher.”

  The cop was short, heavyset, with curly hair. He stood up with his hands on his hips, sticking out his chest.

  “I wanna see Angela Petrakos,” Max said.

  “Yeah, I bet you do, but I can’t let you in there.”

  “Why not? I’m not charged with anything.”

  “I still can’t let you in there.”

  “Did someone tell you I couldn’t see her?”

  The officer thought this over for a second then said, “No. But I still think it’s best.”

  Max was in that weird zone of half hung over and feeling like he was seeing everything through glass, very dirty glass. For a mad moment, he was ready to take a swing at the guy.

  He said, “Unless you want to embarrass yourself when I start making phone calls to your boss, I would suggest you let me inside there. The woman works for me, for Christ’s sake.”

  Max was trying to summon up the old powerbroker Max, before his life went in the toilet, and maybe it was working. He thought the cop looked a little worried. Nothing like sticking it to the boys in blue to restore the old Max Fisher confidence.

  The cop said, “All right, you can talk to her, but just for a couple of minutes, and I’m comin’ in there with you.”

  Max was expecting Angela to look like hell, but it was just the opposite. She was sitting up in bed, watching TV, and she looked almost normal. She wasn’t wearing as much makeup as usual, but she was wearing bright red lipstick and her hair was nice. Her breasts looked great too. Who said hospital gowns weren’t sexy? He looked over at the cop and had a feeling the guy was thinking the same thing.

  Looking back at Angela’s face, Max couldn’t tell if she was happy to see him or not. He had to be very careful now.

  “Surprise,” Max said.

  Angela continued to stare at Max with a blank expression, then she smiled slowly. But Max still couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

  “What are you doing here?” she said.

  “I just thought I’d stop by and pay a little visit,” Max said, “see how you were doing.”

  The cop was standing in the corner of the room, watching them.

  “I’m doing okay,” Angela said.

  “Yeah, I can tell that,” Max said. “I mean it. You look dynamite.” He nodded toward the TV. “I see you’re watching the news. So I guess you saw about the robbery. That guy in the wheelchair. Crazy, huh?”

  Angela nodded slowly.

  “So… you should be feeling a little better, I’d think. Not out of the woods yet, but things are looking better.”

  “The doctors said I was really lucky,” Angela said. “If the bullet in my chest had been an inch over to the right I’d probably be dead. They still think it’s a miracle I made it with all the blood I lost.”

  Max’s vision was still blurry and it was hard to concentrate. He knew there were things he wanted to say to Angela, important things, but he couldn’t think of what the hell they were.

  “So is that why you came here, just to see how I was?”

  “No,” Max said, “I also came here to tell you that I miss you – at the office I mean. I miss having you around, and I miss… I miss a lot of things about you.”

  “The doctors told me if I keep improving I might be out of here by next week.”

  “That’s terrific,” Max said. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the cop raise his arm and point at the watch on his wrist. “Look, I just want you to know that I appreciate your sticking up for me. It showed me that deep down you really do care. It meant a lot. Everyone else at the company walked out on me, pretty much. First sign of trouble and it was adios, amigo, sayonara, nice knowing you. But you were loyal, and…” He felt something swelling up inside him, the same feeling that had hit him that night years ago in the bar of the Mansfield Hotel. And look how well that had worked out for him. But, hey, sometimes, you just feel what you feel, and you’ve got to go with it, or whatever.

  “I know none of this was your fault,” he said, some of the words slurring, “and I just want you to know that I don’t blame you for anything. The thing is I can’t stand living in that big house all by myself. What I’m trying to say is, when you get out of here, I think we should get married.”

  Angela looked shocked. Her mouth sagged open. “Are you serious?”

  “Oh, I know it’ll be hard for a while,” Max said. “I mean, getting over everything and everything. But eventually we’ll get used to it.”

  “But the police are still-”

  Max waved his hand dismissively, knocking into some big tube. “I have a good lawyer, and I’ll have him handle your case. And then when it’s all behind us, we can do everything we talked about doing – travel, go places, see things. What do you say?”

  “I can’t believe you’d propose to me after… after everything,” Angela said, and he thought she looked like she was about to start crying.

  “Say yes,” Max said. “I hope I didn’t have to schlep all the way up to Harlem for nothing.”

  She still wasn’t answering. He was about to get on his knees, do the proposal in style, when she closed her eyes, maybe to squeeze back tears, and said, “Of course I’ll marry you. Why wouldn’t I?”

  That night Max made a decision. If he somehow got through all of this, he was going to change his life – make up for everything he’d done. Innocent people had died and, while he knew it wasn’t all his fault, he also knew he was at least partly responsible. He was a stand-up guy, could take some blame. He was going to quit booze and start going to a synagogue. Better yet, he’d read that damn Zen book, if he could ever find it. Yeah, that’s right, to hell with Judaism, he was going to finally see what this Buddhism shit was all about. Maybe there was something to meditating – maybe sitting Indian-style, thinking about nothing, was the answer to all his problems. He didn’t care what he had to do, he was going to make big changes in his life and things were going to be different.

  Max woke up feeling refreshed. His memories of the previous day were a little foggy, but he remembered proposing to Angela. Eh, what the hell? Maybe it wasn’t something he would have done sober, but that didn’t make it a mistake. After all, what were the odds of him having two fucked up marriages in a row? Maybe marrying Angela would be the best thing that had ever happened to him.

  After he showered and shaved, he took a walk over to the newsstand around the corner and bought a copy of the Sunday Post. He felt great, whistling the song from The Bridge on the River Kwai, then he looked at the paper and the screaming headline PERVERT! Under the headline was a big picture of Bobby Rosa. He read the article standing in front of the newsstand. There were two full pages, all about Rosa. The police had discovered hundreds of pictures in his apartment of women – women in bikinis, women in their underwear, peeping tom shots taken through windows, upskirt shots, down-blouse shots. Many of the pictures were hung up on the walls in his bedroom and bathroom, but the police had found boxes of additional pictures in his closet, including the ones of Max and Angela having sex. But the most shocking news was that the police had found a gun in Bobby’s apartment that had been used in the Riverside Park shooting. Max couldn’t understand this at all. He knew Bobby had some screws loose, but the maniac had gone biblical. Max definitely didn’t feel like whistling anymore.

  The whole thing was so confusing now, Max had a throbbing headache. He bought copies of the Times and the Daily News, but their stories basically repeated the same information as the articles in the Post. The only good news, as far as Max was concerned, was that there was no mention in any of the papers of the police finding the incriminating cassette tape in Rosa’s apartment. But how long would it be before they did?

  He had a feeling that his life was about to go down the shitter again.

  At a deli on Lexington Avenue, he bought a bouquet of red and pink roses, then he took a cab up to the hospital. A different cop was o
n duty in front of Angela’s room. This one let him into the room without a hassle. Angela was sleeping. Max tiptoed up to the bed and woke her up with a soft kiss on the lips. Not his special, the hot one that never failed, but one with concern, damn it, plenty of real compassion in there. Angela’s eyes opened suddenly, like she didn’t know where she was, but then she saw Max’s face. There was a moment of horror at first and then her expression softened into a smile though her eyes still looked strained and unhappy. He figured he must’ve woken her out of a bad dream or something.

  At work the next morning, Max had his receptionist get Andrew McCullough on the phone.

  “I have another job for you,” Max said. “I want you to represent Angela Petrakos.”

  “Angela Petrakos?” McCullough said. “You’re kidding, right?”

  He hated the prick’s tone, like he thought he was so high and mighty because he was the lawyer and not the guy who constantly needed one. “Why would I kid about that?”

  “Since when do you care what happens to Angela Petrakos?” the dick asked.

  “Since I asked her to marry me,” Max said.

  Max spent most of the day on the phone with his remaining clients, trying to shore up relationships. He also called some of the clients who had canceled their service agreements last week and asked for second chances. Most said they were sorry, that they were still going to take their business elsewhere, but he was able to sweet talk some into saying yes.

  For the first time since before Deirdre was murdered, Max felt like his life was getting back on track. He was the kind of guy who worked best under pressure; it showed what he was made of.

  He went to the gym in the morning, worked hard all day, then went to visit Angela at night. He was feeling healthier than he had in years. He felt a little bad about some of the things he’d done, but he also knew that somewhere inside him there was another Max Fisher, a better Max Fisher, and somehow he was going to let that Max Fisher out. He couldn’t wait to let the world see the new model. Hell, he might even start leaving tips.

  Nah, no need to get stupid.

  In the mirror that morning, he said to himself. “You’re a good person. Sure, you’ve had some tough luck, but suffering makes the man.”

  He was pretty sure the Zen book would have this type of crap in it.

  A minor hitch developed in McCullough’s case when the doorman at Bobby Rosa’s building came forward, claiming that Angela and Dillon had visited Bobby’s apartment on successive days. McCullough claimed that his client had been blackmailed by Bobby, and that she was at the building that night to ask for the sex pictures back. McCullough also speculated that Dillon was “the jealous type” and that he may have gone to confront Bobby, suspecting that Bobby and Angela were having an affair. As for the body in the bathtub, McCullough claimed that Angela was trapped in an abusive relationship and had killed Dillon in self-defense. The Drano was evidence of how desperate and illogical she had become. Angela’s cuts and bruises backed up the self-defense claim and several people at the office came forward and vouched that they’d seen Angela arrive at work with a nasty black eye prior to the murder. Regarding the other sticking point, the code to the alarm, McCullough suggested that Dillon had forced Deirdre Fisher to give him the code to the alarm the evening of the murders, which was why he was able to reset the alarm before he left.

  Max didn’t think there was any way in hell the police would buy McCullough’s bullshit. They were going to indict Angela and then, under pressure, she’d break down and implicate him. But then McCullough called him at work with the incredible news. The police had held a press conference announcing that the investigation was officially closed – Thomas Dillon and Thomas Dillon alone had committed the murders of Deirdre Fisher, Stacy Goldenberg, and Kenneth Simmons. Apparently, although it was clear that Max and Angela were having an affair, the DA’s office didn’t think they had enough evidence against Max to pursue a case against him. They also felt that Angela, as a battered woman, would be viewed as sympathetic by a jury, especially after it was announced that Dillon was also linked to the vicious slaying of a Japanese tourist. According to an Op Ed piece in the Post, the Mayor may have urged a quick resolution to the case as well, the start of the summer tourist season being a bad time for stories about a tourist having his throat cut to be in the news.

  Two days after the case was closed, Angela was discharged from the hospital. She was transported out of the premises in a wheelchair and then she stood up and limped into Max’s arms. Thanks to his Viagra he had a powerful hard-on, wanted to bang the living crap out of her right there. That night, he took her out to a romantic candlelight dinner at Demi on Madison Avenue and surprised her with a two-carat diamond engagement ring from Tiffany’s. It was worth every penny it had cost to see the way her eyes lit up when she held it. Who said money couldn’t buy happiness? Some dumb bastard who bought discount, probably.

  Max started to go to the ashram a few times a week with Kamal. He listened closely as the swami talked about “the universal unconscious” and “the inner self.” He started to read books on Buddhism and Eastern philosophy and he did relaxation exercises and meditated two or three times a day. Hell, he was born for this shit. Even the itching had eased and the blisters were fading. That Buddha, he delivered, no question about it.

  One weekend, Max took Angela to a yoga retreat in the Berkshires. They had a great time meditating, chanting, going to yoga and exercise classes, eating macrobiotic food, and taking long walks in the woods. When they came back to the city, Max felt completely cleansed. He felt as if he had been asleep his whole life and had finally awakened. The new Max Fisher was a kinder, more relaxed person who treated his newly hired employees with respect. He realized that for most of his life he’d been on the wrong path. His ego and desires had been controlling his actions while his true self was trapped underneath. Though he knew this didn’t justify or make up for anything he had done, he also knew the things he’d done weren’t his fault either. His ego had decided to kill Deirdre, and now that his ego was gone, the killer was gone too. He also felt a new sense of humility about himself and sensed that people understood he was a man who’d risen above great suffering to become even more compassionate. He knew it wasn’t just his imagination, people were looking at him differently. There was no use for false modesty now – he might as well display it for the goddamn world to see. He couldn’t wait to talk about his entire journey someday on Oprah.

  Then, one afternoon, his new executive assistant – a petite Indian girl whom Max had hired because she was a Buddhist; her breasts weren’t even B-cups – came into his office and said there was a man waiting to see him.

  “Who?” Max asked.

  “He wouldn’t say, but he said it was important.”

  “All right,” Max said. “Send him in.”

  Max shut off the CD of Tibetan chants he was listening to on his PC and then a short, very thin man, completely bald, with a big crooked nose entered his office. He was wearing jeans, sneakers, and a hooded sweatshirt, so he definitely wasn’t a salesman.

  “Can I help you with something?” Max asked, smiling.

  “Yeah, I think you can,” the man said. His voice sounded very hoarse, like a chain-smoker’s, or maybe even one of those people you saw sometimes who’d had throat cancer and talked through a machine.

  “Why don’t you take a seat?” Max said. “Make yourself at home.”

  “That’s all right,” the man said weakly. “I don’t mind standing. I’ve been standing all my life, you know what I mean?”

  Max thought, Yeah, standing, waiting for a bus, because he wasn’t the type who’d ever have a car. Max had a message for him, The bus wasn’t coming, pal, but with his new spirituality, he decided to treat the poor loser like one of the Buddha’s own. Yeah, he was a loser, shit on the bottom of his heel, but Max wouldn’t be the one to tell him.

  Max assumed the man was looking for work, maybe as an installer, doing punchdown for machine r
ooms, something like that. Max decided that because the man looked like he was in need he would hire him no matter what his skills were. The Buddha would be pleased as hell about that, right?

  Max noticed that the man was looking above him, at the framed picture of the Dalai Lama he had hung above his desk.

  “You meditate?” Max asked.

  “No,” the man said in that scratchy voice.

  “You really should try it. If you want, you can come down to my ashram some time. I’ll introduce you to some people.”

  “Nah, that’s okay,” the man said. “I don’t believe in that religious shit.”

  Feeling sorry for the man for being un-enlightened, Max said, “Well, you just call me if you change your mind. So do you have a resume?”

  “What?”

  “Do you have a resume with you?”

  “Why would I give you a resume?”

  “To get a job. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  The man smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant smile.

  “I didn’t come here for a job. I just came to talk to you, Mr. Brown.”

  Max glared at the man, suddenly dizzy. He had quit drinking, but he suddenly craved vodka. Fucking Buddhism, where was it when your nuts were in the blender?

  “Sorry,” Max said. “What did you just call me?”

  “Mr. Brown.”

  “I think you’re in the wrong office,” Max said. “My name’s Fisher – Max Fisher.” He wanted to rip the Dalai Lama to bits.

  “I know your name,” the man said.

  “I get it,” Max said. “This is some kind of joke, right? Angela put you up to this.”

  “Nobody put me up to anything,” the man said.

  Max hoped that this wasn’t happening, that there was some explanation he couldn’t imagine.

  “Then why are you here?” Max’s voice was almost as weak as the man’s.

  “I want one million dollars in cash by tomorrow at five P.M.,” the man said. “I’ll come back here to pick it up.”