by Ken Bruen
“Whoa, whoa,” Max said, standing up. “Who the hell do you think you are, barging into my office like this? You know what I think I’m gonna do? I think I’m gonna call the cops.”
Max reached for the phone.
“I don’t think that would be a smart idea.”
“Really? Why not?”
The man took a mini-cassette player out of his sweatshirt pocket and held it up for Max to see. Max stared at the little machine, as if in a trance. He barely heard Dillon with that death-knell accent say, “ Yeah, he hired me,” before his left arm went numb.
Later, sitting in the bar of the Mansfield, Max was getting shitfaced on Gimlet, whatever the hell that was. He wasn’t even sure how he’d gotten to the bar. He remembered realizing, finally, that he wasn’t dying of a heart attack – no, the fucking Buddha wouldn’t put him out of his misery that easily; that Buddha, his ass was so fired – and running out of the office. At first, Max was planning to head to the ashram to center himself, but then he thought, Fuck it, and went to a bar. He started on Stoli, and worked his way up to liqueurs and other shit. He’d hit one or two or maybe three other bars on his way to the Mansfield – hey, who was counting, right? – and was still wearing his business suit, although it was wrinkled and stained and where the hell was his tie?
He finished his third Gimlet, screamed for another, then fumbled for his Blackberry. Muttering, “Where the hell… goddamnit… shit,” he checked his two jacket pockets at least five times each before finding the thing in one of them. He thought he’d called Angela something like four hours ago to tell her how fucked they were, how they were gonna have to give the man everything, and to come meet him at the Mansfield. He called her again and was leaving another goddamn message when the next Gimlet arrived and he screamed, “Just get your ass over here, woman!” and he clicked off, knocking over the Gimlet in the same motion. The liquid stained his pants, making it look like he’d wet himself.
After Angela passed through Homeland Security – the guy had given her a nice little squeeze – she headed for the bar. The bartender smiled and asked her what she was having.
“A large Jameson, please.”
“Are you Irish?”
“I am.”
“Going on vacation?”
“I’m going home.” Her engagement ring sparkled in the light for a moment and she added, “Home is where the heart is.”
“Yeah, like that book I read in high school,” the guy said smiling, “ The Heart is a Lonely Hunter.”
Angela didn’t get it, said, “I don’t get it.”
Then she noticed the guy staring at her chest.
“I like that pin,” he said, although she knew it wasn’t the pin that interested him.
She took a breath, expanding her bust for a couple of moments – why not make the poor guy’s day? – then she let the breath out slowly and said, “Thanks, it belonged to me mother, the only legacy she left. It represents our hands reaching out to each other. It’s my new good luck charm, I think.”
“Wow, that’s so cool,” the guy said. He must’ve polished that same glass, what, five times?
Angela finished the Jameson in one long gulp, said, “Ta,” and walked away, swinging her hips, her chest fully expanded.
Hey, you got it, you gotta strut it, right?
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-5e3a80-8296-cf40-ff9b-bfda-c7bd-4d842d
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 08.10.2011
Created using: Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
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