by Giles Blunt
That night, Max insisted that Owen get dressed to the nines before they went out to dinner. When he saw Luigi’s Restaurant, he was glad he had put on the Armani. The casual opulence of the place made him feel like a movie star enjoying a night out incognito. Max was resplendent in summer-weight Zegna. He looked like a European film producer.
Having Pookie and Roscoe along would be “good for esprit de corps,” he had explained to Owen as they drove over from the trailer park. “They’re loyal little bastards,” he had said with some affection, “and they are underpaid. I like to make up for it once in a while.”
“Why don’t you just pay them more?”
“Honestly, Sunshine, you are such an infant.”
It was obvious to Owen that one of the reasons Max liked to have Pookie along was that Pookie just out-and-out worshipped him. Tonight he was trying out a cowboy accent.
“Pookie, speak normally,” Max said. “Really, sometimes you are insupportable.”
Roscoe was staring out the window, coloured light flowing over his long, angular features. Without even turning to the others, he said, “Christopher Jones was captain of what vessel?”
“O base Hungarian,” Max said. “Spare us the trivia just once?”
“The Pinta,” Owen said.
“That was Columbus,” Pookie said. “The man distinctly said Christopher Jones. Who the hell is Christopher Jones?”
“Christopher Jones,” Max said, “as all you pathetically ignorant Yanks should know, was captain of the Mayflower.”
“Mayflower is correct,” Roscoe intoned. “We have a winner.”
They all went quiet when their waitress arrived-not out of politeness, but just because she was that kind of beautiful. She handed out their menus, and then Max surprised everyone by asking her to wait a moment.
“Everybody,” he said, “I want you to meet Sabrina, child of an old, old friend of mine. My dear, there are a thousand Maxwells in the phone book but only one Magnus Max. Surely you remember? Used to visit you when you were still playing with dolls.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I can’t say I do. You knew my parents? How’d you know where to find me?”
“Your father has had people looking out for you here and there, and I’ve done my own modest research. I asked Luigi to make sure we were seated in your section.”
Max introduced everyone at the table. When he came to Owen, Owen found himself blushing for no reason whatsoever, other than the fact that Sabrina was flat-out gorgeous. Her dark hair was pulled back into a twist, exposing a perfect neck. The effect was erotically prim, and Owen found himself imagining her with her hair spilling over her shoulders. Her eyes were green and caught the light in a way that reminded him of certain purloined items back at the Rocket.
“I still miss your mum,” Max said. “Sweet lady. I used to love to visit just to bask in her beauty. You’re the very image of her.”
“I am not,” Sabrina said. “She was way more elegant than I’ll ever be.”
Max raised a hand to forestall argument. “My dear, the two halves of a cleft apple are not more like. Now, before we move on to food, we shall require an extremely cold bottle of Dom Perignon. Have to get the best,” he added with a nod toward Roscoe and Pookie. “I’m trying to buy their loyalty.”
“Do you think it’ll work?” Sabrina said.
“It will fail miserably,” Max said. “But I shall be happy as a clam nevertheless.”
Sabrina smiled and it was as if the power had just been restored after a blackout. Owen had to fix his gaze on the tablecloth to avoid gaping at her. Pookie and Roscoe were entranced as well, though Roscoe registered this by fiercely gripping his menu, and Pookie by drumming his fingers on the tablecloth, skull-and-crossbones ring flashing.
“Sabrina,” Max informed the table when she was gone, “is no other than the daughter of John-Paul Bertrand, otherwise known as the Pontiff. The thief’s thief, and a gentleman of the first order. Promised him the day he was hauled off to Oxford that I would look in on her whenever I could. Make sure she was okay.”
“Looks okay to me,” Roscoe said.
Pookie ran through the menu, warning the others of cholesterol here and triglycerides there. He became more fanatical on the subject each year.
Sabrina returned with the champagne and Owen felt her beauty pass through him in waves of benign radiation.
“A timely arrival, my sprite,” Max said to her. “We are gnawed by the tooth of hunger.”
The champagne was followed by a bottle of Amarone, and then another. Owen burnt his tongue on his spinach ravioli and had to keep cooling his mouth with sips of wine.
Max noisily devoured a huge plate of osso bucco. “Nothing like a first-class meal,” he said, swilling the last of the Amarone in his glass. “Makes all seem right with the world.”
“What word do the Amish use,” Roscoe inquired, “to refer to anyone outside their community?”
“Auslander,” Pookie said.
“Amish-Not,” from Owen.
“Must we?” Max said.
Roscoe looked around the table, solemn as a horse. “English.”
“I’m so glad we cleared that up,” Max said. He launched into a war story about Peter O’Toole, making the others laugh. He became bossy over dessert, ordering tiramisu for everyone. Owen wished they could have ordered separately, just to keep Sabrina lingering at their table.
Later, the older people had brandies and espressos.
“I gotta say, that Sabrina is one good-looking girl,” Pookie said.
“She doth indeed teach the torches to burn bright.”
“I think the kid here is smitten,” Pookie said, pointing across the table at Owen. “He’s looking a little dreamy.”
“It’s just the wine,” Owen said, and excused himself to go to the washroom.
On his way back to the table he passed close by Sabrina, who was waiting at the end of the bar for a round of drinks.
“You having a good time?” she asked him.
“This may be the best restaurant I’ve ever been to,” he said, hoping desperately to come up with something witty to say and failing.
“That’s nice to hear.”
She turned her attention back to the bartender, and Owen made his way back to the table.
They lingered over their brandy, the trivia questions popping back and forth and Max spouting quotations. Owen barely listened. He kept analyzing his brief exchange with Sabrina with the intensity of a code-breaker. He knew there probably was no code, that she was just being polite. In any case, by the time they left, the busboys were putting chairs upside down on stripped tables and Sabrina was gone.
“So why didn’t we bring Stu along?” Clem wanted to know.
Zig didn’t answer. He hated being cooped up in a car with Clem, who suffered mightily from low frustration tolerance, ADD, claustrophobia and all the other disorders formerly known as ants in the pants. Clem was not one to suffer in silence.
“Boss? Did you hear me? I asked you why didn’t we bring Stu along?”
“Maybe I don’t trust him yet.”
“Stu’s a stand-up guy,” Clem said. “You think I’m gonna recommend some jerk-off’s gonna waste your time?”
“I’ll trust him when I feel like trusting him.”
Clem reached for the radio dial.
“Don’t.”
Clem sat back again. There were only a handful of cars left in the restaurant lot. Three hours now they’d been sitting here watching people coming out of Luigi’s looking pleased with themselves. Clem was getting more and more hyper, obviously, but Zig didn’t mind sitting it out. He was sure Max was behind the San Francisco job. Old guy, young guy, two associates. And he’d heard Max’s theories about dinnertime robbery back in Ossining.
“Finally,” Clem said.
“Looks like they’ve been into the vino pretty good.”
“Bald guy’s Pookie. Other guy’s Roscoe.”
The kid had to practical
ly lever Max into their car, the old guy was so busy holding forth. He boomed and blustered and cackled, even as the kid was getting into the driver’s side. The other two got into separate cars.
“Three cars, three Tauruses,” Clem said. “Musta got a volume discount.”
“Staying in separate places too, I bet,” Zig said. “That’s smart.”
“So which one we gonna take down?”
“I like Baldy.”
“A fine evening,” Max said when they were moving. “Sumptuous meal. Good service. See, lad, these are the good things the diligent life will bring your way. The rewards of application far outweigh talent. The productive man wants for nothing.”
“Last week you said there was no meritocracy.”
“Oh, plague me not with your last week this and your previously that.”
“You’re always contradicting yourself.”
“Last week I was talking of the theatre. Not real life.”
“Hey, look!”
They were stopped at a traffic light. In the parking lot beside them a man was screaming at a girl. Owen rolled down his window.
“Ask yourself this question, missy,” the man yelled. “Just ask yourself what kind of woman do you want to be? Do you want to be the good woman, whose worth is above rubies? Or do you want to be some no-account whore of Babylon?” The man grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him.
“Do my eyes deceive me,” Max said, “or is that not Sabrina?”
The man slapped her across the face, and the report echoed off the surrounding buildings.
Owen was out of the car before he even thought about it.
The man had her by the hair and was slapping her repeatedly across the face.
Owen was wishing he knew a few Jet Li moves.
Sabrina twisted this way and that, trying to escape. The man yanked her closer, and spoke as if to the multitude.
“‘The loose woman is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword.’ Is that the kind of woman you want to be? I am not gonna sit by and watch it happen, Sabrina.”
Owen launched himself from ten feet away and hit the man mid-chest-too high to knock him over, with the result that Owen fell to the ground.
“Get away from me, boy, or I will bust your sorry ass, and that’s a promise.”
“Bill,” Sabrina said through gritted teeth, “I am not your property.”
“And you don’t owe me nothin’, I suppose. Did I or did I not get you out of one heap of trouble?” The man gave her hair another yank.
“Ow! Yes!”
“Did I or did I not share with you all my worldly goods?”
“Leave her alone,” Owen said, picking himself up. He wished the parking lot wasn’t so deserted. Nothing around but empty cars and stacks of junked parking meters.
“Let me go,” Sabrina said. “You bastard, let me go.”
“Did I or did I not take you down to Cancun?” The man called Bill clutched Sabrina’s hair with one hand. “Boy, take care that ye come not between a man and his wife. That phrase mean anything to you?”
“I’m not your wife.” Sabrina kicked at his shin ineffectively.
“Doesn’t matter if she’s your wife, girlfriend or sister,” Owen said. “You don’t get to hit her.”
“Boy, you’d best get shed of the idea you can do anything about it.”
Owen kicked him hard in the behind.
The man let go of the girl and faced him. He was short, almost square, with a considerable paunch but arms that looked like he could press three hundred easy.
“You go wait in the car,” Owen said to Sabrina. “We’ll take you home.”
“Home? Who do you think she lives with, peckerwood?”
“Don’t mess with him,” Sabrina said to Owen. “Really. You’re making a mistake.”
“Oh, he’s already made it,” the man said. “This boy’s neck-deep in the mistake hole.”
A swift jab caught Owen’s cheek and it felt like a train hitting him. He went down on one knee, praying that Max would run this T-Rex over.
“You want more of the same, just get up, Yankee Doodle.”
Owen got to his feet and hurled himself at the man, trying to get in close enough to avoid those fists. A right hook glanced off his ear. Using the one kick he had learned from a judo website, Owen swept the man’s legs out from under him and sent him sprawling. He jumped on him, but the guy flipped him off as easily as a bull.
Before Owen could organize himself, three jabs sent him staggering backward. He raised his arms in defence, but a haymaker caught him in the ear, spinning him around. A right hook, and Owen felt the inside of his cheek split and blood flow into his throat. He was on his knees with no memory of how he got there. A blurry Max seemed to be moving in the blurry background. Please, he prayed, fire a blank or something.
“Stay down,” Sabrina said. “Just stay down.”
“Leave her alone,” Owen tried to say, but the words came out in red bubbles.
“Looky here, boy, you are in no position to give orders or even make suggestions. Take the girl’s advice and stay down.”
Owen hauled himself to his feet, the cars in the lot wheeling around him. He took a swing, but the man just dipped his head to one side and Owen nearly fell.
“Boy, you don’t learn, do you?”
A fist caught Owen in the stomach and lifted him off his feet. He went down hard, stones and glass biting into his skin. Sabrina was yelling, the guy was yelling, the world wobbled on its axis. It was probably only ten seconds, but it felt like ten minutes before he managed to pull in a lungful of air. Tears blurred his vision.
He raised himself to his knees and promptly threw up.
“Leave him alone, Bill,” the girl was saying. “He’s half your size. He was just trying to help.”
“Kid, do yourself a favour and stay down.”
I’m on my feet, Owen realized. Jesus H. Christ, I’m on my feet again.
“For cryin’ out loud, kid. You gotta be dumber than mud.”
Owen jabbed and missed. He was already falling, so the answering punch missed his cheek and caught him in the forehead. He hit the pavement hard.
He tried to get up again, swaying badly. The man, double-wide chunk of beef that he was, looked dismayed. Max loomed up behind him. Where did he get hold of that parking meter, Owen was wondering as it came whistling around and caught the guy smack in the side of the head. He went down like an imploded building.
“Hit my boy, you pre-hominid? While I live, no one hurts my boy and gets away with it.”
Max checked to make sure the man was still breathing, then bundled Owen and Sabrina into the back seat of the car.
“The heart of a lion,” he said as he plunged into the traffic. “My boy has the heart of the lion. Couldn’t have been more heroic myself.”
“You shouldn’t have got involved,” Sabrina said.
“Nonsense, my dear. Rage must be withstood.”
“You don’t know Bill. He’s a maniac. He won’t give up until he finds you.”
EIGHT
Zig drove to a motel 6 on the outskirts of town. He liked it for the isolated location, and also because it was made up of separate cabins rather than one long strip of rooms. You could have your privacy while you worked and not worry too much about noise.
He had rented the last cabin in the row, the farthest from the highway. All the other cars were gone, the cabins dark, the occupants answering the call to donate money to casinos.
“Guy’s not making a sound,” Clem said.
“The miracle of pharmaceuticals,” Zig said.
“Yeah, but aren’t we gonna want him compos mentis?”
“It’s short-acting. He’ll be fine.”
Zig backed the car to the door of the cabin: the chances of being seen were minimal.
The bald guy was lying on his side in the trunk, groaning faintly.
“Take his feet,” Zig said.
They got him inside and lowered him into the
bathtub, his bald head under the tap. Zig snapped a manacle onto his wrist, the other end onto the drainpipe under the sink. He turned on the cold water in the tub.
“Hey, Baldy. Wakey, wakey.”
The guy coughed and tried to sit up, banging his head on the tap.
“Oopsa-daisy,” Zig said. “Don’t wanna damage the cue ball there.”
“The fuck’s going on,” the guy said. His speech was slurred, the sedative boosting the alcohol he’d no doubt consumed at Luigi’s.
“My name’s Sub. And this is Tractor.”
“I don’t wanna know your names. I don’t even want to see your faces.”
“Too late now.”
Pookie squinted at the manacle on his wrist. He straightened his arm so that the chain went taut. “The fuck?”
“Sub-Tractor,” Zig said. “Ring any bells?”
Zig could see the first tiny flame of fear igniting behind the fog in the guy’s eyes.
“Don’t worry. We’ll have you out of here in no time,” Clem said, and Zig gave him the look. “Provided you tell us what we need to know.”
“About what? You think I work in a bank or something? I don’t know nothing about nothing.”
“We’ll be the judge of that,” Zig said. He picked up the bolt cutters and held them over the tub. “You ever play This Little Piggy?”
“Fuck you, let me outta here.” He yanked hard at the manacle, taking it into his other hand and really pulling.
“Take his shoes off, Clem.”
Clem reached for a foot, but Pookie started kicking and thrashing. Clearly, a bigger dose was indicated. Clem finally clutched his far foot and stood up so Pookie couldn’t kick at him with the other. He was really panicking now, twisting frantically back and forth, jerking this way and that. Manacles for the feet next time, Zig decided. He probably should have figured that out ahead of time, but he wasn’t going to get down on himself for learning on the job.
“Knock it off, Baldy,” Zig said. He stood up and stomped at the guy’s head, not too hard. Still, it made a noise against the tub. “We’re not going to do anything to you, if you co-operate.”