by Ken Bruen
It took her a while to actually figure out what he was saying because of the accent; it sounded like, “Orr… kom on… yer want to truck meh duck.”
Finally, she put it all together. Before she could react, a man appeared out of nowhere, grabbed the guy by the front of the neck and had him out of there in no time. Shaking, she tried to put a Virginia Slim into her mouth, and the bartender raced over, flicked a bic, and said, “There you go.”
She accepted the light as she wanted that hit of nicotine then blew a cloud of smoke in Yellow Teeth’s face, said, “And there you go you spineless prick.”
Unfazed, the bartender said, “I love it when you talk dirty.”
The other man had returned and now stared at the bartender, and said “Leg it shithead.” Then he turned to her, asked, “You okay missus?”
She could understand him, because he was from the Irish Republic and had soft vowels, sounding kind of like her Dad. He had a scar on his face, long grey hair and was as thin as the guys on Christopher Street. His lips were mangled but, hey, he was the first guy in the whole damn province she saw with good teeth. And the lips were kind of sexy anyway. They’d be strange to kiss, but they’d be great for other things. Maybe it was the near violence but she felt a raw sexuality oozing off of him that was so freaking irresistible. One thing that got Angela hot was danger and this guy reeked of it.
She felt a burning rise up her neck, spread to her face, and said, “Wow, I’m so, like, grateful. Can I buy you a drink?”
He smiled then said, “Jameson.” He said it like a Hollywood tough guy, no bullshit with please or ice. No, just the one word, with a slight hard edge, the implication being, bring me the drink now and don’t even think about fucking with me.
She asked, “Are you, like, for real?”
He parked his ass on the stool next to her, said, “The heart wants what it cannot hold.”
Jesus, she thought, poetry and violence, how could a girl resist? The Irish might know shit about cool but they sure as hell knew how to talk.
And she loved his voice, deep, devilish, and, yeah, sexy.
With a little of the same flirty tone, she said, “You want that on the rocks?”
He gave her the look she would get to know and not always love, and said, “I take everything… neat.”
He put his hand in his jacket, took out a slim book and she saw the title, The Wisdom of Zen. She was impressed that a guy like him was carrying around a deep book like that.
He asked her, “You like The Pogues?”
She thought, Screw them, I like you.
Four
Never do evil, always do good, keep your mind pure – thus all the Buddhas taught.
THE DHAMMAPADA
Max screamed, “To hell with you, you crackpot!” and slammed the phone as he hard as he could and banged the desk with his fist. A moment later, he felt a jolt in his chest. Thinking, Fuck, I’m dying, he searched his jacket pockets for his Mevacor. Then he remembered he’d already taken his pills today but now feared that the Mevacor was interacting with his Viagra, causing some kind of reaction.
He was about to call Dr. Cohen, that jerk-off, back but he decided, What’s the point? So far nothing that schmuck suggested had worked. Max took all the goddamn drugs he was supposed to, had even hired an Indian named Kamal to come over to his house a few days a week to cook macrobiotic meals. But his HDL-to-LDL ratio was eight-to-one, up from seven-to-one at his last check-up, putting him in the super-high-risk group for heart disease. Right now, he could feel his heart working on overtime, the pump already on its last legs.
To help relax, Max did a yoga breathing exercise that Kamal had taught him, inhaling and exhaling through alternate nostrils, but it didn’t do crap. He made a mental note – fire Kamal, that Indian bastard, as soon as he comes back from his vacation. Taj Mahal that, you little prick.
There was a knock on Max’s door.
Max yelled, “What?”
The door opened slowly and Harold Lipman, Max’s new Networking Salesman, came into the office.
Lipman said, “Esc -” and Max said, “Not now.”
“I just wanted to ask-”
“I said not now!”
Lipman left and Max went right to his office bar and made a vodka tonic. Ah, Max loved his office, the only part of NetWorld that he’d remodeled. Besides the mahogany bar, he’d paneled the walls, installed brandnew carpeting, and bought the most expensive desk and swivel chair available in the Office Depot catalogue. He figured it made a statement, that here was a hip guy, not showy, but with refined taste and a serious edge. You saw the office, you saw a guy who probably had drinks with the Donald, though not often because Max was “too busy.” The office had no view, but elegant beige curtains concealed the windows. Behind his desk hung a custommade picture of a blonde with Pam Anderson-size breasts sitting on a red Porsche. Inscribed on the car was the company motto, NETWORLD OR BUST.
The booze soothed Max enough so that he was able to concentrate on the important stuff again, like money. Over the past two days, Max had put away ten grand in his private safe. He had made small withdrawals from all of his bank accounts – corporate and private – and from his brokerage accounts where he had cash balances. But the bulk of the money, about seven grand, had come from the office’s petty cash. Max thought this was a great idea because if the police investigated there would be no withdrawal slips or any other way to prove he’d hired a hit man. And fuck that crazy mick’s demand for small bills – the money was mostly fifties and hundreds. What was he going to do, turn it down? Yeah, like that was going to happen.
As Max poured his second vodka tonic, there was a soft knock on the door, a pause, followed by a louder knock.
Max recognized the signal and said in his sexiest voice, “Come in, baby.”
As usual, Angela looked dynamite. She was wearing shiny black boots, a short red skirt tight enough to see her butt-cheeks, and a lacy camisole. She had big blow-dried hair and was wearing the diamond stud earrings that Max had bought her at Tiffany’s last Christmas.
“You had two messages while you were on the phone,” Angela said, the soft Irish vowels driving him crazy.
“Fuck the messages. How about you put those magic little hands of yours to work?”
Angela locked the door and came up behind Max at his desk. Max breathed deeply, moaning, “Oh, yeah, that feels so good,” as Angela worked the muscles in his neck and shoulders.
“You have a lot of knots today,” Angela said.
“I bet my blood pressure’s shooting through the roof too.”
“Was that Dr. Cohen you were screaming at?”
“Who else? I swear, I don’t know how that jerk-off got a license. You know what that asshole told me? That I should start eating brown rice. Like the bacon, the fried chicken, the shrimp, the pizza – that’s not killing me. It’s the fuckin’ white rice.”
“Calm down,” Angela said. “You have to learn how to relax, not let the stress get to you. In Ireland we say, Na bac leat.”
The fuck was she talking about? He asked, “The fuck’re you talking about?”
She said calmly, “In American… No biggie. ”
Max exhaled, then took a long, steady breath. Angela was wearing some of that perfume called Joy he had bought her last month at Bloomingdale’s. Max couldn’t tell whether it smelled nice or not, but it had cost five hundred bucks an ounce so he figured it must be pretty good.
“You should be careful,” Angela said, “screaming in the office like that. Everyone could hear you.”
“So? If they don’t like it they don’t have to work here.”
“Yeah, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to, like, yell like that. I mean people could remember. They’ll tell the police ‘Come to think of it, Max was kind of acting crazy lately.”
“But I act crazy all the time, I’m a crazy kind of guy, it’s part of my appeal.”
“I’m just saying – it’s probably not a good idea.”
“Eh, you’re probably right,” Max said. “You know what else Cohen told me? He said I’m fat.”
“I love your belly.”
“Yeah, well, Cohen says it’s unhealthy. He showed me some chart that said I’m obese for a man my height and age. Meanwhile, you should see the size of that asshole’s gut.”
“How does that feel?”
“Nice. Real nice.”
Angela spun Max around in his chair, kissed him on the lips, then Max whispered, “I just want all this shit to be over with already. Last night I had a dream she was dead. The ambulances were there and they were carrying her out of our house, covered by a white sheet, and you know what? It was the best dream I’ve ever had.”
“You shouldn’t talk about her that way,” Angela said. She had her hands behind Max’s head, gently rubbing her fingers through his thinning hair. He was glad she was touching the back of his head, where he still had some hair left. “You know what they say – if you say things about your first wife you’ll say them about your second wife too.”
“You and Deirdre have nothing in common, sweetheart.”
“That’s what you say now, but in twenty years you might be paying to have me killed.”
“I’d be lucky if I lived another twenty years.”
“You’re not denying it.”
Holding her head steady and looking right into those fucking beautiful light blue eyes, Max said, “I love you. You think I ever went around telling Deirdre that I loved her?”
“You still didn’t deny it.”
“I deny it, I deny it,” Max said. “Jesus Christ.”
Angela smiled. Max kissed her then said, “You know, the only thing I’m worried about is this Popeye character.”
“Why?” Angela asked.
“First of all, I don’t like his name.”
“What’s wrong with his name?”
“Come on, it’s a fucking cartoon character. It’s like I’m hiring Donald Duck to kill my wife.”
“You can’t expect him to use his real name. I mean, he has to protect himself, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah, but couldn’t he come up with something better, more hitman-like. I don’t know, like, Skull, or Bones, or something like that.”
“You can’t judge somebody by their name.”
“Eh, I guess you’re right. And I guess we’ve gotta assume he’s good at what he does or your cousin wouldn’t have recommended him, right? God knows the guy’s crazy enough to kill somebody. You should’ve seen the way he grabbed my arm.”
“So what’re you worried about?”
“I don’t know, it’s just a vibe. I just got a feeling the guy’s fucking around with me somehow. And I don’t like the way he changed the terms. It was supposed to be eight, then he made it ten. That’s no way to do business with somebody.”
Angela held Max’s hand, said, “Don’t worry. I mean, it’s only another two thousand. It’s not like he asked for twenty thousand.”
“Yet,” Max said. “I got a feeling this guy thinks he’s got me by the balls or something. That’s how he comes off, like he thinks he’s in control. You know what he called me? He called me a ‘suited prick.’ Asshole. And I couldn’t stand looking at him, either. Those disgusting lips.”
While he spoke, Max was massaging Angela’s breasts. He loved her breasts – they were the main reason he’d hired her. He’d always been a breast man. Even Deirdre had big breasts, although they were starting to sag below her stomach.
“This is probably a bad idea,” Max said as Angela started to kiss his neck. “Tonight has to be our last time for a while.”
“I can’t wait till we can be together all the time,” Angela said.
“Ditto,” Max said. “But until then, let’s just try to keep things as quiet as possible around here.”
For the rest of the day, Max and Angela went about their business. Amazingly, they’d managed to keep their affair a secret from everyone in the office. Around other people, Max was always very formal, asking Angela to send faxes, take messages, bring him coffee, order in lunch and other crap that presidents of companies ask their executive assistants to do. They never went out to lunch together or left the office together at night. If they were planning to meet for dinner, Angela would always leave first and then Max would meet her at a specified location. As for the times they fooled around in Max’s office during business hours, it wasn’t unusual for an executive assistant and her boss to be in the boss’s office together with the door locked.
At eleven o’clock, Max had his weekly meeting with Alan Henderson, his CFO, and Diane Faustino, the Payroll Director. They went over the company’s payroll and budget and talked about expanding the company website and the need to hire two more Senior Networking Technicians. Max also told Alan that he wanted to reward his employees with a ten-percent raise next year, and sent out a memo about this pronto, thinking at least no one could say he wasn’t in a good mood a couple of days before his wife was murdered. Besides, he loved giving raises, the surge of power it gave him, that he could make or break these assholes.
That evening, when the last person had left for the day, Angela locked the front door, and came into Max’s office. Max was already naked, lying on his back on his office couch, doing Kamal’s breathing exercise. She turned down the lights. It was almost dark, the only light coming through the window curtains. She took off her clothes slowly, moving the way Max liked, like she was a dancer at Legz Diamond’s, the strip club on Forty-seventh Street where he took his clients. Finally, she took off her bra, climbed on top of Max and gave him some nice warm kisses. Then she slid down and ran her tongue over his thick gray chest hair. As she dipped further, Max grinned, thinking, Who the fuck needs breathing exercises?
Afterwards, holding her tightly, feeling especially close, Max said, “Let’s get married.”
“We’re going to get married.”
“I mean right away.”
“But we’ll have to wait some time. I mean it would look suspicious if we did it too soon, wouldn’t it?”
“What difference does it make? Just because my wife is murdered I have to spend my whole life in mourning?”
Angela thought about this for a moment, then said, “Yeah, I guess that’s true.”
“There’s another thing I want to talk about – kids. I’ve always wanted a little Max Jr., just not with Deirdre. What do you think about being a full-time mommy?”
“I’d love it.”
“Well, I want to do that right away too – while I still have some good seed inside me.”
Later, while they were getting dressed, Max interrupted whatever the hell Angela was saying, said, “Ange, there’s something I wanted to ask you. I don’t really know how to say this. I mean I don’t want you to get offended or anything. I don’t think you will but-”
“What is it?”
“It’s stupid, really, but…”
“What?”
“It’s just… have you ever thought about adding another cup size to your tits?”
Looking down at her implants, she said, “Why? You think they’re not big enough?”
Max said, “I didn’t say that. I just asked you if you ever thought about it before, that’s all.”
“They’re already thirty-eight D’s. Why, you’re serious? You really don’t like them?”
“I didn’t say that. I just didn’t want you to think there was something you couldn’t have if you wanted it.”
“That’s really nice of you… I guess.”
“I’m not saying that bigger tits are something that you necessarily need.” Max wound on his tie, trying to come up with perfect way to explain it. He came up with, “I mean, I want you to have everything you want in life, whether it’s a gold necklace, a beautiful dress, a trip around the world, or great tits.”
Strapping on her bra, Angela said, “You really think it would make me look better, huh?”
“Not necessarily better, but I don’t think it
could hurt. Anyway, sleep on it. Although I don’t mean that literally.” He laughed to himself, then said, “By the way, did you make that dinner appointment for me tomorrow night?”
“Yes. With Jack Haywood.”
“Good. I’ll have to take him out to some busy restaurant, maybe some Italian place on the Upper East Side. They have all those little restaurants around Second Avenue.”
“There’re a lot of bars up there, too.”
“I don’t know, I’d look pretty stupid – an old guy like me in some singles bar.”
“You’re not old.”
“I’m only not old when I’m with you.”
When Max finished getting dressed, Angela came over to him and said, “So this is it. The last time we’ll be together – for a while anyway.”
Hugging Angela made Max think about breasts again. He said, “You know, I don’t think a restaurant is public enough. We should be someplace more visible. I know, I’ll take Jack to a strip club.”
Five
If my grandmother had balls she’d be my grandfather.
YIDDISH SAYING
“So I’m riding on the bus, coming downtown, when this chick gets on,” Bobby Rosa said. “I got Cinderella going, feeling nice and pumped, so I figure, Why not? She’s like, I don’t know, thirty years old, blonde hair, nice little shape. So I start staring at her, you know, trying to get her to look at me. Make the bitch’s day, right? They always say how chicks are hot for guys in wheelchairs – I wanted to see if that was bullshit or not.”
Victor Gianetti, sitting across from Bobby at a table in the back of Lindy’s diner in the Hotel Pennsylvania, said, “So what happened next?” Trying to sound like he gave a fuck.
“The girl starts to smile,” Bobby said. “But it wasn’t just a smile, like ‘Have a nice day.’ This was the smile of a girl who wants to get laid. So I’m thinking, This is it, my lucky day, when, all of a sudden, my legs start to spasm. I mean it’s like somebody stuck an electric prong up my ass. My legs are shaking, the chair’s bouncing up and down, people’re coming over trying to help me. Finally, I stop shaking and I look up at the chick and her mouth’s hanging open, looking at me like I’m some kind of freak.”
