by Ken Bruen
Angela had no idea what she was going to do now. With Bobby dead, she had no one left in the world to help her, except Max, and she knew Max would never get involved in something like this. He’d probably go to the police and say the whole thing had been her and Dillon’s idea, that he’d had nothing to do with it. The police would probably believe him too.
Then Angela noticed the white shopping bag that Dillon had left in the bathroom. She looked inside and saw five containers of Drano. She could only think of one thing that Dillon could’ve been planning to do with them. Well, as her mother used to say, waste not, want not.
Holding him by the feet, she dragged Dillon’s body into the bathroom, leaving behind a long streak of blood across the floor. Her arm ached, and it was hard to lift him up to put him into the bathtub. But she forced herself, lifting Dillon’s legs up first then standing in the bathtub and pulling the rest of him up and over.
Next, she put the stopper over the drain and poured a container of Drano over Dillon’s body, saying, “Who’s the tinker now, huh, you prick? Who’s the tinker now?” She added the other four containers and then she pulled the shower curtain closed.
Back in the main part of the apartment, it crossed her mind to throw his Zen book in after him. But she decided not to, thinking it wasn’t worth having to see his face again. Besides, maybe Max might want the book. God knows the guy could use something to help him relax.
Only then did Angela realize how stupid she’d been. How was she supposed to wash up now with Dillon in the bathtub? She could use towels to clean her leg, but she hated washing her hair in the sink.
She had small cuts on her hands from the glass. She poured peroxide all over her wounds, wincing from the pain, and then wrapped the worst of them with more paper towel and painting tape.
Angela was exhausted. She just wanted to get some rest and worry about everything else in the morning. It wasn’t as if she could solve all of her problems tonight anyway. She turned the dial on the stereo to an easy listening station and lowered the volume. There was still a huge bloodstain on the floor, in the middle of the room. She didn’t feel like mopping now, but she felt uncomfortable sleeping next to a pool of blood all night, knowing it had come from Dillon. She pulled the bed out, away from the wall, to cover the blood – that was better. Then she shut off the light and lay back down, listening to the soft rock music. She decided she’d just have to go over to Max’s tomorrow night and take a shower at his place.
Then, as she was falling asleep, she thought she heard faint laughter. It reminded her of a tinker she’d seen in the park when she was a little girl, one who had been laughing his mad head off. But one thing she was sure of – it wasn’t Dillon. At least she had one less nightmare to worry about.
Twenty-Two
He might have tried to hide it by dressing in a smart, well-cut suit and putting an easy smile on his face as soon as he saw me, but I could tell this straight away: Roy Fowler was one of the world’s guilty.
SIMON KERNICK, The Murder Exchange
In 1979, when Max needed a lawyer for his business, he had picked Sid Darrow out of the yellow pages, figuring that a guy with the last name Darrow must know something about the law. But it turned out Darrow wasn’t nearly as good as his namesake, bungling a couple of simple contract negotiations that wound up costing Max thousands of dollars. Later, Max found out Darrow’s name had been shortened from Darrowicz, but Max didn’t fire Darrow for this misrepresentation or for his incompetence. Through the years, he had kept Darrow on the payroll, mainly because he was too lazy to look for someone else and because he figured that all lawyers were basically the same anyway.
When Max called Darrow for a reference to a good criminal lawyer Darrow asked Max what the problem was. Max explained how the police had questioned him last night about his wife’s murder.
“If you want my opinion,” Darrow said, “you shouldn’t have answered any of those questions.”
“I don’t want your opinion,” Max said.
Darrow gave Max the name of a criminal lawyer – Andrew McCullough. Max couldn’t think of any famous lawyers named McCullough, but he didn’t have time to be choosy. Once the police played back that security tape and saw him and Angela arriving at the hotel the situation would be way out of control. Max knew that Angela wasn’t bright enough to keep her story straight and it was only a matter of time until she mentioned Popeye and the murders.
McCullough wasn’t in. Max said to his secretary, “Well, can you tell him to call me as soon as he comes in?… Yeah, it’s fucking urgent – the cops’re trying to nail my ass!”
As Max slammed the phone down there was a knock at his door.
“What?” he yelled.
The door opened slowly. Harold Lipman entered.
“What the hell do you want?”
“I could come back later if…”
“No, come in,” Max said. “Sit the hell down.”
When Harold sat down across from him, Max could tell by the way Harold wouldn’t make eye contact with him that he hadn’t made any progress.
“Let me guess,” Max said, “you lost the sale?”
Lipman nodded slowly, looking at his lap. Sweat glistened on his forehead.
“What happened?” Max asked.
“He went with someone else,” Lipman said dejectedly. “I did the best I could, but our prices just weren’t competitive enough. The guy’s quote was twenty, thirty thousand dollars lower than ours.”
Max was seriously pissed.
“I told you what you had to do to close that sale.”
“I’m sorry,” Lipman said, “but there was nothing I could do.”
“I’m sorry too,” Max said, “but your best obviously wasn’t good enough. The company can’t afford to keep you on, paying you the draw that you’re making now, when you’re not producing. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to let you go.”
“You’re firing me?” Lipman said. “Just like that?”
“You have a half an hour to clean out your desk and leave the premises. And don’t take any leads with you – all leads are property of NetWorld.”
“Come on, Max – give me another chance. Please. I swear I’ll do better.”
Max was shaking his head.
“I gave you solid sales advice and you refused to take advantage of it. I’m sorry, but the decision is final – you’re terminated.”
Max had always loved firing people. In fact, when it came right down to it, it was probably his favorite part of running his own business. He loved controlling people’s lives. It made him feel like… well, like God.
He knew he still had a lot of deep shit to climb out of, but tried to focus on the positives. Last night Popeye had killed Bobby Rosa. Now Max’s only problem was Angela. He couldn’t fire her right away. He’d just have to tell her he wanted to let things cool for a while and hope she kept her mouth shut. Then, after enough time passed, he’d terminate her Greek-Irish ass and hope he never saw her again. His only other problem would be that hotel videotape, but it wouldn’t be nearly as harmful as Bobby Rosa’s pictures could have been. All the videotape would show was him and Angela checking into the hotel that night, but it wouldn’t be real evidence of an affair. A hotshot criminal lawyer like McCullough would be able to get around it somehow and then he’d be home free.
He retrieved the bid that Harold hadn’t been able to close from a file folder and called the guy up.
“Hello, Mr. Takahashi? Max Fisher calling – I’m the president of NetWorld, how are you today?… Good, I’m glad to hear that… I just had a conversation with Harold Lipman and he said you decided to go with someone else for your networking job, is this true?… Well, we try to keep our costs as low as possible… Yes, I understand… Oh, of course… No problem, Mr. Takahashi, but can I just ask you one semi-personal question and then I’ll let you go?… Are you married?… The reason I ask is I’d like an opportunity to re-explain this quote to you… I understand, but there’s a place I’d think you
’d love – I know I love it. Have you ever been to Legz Diamond’s?… That’s right, and I sort of get VIP service there. I know this one stripper there – you don’t have anything against black people, do you?… I didn’t think so. Anyway, this black girl they got there is dynamite. She’s a personal friend of mine too and, I assume you like women with large breasts, Mr. Takahashi… Well, wait till you see this girl. I’m talking 44 triple-Ds… I’m serious. You didn’t sign that other quote yet, did you?… Good. I’m gonna show you a time you’ll never forget. How’s tonight at six sound?… Six-thirty’s terrific. I’ll be outside your building in a cab. You won’t be disappointed, Mr. Takahashi.”
Max hung up, shouted, “Baby!”
The quote was for $220,000 and Max knew that there was no way Takahashi wasn’t going to sign it after the night he’d have tonight. And this was only the first job for this client. Their network had over one hundred users and there could be ongoing work there. Harold had been working on this quote for weeks and hadn’t gotten anywhere and now Max had practically closed it in less than one minute. No one could sell computer networks the way Max Fisher could – no one.
Max buzzed Angela – he was hungry and wanted her to order him some breakfast – but there was no answer at her desk. He thought this was strange, since it was after nine o’clock and she was usually in by eight-thirty. He buzzed the receptionist to ask if she had called in sick or to say she was going to be late, but the receptionist said that she hadn’t called.
A few minutes later, Max was on the phone with a software vendor when there was a knock at his door.
He assumed it was Lipman, coming to beg for his job back, and Max put the vendor on hold and yelled, “Go away!”
But the knock came again, a little louder, then Max said, “Who the hell’s there?”
The door opened and Bobby Rosa wheeled into the office. Seeing the bearded cripple again made Max’s throat close up. He reached for a mug of day-old coffee on his desk and swallowed the murky crap as fast as he could. Bobby had closed the door and was smiling now, watching Max. Max looked at Bobby’s black sweatshirt with the words Average White Band inscribed on it and thought, Jesus, what’s this guy, in the KKK or something?
“Surprised?” Bobby asked.
“No,” Max said, forcing a smile. “Why would I be surprised?”
“I don’t know. I just thought it would be natural for a guy to be surprised when someone he sent a hit man to bump off shows up in his office the next morning alive. But hey, that’s just me.”
“I really don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about,” Max said. There it was again, foggiest.
“You want to keep playing games, be my guest,” Bobby said. “It won’t matter soon anyway.”
“How the hell did you get in here?” Max said, his throat tightening again.
“Don’t blame the girl at the desk,” Bobby said. “I’m good at getting into places I’m not supposed to be. But I think you already know that.”
“Look, if you’re not out of here in two minutes I’m calling the cops.”
Bobby laughed, then said, “You still don’t realize what kind of trouble you’re in, do you? You sent Dillon after me, but that was your last card – you shot your load.”
“Dillon?” Max said. “Who the hell’s Dillon?”
“You know him as Popeye, but his real name’s Dillon. It doesn’t matter now anyway because he’s out of the picture.”
“What do you mean, out of the picture?”
“Not what you think it means. He’s working with me now.”
Max couldn’t believe this was happening, that this freakazoid in a wheelchair was really here again, trying to ruin his life.
“Oh, and your executive assistant,” Bobby went on, “the one I got in that picture with you – Angela, I think her name is. I don’t think she’ll be coming into work anymore, so you might just want to clean out her desk.”
“Why? Is she working with you too?”
“No, she’s really out of the picture, and I think you know exactly what I mean.”
Max picked up the phone and said, “That’s it. I’m calling the cops.”
“I’d think about that a second,” Bobby said. “I mean what are you gonna tell them?”
Max paused, realizing Bobby was right, and replaced the receiver.
“Why are you doing this to me?” Max said, feeling like he might start to cry. “What did I ever do to you?”
“You were just in the right place at the wrong time,” Bobby said. He took out a mini-cassette recorder from the pocket of his windbreaker and placed it on the desk. He said, “You want to do the honors or should I?”
Max didn’t move so Bobby went ahead and pressed the play button. “Did Max Fisher hire you?” “Ary Christ, what do you care, you’re not a Guard.”
Max looked at Bobby, but Bobby was looking down at the tape recorder, smiling. There was more conversation, something about Bobby holding a gun, then Popeye said: “Yeah, okay, he hired me.” “To knock off his wife?” “Yeah.” “And what about the college kid – the girl?” “T’was a bit of bad timing, as the tinkers say back home.” “And what about the cop?” “Him I would’ve killed for a shot of Jameson.”
Bobby pressed the stop button and said, “Oh, one other thing. I don’t want a quarter of a mill anymore.”
“Yeah?” Max said weakly. “What do you want?”
Bobby leaned forward in his wheelchair, then said, “Everything.”
Before Angela left for work, she checked to see how Dillon was doing in the bathtub. The Drano had burned through the top layer of skin on his face, turning it yellow and gooey, but at this rate it was going to take weeks until his whole body was dissolved, if it dissolved at all. Meanwhile, the room stank so bad she could hardly breathe. It figured that Dillon would come up with some stupid idea that had like zero chance of working.
Then she saw something glinting in the gooey yellow. For one awful moment, she thought maybe his gold tooth fell out and her stomach heaved. But it wasn’t a tooth, she realized, it was the pin, and she muttered out loud, “What’s with that feckin’ pin?”
She picked it out, real careful not to touch any of Dillon, going under her breath, “Sweet Jesus, oh Sweet Mother of all Heaven.”
She put the pin on the sink, figuring she’d stash it in her handbag later. The pin was tarnished from the Drano, but compared to Dillon himself it was in great shape.
Angela had already mopped up most of the blood off the floor and reluctantly she washed her hair in the kitchen sink. Even after she blew it out, it still looked flat. And, to make things worse, although the wound on her thigh had stopped bleeding, it still looked pretty bad and she couldn’t wear a skirt to work.
She was running so late she decided to take a cab. It was a nice, cool day and it felt good to get out of that stuffy apartment. As the cab headed up Third Avenue, Angela decided that she would have to slowly get her life back together. First she was going to have to get the apartment clean and wash Dillon down the drain, then she could start worrying about a relationship again.
But now that Dillon and Bobby were both gone, she wondered if she should go back to her original plan and get married to Max. She still thought he was an asshole, but the whole experience with Dillon had taught her that she had no idea what she was doing when it came to judging men. At least Max was rich and, when it came right down to it, what was more important than money?
It was ten-fifteen when Angela arrived at NetWorld. The door to Max’s office was closed and she didn’t feel like bothering him. So she turned on her computer and started to catch up on some work. When Max came out of his office he stopped and stared at Angela for a second or two, like he was surprised to see her.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
At first, Angela thought Max was talking about her being an hour and a half late, but then she realized it had to do with the bruise on her face. Where Dillon had punched her she had a big
black-and-blue mark that her makeup couldn’t hide.
“Oh, that,” Angela said. “My roommate swung another door into me again. She’s a real ejit.”
“You should get rid of those swinging doors,” Max said seriously, “or that stupid roommate.”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Angela said, thinking about Dillon dissolving in the bathtub.
“Why don’t you come into my office?” Max said. “I need to dictate a letter.”
Angela followed him into his office and sat down on the couch. Max was already sitting at his desk.
“First of all,” Max said, “I have to talk to your cousin.”
“My cousin? What for?”
“Never mind what for, just give me the goddamn number.”
“I don’t have it.”
“What do you mean, you don’t have it? You had it yesterday.”
“Why do you need to talk to him?”
“To find out if his friend Popeye – I’m sorry, Dillon, is still alive.”
“Dillon?” Angela asked.
“That’s Popeye’s real name,” Max said. “At least that’s what Ironside told me.”
Angela was confused.
“Mr. Average White Man in the wheelchair,” Max continued. He was here about a half hour ago. He told me that you ‘wouldn’t be coming in anymore’ and that Dillon was ‘out of the picture.’ But since you’re here I’m starting to think he’s full of shit about everything.”
“Bobby Rosa was here?”
“Yes,” Max said. “Don’t you pay attention to a goddamn word I say?”
“But he’s dead.”
“Then I guess it was a ghost who was just in here, trying to blackmail me again. And my question is, Why? If this Popeye – Dillon – is supposed to be on our side, why isn’t he killing the people he’s supposed to kill? Why is he telling Rosa that I hired him? The only thing that makes sense is they’re working together, and that they’ve been working together all along. Why else would Bobby go into that hotel room that night unless he knew we’d be there? So what I’m gonna do is call that little mick and say ‘Tell the cripple to back off or I’m taking you down.’ And I’m serious. I have the name of a top-notch lawyer now and I’ll pin this whole thing on him. I don’t need all this bullshit in my life right now – I have a business to run.”
