by Giles Blunt
The florist was a Korean man dressed in a soccer jersey and a fisherman’s cap. An old newspaper clipping was taped to the cash register: “From DMZ to DFW: Korean Poet Kim Wa Yeung’s Long Journey from Word Power to Flower Power.” The transaction took forever owing to Max’s insistence on discussing Shakespeare with the florist. When they were finished, Owen bought a dozen miniature daffodils.
“Why this sudden urge for daffodils?” Max inquired, back in the car.
“They’re for Sabrina,” Owen said.
“Careful, laddie. She hasn’t had your upbringing. The Pontiff, bless him, was not what you’d call a family man. Business with him was not seasonal-no, no, he was a full-time thief-and I fear his daughter has paid the price. But to return to the subject at hand: I don’t want to rule out a ripe prospect at the first sign of adversity.”
“Max, have you totally forgotten yesterday? It’s okay-it’s not your fault you’re getting old and your synapses maybe don’t fire the way they used to-but you didn’t even know your own name. You’re not in any shape for a big show. It’s not even an option. You might as well hang a sign on your back that says ‘Arrest Me.’”
Max wouldn’t listen. He was feeling fine, never better. Yesterday had been a fleeting episode. One was only human. Mountain molehill. They went back and forth on the subject all the way to the campground. They were still arguing when they opened the Rocket’s door.
“Max, remember what you used to tell me? ‘One has to have the courage not to pull a job.’”
“Tush, boy. You mistake the howl of fear for the song of reason. Hang on …”
“What’s wrong?”
“The dishwasher’s been moved.”
“You moved it when you came back from visiting the Pontiff.”
“Just so. And I set it back exactly as always.”
Max got down on his knees and slid the dishwasher away from its fittings. Usually you had to unscrew two braces in the floor before you could do that, but they were loose. His head disappeared into the gap as he reached around behind the machine.
“It’s gone.”
“You’re kidding.”
“All of it.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“See for yourself.”
Owen dropped the flowers on the table. He got down on the floor and felt behind the dishwasher. There was nothing at all in the hutch.
The two of them stood in the galley, speechless.
After a minute Owen noticed the rack across from the bunks. “Sabrina’s suitcase is gone. So’s her backpack. They were up there next to mine.”
“She robbed us,” Max said. “The filthy little scrubber robbed us.”
“Jesus, Max. It’s far more likely the Subtractors got her. Or someone got her. Whoever got Pookie. Whoever got Roscoe. Now they’ve got Sabrina. Why would you assume she ripped us off?”
Max held up a piece of paper. Owen grabbed it from him and read the following: Owen, Max,Opportunity knocks and I hope as fellow thieves you will understand. Thanksfor everything!
“The filthy, cozening slut.”
“Don’t call her that, Max.”
“Obviously she noticed the dishwasher the other night. The false witch was feigning sleep when you stashed the stuff, and now she has stripped us bare. And you bought her flowers,” Max said, laying a damp, heavy paw on Owen’s shoulder. “How positively heartwarming.”
EIGHTEEN
They were on their fourth hotel now, the Monte Carlo, keeping to the more luxurious ones since it was likely Sabrina was “feeling pretty flush,” as Max put it. But none of the desk clerks recognized her from the photo they held up, the one of her at Carlsbad.
They sat down in the Monte Carlo’s plush lobby for a breather.
“Max, we’re acting like a couple of amateur detectives here. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“The woman has done me bold and saucy wrongs,” Max said, mopping his brow. “She must be found.”
“Think about it,” Owen said. “If you were Sabrina, would you rob us and then head for a hotel? I wouldn’t. I would head straight to the nearest airport or train station-and where does that leave us? Are we going to head out to the airport and ask every ticket clerk if they’ve seen her?”
“The vixen was bound for New York, was she not? That narrows it down.”
“Max, we’re not going to find her in Dallas. We might find her in New York if she really does head back to school there.”
“Maybe she rented a car. We should check rental outlets.”
“There must be hundreds of them in this city. Anyway, why rent when you could buy? She could go right out and buy herself a Mustang-she said that was her fantasy.”
The moment he said it, Owen wished he hadn’t. Max snapped his fingers and said, “Fire up the laptop, kid. We’ll need a list of Ford dealerships.”
“I don’t have the laptop on me. Let’s go outside and get some air.”
He took Max by the elbow and led him to a bench still damp from the earlier rain. Beside them, a bronze statue of an oilman ignored the pigeon balancing on his bronze hard hat. Owen had a sudden deep yearning for the streets of Manhattan, for the squirrels of Stuyvesant Town, for his life to come at Juilliard.
“I can’t accept it,” Max said. “I’ve been robbed by a mere slip of a girl. It must be a bad dream. Wake me, boy, wake me. Queen Mab is riding my cerebellum.”
“We’re just going to have to live with it.”
“It’s too humiliating.”
“The stuff she took? Two weeks ago we didn’t own any of it. There’s no point getting upset about losing it now.”
“There’s every point.”
“Let’s just head home. It’s time to call it a day.”
“Desist, surrender monkey.” Max stood up with much groaning, pressing his hands into the small of his back. “I have another plan.”
“Great, Max. I can’t wait.”
Max stood on tiptoe, a surprisingly delicate manoeuvre for one so middle heavy, and addressed himself to the bronze figure.
“I, Magnus Max Maxwell, am determined to get very drunk.”
Max’s “plan” dragged them through several drinking establishments. Owen was sticking to Coke, but after his third it was beginning to taste horribly sweet and he was having to pee every ten minutes.
Their current stop was Jimmy’s Roustabout Tavern; Owen hoped it would be the last. It was full of oil-drilling paraphernalia and murals of famous gushers. It was not a spot that appealed to people who were actually in the petroleum business, but it was clearly a hit with the criminal element. This may have had something to do with the proprietor, Jimmy Coughlin, who looked only slightly younger than Max and had tattoos of dragons flaming up his forearms.
“Jimmy, old son,” Max said over his tower of stout. “You remember John-Paul Bertrand, our sainted Pontiff?”
“Sure, I knew JP before he got sent up to Huntsville.”
“It’s his daughter has my attention just now.”
“Robbing the cradle, aren’t you? Even I have some standards.”
“Jimmy, I assure you, although she has attacked me in my heart’s core, my purpose is nothing romantic. In brief-”
“Max.” Owen squeezed his elbow hard and spoke right into his ear. “Max, cool it.”
Max didn’t even notice. “In brief, she has absconded with goods and chattels not her own.”
“She ripped you off? Really? The Pontiff’s kid?”
“A kid no longer. Her comely form doth cloak the heart of a jackal.”
“And you think she’s in Dallas?”
“Yes.” Max slapped the bar. “The slyboots must be found. Justice must be done.”
“Max,” Owen said between his teeth, “for God’s sake shut up.”
“Ooops. Pardon,” Max said to Jimmy. “The poor lad is pixilated by her. She’s not only run off with my treasure, she has run off with his heart. Tell me something, James, what has happened to that thing we all held
so precious?”
“What thing would that be?”
“Honour, old son. Honour among thieves. What has become of it?”
“That’s actually pretty funny, Max. You’re the only person my entire career I heard mention it.”
“No, it’s true, I tell you. We must all aim to meet the standards set by our beloved Pontiff. I do hope he’s feeling better. He was looking a bit peaky the other day.”
“Oh, he’s definitely feeling better,” Jimmy said.
“Excellent news! He’s out of hospital?”
“He’s out of hospital,” Jimmy said.
“His health,” Max said, raising his glass. “Very fine news indeed.”
“Max,” Owen said, “he means he’s dead.”
“Heard it on the news this morning,” Jimmy said, wiping a glass.
“Dead? Who’s dead?”
“The Pontiff, for God’s sake,” Owen said.
“Oh, no,” Max said, slumping on his bar stool. “Oh, lamentable day.”
“Poor Sabrina.”
“Poor Sabrina!” Max roared at him, spraying stout. “She wouldn’t even visit the man! Her own father lying on his deathbed, and she wouldn’t even visit.”
“At least he had friends there,” Owen said. “I guess, if you’re gonna die, you want to have your friends around.”
“Just so, lad. Just so.” Max raised his glass again, nearly sliding off his seat. “To a happy end in the comfort of loved ones. Can’t ask for more than that.”
It was not unusual, particularly in pubs, bars and taverns, for people to assume that Max was drunk. He was, after all, loud, voluble and occasionally obnoxious. But the truth was, Max rarely drank to the point of intoxication. Too much ale interfered with his performance: he would start to forget his Shakespeare, he would have to interrupt his own histrionics with frequent trips to the men’s room, and, worst of all, he would lose control of his mouth, releasing compromising information in quarters that were, to say the least, insecure.
Tonight there was no question: Max was in his cups. As soon as a thug or ne’er-do-well would enter, he would sail toward him, listing badly. None of them knew who he was talking about. They were too young to remember the Pontiff, and Max’s woman troubles didn’t interest them. One or two of them looked like they might reply to his questions with violence. Owen couldn’t get him to shut up, and he couldn’t get him to go back to the Rocket.
Max was muttering morosely into his pint of stout when a man sat down beside him. Owen noticed he had a cool haircut and a lightweight pinstripe suit that made him look like a hip lawyer, if there could be such a thing. He ordered a margarita and stared up at the Sports Channel behind the bar, where a baseball player was being interviewed while unrelated captions unreeled beneath his image.
The man swivelled around, bored. He didn’t pay Owen any mind, but when he saw Max he squinted a little.
“Max?”
Max gave him a bleary look.
“Max, is that you? Stu Quaig, Max. We worked together one time.”
“Stu?” Recognition seemed to pull him from a heavy fog. “As I live and breathe, the very man. How now, good Stu?”
“I’m fine, Max. How you been?”
“Couldn’t be better. My nephew, Owen. Owen, this is Stu. Freelancer I was foolish enough to hire.”
They caught up on mutual friends. Whatever became of Bobo Valentine? Is Sylvester still in stir? Shame about the Pontiff.
“Max, I think we better head home now,” Owen said for the tenth time.
“Nonsense, boy. Just got here.” He batted Owen away like a troublesome fly and turned back to his old acquaintance. “Good man Stu, speaking of our hallowed Pontiff, peace be upon him, were you aware he had a daughter?”
“Never met the man in person,” Stu said. “Don’t know anything about him.”
“He had a babe,” Max said. “One Sabrina. And that babe has now grown up. I promised Ponti I’d look in on her now and again while he was away at Oxford.”
“That’s a good thing to do for a friend,” Stu said.
“Good, it turns out, is not always wise. Because this baby witch, this Sabrina, this devil child in Guess jeans has made off with my score, my security, my nest egg, my rainy day fund, my little something to fall back on. The girl has rooked me. And from this moment on,” Max said, raising a hand in oath, “I, Magnus Max Maxwell, do consecrate my life-or whatever frayed, splayed and gossamer threads may remain thereof-to finding the little horror.”
“What are you going to do when you find her?”
“I shall do such things as will be the terror of the earth.”
“You’re not going to do anything to her,” Owen said. “Max, please. It’s time to go home. Don’t listen to him,” he said to Stu. “He makes shit up. He’ll say anything when he’s had too much to drink. Come on, Max, let’s go.”
“Yeah, I figured,” Stu said.
“I shall be extremely sarcastic,” Max said. “I shall be a verbal Subtractor. I shall attack her with cutting remarks until, writhing in guilt and shame, she hands over my swag.”
Stu leaned forward and said in the quietest voice, “Let me get this right. Some girl stole your score?”
“Thou sayest true.”
“The entire thing?”
“Kit and caboodle.”
“Max, have you ever thought about retiring?”
“Et tu, Stu? I can’t bear it. Sweet Jesu, such a handsome score it was, too.”
“Max,” Owen said, taking him by the shoulders and shaking him, “can we please get the hell out of here?”
NINETEEN
Working for Zig was an unpredictable business. When it paid, it paid well-fine restaurants, fancy clothes, buy yourself a cool stereo-but there were times when you’d be better off hoisting garbage cans with the sanitation department. Clem had been sitting in the car for the entire day-turning the wipers off and on, and his lumbar region going at his spine with a couple of shivs-and why? So he could keep an eye on this stupid girl. She was cute, all right-she had the kind of body Clem had never got close to without handing over hard cash. But the truth, at least as Clem put it to himself, was that this girl probably knew nothing about nothing.
In fact, when she got out of the cab, a suitcase and backpack got out with her, and she lugged them into the Ford dealership. This was not someone with a deep connection to the guys they were closing in on. But he had to sit there and wait while she examined all the Mustangs, and follow her when she took one out for a test drive. She didn’t take long to make up her mind, but then he’d had to sit there with his back screaming at him while she dealt with the paperwork.
It didn’t make sense. One minute she’s living in a trailer with a couple of thieves, the next she seems to have moved out and she’s buying a car. How does that work? Part of him wanted to pose this question to Zig, but Zig was in a pissy mood and Clem didn’t feel like putting up with it. While he was chewing this over, something interesting finally happened. The girl’s still inside finalizing her car when a beefy guy in a forest green Chevy Blazer pulls up right behind Clem and kills the motor but doesn’t get out of the car. He sits there staring across the street at the dealership as if he’s going to eat it.
It was the same guy he’d seen coming out of that broad’s driveway, same Chevy Blazer. So why is he sitting here watching her go car-shopping? Maybe he’s related to her in some way, a rich uncle. But if that’s the case, why is he just sitting there watching? Or maybe he’s got a jones on for the girl and he doesn’t want the wife to know. But if that’s the case, how did he know to find her at this dealership? He hadn’t been following her; Clem would have seen him.
Clem didn’t like having him right behind, so he got out of the car as if he’d just arrived and bought himself some time on the meter, put the ticket on the dash, and went for a little walk. Nevada plates on the Blazer, he noticed, and kept walking. Had he followed her here all the way from Vegas?
Clem went in
to a convenience store and checked out the magazines, keeping an eye on the guy and the dealership. He bought the latest Woodworking to read in the car.
When he came out, the guy was gone. Ten minutes later the girl came out. She put her backpack into the trunk, and Clem had to admit, watching her bend over, that she was one hot babe.
“I am so fucking sick,” he said under his breath, “of beautiful women.”
The salesman was looking happy as hell, trundling her suitcase. He hoisted it into the trunk, they shook hands, and she zipped right out of the lot.
Clem followed her out to Highway 80, and was wondering just how far he was supposed to stay on her tail when she pulled into the first motel that came up, a Red Roof Inn. Man, parts of Texas were about as ugly as a place could get. The glass towers of Dallas glinted in the background, but right here there wasn’t anything in sight that wasn’t concrete or cinder block, including this Podunk hotel.
Clem parked at a gas station across the street, pretending to be having pressure trouble with his tires, keeping an eye on the motel for half an hour, forty-five minutes. He thought of calling Zig to ask how long he expected him to watch this girl, when who should turn up again but the beefy guy in his forest green Blazer.
He swung into the parking lot and drove dead slow past the room with the fire-engine red Mustang out front. He stopped just for a moment, then swung back out on the highway the way he had come. This put Clem in a tough spot: should he stick with the girl or follow the guy? If the guy was a cop, Zig would want to know about that.
“Time to make a decision, Clem,” he said to himself. It wasn’t as if he was just a lackey. A man had the right to use his own judgment once in a while, even at the risk of sending Zig into a rage. The girl looked to be settling down for the night, and Mr. Beef could mean real trouble.
“Hell with this bitch,” he said. He tore out of the gas station lot and caught up to the green Blazer, careful to keep a car or two in between. He stayed on the guy all the way into Dallas, right downtown to the Hyatt Regency Hotel.
When Stu got to the Motel 6, Zig was waiting for him. Roscoe was handcuffed once again to the bathroom sink. Well, they could let the guy go now; they wouldn’t be needing him anymore.
