Bust

Seventeen

The next day another Manhattan murder was the lead story on the six o’clock news. The rat-gnawed body of forty-one-year-old Homicide Detective Kenneth Simmons of the 19th Precinct had been discovered by some children in an empty lot in Harlem. The body had two gunshot wounds and a stab wound to the chest. The police had released a police sketch of a suspect in the case – a white male, approximately five-five or five-six, maybe 130 pounds, with gray hair, last seen wearing an old leather jacket and dirty blue jeans and new sneakers. On Monday morning, the suspect had been spotted in a pawnshop on Bayard Street in Chinatown selling jewelry that was stolen during the recent murders of two Upper East Side women. Police believed that he might be a suspect in those murders as well since Detective Simmons had been working on that case when he was killed. People with any information regarding the case were urged to call a special police hotline number or 577-TIPS.

Watching the news report on the TV in his living room, Max had no doubt that the guy in the police sketch was Popeye. His face was too fat and his eyes and nose looked different, but everything else, down to the leather jacket, was definitely him. Max didn’t know what that guy was going to fuck up next. Was the stupid prick determined to wipe out the population of Manhattan? He’d read once that the Irish were truly demented. Well, no argument there.

Sitting at a table in the back of Famiglia Pizza on Fiftieth and Broadway, Max saw Popeye limping up the aisle. After Popeye sat down, diagonally across from Max, with a big cupful of ice, Max said, “What happened to your foot?”

“Fook me foot, yah suited prick,” Popeye said. Then looking around nervously he said, “Nobody followed yeh here, right?”

Dillon was fingering a gold pin in his leather jacket, like it was a talisman or something. The Irish and their goddamn superstitions.

“Not that I know of,” Max said.

“Yeah, well you better be sure,” Popeye said. “I shouldn’t even be here now. I should be in Florida, writing me poetry.”

The idea of this bloodthirsty animal writing poetry was too much for Max. What was that old joke? If you threw a stone in Ireland, you’ll probably hit a poet, usually a bad one.

Smiling, Max asked, “How do your poems start? Roses are red?”

Popeye had the cup up to his mouth, sucking out an ice cube. When his eyes peered over the cup, Max said, “Don’t look at me.”

Sucking on a cube, Popeye said, “What?”

“You heard me, you little cocksucker.” Max laughed. “Just sit there and keep looking straight ahead and don’t look at me. If you look at me one time I’m getting up and leaving here and you’ll never see me again.”

“I like that, the little bollix showing some spunk,” Popeye said. “But are you on medication? You’re the one who can’t look at me.”

“Not anymore,” Max said. “Now I’m calling the shots.”

“You’ll be calling the fookin mortuary, I haven’t time for this shite.”

“Then find time, because you’ll be here as long as I want you to be here.”

“Yeah, and if I get up, walk out, what will you do, use more obscene language?”

“Go ahead. You’re the wanted criminal, not me.”

“If I’m fooked, you’re coming to hell with me.”

“You can’t prove anything,” Max said. “What are you going to do, say I hired you to kill my wife? I really doubt that the police’ll take your word over mine. I’m a respected businessman. Who the fuck are you?”

“Did you say fook to me?”

“I told you not to look at me.”

“Bollix, I’m legging it.”

“I don’t think that would be a wise idea.”

Popeye paused, half-standing, then sat down again and said, “Why not?”

“Think about it. You need this guy out of the way as much as I do. You don’t know what evidence the police have on you. Maybe you left something in my house that night – something you forgot. Or maybe they found some of your blood or hair there or they got something off that piece of shit you left on my rug – thanks very much for that, by the way. What was that, your idea of a fucking housewarming present? It wasn’t very bright, with DNA and all that other shit the cops have these days. I don’t know what it feels like to die by lethal injection, but I imagine it’s not very pleasant.”

Popeye stayed still for a few more seconds then settled back down in the seat and stared straight ahead. Finally he said, “So where does the crippled fuck live?”

“First let’s talk about the important shite,” Max said, trying to put on a brogue, wanting to give Popeye a taste of his own. “My money. I want to revise the offer I made to you over the phone this morning.”

“You said twenty large.”

Max loved the way Popeye’s tone was weakening. Jesus Christ, Max felt the power going straight to his head.

“Yeah, well, a lot has changed since then,” Max said. “For instance, you’ve made it on to the NYPD’s Most Wanted list, so I’ve decided you owe me a freebie for this one.”

“Like fuck I do.”

Max ignored this, said, “You have as much stake now in this as I do. You can’t disappear until this Rosa guy is out of the way and you know it.”

Popeye’s eyes narrowed into slits.

“How will you find his address?”

“I already called Information,” Max said. “They told me they didn’t have any Bobby Rosas. I said, what about Robert Rosas? They had one in the West Village – the fudgepacking district. The Rosa I met didn’t look like a guy who talks into the mike, if you know what I mean. They also had one at one hundred West Eighty-ninth so I said gimme that one.”

“But how you know it’s the same fellah?”

“I did something you’re not used to doing – I used my fucking head. I called the building and said to the doorman, ‘Does a Robert Rosa in a wheelchair live at your address?’ The guy said ‘Yeah,’ and I hung up. You have any more stupid questions?”

Popeye started to say something, but Max interrupted and, with his best Oirish accent said, “Good, then you can get the bejaysus out of here.”

Popeye looked stunned for a couple of seconds, mumbling something about “tinkers.” Then he stood up and said, “You shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain, tis bad luck.”

About twenty minutes later, when Max got out of the cab in front of his townhouse, a man said, “You Max Fisher?”

Looking at the guy, Max thought, Jesus Christ, what now?

The guy took out his shiny gold badge and said, “Ortiz – Homicide. I think you better come with me.”