Bust

Twenty

Dillon’s book of Zen wisdom wasn’t weaving its magic no more. He poured a shot of Jameson, the bottle nearly empty. Everything was running down. The tinker he’d killed crossed his mind and he gave an involuntary tremor. He downed the whiskey, then waited for the hit and muttered, “That shite burns.”

To erase the tinker, he dredged up another memory, a dog he’d owned. Mongrel called Heinz, cos of the 57 ingredients it had. That mutt loved him, completely. He’d deliberately starved it for a week, see how it fared. Not so good – lotsa whining in there. He’d got back to the shithole he was living in then, put out his hand to the pooch and the fooker, the fooker bit him. He almost admired the sheer balls of the little runt. But, of course, no one, no thing, ever bit Dillon, at least not twice. He got his hurly, made from the ash, honed by a master craftsman. Dillon had never used it, except to bust heads. He’d stolen it at a match in Croke Park, and if he remembered correctly, Galway had their arse handed to them by fookin Cork.

The dog had backed away and Dillon cooed, “Come on boy, come get yer medicine.”

Took him fifteen minutes to beat the little fook to death, gore all over the walls, the tiny animal not going easy.

For devilment, Dillon had told this story to Angela, hoping to get a rise out of the bitch.

She’d been horrified and then he asked, “You ever been hungry, alanna?”

She didn’t know what he meant and he said. “There’s a little moral here mo croi, and it’s don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

Then, near to tears, she’d said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

And he laughed, delighted, said, “And isn’t that the bloody beauty of it?”

Bobby popped a wheelie coming out of the D’Agostino supermarket on Columbus. He was in a good mood, still thinking about last night with Angela. He couldn’t wait to call her later – maybe she’d want to come over and listen to some Ted Nugent.

Then, looking over his shoulder, he saw the guy walking about ten yards behind him. It was him all right – same thin, gray guy with the lips who was in the police sketch on TV and in all the newspapers. He was wearing faded jeans and his hands were tucked deep into the pockets of a leather jacket.

It was cooler than it had been on recent nights and there were still a lot of people on the street, shopping or coming home from work. Bobby didn’t think Popeye would try to shoot him here, with all these witnesses – but he might use a knife.

Instead of crossing Columbus, Bobby turned left on Eighty-ninth and headed toward Central Park. It was a darker, emptier, quieter block, with mainly four-story brownstones. Bobby rode at a slow, steady pace and listened closely to what was happening behind him. He had always had great ears. In Iraq, he used to hear the towel-head snipers even when they were a hundred or so yards away. Now he listened to Popeye’s footsteps, hearing them get gradually closer. There was something unusual about the way he was walking. He was taking one solid step, followed by a softer dragging step, like he had a limp. But the footsteps were definitely getting closer. Just before he reached the darkest part of the block, which was shaded by dense, overhanging trees, Bobby braked and wheeled around. The bag of groceries fell off his lap and crashed onto the sidewalk, gushing dark purple liquid. He raised his arm in one fluid motion, taking his Glock from his jacket pocket and aiming it between Popeye’s eyes.

Obviously surprised, Popeye stopped about ten feet from Bobby, his left arm by his side and his right hand in the lower pocket of his leather jacket.

“Look what you did, asshole,” Bobby said. “You broke my fuckin’ grape juice.”

Popeye started to move his right hand. Bobby went, “Move one more fuckin’ inch I’ll put a hole in your head.”

“Jaysus, take it easy fellah.” Popeye said. “No harm, no damage done. Just take it fookin’ easy, me man.”

Wondering if the guy knew how stupid he sounded, Bobby said, “Take your hand out of your pocket slowly. It comes out with anything – I don’t care if it’s your fucking house keys – I’m gonna start shooting.”

For a moment, Popeye remained still, then he showed his empty hand.

“Now your jacket. Drop it on the sidewalk, and take five steps backwards.”

Cursing in Irish under his breath, Popeye slowly took off his jacket and let it fall.

“Now back up.”

Popeye backed away a few steps, then Bobby slowly wheeled himself forward one-handed. Keeping the gun aimed, he leaned down, picked up the coat and removed a switchblade from one pocket and a. 38 from the other. He put the gun and the knife in the pocket of his windbreaker.

“Okay, dickhead. We’re going for a walk.”

Bobby said to his doorman, “I want you to meet my cousin Popeye – he’s visiting from out of town.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Popeye,” the doorman, an old guy, said.

Inside his apartment, Bobby ordered Popeye to sit on the couch and Popeye said, “Okay, so who told you about me? Fisher?”

“What do you mean?”

“You knew my name. Jaysus, I knew I should never’ve trusted that prick. When did he put you on to me?”

“I think, under the circumstances, I should be the one asking the questions,” Bobby said, aiming the gun.

“You think I’m gonna sweat you, some fuck in a wheelchair? Lemme tell yeh, fellah, I’ve had weapons aimed at me by the very best. I’ve had an Orange bastard, fueled on anti-Papal hysteria, believing the only good Catholic was a dead one, put a an AK-47 in me mouth and I survived that, so you think I give a shite’s fuck about you and yer feckin’ Glock?”

“I said I’ll be asking the questions,” Bobby said calmly, “and this is the last time I’m gonna tell you that.”

Popeye didn’t flinch – he barely even reacted. The guy must be a pro, Bobby thought. He was keeping his cool anyway, like he really didn’t give a shit if he lived or died.

“Why’d you kill those two women?” Bobby asked.

“I didn’t kill nobody.”

“It’s not exactly a big secret anymore. The police have that picture of you going around.”

“You mean that snap in the Post? You telling me my nose looks like that?”

“Did Max Fisher hire you?”

“Ary Christ, what do you care, you’re not a Guard.”

“A what?”

“A cop, yah bollix.”

“No, I’m not a cop,” Bobby said. “I’m just the guy holding a gun on you. I’d think you’d want to answer my questions, but maybe you don’t. Maybe you just want me to shoot you.”

Popeye thought about this a second. Maybe he did want to live because he 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.”

“What?”

Popeye smiled out of the corner of his scarred mouth, said, “Where I come from, a Guard is a bonus.” Then he pulled up his shirt to cover his face and said, “Jaysus, what the hell is that smell?”

Bobby couldn’t smell anything unusual, but it was possible he had farted or shit in his pants. He was about to check when Popeye lowered his shirt and started sniffing some more.

“Me lady been here?”

“Who?”

“Colleen with a bust on her to die for. Name of Angela. Was she here?”

Bobby shook his head, smiling, thinking, I should’ve fuckin’ known . All that bullshit, saying, If you want to know the truth I think a wheelchair’s kind of sexy. She’d just been manipulating him, playing a game with the poor cripple, leading him around by the nose – or by the dick, more like it.

Still smiling, Bobby said, “Angela, huh?”

“Yeah, Angela, the hoor’s ghost. Funny, smells like her scent mixing with the shite. Would you open a window? It’s killing me, mate.”

Bobby, not smiling anymore, didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “Open a fuckin’ window yourself, if you want to. I don’t give a shit.”

Popeye slid one of the panes open, letting the noise of traffic and blaring horns into the apartment along with the breeze.

“So how did you meet Angela?” Bobby asked.

“I met her in Ireland, at a pub.”

“And you guys live together?”

“More than that, I gave her a Claddagh ring.”

“So it was Angela’s idea to knock off Fisher’s wife?”

“Would love to take the credit me own self, but the idea was hers.”

Bobby, thinking, That bitch, said, “And what were you planning to do then?”

“She was going to marry him.”

“Then what?”

“The best part. I’d get to blast Fisher.”

“And you thought this would work?

“Was working till you came along, fellah. Now, come on, why don’t you put the gun down? If you shoot me what’ll you do with me body? You have the doorman right downstairs. So how about you just let me go? When I get Fisher’s money, I’ll give you a nice cut, how’s that?”

Bobby, keeping the gun aimed at Popeye, wheeled to the bookshelf and took down a folder with several pictures.

“Why don’t you take a look through these?”

Popeye came over and snatched the envelope from Bobby. He looked through the pictures quickly, then handed the envelope back and said, “So?”

“So?” Bobby said. “That’s your Angela, right? What do you think now?”

“I knew you had these. Angela told me all about them.”

“Does she look like she’s enjoying it?”

“Are you trying to get me riled?”

“You know why you thought you smelled her before, you fuckin’ idiot? Because she was here.”

“Why was she here?”

“To fuck my brains out, for one, and, I gotta admit she was pretty damn good at it.”

“What do I care? She fucked Fisher too – lots of times. I don’t do jealousy, mate.”

Feeling stupid and sick, Bobby said, “She also came here to try to get me to kill you.”

“Eh, that’s bollix.”

“She told me you were coming after me. She wanted me to get rid of you for her.”

“Why would she want me dead?”

“Who the hell knows? Maybe her plan was to marry Fisher and then kiss your ass goodbye, man. Hell, maybe she was even planning to hire a hit man to knock you off.”

“Ah, you’re talking shite, that dosh was for us. I fooking earned that.”

Bobby put the gun down in his lap, said, “That’s just what she told you to get you to kill Fisher’s wife. All along they were planning to fuck you over. If I hadn’t come along they probably would’ve ratted you out already, but then they thought they still needed you, to get rid of me.”

“I’ll tell you what I think. I think you would have made a good Brit, cos you like fookin with me head.”

“Jesus Christ, why the fuck would I lie to you? I have the pictures, I have the gun, I don’t have to help you. I’m just telling you the way it is. They’re gonna tell the cops you killed those two women, they’ll say they had nothing to do with it. They’ll say you were fucking Angela, you got jealous, you broke into Max’s townhouse to kill him, but he wasn’t there and the women were, so you did them instead. And who’s the judge gonna believe? You know a guy like Max Fisher is gonna hire some hotshot lawyer. The judge won’t give a shit about you. And once the press starts calling you a cop killer too, forget about it. Meanwhile, Angela and Max’ll be living happily ever after.”

There was no sound in the room other than the noise of the traffic in the street outside. “So what’re you saying?” Popeye finally asked.

“It’s up to you how you wanna handle this,” Bobby said, “but I know what I’d do.”

“What’s that?”

“I’d go by Angela’s tonight, teach the bitch a fuckin’ lesson.”

“Keep talkin.”

“Then, I’m just gonna throw this out there – maybe after you take care of Angela we can work together.”

“Doing what, changing your diapers?”

“What I did before I landed in this fucking chair, asshole. Hit banks, jewelry stores, anywhere where there’s money.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“To make some money, Popeye. You like money? First we’ll soak Fisher for all he’s worth, then we’ll move on to bigger and better things. See, this picture shit – it’s just a sideline for me. I’m into armed robbery – pulled some of the biggest jobs on the east coast. I got a few jobs I’m lookin’ to pull right now and you can be in my new crew.”

“What do you need me for?”

“I can handle a gun, but I can’t muscle people the way I used to. You ever do any muscle work, Popeye?”

“You’re fooking codding me, muscle work is me middle name, leaning on fookers, tis me birthright. I did some protection work for the Ra, the IRA to you.”

“The IRA?” Bobby said, impressed. “That’s great. So you already have some useful experience. So what do you say?”

Popeye thought about it, said, “What about the Guards? I can’t be waiting around New York, you know.”

“You ever hear of Willie Sutton?”

“Is he gonna be in our crew too?”

“No, he was a bank robber from the old days, the best who ever lived. Anyway, when the cops were coming after him he used to dress in disguises. One time he was living right next door to a police station and they never found him.”

“Fookin A. My kind of fellah.”

“So what we’ll do,” Bobby said, “is put you in some disguises. Or – I got a better idea – I know a guy out in Long Island City – you know, a plastic surgeon. He specializes in cons on the run.”

“Any chance he can make me look like Colin Farrell?”

“Those guys can work fucking miracles.”

Popeye smiled, stuck his hand out, said. “In that case, tis a deal, mate.”