Bust

Six

Max was in the Modell’s sneaker section, trying on a pair of Nike running shoes. He liked the way they fit, but there was no way he was buying them. They were on sale for seventy-nine bucks, but Max never paid discount for anything. Nah, he’d rather go to some classy store on Madison Avenue to get them, even if it cost him double.

As he was trying on another pair, Max sensed movement next to him. He noticed that the briefcase he had put down next to him – with the ten thousand dollars, the extra set of keys to the apartment, and the code to the alarm with instructions – was gone. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw Popeye, wearing the leather jacket with the hole in it, walking away down the aisle at a normal pace, heading toward the stairs.

Suddenly, Max realized that Deirdre was dead – there was no turning back. Even if he wanted to call off the murder, he couldn’t. He still had the phone number where he’d reached Popeye, but there had been a lot of background noise, and he’d had a feeling Popeye was at a pay phone somewhere. No, it was definitely over. By six P.M. Deirdre would be gone forever.

Max doubted that he’d miss her very much, but this wasn’t his fault. Deirdre was the one who’d changed, not him.

Max had met Deirdre in 1982 at a Jewish singles weekend at the Concord hotel in the Catskill Mountains. Back then, Deirdre was an upbeat, outgoing, friendly, big-chested girl from Huntington, Long Island. Max was living alone in a studio apartment on the Upper West Side, working as a twenty-four-thousand-dollar-a-year mainframe computer technician, and he decided that Deirdre was the best thing that had ever happened to him. After a few months of dating, he took her out for drinks at the bar at the Mansfield Hotel on Forty-fourth Street. It was a classy place, lots of books in the lounge, made Max feel well-read. Paula, the little blond barmaid, brought him his third screwdriver. He could see Paula understood he was a guy of wealth and fame, like the Stones song, what the hell was the title? Then Max, feeling nice and lit, thought, What the fuck? and popped the question to Deirdre. Six months later he was kissing her under the huppa at a synagogue in Huntington. They had a few happy years together – reasonably happy, anyway – living in a one-bedroom walk-up on West Seventy-seventh Street. Then Max left his job to start his own company. As his business started to take off, their relationship went downhill. They moved out of the walk-up, into a doorman building on the Upper East Side, and Deirdre slowly turned into the wife from hell.

She was constantly critical, angry, and depressed, and spent his money faster than it came in. But it wasn’t the money that bothered Max so much as her personality. So, okay, it was the money too but, hey, that wasn’t the main thing. It got to the point where Max couldn’t stand spending more than a few minutes with her at a time. She was always starting arguments, telling Max that he was the cause of all her misery, that if she hadn’t married him she would have been happy. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Then she started having mental problems. Manic-depressive, they called it, but Max had a simpler name – nasty bitch. Sometimes she was depressed, staying in bed all day, which Max actually didn’t mind so much. But other times she was hyper – on the phone all the time or out shopping with his credit cards or picking fights with him. Max paid thousands of dollars for her to see the best shrinks in the city. They put her on lithium, which helped, but sometimes she stopped taking her medication. Max was convinced that on some sick level Deirdre enjoyed the torture she was putting him through. She was actually happy when she made him feel like shit.

Max tried to work things out peacefully. He went with Deirdre to a marriage counselor, but spending an entire hour cursing at each other didn’t exactly help.

Finally, Max suggested divorce, but Deirdre said, “You know I’ll never divorce you. I’m religious.”

Max nearly laughed out loud, thinking, Yeah, if religion means tormenting a good man for eternity – wasn’t that a Catholic thing? Deirdre was raised Orthodox Jewish, but she never went to temple or celebrated holidays – she didn’t even fast on Yom Kippur, for Christ’s sake. She was more atheist than Jewish and, besides, Orthodox Jews got divorces all the time. This was obviously just more bullshit Deirdre was using to try to prolong his agony.

When things got so bad Max couldn’t stand living in the same house with Deirdre anymore, he considered moving out, separating. But he didn’t see why he had to be the one to go. It was his house, he’d busted his balls to pay for it. If anyone went it should be her.

The situation seemed hopeless. Max knew that even if he could convince her to get a divorce, he’d be fucked. They had no pre-nup and Deirdre would take him to town in a settlement. She’d never worked a day in her life and they didn’t have kids; Max didn’t see why she deserved a cent of his money. But he knew a judge, especially a female judge, wouldn’t see it that way. Deirdre would get away with the townhouse, the Porsche, and at least half the money, and Max was ready to stick out the rest of his life being miserable before he let that happen. He’d worked too hard for what he had and there was no way in hell he was gonna let some lazy cow steal it out from under him.

Then Max went on Viagra and everything changed.

Max had thought he was starting to lose interest in sex, maybe even becoming impotent, but then he took Viagra and it worked miracles. Like a horny teenager, he started thinking about sex constantly. Whenever he passed a good-looking woman on the street he found himself imagining what she looked like naked. He bought sex magazines and ripped out the centerfolds, taking them into the bathroom at work and at home. He rented porn videos and nights and weekends he locked himself in the den of his townhouse and watched them. It was like he couldn’t get enough of breasts. It got so bad he never saw women’s faces because he couldn’t raise his eyes past their chests.

Around this time Angela interviewed for a job at the company. As soon as Max saw her, he knew he had to have her. She was young, she had that whole Irish accent thing going on, and holy shit, the tits on her.

What surprised him was, entirely apart from what her body did for him, he liked being with her. She’d come out with some Irish-ism like, Where’s me coffee, and he felt something swell up inside him. They never fought. She always laughed at his jokes and never bitched at him about the way he dressed or whatever. Max couldn’t help dreaming about how great it would be if Deirdre was gone and Angela took her place. He could listen to that lilt his whole goddamn life. Hell, things worked out right, he’d bring her on a honeymoon to Ireland, maybe take her to a U2 concert. She seemed to like that Bono. Max was more into the classical-type stuff. He’d worked at it anyway, bought the whole package of Teach Yourself the Classics. He still didn’t understand what the hell it was all about, didn’t even know the difference between an alto and a concerto, but he could fake it. He loved to bore the losers at the office, going on about his favorite arias.

When the murder idea came up, it seemed like a big joke. At first anyway. But the more Max and Angela talked about it the more it seemed like the only logical solution. He had offered Deirdre ways out, but she didn’t want to take them, so what was the alternative? He was proud of himself, actually, for holding out for so long. A lot of guys who went through all the bullshit that he’d gone through wouldn’t have had half his patience – they would have hired someone to knock Deirdre off a long time ago.

Outside Modell’s, Max decided to walk back to his office instead of taking a cab. It was a great day – sunny, about seventy – and Forty-second Street near Grand Central Station was jammed with shoppers and businesspeople on their lunch breaks. Max felt cool, strutting along Fifth Avenue with his suit jacket slung over his shoulder, calling clients on his Blackberry.

When he arrived back at the office, Angela was sitting at her desk outside Max’s door, eating a salad out of a plastic container.

Like it was any other normal afternoon, Max said, “Any messages?” and Angela said, “Not a one. How’d your meeting go?”

“Hard to say,” Max said. “You confirmed that appointment for me with Jack Haywood tonight, though, didn’t you?”

“Sure did.”

“Terrific.”

He felt his voice had the right mix of boss and mellow. Like he’d once heard a young temp say about some guy, He had it going on.

Max went into his office and closed the door behind him. He had a stiff vodka and grapefruit juice, thinking, This shit is good. At two o’clock, he met with Alan Sorenson, his Senior Networking Manager. There had been an emergency at a client’s Newark office in the morning and Max wanted to make sure the situation was under control and that the company’s network didn’t experience any downtime. At three, Max met with Harold Lipman to discuss a quote Lipman was preparing for a new branch of a Japanese bank that was opening on Park Avenue. Harold had used a graphics program to design a full-color picture of what the bank’s new Local and Wide Area Networks would look like. Max told Harold that the designs for the three-server network looked pretty and all, but it wasn’t going to get him the sale.

The vodka hitting his stomach, Max said, “Take Takahashi to a strip joint or, better yet, call one of the escort agencies in my rolodex and buy him a whore or two. Trust me – that’s the only way you’ll close this thing.”

Harold smiled, like he was embarrassed or thought Max was joking. Harold was thirty-six, tall and pale with thinning, graying hair, and he always seemed to wear the same wrinkled blue suit. Now there was a cheapskate who bought discount even if he could afford better. Before working for Max, Harold had worked as a retail computer salesman. He lived in Hackensack, for Christ’s sake, with his wife and six-year-old daughter.

“I think I’ll just take him out to lunch,” Harold said.

“Guys don’t want lunch, they want tits,” Max said seriously.

Harold started to smile and Max cut him off with, “Hey, I’m not joking. If you want to start closing sales you’ll have to learn this sooner or later. You want to be a big kahuna, get some money to buy yourself some new goddamn suits?” He was going to add, And not at Today’s Man, but it was hard enough to educate the guy about table dances, he wasn’t going to start fashion policing the poor slob.

“I don’t think he’s that kind of guy,” Harold said uncomfortably.

“Is he a fudgepacker? If he is, I know a couple of guys who’d love to screw him.”

“No,” Harold said. “I mean, he wears a wedding ring and he didn’t seem gay.”

“Then I don’t know what the problem is – take him to a strip joint. Believe me, as soon as he has some tits bouncing in his face you’ll close the sale.” Max waited then said, “In this business, it’s make or break, and you gotta go for bust.”

He let the joke linger, waiting to see if the schmuck got it.

Finally, Harold laughed uncomfortably, said, “I’m going to go to his office and present the proposal in person and see what happens.”

Max said, “Is it your wife?”

“Is what my wife?”

“The ball and chain, the guilt trips, because if it is, don’t tell her about it, that’s all. You think I tell my wife every time I go to a strip club? But your wife’ll be happy when you start bringing home the big commission checks. Trust me, I know this stuff and I certainly know women.”

“It’s not my wife.”

“Then what is it, your kid? You?”

Harold, his face turning pink, said, “No.”

“Look, you don’t have to enjoy it, I mean if that’s what you’re worried about. You’re not there to get off, you’re there for the client to get off. He’s Japanese right? Jesus Christ, the Japs love table dances. Trust me on this one. It’s a cultural thing. Maybe it’s because Japanese women, as a whole, have very small breasts. Why’re you smiling? I’m serious. But whatever you do, don’t, do not, buy him a Japanese dancer. Even if she has the big old-style silicone knockers, they don’t like that. It gets them angry because it reminds them of what they don’t have at home.”

Harold stood up, took a few steps back toward the door, said, “Well, thanks for the advice, but I think I’ll just stick to my own sales techniques.”

“Listen, you putz, I don’t want to have to let you go. I mean, I think you’re a smart guy. When you started here you knew more about hardware than you did about networking, but you’re catching up on your technical knowledge and I think in a month or two you’ll be right where you need to be. That said, I hope you understand, I can’t keep paying you your draw if you’re not making any commish. I just can’t run my business that way. Now I’m giving you some good, solid advice here. When I hired you I told you I’d give you all the training you needed, well this is part of your training.”

Max was happy with this speech, his rally-the-troops schpiel. He knew he was great at motivation – that’s why he was the head honcho and everyone else wasn’t.

“I came here to sell networks,” Harold said, “not table dances.”

“Then maybe this is the wrong product for you,” Max said. “Maybe you should sell bibles or something. Now go take Takahashi to a strip joint and close this goddamn sale, or else.”

Toward five o’clock, Angela paid a visit. She locked the door and gave Max a few wet kisses and a neck massage and wished him good luck. Max said, “The funny thing is, I’m not even nervous.”

Max made sure there was no lipstick on his face. He knew he must’ve smelled like Joy, but this was all right because a few months ago he had bought Deirdre some of the same perfume, in the smaller one-ounce size, so she wouldn’t be suspicious when he came home reeking of it. If the police asked, he could just say he picked up the odor from Deirdre. He was covering all the bases.

In the bathroom, Max put a coat of spray-on hair fibers over his bald spot. The fibers could only be detected on very close inspection or by touch. The only problems were when it rained or when he was nervous – sometimes the fibers melted and dark streaks dripped down his neck.

At 5:25, Max left the office, still feeling very relaxed. Janet, the receptionist who was temping this week, and Diane from Payroll were nearby so Max made sure he said “See you tomorrow” to Angela, loud enough so Janet and Diane could hear how casual and professional he was being.

“Good night, Max,” Angela said, not even looking away from her computer monitor. If they’d been alone, she’d have added God bless in that crazy way the Irish did. Psychos blew up half the UK and added, God bless?

Max hailed a cab on Sixth Avenue and instructed the driver to take him to Fifty-fourth and Madison, the building where Jack Haywood worked. Out of habit, Max memorized the driver’s name – Mohammed Siddique – and medallion number – 679445. As he got out, he said, “Thanks, Mohammed. God bless.”

Max told Mohammed to wait double-parked while he went into the building to call Jack from the concierge’s desk. Back on the sidewalk, waiting for Jack to show up, Max couldn’t help thinking about the break-in.

He’d told Deirdre that he wanted to take her out to dinner tonight and to be sure to be home at six. Deirdre was usually good about keeping her appointments, but now Max was worried that something might go wrong. Deirdre had said she would be going shopping this afternoon, but Max wondered what would happen if she came home early or had decided not to go at all.

A car horn honked. The sudden noise jolted Max, made his heart skip a beat. He took deep breaths, trying to relax. If he looked nervous tonight and Jack Haywood or someone else noticed, it could also lead to some big problems later. He had to just trust Popeye. After all, the guy was a pro and a pro would know how to handle any complications that might come up.

A few minutes later, Jack strolled out of the building, wearing the jeans and sports jacket he had changed into for his night on the town. As Director of Operations for Segal, Russell amp; Ross, a big law firm with over two hundred employees, Jack was one of Max’s biggest clients. He was only a few years younger than Max, but he kept in shape so he looked thirty-five. He was married with two kids and he had a house on Long Island, but he liked getting away from his wife and drinking and seeing naked women. Since he had become a NetWorld client, Max bought him as many table and lap dances and trips to the private fantasy rooms as he wanted. Once in a while, Jack asked Max to fix him up with a call girl. Jack would tell his wife he was out of town on business for the night and Max would book a room for him at one of the big New York hotels. Jack liked Russian women and Max knew two Russian call girls – sisters with monster-size breasts – who charged two thousand bucks for a menage a trois. It was above the going rate, but the money was well worth it to keep Jack as a client. He had a two-hundred-and-fifty-user network with four file servers and Max had placed three consultants there on a fulltime basis. Including hardware and software sales, Jack was a million-dollar-a-year client. Besides, you had to love a guy who knew how to relax. What was the point of working your ass off and having no fun?

As soon as Jack got into the cab, Max turned on his “business personality.” Usually, he hated small talk and phony conversation, but when there was money involved, man, Max could turn on the bullshit as well as anyone. During the ride across town to Legz Diamond’s, Max managed to hold a conversation on golf, wine, real estate and the upcoming mayoral election, and half the time he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. But, shit, he knew that he was selling it well.

Legz Diamond’s was on Forty-seventh Street near Eleventh Avenue. It was an upscale strip club – dark and glitzy, like a cheesy, suburban wedding hall. Although it was still early, the place was at least half filled with businessmen trying to keep their male clients happy. That’s how the big city worked. You had a problem with it, get the fuck back to Boise, pal.

The host, a Mafia-looking guy with slicked-back hair, was on stage introducing the girls one by one, holding their hands and kissing them on the lips or cheek after he said their names. Max sometimes wondered whether all the girls screwed around with the host, but he was positive that the ones who kissed him on the lips had. Max was a known regular at the club so he and Jack got the VIP seats, right in front of the stage. Immediately, Max bought Jack a rum and Coke and a table dance with the girl of his choice. Jack picked a Puerto Rican with a big smile and a nice set of 38 or 40 triple-Ds. Perfectomundo. That was the way to get ’em in the mood.

Max was watching Jack enjoy himself when he heard someone call out his name. It was Felicia, a black stripper with 46 triple-Ds whom Max had bought dances from many times before. She was on the stage, leaning forward so that her implants hung down off her bone-thin dancer’s body.

“How are you?” Max said.

“Wait up, baby,” Felicia said. “Let me come down there and talk to you personally.”

She climbed down off the stage and sat on Max’s lap. Max knew that she was just being nice to him because he had tipped her a lot of money in the past, but he couldn’t help but let the special treatment go to his head. He felt like Hugh Hefner, sitting there with a gorgeous girl on his lap. He wondered if Hef listened to Mozart. Guy spent his life in silk pajamas, smoked a pipe, he must listen to real music.

“That’s better,” Felicia said, wiggling her ass as she settled in on his lap. “So how you been?”

“All right,” Max said.

“Yeah? I ain’t seen you around here too much lately.”

“I’ve been busy. You know how it is.”

Max remembered once telling Felicia about his business and how this had impressed her.

“That’s right,” Felicia said, “you got some kind of company – computers or something, right?”

“That’s right,” Max said.

“That’s cool, baby. Hey, anybody ever tell you how cute you are?” That lifted him in every sense. Who needed Viagra?

“Nobody who looked like you,” Max said.

Felicia kissed him on the forehead and Max felt her hard implants pressing against his chest.

“I got an idea,” Felicia said. “Take down my number. You can give me a call some time when I’m not working. We’ll go out and have a good time. Or I can just come over to your place and we’ll party there.”

Max scribbled Felicia’s number on the back of one of his business cards, then leaned back as she gave a nice, slow table dance. First she crouched backwards with her butt high in the air. Then she turned and danced with her breasts in Max’s face. The bags were so big they were stretching the skin around them, and her nipples were sticking out like pencil erasers. In the middle of the dance, Max looked at his watch and saw it was 6:08. If all had gone according to plan, Deirdre had been murdered eight minutes ago. Felicia saw him looking at his watch and said, “You got a date tonight, baby?”

“No, I’m just checking the time. It’s a little after six,” he added so she would remember if anyone asked.

“A little after sex?”

“ Six,” Max said.

“Oh. I musta heard you wrong, baby.”

“Right side,” Max said to Asir Aswad as the cab turned onto East Eightieth Street. In the middle of the block, Max said, “Right here,” and the cab came to a stop.

The meter read $9.70. Max gave Asir a twenty and took back the entire ten dollars and thirty cents change. He never tipped cab drivers and wasn’t going to start now. He didn’t want the police to think he had been acting in any way unusual minutes before discovering his wife’s body.

It was 10:27. Max had dropped Jack off at Penn Station twenty minutes ago. Jack had seen Max writing down Felicia’s phone number and it had impressed him a great deal.

“You gonna call her?” Jack asked.

“When I get around to it,” Max said.

“If I were you I wouldn’t wait on that,” Jack said. “I’m getting a little tired of that Russian coffee cake. I might be in the mood for some chocolate pudding one of these nights. If you don’t use that number, why don’t you hold onto it for me?”

Jack was drunk, but not so drunk that he wouldn’t remember that Max was with him all night while Deirdre was being murdered.

Of course Max had no intention of calling Felicia. Seeing those big gazongas in his face had definitely got him thinking, but before he had sex with a cheap stripper he’d need to see some blood work. He was just egging Jack on, trying to maintain his swinger image since Jack seemed to like it. It was part of the sales technique that he had perfected – never show the client that you are in any way above him. In other words, if the client sleeps with cheap hookers, then you have to come off as a guy who sleeps with cheap hookers. Besides, Max had Angela and he’d probably be spending the rest of his life with her. Although, he had to admit, it would be nice if Angela had knockers as big as Felicia’s.

Max headed up the stoop to his townhouse. Through the lace curtains in the front windows he could see that there were no lights on inside. As he put his key in the first lock, he remembered what Popeye had said to him when they’d met in the pizza place, about how he might kill Max, too, if Max came home while he was still in the house. Max looked at his watch – 10:29. Popeye must have left more than four hours ago. There was no way in hell he could be inside there now.