Bust

Nine

As Max was feeling for the light switch, he slipped and fell. The way he landed and the way the pain was shooting down his side, he thought he’d broken his hip. When he started to get up he realized he was okay, but wondered what the cold wet stuff on his hands was.

For some reason, this whole time he’d been planning the murder, Max hadn’t thought about what the body would look like. He thought Deirdre would die like people in old westerns died. In those movies you never saw any blood – the cowboys and Indians just fell off their horses and lay there nice and still. In modern movies, they always showed the blood squirting out of people’s heads, gushing from their mouths. Max always thought it was just Hollywood exaggerating things, but now he realized that those movies didn’t show half of the real horror.

If it weren’t for her short, blond hair, Max might not have recognized Deirdre at all. Blood had leaked from her head into a twoor three-foot-wide puddle around her body. Although she lay on her back, Max could barely make out the features of her face. He thought, This can’t be fuckin’ happening. It was part of a dream – soon the alarm clock would ring and he’d wake up. When a ringing actually started, Max thought he really had been sleeping. But then he realized that the noise wasn’t an alarm clock, it was the burglar alarm. Shit, it nearly gave him a coronary and his heart was in bad enough shape.

After he shut off the alarm, he glanced back at the scene, shocked again by all the blood. When he realized that the wormy stuff on the wall was part of Deirdre’s brain he started to throw up. No one told him it was going to be so… gross.

He went into the downstairs bathroom where he took off his blood-covered clothes and washed the blood off his hands. He still couldn’t believe this was happening. What the hell had he been thinking, planning this murder like some kind of lunatic you read about in the tabloids? The Daily News today had two twins on the front page, the ones who’d murdered their parents, with the screaming headline, TWIN KILLING. Wait till they got hold of this.

He wondered if he was insane. He didn’t think he was insane, but what the hell did that mean? Insane people never think they’re insane so how did he know if he was insane or not? He certainly felt fevered and needed a drink – a whole bar of them.

He had to get a grip. He could worry if he was insane or not later – right now he had to do what he was supposed to do or he was going to spend the rest of his life in jail, possibly on death row.

Trying not to look at Deirdre’s body, he walked back out toward the front of the house. He went upstairs to make sure it was ransacked like the downstairs was. He saw that most of Deirdre’s jewelry was gone, then noticed that Popeye had broken the jar that held his kidney stones. Now he’d have to get on his knees later and look for the fucking things. In the center of the room was a turd. Max squinted at it, truly horrified. Somehow it even seemed worse than the murder, that the animal went to the toilet on his carpet. How fucked up was that? Murder was one thing but this, this was a goddamn liberty.

He went back downstairs, just to make sure everything was right before he called the police. He was about to dial 911 when he saw something that made him freeze. Sticking out from the hallway into the living room was another pair of feet – a woman’s feet in high heels. He thought, Jeez, it’s just like The Wizard of Oz. Then nausea returned fast as he inched toward the hallway, shaking, covering his mouth. When he saw the second blood puddle he gagged, coughing up stomach acid. He couldn’t recognize this woman’s face either, but something about her body looked familiar. She was heavyset, wearing jeans and a light blue sweater. Her long curly brown hair looked familiar, too, like…

Fuck, it was Stacy Goldenberg – his niece, on Deirdre’s side. She was living in New York, going to school at Columbia. Sometimes she and Deirdre went shopping together and, for some reason, she must have come home with her tonight.

Max fainted. When he regained consciousness both hips were killing him. He remembered the dead bodies and how he needed to call the police. He thought about confessing – getting a shrink to say he was nuts. They’d medicate him, lock him up for a while, and he’d eventually get out. Or he could pin the murders on Angela – say it was all her idea. It was all her idea, wasn’t it?

He shouted, “Get me the fuck out of this!”

Max couldn’t remember anything. Suddenly, his whole life was a fog. Then he heard Popeye saying how he would get to him if he ever went to the cops. This Popeye was a total psycho – there was no doubt about that – and Max had a feeling he meant everything he said.

Max went into the kitchen, chugged some vodka, the booze burning like a son of a bitch. Then he did some deep breathing, pulling himself back together, and dialed 911.

Max was staring through the lace curtains at the red strobe lights outside the townhouse and he didn’t hear the last question Detective Simmons had asked him.

“Sorry,” Max said, “What was that?”

“The alarm,” Simmons said. “Could you please tell me what happened with that again?”

Detective Simmons was a stocky black man, about forty years old. He was wearing a wrinkled white shirt, obviously discount, sweat stains on the armpits, with a tie wound on loosely. Max was wearing the navy sweat suit he’d changed into before the police came. He knew it was stylish and made him look slim and athletic.

Other officers, forensic workers and a crime-scene photographer were gathered in the hallway, creating a din of voices and confusion.

“Like I told that other officer,” Max said. “I tripped it off by accident. I mean I forgot to disarm it.”

“So the alarm definitely wasn’t ringing when you got home?”

“No,” Max said.

Now Simmons was looking in a small notepad, saying, “And what about the other victim – Stacy Goldenberg. Did you know that your wife was going shopping with her today?”

“No,” Max said. He was starting to feel nauseous again, thinking about how he was going to have to face his brother-in-law and sister-in-law – Stacy’s parents. The vodka in his stomach was shouting, Yo, buddy, how ’bout some more down here?

“When was the last time you spoke to your wife?”

“Like I told the first officer – this morning.”

“You didn’t talk to her at all during the course of the day?”

Max shook his head, trying for that devastated look.

“The past few days, had your wife told you about anything strange that happened around the house while you were gone? For example, did she say any strangers came to the door or rang the bell or anything like that?”

Max, still shaking his head, said, “No. Nothing like that,” acting weighed down with grief.

“So far we haven’t found any sign of forced entry,” Simmons said. “What about keys? Do you keep a spare set with any friends or neighbors?”

“No,” Max said, letting his voice choke a little.

“What about the code to your alarm? Do you share that with anybody?”

“No one knew the code except me, Deirdre, and the alarm company.” Damn, if he could just squeeze a few tears out. How did they do that shit?

“You see what I’m getting at, don’t you, Mr. Fisher? There are only two likely possibilities for how the killer got inside the house. He either broke in before the women arrived, or he forced his way in with them. If he broke in, he would have tripped off the alarm, and if he forced his way in with the women, the alarm would still have gone off unless he forced your wife to disarm it. But even if he did that, it wouldn’t explain how the alarm got set again when he left, and you’re telling me that when you came home the alarm was set. So the only logical conclusion is that the killer – or killers – somehow knew the code to your alarm.”

Simmons gave him a look that seemed to scream, I know you did it and I’m gonna hang you for it, you schmuck.

Trying to ignore the look, pretending he was imagining it, Max said, “You know, I’m really not feeling too well. Is it possible we could do this tomorrow?”

He wiped his dry eyes, as if he were on the verge of some hysterical weeping.

“I understand,” Simmons said, “but it’s true what they say, you know – the first twenty-four hours after a crime is committed is when most criminals are apprehended. If we could just clarify a couple of other things, I think it could help us a great deal.”

An officer came over and started talking to Detective Simmons. Max wasn’t paying attention, staring blindly again toward the activity outside the house.

“This is just routine,” Simmons continued, “but can we go over your whereabouts tonight one more time just to make sure we got everything down right?”

He had a little edge in his voice, making it clear that this wasn’t really a request.

“I was at Legz Diamond’s entertaining a client.”

“And what time did you get there?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere around six o’clock.”

“And you were with a gentleman named Jack Haywood?”

“That’s right.”

“And where does Mr. Haywood work?”

Max told him. Simmons wrote the information down then asked, “And how long were you at Legz Diamond’s?”

He stressed the Legz, leaning on it, letting it show what he thought of those kinds of places.

“Like I said, I got home around ten, ten-thirty, so I was probably there, I don’t know, till about nine forty-five, ten o’clock.”

“And you say you took a cab home?”

“First I dropped Jack off at Penn Station.” Suddenly, Max felt lightheaded again, a little dizzy. “I really don’t think I can handle any more of these questions right now. I’m sorry.” He couldn’t wait to get back to that vodka bottle.

“You want to see a doctor?”

“No. That’s all right. I think I just need to be alone.”

Alone with vodka.

“You might want to think about staying at a friend’s house or at a hotel tonight. We’ll have to be here for a while longer, working on the crime scene.”

“That’s all right,” Max said. “I’d rather stay here.”

Simmons gave him a look, like, Why would you want to stay at the scene of a goddamn bloodbath? Max wondered if he’d fucked up.

Trying to temper it, Max said, “I mean, of course it’ll be difficult, but I’m gonna have to deal with it eventually, right?”

Shit, that didn’t help. Work, brain, work.

“You sure about that?” Simmons said. “Those reporters are like goddamn vultures out there. This is going to be a big news story, you know.”

“I know,” Max said.

“Your number listed?”

Max shook his head.

“Well, that’s one good thing anyway. If you want, I could have someone call Mr. and Mrs. Goldenberg, spare you that at least.”

“It’s okay,” Max said. “I’ll call them.”

That was good, letting the cop know he was a standup guy. Yeah, it was going to be a difficult call but hey, that’s what Max Fisher did, the difficult stuff.

Yeah, right.

Simmons stood, putting his pad away in his shirt pocket, and said, “I’ll be in touch with you again, let you know how the investigation is going. You’re not planning to leave town or anything, right?”

Max thought this over carefully then, as if his whole life had ended, said, “Where would I go?”

Calling Claire and Harold Goldenberg was a whole other nightmare. For Claire, Deirdre’s sister, the murders were a double tragedy. After Max told her, she screamed, “No! No! No!” then broke down, crying hysterically. Jesus, Max should have had that drink first. What the hell was wrong with him? Did he think she’d take it well?

When Harold got on the line Max had to go through the whole rigmarole again. He felt worse for the Goldenbergs than he did for himself. He’d always liked Harold, who had his own practice as a chiropractor in Boston, and he had nothing against Claire either. He didn’t want to hump her or anything, but she was inoffensive. They were both nice enough people, and they definitely didn’t deserve to lose their only kid in a tragedy like this.

Stacy wasn’t so bad either. He never saw her very much when she was growing up, but when she started at Columbia she got closer with Deirdre, her “rich aunt in the city.” It was horrible that she had to die, especially like this. She hadn’t ruined anybody’s life, caused misery for anybody. She was just an innocent college girl who probably didn’t have an enemy in the world. Christ, she was only twenty.

Max felt his entire body getting hot and starting to shake – he wanted to call Angela, remind himself why he went through with all this crap in the first place. But as he picked up the phone and started to dial he stopped himself. That was exactly what Detective Simmons was waiting for. Max knew that Simmons suspected him more than he’d made out – why else would he have asked him if he was planning to leave town? The police had probably tapped his phone lines, put a cop on surveillance to watch his every move. They probably already knew about Angela, and her cousin, and Popeye, and now they were just waiting for Max to give himself away.

That alarm business had done them in, Max decided. That cocky Irish prick obviously wasn’t as much of a pro as he claimed to be. Max kicked himself for not doing some kind of background check on Popeye before agreeing to all of this. He’d been thinking with his dick and that was never a smart move.

Max finished the bottle of vodka, the alcohol doing wonders to relieve his panic. He decided he was just acting paranoid, which was probably normal after you’ve paid to have your wife killed. He decided he couldn’t have handled the situation any better than he had and the only thing he could do now was get some rest.

Surprisingly, Max slept like a baby, dreaming about Felicia the lap dancer.

In the morning, feeling clear-headed and alert, he resolved to keep his mind focused. He showered, shaved, and got dressed. The bedroom was still a mess so he did a little straightening up – he was able to retrieve all of his kidney stones – and decided he would have his maid come in later, or sometime soon, to finish cleaning. He was hungry and went downstairs to make a pot of coffee and some oatmeal. With a glass of water he swallowed a Mevacor and one of his little blue Viagra pills. The police had gotten someone to clean up the blood late last night, although there was still a faint stain on the wall where Deirdre’s brains had splattered. Max decided he would have to have the maid deal with that too. He’d also have to get someone to repair the two bullet holes in the walls. Or maybe he could just hang pictures over them.

As Max ate his breakfast, the doorbell rang several times. Looking through the peephole, he saw the reporters outside his door. Finally, when he finished his food, Max opened the door and made a brief statement to the TV cameras.

He said, “This is a tragedy that no one who hasn’t experienced the violent death of a loved one, or loved ones, could possibly comprehend. I just hope the police find the bastard who did this and that he’s punished to the fullest extent of the law.”

He knew he’d achieved the right blend of outrage and deep sorrow and that his face would look great on the news. Hell, he’d probably get letters from women asking to marry him.

The reporters shouted questions, but Max apologized politely and shut the door. He was proud of himself for handling the situation so well. He sounded exactly the way he was supposed to sound and he’d even managed to force out some tears. He’d put drops in his eyes beforehand and those suckers always stung him.

Keeping with Jewish tradition, Deirdre’s funeral would have to be as soon as possible. Max calmly took care of all the arrangements, scheduling the service for Monday morning at the Riverside Memorial Chapel on Amsterdam Avenue, where he had gone for his aunt’s funeral last year. The whole deal cost him a pretty penny but, hey, he wasn’t no cheap date. He spent the rest of the day on the phone with friends and relatives, accepting condolences and sharing sympathies.

No one from the police department called all day, but Max didn’t know whether this was good or bad. Late in the afternoon, he wondered if he should call Simmons to find out what was going on. It seemed like the natural thing to do, right? On the other hand, would that be something an actual grieving husband would do? Finally, he decided not to call and just wait and see what happened. This was more like the old Max, making informed decisions.

At six o’clock, he watched the local newscasts. All the stations had the murders as their top story – after all, it wasn’t every day that two affluent white women were murdered in New York City. He watched himself on TV, again proud of his performance. According to the reports, there still weren’t any suspects in the case, but police were conducting “a thorough investigation.”

The next day Max woke up early to prepare for his guests. His brother Paul and Paul’s wife Karen from Albany were coming down and so were Harold and Claire Goldenberg. The Goldenbergs were only going to stay for one night, and they were going to stay in a hotel. Tomorrow they would attend Deirdre’s funeral in the morning and then fly back with Stacy’s body to Boston for her funeral on Tuesday. Max was looking forward to seeing his brother and sister-in-law, but he was dreading having to face the Goldenbergs. He hated to admit it, with them grieving and all, but they were dull as hell.

The Goldenbergs arrived first, but fortunately they didn’t want to stay long. Claire said she wanted to see the spot where her daughter had died, but when Max showed it to her she lost it and Harold had to take her back to the hotel. An hour or so later, Paul and Karen arrived. Max and Paul had never been very close, but Max always felt good about himself when he was around Paul. He had six years on his brother and, although their age difference didn’t mean as much now that they were both in their fifties, Max felt that same superiority over his brother that he’d felt when he was sixteen and his brother was ten. Now Paul was an English professor at some college in Albany. He taught Shakespeare and Chaucer, or something like that, and he and Max had zero in common. Max loved watching Paul drool over the fine house, the expensive furnishings. Try pulling that down as a goddamn teacher.

The phone was ringing constantly through the day. Relatives and friends he hadn’t heard from in years came to the house to pay their respects and to find out about the funeral arrangements. A couple of reporters rang the bell, too, but Max had Paul explain that the family needed to be alone. Karen went food shopping and came back and cooked a huge roast-beef-and-potatoes dinner. Max felt guilty about eating the meat, but he decided to hell with being health conscious – this was a special occasion. And, fuck it, he was hungry. All that sympathy gave you an appetite. He even had a slice of cherry cheesecake for dessert. It was delicious, too, worth every goddamn milligram of cholesterol.

Finally, Max was starting to feel some of the relief that he’d thought he’d feel after Deirdre was gone. With all these people around, Max imagined how aggravated he would have felt if Deirdre had been there, going on and on about herself and her problems or confronting people like some kind of maniac. Now, for the first time in years, Max felt like he could relax in his own house. The way he was handling his grief, his whole attitude, was having an impact too. Was it his imagination or was he standing a little more erect? Posture had always been a problem but, hey, murder your old lady, you didn’t need a chiropractor. Radical therapy, maybe, but it worked.

Max was also starting to feel less guilty about Stacy’s murder. Yeah, it was horrible that she had to die, and yeah, he was upset about it. But it wasn’t as if he had killed anybody. Popeye was the crazy one – he’d pulled the trigger. Stacy’s death was just an accident, no different than if she had been walking across a street and been run over by a bus. The fact that she was murdered in Max’s house, by a hit man whom Max had employed, was an unfortunate coincidence that Max had had no way of preventing.

And, besides, she died with her dreams intact, no major disappointments yet. He’d kind of done her a favor, when you thought about it.

On the news that night, there were reports about a woman in Brooklyn who had strangled her two children and set them on fire and a janitor in a Bronx elementary school who was discovered having sex with a nine-year-old girl. It was a good thing New York was full of sickos, Max decided – it meant that the stories of Deirdre and Stacy’s murders would be quickly overshadowed.

The next day, Monday, was the funeral. Max wore a Hugo Boss suit, one he knew made him look good. Harold and Claire were at the chapel, along with the rest of Deirdre’s relatives and friends. Many of Max’s relatives were there too. Some people from the office came, including NetWorld’s CFO and Vice President. Although Max was hoping Angela would show up, he realized it was probably better that she hadn’t. Probably no one would have noticed, but it might have seemed slightly unusual for someone who had been with the company less than a year to take such a strong interest in her boss’s personal affairs. Besides, they wouldn’t have had a chance to talk in private anyway.

Max was barely listening to the rabbi’s eulogy, but when he realized that everyone was breaking down in tears, he knew he had to show some reaction. He couldn’t force out any tears, so he just put on his sunglasses and just stared down at his lap. He tried to emit some loud sighs but feared it sounded like he was breaking wind. He decided to let it slide, let the shades do the talking, like rock stars did.

After the rabbi, Claire stood at the podium and made a long sad speech about how she had lost two of the most important people in her life. This actually made Max cry and he took off his sunglasses for everyone to see. He was going for that swollen eyelid look that women seemed to pull off naturally.

Deirdre was buried in her family plot on Long Island. Max was glad they hadn’t bought plots together and that he would never have to be anywhere near Deirdre again. After Deirdre was lowered into the ground, each family member covered the coffin with a shovelful of dirt. Max felt another wave of relief when the dirt he dropped clattered on top of her coffin.

Then came his moment, the grand slam, the slamdunk. He approached the grave, letting a slight tremor rack his body, then produced one white rose. He’d planned to let it flutter into the hole as he gave a perfect moan but, fuck, he missed and the flower landed on the side. He had to bend down, dirtying his new suit, then muttered, Fucksake, and threw the goddamned thing in.

The shiva sitting was at Max’s house. During the next few days, people dropped by the townhouse, bringing food, and sharing stories about Deirdre. As much as Max had enjoyed the mourning bit at first, it was getting old. Besides, it made his jaw hurt, having to wear that hangdog expression day after fucking day.

Paul and Karen stayed until Tuesday night and then drove back to Albany. On Wednesday, a condolence card arrived from the office, along with a bouquet of flowers. Although the card was signed by almost everyone, Max didn’t read anyone’s note except Angela’s. It read: With My Deepest Sympathy, Angela

Gra go mor

What the fuck was with that, Greek or something?

Seeing her handwriting made Max suddenly desperate to see her in person. Again, he wanted to call her – just to hear her voice, that accent he loved, and hang up – but he knew that would be stupidest thing he could do. But he was becoming restless. He couldn’t wait to go back to work, to get back into the swing of things.

On Thursday, Berna, Max’s West Indian maid, came and scrubbed the wall and the floor in the downstairs hallway. A repairman came to fill in the bullet holes and now it was impossible to tell that anything had happened. Kamal had come back from India and on Thursday he came by to prepare Max’s macrobiotic meals for the next several days. He hadn’t heard anything about the murders. When Max told him he broke down crying.

Max hadn’t realized how close Kamal and Deirdre had become. Max had hired Kamal a couple of months ago, after he had been referred by the massage therapist at his health club. Kamal had often come to the house while Max was at work.

When Kamal was composed enough to speak he invited Max to come with him sometime to an ashram on the West Side to meditate. Max said he’d think about it, although he couldn’t imagine himself sitting in a lotus position and chanting like some hippie.

“Remember, people don’t die, because they aren’t born,” Kamal said. “Birth and death are merely illusions. All people and objects exist now and forever in the universal unconscious.”

Max stared at him, thinking, What a crock.

Max liked Kamal’s cooking and he thought he was a nice guy, but he decided that if kept forcing this religious crap on him the guy would be history.

On Friday, Max couldn’t stand being cooped up any longer. He took a cab to his gym in the Claridge House on Eighty-seventh and Third. He swam his usual forty laps, then sat in the steam room, reading The Wall Street Journal. After he showered, he weighed himself and was thrilled to see that he’d lost four pounds.

He had a relaxing weekend at home – eating Kamal’s food, taking short walks around the neighborhood. On Saturday – a gorgeous seventy-degree day – he walked to Central Park and sat for most of the afternoon on a bench in the shade, reading networking magazines, trying to keep up on new developments in the industry. There’d been nothing about the murder or the police investigation in the newspapers or on TV. Max remembered how Detective Simmons had promised to “be in touch soon” and now more than a week had gone by since the murder. While Max was glad that the story seemed to be fading, he didn’t like the way Detective Simmons was staying away from him. As he walked home from the park, Max had a funny feeling he was being watched.