No Such Creature

TWENTY-SEVEN

Monk’s Castle on Seventh street had always been Max’s favourite pub, not just because they served Guinness and a healthy variety of British ales, but because they had no television, their sound system played only classical music, and-best of all-the bartender and waiters wore monks’ robes complete with hoods, sandals and belts of knotted rope. Downstairs the place was all dark wood and stained glass, but the upstairs was a bright and lively space that the “monks” rented out for parties.

Max himself had held more than one celebration on the premises, so when it came time to choose a suitable venue for a memorial get-together, it had been the first place Owen thought of. The rafters were hung with huge posters of Max that he had had enlarged from his Photoshop files. Except for the presence of a jovial fat man in the foreground, they could have been used for a high school geography course. From the redwood forests of California to the rocky coast of Maine, from the badlands of the Dakotas to the boardwalks of New Orleans, Max had been there. In every photograph he was laughing, smiling or striking a pose, the camera his natural ally.

With the help of a schoolmate, Owen had dressed up a series of mannequins in a selection of Max’s favourite costumes-Catholic priest, Saudi sheik, British major-and stood them up around the tavern with mugs of ale in their hands, like an exhibition of multicultural bon vivants. He had painstakingly gone through every contact in Max’s tiny, pencil-smeared address books and sent out invitations with plenty of notice.

And now the place was crammed with villains of wildly divergent shapes and predilections, but they all had one thing in common: they had worked with Max at some point or other, and cherished the memory. There were many Owen didn’t really know, who offered condolences and a funny story. There were lots of old guys, quite a few British accents, and there was Bobo Valentine, whose weight had doubled since Owen had seen him last and must now have been approaching metric tonnage. Sylvester Keech arrived in black silk Vietnamese pyjamas, being currently in love with a young chef at Indochine. Jimmy Coughlin came all the way from Dallas, tattoos and all, toting a case of single malt. And there was Ted “Brick” House, whose grey hair had unaccountably turned orange.

Best of all, Roscoe showed up and nearly broke Owen’s heart by bursting into tears when he saw the photos. After a few snorts he pulled himself together enough to give a speech; Owen was too emotional to manage it himself.

“Max Maxwell was a great man,” Roscoe told the crowd, “but a truly mediocre trivia player. His knowledge of geography was mostly restricted to the rivers of Warwickshire, his astronomy didn’t go much farther than the Big Dipper, but his Shakespeare …” (Here Roscoe was interrupted by much cheering.) “His knowledge of Shakespeare delighted all of us who knew him, even if we didn’t know Shakespeare.”

He told several Max anecdotes that even Owen hadn’t heard before, and finished up by saying, “Max loved three things, no, four things, no-wait, I can’t count the things Max Maxwell loved, because he pretty much loved everything. He loved beer, he loved acting, he loved food, he loved Shakespeare, he loved thieving. But most of all-and way beyond all the others-he loved his one and only son, who organized this wonderful afternoon for us-Owen Maxwell.”

Owen was barely able to smile and wave to the peculiar gang that swirled around him. He thanked Roscoe and went downstairs for a moment to pull himself together. The bar seemed pitch-dark after the noise and brightness upstairs. All of the booths were empty, except for one where a young couple talked in hushed tones. A monk came over to Owen, but he shook his head.

His breathing was just about back to normal when someone approached his booth from behind him.

“Is it okay if I join you?”

Light from one of the pub’s stained glass lamps turned Sabrina’s face shades of rose and royal blue. She was wearing jeans and a white shirt, and those two everyday items had never looked so good. She seemed a lot taller than Owen remembered.

He didn’t reply, but she sat across from him in the booth anyway, setting her backpack on the floor. “I came to say I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you have someone else to fuck over? Personally, I’m not interested.”

She placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward, dark hair cascading over one eye. “I’m sorry, Owen. I was raised by a criminal, same as you. Sometimes my moral compass goes out of whack, and I was hoping maybe you-you of all people-could understand how that might happen.”

“You don’t have a moral compass.”

Owen looked over at the bar, trying to find something to focus on. Sabrina’s voice was doing more to him than her words.

“The jewels, the cash, everything was just sitting there, Owen. It was a perfect opportunity, you have to admit. And-and I didn’t know what I wanted.”

“Money, Sabrina. It’s called money. You sandbagged us, all right? I don’t even care a hell of a lot about that, but I really fell for you. I actually believed you were starting to feel the same-don’t know where I could’ve got that idea-and I really wasn’t ready to get kicked in the gut by some half-smart slut who fucks her way into my confidence.”

“I’m sorry, Owen.”

“And worse than that, because of you, Max felt he had to make up what we lost, and that’s what got him killed.” This was not strictly true, but it felt good to say it.

Sabrina opened her backpack and drew out a smaller canvas bag. She put it on the table between them, and it made a clunk as she set it down.

“It’s all here,” she said. “I sold the Mustang. So this is everything I took, minus about three thousand I lost on the car.”

“I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it.”

“Maybe so, but I still have to give it back.”

Owen kept staring at the words in beer veritas over the bar. He didn’t want to look her in the face; her eyes would undo him. He looked away, surveying the other booths, the quiet couple, as if they were of great interest to him. An uninvited bagpiper had wandered in and one of the monks was gently urging him to turn around.

“The money, the jewellery, that’s one thing,” Sabrina said. “But I wanted to say, I’m sorry I hurt you. It wasn’t what I wanted to do. I just-I guess I was in a kind of panic.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I was running from-well, you know what I was running from-and suddenly the idea of being in any kind of relationship scared me to death. Part of me figured this was a good way to make sure that wouldn’t happen.”

“Being an ice-cold bitch is pretty effective.”

“Okay, I deserve that. But the truth is, I’m not cold, Owen. I was frightened, I was confused, and-”

“And badly brought up.”

She reached out to touch him, but he pulled his arm away, feeling childish even as he did it.

“And badly brought up,” she said. “But I want you to know, there hasn’t been a single hour or a single day in the past couple of months I haven’t thought about you. You saved my life at least once, maybe twice. And it’s not like I got away unscathed.”

Owen looked at her sharply. “What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not looking for sympathy, I’m just saying-if it makes you feel better, I’ve already paid dearly for what I did.”

“I never wanted you to get hurt,” Owen said, “even when I was pissed off at you.”

She cupped a hand to her mouth and whispered, “Did I kill that guy?”

“Max finished him off. He would have killed us all.”

She nodded, pursing her lips. “I’ve been hanging around Juilliard hoping to bump into you. I even saw you one day, but you were with a really good-looking girl, so I …”

“I think I need some fresh air.”

Owen got up and walked outside. Traffic was getting noisy on the avenues, but Seventh Street was still relatively quiet. The bagpiper, kilt and all, blew a few raucous test notes through his instrument.

“So now you’ve found me,” Owen said when Sabrina stepped out.

They were quiet for a couple of minutes, walking slowly toward Second Avenue. A woman with five tiny dogs on a single lead was just ahead of them, addressing her charges in crisp monosyllables. A slight breeze picked up, and suddenly Owen could smell Sabrina’s hair. How could a fragrance, a mere sensation in his nose, have such power over him?

“I was sorry to hear about Max,” she said. “Max was … Max was really something.”

“He was very fond of you, too.”

“Oh, sure. I bet.”

That smile at last. It went through him just like the first time.

Sabrina tapped the canvas bag. “Max would take it back. You know he would.”

That was true. Max would have taken it back, and Max would have forgiven her. It had never been in Max’s character to hold a grudge, and, for a criminal, he was actually the most trusting of men.

“They didn’t connect him to the … other things?”

“Nope. Far as they were concerned he was a wig salesman-a failed actor who suddenly snapped. Autopsy showed signs of senile dementia.”

“Not such a failed actor, then. I’m glad you didn’t get charged with anything, at least. Think you’ll keep on the straight and narrow now?”

“Well, seeing as how everyone I’ve ever loved has been killed because of crime, yeah-I’d say I’m done with it.” Owen suppressed the urge to ask about her own plans, but Sabrina answered as if she had heard the thought anyway.

“Right now I’m working in a restaurant while I figure out what to do next. I like the people I work with-they’re all either actors or writers or artists, all completely devoted to something. But what I like best about them is they all have clear consciences. They’re terrified about their careers, they’re in a constant panic about making the rent, but none of them is getting up in the morning thinking, ‘God, I did something really, really wrong. I’m a bad person.’”

“You don’t know what’s in their heads.”

“I think I know them at least that well. Anyway, it’s something I want to try out for a while. A clean conscience. I want to see how it feels.”

They reached the corner of Second Avenue and Owen stopped. “I gotta get back.”

She handed him the canvas bag, and he took it.

“What will you do with that stuff?”

“Way I feel right now, I’ll probably mail it back to the people it came from.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know, Sabrina. I’m still feeling a little … uncertain, you know what I mean?”

When they were back outside Monk’s Castle, the bagpiper was well into “Amazing Grace,” marching slowly back and forth before the tavern. They watched him for a minute, then Sabrina said, “Have you ever walked along Forty-seventh Street?”

“The diamond district? Yeah, why?”

“Well, it just struck me, some of those places would be so easy to knock over, you know? It’s amazing, the lack of security.”

“Yeah, that’s true. But Max was a firm believer in working out of town-until his final performance, anyway-so it was never an option.”

“Right. Good policy.”

“That’s Max. Slow but steady.” Owen put a dollar into the bagpiper’s open jar, then jerked his thumb at the door. “I’m going back in.”

“Okay. But I was thinking-a young couple, maybe scouting out wedding rings, could really get a good look at places like that. They could walk right in and who’s going to suspect them?”

Owen shook his head. “Not interested.”

“I know. It was just a fantasy.”

“Then again,” Owen said, sweeping his arm to include the street, the oblivious bagpiper, the entire vast immensity of New York City, “the whole damn thing is fantasy.”