“Why don’t you call him yourself?” Angela said, wanting to add “yah dumb cunt.”
Deirdre stopped and looked back at Angela with her mouth open, like she was shocked. “What did you just say?”
“Call him yourself,” Angela said. “I’m not your fookin’ slave.”
“I would suggest you not speak to me that way,” Deirdre said, “if having a job is important to you. You girls, you come over here, think you have cousins in the NYPD, think that dumb accent is the ticket to the good life. Well let me tell you, Maureen O’Hara is no Halle Berry, if you get my drift.”
Deirdre laughed snootily then marched out of the office.
“Fuck you,” Angela whispered then, the mick blood boiling, added, “yah fecking hoor’s ghost!”
Angela knew that Deirdre couldn’t get her fired – Max would just laugh if Deirdre complained to him – but she still didn’t like being put down by some uppity bitch. It just didn’t seem fair that Deirdre and Max had all that money and lived in that great townhouse. Angela knew if the shoe were on the other foot, and she was the rich lady, she’d be gracious, treat her inferiors with respect, helping out the poor, giving her old Donna Karan or whatever to Goodwill. She’d do a lot of stuff straight from her heart like that.
It was so frustrating – if only Angela had Max’s money, she knew her life with Dillon could be perfect. Then the thought came to her for the first time: why couldn’t they have Max’s money? All he had to do was divorce Deirdre – whom he hated anyway – and then he and Angela could get married. Max would eventually have a heart attack and die and Angela and Dillon would be set. But when Angela brought up the divorce idea to Max the next day he said he’d never even consider it. He was so cheap he’d rather stay with a wife he hated than give half his money away in a divorce settlement.
What could you expect from a bollix who didn’t tip?
That was when Angela came up with the murder idea. The way she saw it, it was the only way things could ever work out with Dillon. The key was, she had to explain it to Dillon the right way. She couldn’t say, “I’ve been screwing my boss for three months, you want to help me kill his wife?” She’d have to bring it up another way, tell him, “I know a way to get all of my boss’s money, you want to help me?” Naturally, he’d say yes, once he found out exactly how much money he stood to make. He’d drop that Zen book in a hurry, replace it with a gun in jig time, that was for sure. Then she’d say that it would mean she’d have to fool around with Max a little. She’d say “fool around with him a little” on purpose, make it sound like it wasn’t something serious.
When Angela told Dillon, he said he thought it was a great idea. He didn’t even have a problem when she got to the part about “fooling around a little.” He said, “But you can’t say I’m gonna do it. You gotta tell him it’s a friend of yours or some shite like that.”
“I’ll say you’re a friend of my cousin’s, but I need a name.”
“Tell him I’m Popeye.”
“Why Popeye?”
“’Cause he ate spinach and we should keep the deal green.”
Angela laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“I’m just imagining my boss’s face,” Angela said, still laughing, “when he finds out a guy named Popeye is gonna kill his wife.”
“It was dumb to ask for ten,” Angela said to Dillon. “You should’ve just stayed at eight.”
Angela and Dillon were sitting in the dining area of her apartment eating Apple Jacks and milk. The place was maybe four hundred square feet and there was no separate kitchen or living area. There was just a small area against one wall for the kitchen appliances and a countertop and a larger area with barely enough room for a full- size bed, a dresser, a small table and folding chairs from Bed Bath amp; Beyond, and a fourteen-inch color TV.
“He said yes, didn’t he?” Dillon said. “You should be thankin’ me. I got us two thousand extra dollars. You know how many Protestants I’d have to kill for that? A lot.”
“You could’ve blown everything,” Angela said.
“Blowing stuff is what I do, it’s me birthright. That stupid fooker is going to bring us all that money. You should have seen his face – how scared he was.”
Dillon’s mutilated lips looked even uglier when he said this, as if he relished putting the fear of be-jaysus into someone.
“He was scared?”
“Fook yeah.” Dillon started laughing. “You know what I told him? I told him he better not be home when I was there ’cause if he was home I might pop him too.” Dillon was laughing harder. “I don’t know how I didn’t start laughing my arse off right then. But I kept looking at him like this…” Dillon made a serious face, his ruined lips making his features even more horrific. “It was like I was feckin’ Michael Collins when he was arranging to kill the Brit agents, you should see that fillum, it’s mighty. It was like I could see him thinking, Uh-oh, this fellah wouldn’t be codding. It’s amazing how somebody so rich could be so feckin’ stupid.”
“He’s stupid all right,” Angela said, “but he’s not as stupid as you think. I mean a guy doesn’t make so much money, own a company like that, being stupid.”
“That’s not true,” Dillon said. “Look around sometime. There’re a lot of stupid people in this city, and a lot of feckin’ rich people too.”
Dillon took his last bite of Apple Jacks, slurped down the flesh-colored milk, then reached for the bottle of Jameson. He poured a shot, called it his eye opener, and drained it. He waited for the liquid to hit his stomach, then gave what he called his delicious shudder.
Angela had a minor scare when Max said, “The only thing I’m worried about is this Popeye character.” Everything had been going well, but now she was afraid that he would find out about everything.
Later that day, Angela had another scare when Diane in accounting came up to her at the coffee machine and said in a hushed voice, “Can I ask you a personal question?”
Angela knew that when a woman asked another woman that, it was a given that some kind of bitchiness was on its way.
“Sure,” Angela said.
Diane was always trying to lose weight – lately she was on The Cabbage Soup Diet. Maybe she was going to ask for some diet advice, get some crack in that Angela should try the diet too, not that she needed to lose weight or anything because she looked so good. Yeah, right.
But instead Diane said, “Is there something going on between you and Max?”
“Max?” Angela said.
“You know…” Diane said, “I mean you’re always going into his office, locking the door…”
“Who told you that?”
“No one. I just noticed it myself and I was just wondering, that’s all.”
“There’s nothing going between me and Max,” Angela said as though the idea repulsed her. But, just for effect, she held her stomach like she was going to throw up and said, “That’s really disgusting. I mean, how gross is that? Could you imagine going down on that flabby belly?”
“I knew it couldn’t be true,” Diane said. “I mean, it’s bad enough working for him. Who would want to sleep with him?”
Angela hoped Diane would forget all about it, but she’d have to watch her closely just in case. Then, walking away, she thought, And hon, the diet, it’s like, not working.
That night Angela said to Dillon, “You know what that asshole said to me today? That I should add a cup size to my breasts.”
They were in bed, passing a joint back and forth. Dillon took his hit and passed the joint to Angela then said, “So?”
“So?” Angela said. “What do you mean, So?”
“I mean, So? Like so what so.”
Jesus, he sure knew how to annoy the shite out of a person.
“What? You don’t like my breasts either?”
“I didn’t say that,” Dillon said. “I happen to like your tits, but I like your arse better.”
“Thanks a lot,” Angela said.
“You’re welcome.”
Angela sat up, looking down at her breasts. “I don’t care what anybody says – I like them just the way they
