“You can just admit it,” Max said.
“Admit what?” Kamal asked.
“That you and Deirdre were, you know… a couple. Don’t worry, I won’t fire you or anything like that.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Kamal said.
“Come on,” Max said, “you think I’m blind? I saw how much time you and Deirdre spent together. It’s obvious you two were very close.”
“I admired your wife a great deal,” Kamal said, “but I could never imagine having relations with her.”
“Not even one time,” Max said, “just for the hell of it?”
“I’m offended that you would even ask me such a thing. I am a Sikh from Punjab – we are very spiritual people. We don’t sleep with other men’s wives, not even if we wanted to, and I did not want to sleep with your wife. No offense but, western women, they have a peculiar odor – it’s from eating meat perhaps. I like the smell of curry and spices, if you can understand.”
Max stared at him deadpan, thinking, Is this guy for real?
Then Max demanded, “You swear to God?”
“Why should I-”
“If you didn’t do anything you shouldn’t have a problem swearing to God about it.”
Kamal slid the potatoes and beets into the steamer then said, “I do not believe in God the same way you do.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Max said. “Then do you swear to the Buddha about it?”
“The Buddha does not ask anything to swear to it. The Buddha is not a singular being or concept. The Buddha is all things.”
Max picked up a plate and held it up. He said, “Fine, so let’s say this plate is the Buddha. Do you swear to this plate that you never banged my wife?”
Kamal looked at Max like he was crazy, then said, “I did not do anything with your wife. I’m giving you my word which should be enough, now please, do not say any more disrespectful things about the Buddha. It is very, very hurtful to me.”
The little rice eater looked like he was about to cry.
Max stared at him for a few seconds and decided that he was probably telling the truth after all. But if Kamal didn’t give the herpes to Deirdre that meant that Max must have gotten it from Angela.
“Eh, just forget about it,” Max said. “What difference does it make anyway?”
Max went to the fridge and poured himself a glass of skim milk.
“You know, you should really consider joining me at the ashram sometime,” Kamal said, stirring the big pot of brown rice. “I think it would very healing for you.”
“I’m Jewish,” Max said.
“Our guru welcomes people of all faiths,” Kamal said. “And meditating and chanting can be very cleansing. It can help you to become at peace with your inner self.”
“I’m not gonna sit on the floor and chant like some hippie,” Max said. Then he wondered if he could meet some classy Indian woman at the ashram. Hell, he could do rice and, for a decent lay, he’d chant till the crows came home or till the whatever fucking birds they had in India came home. Besides, what the hell was he doing with Angela anyway? He used to think he was in love with her, but lately he wasn’t so sure. She had a nice body and that great accent, but there wasn’t much more going on there. What had he been thinking?
“Lemme ask you something,” Max said. “Do women come to these ashrams?”
“Yes, of course,” Kamal said. “The spiritual journey is not just for men.”
Kamal was trying not to smile. Was something funny?
“Yeah, lemme ask you something else,” Max said. “Are they well-endowed?”
“Excuse me?”
“Tits. Do they have big tits?”
Kamal waited a few seconds, checking the vegetables, then said, “Some of them do, yes.”
“In that case, maybe I’ll give the hippie shit a shot,” Max said. “I mean after I get through with my mourning of course.”
Then he looked away and glanced at the copy of the Daily News on the table. Some Jap tourist got his throat cut on Forty-second Street and the police had no suspects. Max chuckled, thought, I guess Times Square ain’t no Disneyland after all.
Seventeen
I lose it, flapping about in the rain and kicking the hell out of the dog. I don’t deserve this. I don’t fucking deserve all this fucking bad luck and this stupid fucking life.
The next day another Manhattan murder was the lead story on the six o’clock news. The rat-gnawed body of forty-one-year-old Homicide Detective Kenneth Simmons of the 19th Precinct had been discovered by some children in an empty lot in Harlem. The body had two gunshot wounds and a stab wound to the chest. The police had released a police sketch of a suspect in the case – a white male, approximately five-five or five-six, maybe 130 pounds, with gray hair, last seen wearing an old leather jacket and dirty blue jeans and new sneakers. On Monday morning, the suspect had been spotted in a pawnshop on Bayard Street in Chinatown selling jewelry that was stolen during the recent murders of two Upper East Side women. Police believed that he might be a suspect in those murders as well since Detective Simmons had been working on that case when he was killed. People with any information regarding the case were urged to call a special police hotline number or 577-TIPS.
Watching the news report on the TV in his living room, Max had no doubt that the guy in the police sketch was Popeye. His face was too fat and his eyes and nose looked different, but everything else, down to the leather jacket, was definitely him. Max didn’t know what that guy was going to fuck up next. Was the stupid prick determined to wipe out the population of Manhattan? He’d read once that the Irish were truly demented. Well, no argument there.
Sitting at a table in the back of Famiglia Pizza on Fiftieth and Broadway, Max saw Popeye limping up the aisle. After Popeye sat down, diagonally across from Max, with a big cupful of ice, Max said, “What happened to your foot?”
“Fook me foot, yah suited prick,” Popeye said. Then looking around nervously he said, “Nobody followed yeh here, right?”
Dillon was fingering a gold pin in his leather jacket, like it was a talisman or something. The Irish and their goddamn superstitions.
“Not that I know of,” Max said.
“Yeah, well you better be sure,” Popeye said. “I shouldn’t even be here now. I should be in Florida, writing me poetry.”
The idea of this bloodthirsty animal writing poetry was too much for Max. What was that old joke? If you threw a stone in Ireland, you’ll probably hit a poet, usually a bad one.
Smiling, Max asked, “How do your poems start? Roses are red?”
Popeye had the cup up to his mouth, sucking out an ice cube. When his eyes peered over the cup, Max said, “Don’t look at me.”
Sucking on a cube, Popeye said, “What?”
“You heard me, you little cocksucker.” Max laughed. “Just sit there and keep looking straight ahead and don’t look at me. If you look at me one time I’m getting up and leaving here and you’ll never see me again.”
“I like that, the little bollix showing some spunk,” Popeye said. “But are you on medication? You’re the one who can’t look at me.”
“Not anymore,” Max said. “Now I’m calling the shots.”
