press starts calling you a cop killer too, forget about it. Meanwhile, Angela and Max’ll be living happily ever after.”
There was no sound in the room other than the noise of the traffic in the street outside. “So what’re you saying?” Popeye finally asked.
“It’s up to you how you wanna handle this,” Bobby said, “but I know what I’d do.”
“What’s that?”
“I’d go by Angela’s tonight, teach the bitch a fuckin’ lesson.”
“Keep talkin.”
“Then, I’m just gonna throw this out there – maybe after you take care of Angela we can work together.”
“Doing what, changing your diapers?”
“What I did before I landed in this fucking chair, asshole. Hit banks, jewelry stores, anywhere where there’s money.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“To make some money, Popeye. You like money? First we’ll soak Fisher for all he’s worth, then we’ll move on to bigger and better things. See, this picture shit – it’s just a sideline for me. I’m into armed robbery – pulled some of the biggest jobs on the east coast. I got a few jobs I’m lookin’ to pull right now and you can be in my new crew.”
“What do you need me for?”
“I can handle a gun, but I can’t muscle people the way I used to. You ever do any muscle work, Popeye?”
“You’re fooking codding me, muscle work is me middle name, leaning on fookers, tis me birthright. I did some protection work for the Ra, the IRA to you.”
“The IRA?” Bobby said, impressed. “That’s great. So you already have some useful experience. So what do you say?”
Popeye thought about it, said, “What about the Guards? I can’t be waiting around New York, you know.”
“You ever hear of Willie Sutton?”
“Is he gonna be in our crew too?”
“No, he was a bank robber from the old days, the best who ever lived. Anyway, when the cops were coming after him he used to dress in disguises. One time he was living right next door to a police station and they never found him.”
“Fookin A. My kind of fellah.”
“So what we’ll do,” Bobby said, “is put you in some disguises. Or – I got a better idea – I know a guy out in Long Island City – you know, a plastic surgeon. He specializes in cons on the run.”
“Any chance he can make me look like Colin Farrell?”
“Those guys can work fucking miracles.”
Popeye smiled, stuck his hand out, said. “In that case, tis a deal, mate.”
Twenty-One
I put on the suit and hey, I was Dillon Blair; same shit-eating smile. You wear a suit like that, you get a hint of why the rich are so smug. Later, in Bedford Hill, a hooker said “Suit like that, you want to play busted?” “Play what?”
“I sit on yer face and you guess my weight?” Like I said, the suit was a winner.
Angela woke up when Dillon came home and turned on the light. He was wearing his leather jacket and was holding a big white shopping bag. He looked angry. Angrier than usual. Without saying a word to Angela, he went into the bathroom, still wearing his jacket and carrying the shopping bag.
Squinting, still half-asleep, Angela remembered what was supposed to happen tonight and obviously hadn’t happened. Bobby was supposed to take care of Dillon for her, but something had definitely gone wrong. Was Bobby dead? He must be if Dillon was still alive. Angela prayed that she was still sleeping, that this was a nightmare and that she’d wake up any second.
Dillon came out of the bathroom, still wearing his leather jacket.
“So?” Angela asked. “How did it go tonight?”
Dillon stared at Angela for a couple of seconds then said, “How did what go?” His tone had a combination of sarcasm and amusement, but he wasn’t smiling.
“You know what – with Bobby Rosa, the guy in the wheelchair.” She swallowed. “I mean did you kill him like you were supposed to?”
“Why the fook do you care?”
“I’m just asking. Jaysus, I have a right to ask, don’t I?”
Again, Dillon stared at Angela for a few seconds. His mutilated lips seemed to be wet, like a pair of ugly snakes. Angela had no idea what was going on. The only thing she could think of was that he had found out about her and Bobby’s plan. But this didn’t make any sense. Bobby would never’ve told Dillon about that unless Dillon had tortured him. Imagining Dillon torturing a poor guy in a wheelchair and enjoying it – she knew he’d enjoy it, all right – pissed Angela off big time.
“What’s wrong with you?” Angela said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I can look at you any way I want to,” Dillon said.
“Well, I don’t like it when you wet your lips like that, so just stop it.”
“You think there’s something wrong with me mouth?”
“I don’t think anything,” Angela said. “I just don’t like it when you do that. It gives me the creeps.”
Dillon stuck his tongue out and slowly ran it along his upper lip, then his lower. Then he said, “I’m going to miss that shite you talk.”
“What do you mean, miss it? Where are you going?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, still smiling.
“Look,” Angela said. “I wish you’d just tell me what’s going on here. It’s late and I have to get up to go to work tomorrow.”
He laughed out loud, said, “Missing work is not really something you’ll have to be bothered about.”
“Did you kill Bobby Rosa?” Angela asked. “Did you torture him first?”
“Why you care so much about Bobby Rosa?”
“I don’t. I just want to know what’s going on.”
“Maybe I did have some fun with the bastard. What’s it to you?”
Dillon’s left hand came out of the jacket pocket holding the gun he had used to kill those women and the cop. He aimed it at Angela. There was glint in his eye, part sexual, part adrenalin. He was having the time of his life.
“What’s that for?” Angela asked.
“It’s for you acting like you’re a tinker and you just stole me wallet.”
“Stop pointing that thing at me.”
“I never told anyone about the tinker, you know.”
“I’m gonna scream my feckin’ ass off,” Angela said.
Dillon grinned, said, “Go on. Pretend you’re trying to steal me money.”
“I’m serious,” Angela said.
“Try, go on, put yer hand in me jacket.”
Dillon’s right hand came out of the other pocket holding a switchblade. The blade sprang open and he lunged forward, slicing Angela across her right thigh. A deep gash opened and blood spread in a thick stream down
