apartment – tell her Bobby Rosa had died. That usually got him off whatever list he was on.
“Why do you want to talk to him?” Bobby said.
“Is this Mr. Rosa?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“It’s very important that I speak with Mr. Rosa.”
“Yeah? And why’s that?”
“My name is Estelle Sternberg from the Jewish Home for the Aged. I’m afraid I have some bad news regarding his mother. Who am I speaking with please?”
“What happened to his mother?”
“I’m afraid she passed away last night,” the woman said.
Bobby paused, letting the news sink in, then he said, “Yeah, well, this is Bobby so you can tell me what happened.”
Ms. Sternberg explained that Mrs. Rosa had died in her sleep the night before. She asked Bobby if he wanted any assistance in making the funeral arrangements.
“No, I’ll take care of it myself,” Bobby said, thinking, Well, at least I didn’t have to shoot her.
When he hung up, Bobby realized he was starving and he decided to take his bath later. He hadn’t had pancakes in a long time so he cooked some up the way he liked them, with a lot of butter. Then, as he was eating, it hit him. He lost it, wheeling around his apartment, screaming and throwing things. It wasn’t good enough – he needed to start shooting shit up. He was on his way to the closet to get a piece when he heard the phone ring.
He picked up, going, “What?”
“Bobby?”
Fuck, it sounded like Angela. How was that fucking possible? Was Dillon completely fucking incompetent?
“Yeah,” he finally said.
“You know who this is?”
Straining for a Mr. Nice Guy tone, he said, “ ’Course I do, sweetheart. How’s it going?”
Why, why was that cunt still alive and his mother was dead? What kind of fucked up world was this?
“I can’t talk much right now,” Angela said. “I’m at work. You won’t believe what’s been going on. I can’t even believe I’m talking to you.”
“Yeah,” Bobby said. “Me neither.”
Angela lowered her voice to a whisper, said “We don’t have to worry about Dillon, I mean Popeye, anymore… I got rid of him last night.”
“What do you mean got rid of him?”
“I can’t talk about that right now.”
“Is he dead?”
“Yeah,” Angela said.
“You killed him?”
“You know, Bobby, I really think we should talk about that somewhere private. Can you meet me somewhere or something?”
Bobby might have left Angela alone forgotten about her – but it was too dangerous now. She knew about three murders and had committed one herself, meaning the cops would be after her soon, if they weren’t already. If she was arrested she’d flip on Max Fisher, and after that the million-dollar photo of Max and Angela would be worth about as much as any of the other pictures he had taped to the walls.
Besides, he was in the mood to go kill somebody, let off some steam.
“Sure,” Bobby said. “I can meet you. Let me think a sec.”
“How about tonight?” Angela said. “I could stop by your place on my way home from work.”
“Nah, I don’t think we should wait that long,” Bobby said. “I wanted to get out of the house anyway today. I know, let’s meet in Riverside Park this afternoon. How’s two o’clock work for you?”
Twenty-Three
I would extricate myself, I was sure, though I thought, too, of what I’d told the police, how the killer was still out there, and I felt a sense of danger beneath the veneer of the moment, everything about to break loose.
When Angela told Max she was taking a late lunch, Max said, “What about that phone call?”
“I’ll try again from the street,” Angela said. “I have to go – I have a two o’clock appointment at my hairdresser.”
Angela had just said this as an excuse to get out of the office, but on the way downstairs she decided that getting a haircut would be a good idea. Maybe she could get a blow out and a wash every day until she could start using her shower again.
Angela took the 1 train from Times Square and got off at Ninety-sixth Street. Bobby had said he wanted to meet on the Riverside Park promenade, between the Hudson River and the tennis courts.
Angela’s bruises and cuts were still bothering her, especially the one on her thigh, but she knew she’d feel better once she figured out a way to get Bobby out of the way. Maybe she’d sleep with him again if she had to. He had B.O. and he wasn’t the best-looking guy in the world but, she had to admit, there was something kind of hot about wheelchair sex.
She entered Riverside Park at Ninety-sixth Street and walked toward the river. She came to the underpass Bobby was talking about and went through to the promenade. It was a clear, sunny day, about seventy degrees. There were a few old men sitting on benches and other people out jogging and walking their dogs. Angela got to the spot Bobby had described and looked around. She didn’t see him anywhere. She checked her watch – a few minutes after two.
She was tired and her thigh was hurting worse than before. She wanted to sit down, but all the benches nearby were either taken or covered with bird shit. She went back toward the water, leaned against the railing, and stared out toward New Jersey.
Bobby was waiting on a path on the wooded hill behind the tennis courts. The trees had blossomed a few weeks earlier so there was good cover. From his position, he had a nice, clear view of the promenade. Angela wasn’t there yet, but when she showed up he’d be ready for her. In the big front pocket of his windbreaker he had a stainless steel. 44 snub nose Mag Hunter. Yeah, fuckin hardware – it made the man.
Angela would be about sixty yards away – a tough shot for most people, but point-blank range for Bobby. He was already getting flashbacks of all the towelheads he’d taken down in Iraq, the sheer rush he’d get when he had those sand rats in his sight.
A few minutes later, Bobby saw Angela walking along the promenade. For some reason she was limping. She looked pale and drawn, not nearly as sexy as she had the other times Bobby had seen her. He remembered what she’d said, about the wheelchair being “kind of sexy.” An old song began to play in his head, Where was the love?
When she got to the spot where they were supposed to meet Bobby took out the Mag and fitted on a silencer. Man, just holding a loaded gun again got Bobby juiced.
He looked around to make sure there was no one nearby, watching him, then he raised the gun and aimed at Angela’s chest.
Angela limped toward a bench and looked like she was about to sit down, then she turned and went back toward the railing of the promenade. She put her hands on the railing and looked out across the river. Bobby was locked in on a spot right between her shoulder blades, figuring he’d give it to her in the back. But when Bobby fired,
