hated how he sounded, like he was fucking pleading. Then, craving another drink, he went to the stash of Chivas Regal he kept for special clients. He poured a glass, some going on his tie, thought, Fuck it, and started guzzling. Vaguely, he remembered the hangover from hell the last time he mixed vodka and whiskey, but he didn’t let that slow him down. He hit the intercom button and ordered his temp to go out to get some pistachios, figuring they’d soak up the booze.
Ten minutes later, clutching the bottle of Chivas, Max wobbled out to the temp’s desk and said, “Where the fuck are my nuts?” Then he said, “Wait I know where they are, they’re right here,” and grabbed his balls.
The girl mumbled something with the word “disgusting” in it and Max interrupted, “Hey, you talking back to me? Don’t you know, I own your arse!” He smiled, realizing he’d channeled Thomas Dillon, old Popeye himself.
Now the girl was saying something about quitting and Max said, “You know, you’re getting just a tad on my nerves.” Then he thought, Tad? How fucking British was he gonna get? And where the hell was that Zen book? Hadn’t the police returned it? How was he gonna mellow out if he couldn’t find the goddamn thing?
The girl got up to leave. No big loss – she was thin, had no shape.
“And Zen there were none!” Max yelled at her as she ran out of the office.
He opened the Chivas for another dose and then shouted, “Fuck!” as the cap cut into his index finger, blood leaking out. In the bathroom, full-blown panic set in as he rinsed his finger, watching what he was convinced were pints of blood go down the drain. He was gonna bleed to death from a Chivas bottle cap – how pathetic was that?
The bleeding finally stopped but, but he was convinced he’d lost vital amounts of blood and back at his desk, he drank from the bottle, trying to replace the fluid, thinking, Yeah, like that was gonna work. Then, thinking out loud, he said, “Did I just think out loud?” Fook on a bike, as that Irish cow always said. Why wouldn’t the bitch do the decent thing and fuckin’ die? Was it so much to ask?
Max stood straight up, muttered about getting focused, even though he was seeing double. He was determined to save his business. Then, the whiskey pumping him up, he thought, The office? Why stop there? He could save the world, maybe give Angela’s buddy Bono a run for his money.
Then Jack Haywood from Segal, Russell amp; Ross called to tell Max that his company wanted to sever ties with NetWorld. Max nearly cried, No, not fucking Jack.
“Come on, Jackie baby,” Max pleaded, “after all we’ve been through, all the lap dances and hookers? Come on, buddy, you know what kind of guy I am? You know I’d never get involved with any of those sleazeballs you’re hearing about in the news, I thought we were tight, man?”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Max thought Jack might have hung up, then he was saying, “I want to believe you, Max, but I saw you with that stripper the other night and I’ve seen you with strippers before and I know how you were always putting down your wife, talking about how you sleep around-”
“Jack,” Max shouted, “that was just bullshit I say when I’m selling. You don’t really think I… whatever you do, Jack, please, don’t tell the police that!”
“It’s not my decision anyway,” Jack said. “If it was up to me, I’d keep you on, but the partners don’t like it. But hey, listen, I’ll keep your number in my rolodex. If I ever move to another company, I’ll give you a call. Maybe we can do something.” There was a long pause then Jack asked, “Are you drinking?” Then, “I mean, it’s none of my business, pal, but you need to stay sober if you want to regain any credibility.”
Max squinted hard, said, “Regain?”
Wasn’t that the shit to save your hair? Hell, maybe it could save his firm.
By the end of the day, half his client list was gone, kaput, finito. And the other half would’ve been gone too if, at some point, he hadn’t stopped answering the phone.
Twenty-Seven
You have a saying “to kill two birds with one stone.” But our way is to kill just one bird with one stone.
With a gym bag resting on his lap, Bobby wheeled into the liquor store on the corner of Amsterdam and Ninety-first. The same old Pakistani guy Bobby always saw there, morning or night, was working the counter. What was with that? Did they sleep, like, standing up?
There were two customers in the store – a Chinese woman and a black man. Bobby wheeled to the back of the store and started browsing in the Merlot section. Meanwhile, in one of the overhead mirrors, he was watching the activity at the checkout counter up front. The Chinese woman paid for her purchase in small bills, even counting out coins to give exact change, for Chrissakes. But eventually she finished, took her bag, and left. Now it was only Bobby and the black guy in the store. Bobby felt like he could get out of his chair and walk.
The black guy moved to the checkout counter. Bobby thought he saw the Pakistani guy looking in the mirror, watching him, maybe suspiciously, but Bobby wasn’t worried. He was in the groove – nothing could get to him now.
“Thanks,” the black guy said.
When the door closed and the little bell above it rang, Bobby moved – not fast, casually, toward the front of the store. The Pakistani guy was looking down, writing something in a pad. Bobby opened his gym bag and took out an Uzi. The rush he felt when he had the weapon in his hand – yeah, this was the old Bobby.
“This is a stick-up,” he announced. “Don’t try to be a hero. Just fill up this bag up with money and you won’t get shot.”
He had just the right amount of hard-ass and viciousness in his tone, just like the good ol’ days, just like Isabella had taught him.
Everything the Pakistani guy did was magnified. Bobby could hear his breath, see the sweat spreading out of his pores. Was he imagining it, or did the guy smell like the back seat of a cab?
Then he saw the guy’s right arm start to move. Bobby imagined that a lot of guys might have missed this, guys who weren’t as sharp and quick as he was. This was what he had learned from twenty-plus years in the life – to notice the little things. Maybe the guy was going for an alarm or maybe he was going for a gun, but Bobby wasn’t going to wait and find out. He started firing, unloading half a round in an instant. He had a flashback to Desert Storm, the time a sniper was running across the sand and Bobby shot him in the neck so many times his head fell off, but his body kept running a few feet before it dropped. Then he saw flashes of himself on jobs – running out of jewelry stores and banks. This was where he belonged – in the action, on the front line. Bobby was smiling now, watching the little towelhead store owner flying back against the back wall in slow motion. The bullets shredded the little fucker to bits.
Then Bobby heard footsteps behind him. When he turned around he didn’t see another towelhead, but an old woman, probably the owner’s wife. She had a gun, a little revolver, in her right hand and she was screaming in a language Bobby didn’t understand. Bobby didn’t want to fire, but when he saw her trigger finger starting to move he had no choice. What, he survived Desert Storm to let some old broad get the drop on him? Getoutta here. He sent the screaming old woman into a wine rack, shattering glass and spilling red liquid everywhere. Red with meat, right?
The store was quiet again. Moving quickly, Bobby hoisted himself up onto the counter so he was sitting next to the register and reached into the open cash tray. Then he wheeled himself to the back room and found some more money in the old woman’s pocketbook. The whole score only came to a thousand bucks and change. It wasn’t as much as if he’d gotten them to open the safe, but what could you do? He’d just have to make it up on the next job and the job after that. He put the money and the Uzi into his gym bag, closed the zipper all the way, and, with the smell of cordite rocking his brain, wheeled out into the twilight.
Heading across the street, Bobby saw the cops get out of the squad car before the cops saw him. He went for the Uzi again when he saw another cop across the street aiming a gun at him, yelling “Stop, police!” Shit, why’d he put the Uzi away? He had his hand in the gym bag when the first bullet went into his leg. He laughed, didn’t even feel it, but the bullet sent his wheelchair out of control. The laundry truck, shit, it was coming right at him.
