Twenty-Eight
He was one of those “There but for the Grace of God” guys; one of those guys that thought if you went out of your way to ignore someone else’s bad shit then the same bad shit was liable to boomerang and smack you in the head.
Max was on line at the checkout counter at Grace’s Marketplace on Third Avenue, buying some vegetables to steam for dinner, when he heard these two young guys talking.
The bigger guy said, “Did you hear what happened on the West Side?”
Max’s hangover had kicked in big time and, although the guy was talking in a normal tone, it sounded like he was screaming directly into Max’s ear with a bullhorn.
“No,” the other guy said, sounding just as loud. Max had taken two Advils, but they were doing shit.
“This afternoon,” the big guy said, “couple hours ago. This guy in a wheelchair robs this liquor store on Amsterdam Avenue and loses it. He goes in with an Uzi and starts shooting up the place – kills the owner and his wife.”
Now Max was straining, listening closely, as the guy went on, explaining how the guy was run over and crushed to death by a laundry truck.
“That’s it,” the other guy said, shaking his head. “I’m moving to fuckin’ Jersey.”
As the guy went on, talking about something else, Max said, “Excuse me,” then more softly because of his aching brain, “excuse me, I just overheard what you were saying – about this guy in a wheelchair.”
“Yeah,” the guy said. “Pretty fucked up, huh?”
“You didn’t, by any chance, hear what his name was, did you?”
“Yeah, it was, I don’t know – something Spanish. Ramirez, Rojas…”
“Could it have been Rosa?”
“Maybe,” the guy said. “I wasn’t really paying attention too much to that part.”
He was staring at Max like Max was some wino or something. Max didn’t get it. Before he left the office, didn’t he have all those Altoids? There was a goddamn guarantee on the packet, wasn’t there?
Max left the vegetables in the shopping cart, and jogged back to his townhouse, nearly out of breath when he got there. His heart, fuck, it felt like it was about to explode.
He turned on the TV, expecting to find out that it was all a big mistake, that there were two crazy cripples with Spanish names in this city. But, sure enough, the reporter, live at the scene, said, “… police are releasing no other information about the gunman right now, but we have learned that Robert Rosa was an ex-convict who had been arrested several times for gun possession, armed robbery, and related charges. He was not married and it is not known whether he has any relatives.”
At first, Max was elated, but then he realized that his troubles were far from over. The police were probably searching Bobby’s apartment at this very moment. It was only a matter of time until they found that cassette.
Max turned off the TV and sat on his living room sofa in silence, the only noise coming from the refrigerator buzzing in the kitchen. At any moment, the police would come to the door, demanding to be let in.
He had to see Angela. He’d been thinking about her all last night, and most of the day today, wondering what was going on in her head. He knew she still loved him or why would she have lied to the police to protect him? Sure, she was covering her own ass as well, but she could have done that just as easily by letting him burn. Unless she figured he’d turn on her if she turned on him. Which he would have.
He needed another drink. He chugged a quarter bottle of Stoli then, thinking That was the problem, never should’ve switched to whiskey, left the townhouse and headed toward Third Avenue to hail a cab. Was he staggering a little? Nah, just nerves, that’s all. It was all perspective, how you looked at the picture. He muttered, “ So you had a wee dram.” Then, horrified, he thought, What was that? Scottish? Jesus. “Coulda been a contender.” Fuck, get a grip.
“Columbia Presbyterian Hospital!” he shouted at the driver.
The twenty-minute cab ride sobered Max up a little, but at the hospital he was still half-drunk and it took him a while to find Angela’s room.
A cop on duty recognized Max immediately.
“Hold it right there, Mr. Fisher.”
The cop was short, heavyset, with curly hair. He stood up with his hands on his hips, sticking out his chest.
“I wanna see Angela Petrakos,” Max said.
“Yeah, I bet you do, but I can’t let you in there.”
“Why not? I’m not charged with anything.”
“I still can’t let you in there.”
“Did someone tell you I couldn’t see her?”
The officer thought this over for a second then said, “No. But I still think it’s best.”
Max was in that weird zone of half hung over and feeling like he was seeing everything through glass, very dirty glass. For a mad moment, he was ready to take a swing at the guy.
He said, “Unless you want to embarrass yourself when I start making phone calls to your boss, I would suggest you let me inside there. The woman works for me, for Christ’s sake.”
Max was trying to summon up the old powerbroker Max, before his life went in the toilet, and maybe it was working. He thought the cop looked a little worried. Nothing like sticking it to the boys in blue to restore the old Max Fisher confidence.
The cop said, “All right, you can talk to her, but just for a couple of minutes, and I’m comin’ in there with you.”
Max was expecting Angela to look like hell, but it was just the opposite. She was sitting up in bed, watching TV, and she looked almost normal. She wasn’t wearing as much makeup as usual, but she was wearing bright red lipstick and her hair was nice. Her breasts looked great too. Who said hospital gowns weren’t sexy? He looked over at the cop and had a feeling the guy was thinking the same thing.
Looking back at Angela’s face, Max couldn’t tell if she was happy to see him or not. He had to be very careful now.
“Surprise,” Max said.
Angela continued to stare at Max with a blank expression, then she smiled slowly. But Max still couldn’t tell what she was thinking.
“What are you doing here?” she said.
“I just thought I’d stop by and pay a little visit,” Max said, “see how you were doing.”
The cop was standing in the corner of the room, watching them.
“I’m doing okay,” Angela said.
“Yeah, I can tell that,” Max said. “I mean it. You look dynamite.” He nodded toward the TV. “I see you’re watching the news. So I guess you saw about the robbery. That guy in the wheelchair. Crazy, huh?”
Angela nodded slowly.
“So… you should be feeling a little better, I’d think. Not out of the woods yet, but things are looking better.”
“The doctors said I was really lucky,” Angela said. “If the bullet in my chest had been an inch over to the right I’d probably be dead. They still think it’s a miracle I made it with all the blood I lost.”
Max’s vision was still blurry and it was hard to concentrate. He knew there were things he wanted to say to Angela, important things, but he couldn’t think of what the hell they were.
“So is that why you came here, just to see how I was?”
“No,” Max said, “I also came here to tell you that I miss you – at the office I mean. I miss having you around,
