Sebastian thought that was more than a little rude and really, wasn’t it crossing the line? He began to wonder if ol’ Yanni had just the tiniest issue with women.
The trailer door opened and Angela and the black chappie came out, got in the car and took off.
Yanni, putting the car in gear, asked, “What is this?”
Paula said, “Probably going to get supplies. There’s gotta be a 7-Eleven close by. You got a trailer park, you got a 7-Eleven.”
Sure enough they pulled up outside said establishment and, lordy, was Angela necking with the black fellow?
Sebastian muttered, “Get a room. And herpes.”
Finally, she got out and went into the store.
“Herpes,” Paula said. “That’s funny, Max was just telling me the story today, how Angela gave him herpes and how she said she got it from her ex-boyfriend, the Irish hit man.”
Just what Sebastian needed to hear – the bloody history of his condition.
“I kill the she-devil right now,” Yanni said, leaving the gun on the seat and pulling out a long-bladed knife he’d brought along.
“Let’s be sensible, shall we?” Sebastian said. “I wouldn’t mind doing away with the cow myself, but I don’t think you want to be committing a murder on CCTV now, do you?”
Paula, from the back seat, said, “Wait, you guys aren’t serious, are you? You’re not really going through with this, right?”
Then Angela was leaving the store, smiling blissfully, carrying an overstuffed bag of junk food, and Yanni was out of the car, charging her like a madman.
Paula shrieked, “Oh my God!” and then Angela pulled out a gun and shot Yanni right in the face. Sebastian had to give the ol’ gell credit, she had some tricks up her sleeve. Or, rather, in her purse.
But Sebastian couldn’t let her get any ideas and try to shoot him as well, could he? Beating her to the shot, so to speak, he aimed the Walther and fired at her back as she passed, hitting her spot on. Not bad at all. Rather like shooting pheasants.
Sebastian was still feeling right proud of his accomplishment when he remembered the black guy waiting in the car. He was going to walk over, do away with him as well, but, dammit, the car was already speeding out of the car park.
Watching Angela get killed had been sad and horrifying, of course, and the image of the puddle of blood pooling around her on the asphalt would stay with her forever, but Paula wouldn’t have traded the experience for anything. What true crime author gets a ringside seat for a homicide? A double homicide if you included the crazed Greek. After The Max was written and published and beloved by millions, the demand would be huge for a book solely about Angela Petrakos. She was the ultimate femme fatale – hey, that wouldn’t make a bad subtitle, got to write that down – and who would be more qualified than Paula to tell her story? The ideas were vivid, so fresh in Paula’s head, she started scribbling them down in her pad, afraid she’d forget them.
She’d written maybe three pages when she snapped out of her writer’s high and realized she was in the back seat of a car with Lee Child’s homicidal half-brother driving.
Suddenly terrified, Paula asked, “What’re you going to do to me?”
Sebastian said, “Nothing much. No offense, gell, but I don’t really fancy lesbians, I’m afraid. And least when it’s not a menage.”
He pulled over on to the shoulder, took all her cash and jewelry, and ordered her to get out of the car. She shut her eyes and cringed, afraid he’d shoot her, but he just said, “ Ciao, mi amore,” and left her in the dust.
Twenty-One
“Shit, he thought, as his eyes glazed over and the roaring in his ears slowly receded.
I can’t believe I’m dying in a goddamn trailer.”
M ICHELLE G AGNON, The Tunnels
When Rufus returned alone, Max instinctively got his piece and put it in the waistband of his jeans, like the cool guys did in the movies. Rufus entered the trailer, fell to his knees, sobbing like a baby, and began to spill out a story of some white guy offing Angela.
Max felt his heart lurch, Angela gone? He couldn’t fucking believe it.
He shouted at Rufus, “Yeah, and how come you’re still alive? And where’s her body – you just left her lying there? I treat you like my son and this is what I get?”
He had his gun in his hand and could feel grief and rage engulfing him.
Rufus was pleading and crying and then Max heard him say he loved her. Loved her? His Angela? And, worse, Rufus was going on now about how they’d been kissing just before she got wasted, how she was the best damn kisser he’d ever met. It was so tender, yo, so sweet.
Kissing?
He put the first round in Rufus’s belly – weren’t gut shots supposed to be agony? – and Rufus stared up at him with shock in his eyes. Max jammed the barrel in Rufus’s mouth, went, “Fucking kiss this.”
Emptied the clip.
Sean had been in a drunken stupor but the gunfire woke him – you want a mick’s attention, let off a few rounds. He staggered out of the back room, the pump shotgun in his hands and saw the black man’s almost headless torso lying at Max’s feet.
Sean looked stunned, like he was in awe of Max, and why wouldn’t he be? Guy from Ireland, IRA connections, he must’ve seen a lot of crazies in his bedraggled life, but there was crazy and there was Max crazy. Max knew he took insanity to a whole new level. Nobody was as crazy as he was, nobody.
Sean carefully lowered the shotgun, then asked, “W-w-w-w-w-w-w-where’s A-A-A-A-A-Ang-g-g-g-gel-l-l- la?”
Max said, “She’s dead. The love of my life, mon cherie, mon amour, mon Juliette.”
Sean said, “Sh-sh-sh-she… w-w-w-w-was… m-m-m-m-mine.”
“Well she’s no one’s now,” Max said. “Saddle up pilgrim, time to hit the trail.”
They packed fast and burned rubber out of there like the very Hound of Heaven was after them.
Max, sipping from the remains of the Jay while Sean drove, began a long monologue about Angela and busts and dickless cracker kids. Then he punched Sean on the shoulder, a tear in his eye, and said, “Last of the campaneros.”
Twenty-Two
“Words are not as adequate as teeth.”
Paula Segal was stunned. She had written what she felt was a very compelling proposal for The Max, which included a synopsis of the entire book, and pretty soon expected to be living the literary high life – author tours, press conferences, award ceremonies. One thing she wasn’t expecting – rejection.
Her agent broke the news to her over – yep – lattes at Starbucks.
He said, “There was a fairly strong consensus among the editors I went out to. The material’s simply too dark.”
Paula was in shock. This had to be a bad dream, or at least a bad joke. Her agent would crack a smile at any moment, say, Had you going there, huh? And then unveil the real news, that there was currently a bidding war going on for the book. All the major houses wanted it, and it was only a matter of whose eight-figure deal to accept: Knopf’s or Harper Collins’. Or maybe there was only one major player, Sonny Mehta from Knopf, and on a signal from her agent Sonny would come through the door, ear-to-ear smile, and give her a big welcoming hug and say, “Welcome aboard, hon.”
But, nope, her agent was still looking at her with that helpless expression that she’d gotten to know all too
