Ken Bruen - Bust

That alarm business had done them in, Max decided. That cocky Irish prick obviously wasn’t as much of a pro as he claimed to be. Max kicked himself for not doing some kind of background check on Popeye before agreeing to all of this. He’d been thinking with his dick and that was never a smart move.

Max finished the bottle of vodka, the alcohol doing wonders to relieve his panic. He decided he was just acting paranoid, which was probably normal after you’ve paid to have your wife killed. He decided he couldn’t have handled the situation any better than he had and the only thing he could do now was get some rest.

Surprisingly, Max slept like a baby, dreaming about Felicia the lap dancer.

In the morning, feeling clear-headed and alert, he resolved to keep his mind focused. He showered, shaved, and got dressed. The bedroom was still a mess so he did a little straightening up – he was able to retrieve all of his kidney stones – and decided he would have his maid come in later, or sometime soon, to finish cleaning. He was hungry and went downstairs to make a pot of coffee and some oatmeal. With a glass of water he swallowed a Mevacor and one of his little blue Viagra pills. The police had gotten someone to clean up the blood late last night, although there was still a faint stain on the wall where Deirdre’s brains had splattered. Max decided he would have to have the maid deal with that too. He’d also have to get someone to repair the two bullet holes in the walls. Or maybe he could just hang pictures over them.

As Max ate his breakfast, the doorbell rang several times. Looking through the peephole, he saw the reporters outside his door. Finally, when he finished his food, Max opened the door and made a brief statement to the TV cameras.

He said, “This is a tragedy that no one who hasn’t experienced the violent death of a loved one, or loved ones, could possibly comprehend. I just hope the police find the bastard who did this and that he’s punished to the fullest extent of the law.”

He knew he’d achieved the right blend of outrage and deep sorrow and that his face would look great on the news. Hell, he’d probably get letters from women asking to marry him.

The reporters shouted questions, but Max apologized politely and shut the door. He was proud of himself for handling the situation so well. He sounded exactly the way he was supposed to sound and he’d even managed to force out some tears. He’d put drops in his eyes beforehand and those suckers always stung him.

Keeping with Jewish tradition, Deirdre’s funeral would have to be as soon as possible. Max calmly took care of all the arrangements, scheduling the service for Monday morning at the Riverside Memorial Chapel on Amsterdam Avenue, where he had gone for his aunt’s funeral last year. The whole deal cost him a pretty penny but, hey, he wasn’t no cheap date. He spent the rest of the day on the phone with friends and relatives, accepting condolences and sharing sympathies.

No one from the police department called all day, but Max didn’t know whether this was good or bad. Late in the afternoon, he wondered if he should call Simmons to find out what was going on. It seemed like the natural thing to do, right? On the other hand, would that be something an actual grieving husband would do? Finally, he decided not to call and just wait and see what happened. This was more like the old Max, making informed decisions.

At six o’clock, he watched the local newscasts. All the stations had the murders as their top story – after all, it wasn’t every day that two affluent white women were murdered in New York City. He watched himself on TV, again proud of his performance. According to the reports, there still weren’t any suspects in the case, but police were conducting “a thorough investigation.”

The next day Max woke up early to prepare for his guests. His brother Paul and Paul’s wife Karen from Albany were coming down and so were Harold and Claire Goldenberg. The Goldenbergs were only going to stay for one night, and they were going to stay in a hotel. Tomorrow they would attend Deirdre’s funeral in the morning and then fly back with Stacy’s body to Boston for her funeral on Tuesday. Max was looking forward to seeing his brother and sister-in-law, but he was dreading having to face the Goldenbergs. He hated to admit it, with them grieving and all, but they were dull as hell.

The Goldenbergs arrived first, but fortunately they didn’t want to stay long. Claire said she wanted to see the spot where her daughter had died, but when Max showed it to her she lost it and Harold had to take her back to the hotel. An hour or so later, Paul and Karen arrived. Max and Paul had never been very close, but Max always felt good about himself when he was around Paul. He had six years on his brother and, although their age difference didn’t mean as much now that they were both in their fifties, Max felt that same superiority over his brother that he’d felt when he was sixteen and his brother was ten. Now Paul was an English professor at some college in Albany. He taught Shakespeare and Chaucer, or something like that, and he and Max had zero in common. Max loved watching Paul drool over the fine house, the expensive furnishings. Try pulling that down as a goddamn teacher.

The phone was ringing constantly through the day. Relatives and friends he hadn’t heard from in years came to the house to pay their respects and to find out about the funeral arrangements. A couple of reporters rang the bell, too, but Max had Paul explain that the family needed to be alone. Karen went food shopping and came back and cooked a huge roast-beef-and-potatoes dinner. Max felt guilty about eating the meat, but he decided to hell with being health conscious – this was a special occasion. And, fuck it, he was hungry. All that sympathy gave you an appetite. He even had a slice of cherry cheesecake for dessert. It was delicious, too, worth every goddamn milligram of cholesterol.

Finally, Max was starting to feel some of the relief that he’d thought he’d feel after Deirdre was gone. With all these people around, Max imagined how aggravated he would have felt if Deirdre had been there, going on and on about herself and her problems or confronting people like some kind of maniac. Now, for the first time in years, Max felt like he could relax in his own house. The way he was handling his grief, his whole attitude, was having an impact too. Was it his imagination or was he standing a little more erect? Posture had always been a problem but, hey, murder your old lady, you didn’t need a chiropractor. Radical therapy, maybe, but it worked.

Max was also starting to feel less guilty about Stacy’s murder. Yeah, it was horrible that she had to die, and yeah, he was upset about it. But it wasn’t as if he had killed anybody. Popeye was the crazy one – he’d pulled the trigger. Stacy’s death was just an accident, no different than if she had been walking across a street and been run over by a bus. The fact that she was murdered in Max’s house, by a hit man whom Max had employed, was an unfortunate coincidence that Max had had no way of preventing.

And, besides, she died with her dreams intact, no major disappointments yet. He’d kind of done her a favor, when you thought about it.

On the news that night, there were reports about a woman in Brooklyn who had strangled her two children and set them on fire and a janitor in a Bronx elementary school who was discovered having sex with a nine-year-old girl. It was a good thing New York was full of sickos, Max decided – it meant that the stories of Deirdre and Stacy’s murders would be quickly overshadowed.

The next day, Monday, was the funeral. Max wore a Hugo Boss suit, one he knew made him look good. Harold and Claire were at the chapel, along with the rest of Deirdre’s relatives and friends. Many of Max’s relatives were there too. Some people from the office came, including NetWorld’s CFO and Vice President. Although Max was hoping Angela would show up, he realized it was probably better that she hadn’t. Probably no one would have noticed, but it might have seemed slightly unusual for someone who had been with the company less than a year to take such a strong interest in her boss’s personal affairs. Besides, they wouldn’t have had a chance to talk in private anyway.