Ken Bruen - Bust

Max was barely listening to the rabbi’s eulogy, but when he realized that everyone was breaking down in tears, he knew he had to show some reaction. He couldn’t force out any tears, so he just put on his sunglasses and just stared down at his lap. He tried to emit some loud sighs but feared it sounded like he was breaking wind. He decided to let it slide, let the shades do the talking, like rock stars did.

After the rabbi, Claire stood at the podium and made a long sad speech about how she had lost two of the most important people in her life. This actually made Max cry and he took off his sunglasses for everyone to see. He was going for that swollen eyelid look that women seemed to pull off naturally.

Deirdre was buried in her family plot on Long Island. Max was glad they hadn’t bought plots together and that he would never have to be anywhere near Deirdre again. After Deirdre was lowered into the ground, each family member covered the coffin with a shovelful of dirt. Max felt another wave of relief when the dirt he dropped clattered on top of her coffin.

Then came his moment, the grand slam, the slamdunk. He approached the grave, letting a slight tremor rack his body, then produced one white rose. He’d planned to let it flutter into the hole as he gave a perfect moan but, fuck, he missed and the flower landed on the side. He had to bend down, dirtying his new suit, then muttered, Fucksake, and threw the goddamned thing in.

The shiva sitting was at Max’s house. During the next few days, people dropped by the townhouse, bringing food, and sharing stories about Deirdre. As much as Max had enjoyed the mourning bit at first, it was getting old. Besides, it made his jaw hurt, having to wear that hangdog expression day after fucking day.

Paul and Karen stayed until Tuesday night and then drove back to Albany. On Wednesday, a condolence card arrived from the office, along with a bouquet of flowers. Although the card was signed by almost everyone, Max didn’t read anyone’s note except Angela’s. It read: With My Deepest Sympathy, Angela

Gra go mor

What the fuck was with that, Greek or something?

Seeing her handwriting made Max suddenly desperate to see her in person. Again, he wanted to call her – just to hear her voice, that accent he loved, and hang up – but he knew that would be stupidest thing he could do. But he was becoming restless. He couldn’t wait to go back to work, to get back into the swing of things.

On Thursday, Berna, Max’s West Indian maid, came and scrubbed the wall and the floor in the downstairs hallway. A repairman came to fill in the bullet holes and now it was impossible to tell that anything had happened. Kamal had come back from India and on Thursday he came by to prepare Max’s macrobiotic meals for the next several days. He hadn’t heard anything about the murders. When Max told him he broke down crying.

Max hadn’t realized how close Kamal and Deirdre had become. Max had hired Kamal a couple of months ago, after he had been referred by the massage therapist at his health club. Kamal had often come to the house while Max was at work.

When Kamal was composed enough to speak he invited Max to come with him sometime to an ashram on the West Side to meditate. Max said he’d think about it, although he couldn’t imagine himself sitting in a lotus position and chanting like some hippie.

“Remember, people don’t die, because they aren’t born,” Kamal said. “Birth and death are merely illusions. All people and objects exist now and forever in the universal unconscious.”

Max stared at him, thinking, What a crock.

Max liked Kamal’s cooking and he thought he was a nice guy, but he decided that if kept forcing this religious crap on him the guy would be history.

On Friday, Max couldn’t stand being cooped up any longer. He took a cab to his gym in the Claridge House on Eighty-seventh and Third. He swam his usual forty laps, then sat in the steam room, reading The Wall Street Journal. After he showered, he weighed himself and was thrilled to see that he’d lost four pounds.

He had a relaxing weekend at home – eating Kamal’s food, taking short walks around the neighborhood. On Saturday – a gorgeous seventy-degree day – he walked to Central Park and sat for most of the afternoon on a bench in the shade, reading networking magazines, trying to keep up on new developments in the industry. There’d been nothing about the murder or the police investigation in the newspapers or on TV. Max remembered how Detective Simmons had promised to “be in touch soon” and now more than a week had gone by since the murder. While Max was glad that the story seemed to be fading, he didn’t like the way Detective Simmons was staying away from him. As he walked home from the park, Max had a funny feeling he was being watched.

Bobby was watching the girl with the blond hair and the big rack check into her room at the reception desk of the Hotel Pennsylvania. The way she kept looking around, twirling her hair with her index finger, Bobby could tell she was uptight about something. She was wearing lowslung jeans and a tight tube top and high heels. Bobby tried to imagine what she looked like naked and, man, he liked the picture that popped into his head. He wished he could whip his camera out right there. She had a slutty look to her, but there was something innocent about her, too, like she was afraid of something. She didn’t look like a hooker, but she definitely looked like a girl who was someplace she wasn’t supposed to be.

As she walked past the table with the big arrangement of red flowers, Bobby wheeled across the lobby to the Bell Captain’s desk and said to Victor, “The girl near the elevator. Find out if she’s expecting anybody.”

Victor looked beyond the flow of people and said, “You mean the skinny chick with the knockers and the big hair? I never seen her before in my life.”

“I didn’t ask you if you’ve seen her before. I said find out if she’s expecting anybody.”

Victor went to the reception desk. A minute or two later he came back to Bobby and said, “She’s meeting her husband up there, they’re staying the night.”

“I’m going up,” Bobby said.

“You hear what I said? The girl’s married.”

“Married my gimp ass. She wasn’t wearing a rock – she had some other weird fucking ring on her finger.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s not married.”

“I’m telling you, there’s something going on with her.”

“Look, let’s just wait for a real escort to come along.”

Bobby, looking at Victor in that dorky bellhop uniform, wondering if something had really happened to the guy’s balls, if they fell off in the chemo or something, said, “Just get me the key to that girl’s room.”

“Come on,” Victor said. “I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Look, if this is gonna work you’re gonna have to trust me. You know I wouldn’t do anything stupid, right?”

“Hey, I’m not calling anybody stupid, but you said we were gonna go after pros.”

“I’m telling you, I have a hunch about this girl. She looked scared, the way she kept playing with her hair. If she’s not a pro, I bet she’s cheating on her old man or the guy’s cheating on his old lady. We could make a mint with one good picture. I know when something’s off and this smells to hog heaven, they’re cheating, on someone.”

“Whatever,” Victor said. “But I’m telling you – I think you’re making a big mistake.”

When Victor came back with a maid’s plastic keycard Bobby said, “So what name did they register under?”

“Brown,” Victor said.