Ken Bruen - Bust

“Come on,” Dillon said. “Let’s do this fast as we can.”

Sean opened the trunk and they lifted the body out. It was so quiet they couldn’t even hear the traffic noise from St. Nicholas Avenue. There were only the sounds of a dog barking and some kids screaming, maybe a block or two away.

Stepping over the garbage and rubble, they continued walking into the darkness. A few times Dillon, going Fookin thing, slipped and almost fell. Sean was beginning to whine, asked, “How m-m-much farther?”

“Shut yer trap,” Dillon said. Then, when he thought they were far enough away from the street, he said, “All right, right here. Drop it.”

They let the body fall, then they started covering it with whatever garbage was lying around. It was impossible to see anything, but Dillon picked up what felt like wood, paint cans, dirt, whatever. When it seemed like the body was covered he said, “That’s all right. They’ll never look for a dead Guard here anyway.”

“A dead w-w-w-what?” Sean gasped. He was almost out of breath. “Are you d-d-d-d-demented?”

“What?” Dillon said.

“You s-s-s-said it was a r-r-r-rent collector.”

Thinking, Vive la difference, Dillon said, “Yeah? So?”

“J-J-J-Jaysus,” Sean said like he was going to go for Dillon. “I don’t believe it, I c-c-c-could murder yah. The Boyos told us s-s-s-s-stay clear of the G-G-G-Guards.”

“It doesn’t matter now, does it?”

“B-b-but G-G-G-Guards. That’s like b-b-b-blasphemy.”

Dillon stepped back and felt a sudden piercing pain in his foot. He almost screamed, but stopped himself in time. He realized he must have stepped on a nail or something, but didn’t want to look at it until he was back in the car. Then he said, “Let’s just get the bejaysus out of here.” He was thinking, Just me fooking luck to get that tetanus thing.

Back in the car, the pain in his foot was even worse. He turned on the car’s overhead light and saw the head of a thick nail coming out of the bottom of his sneaker. He had no idea how deep it was wedged into his foot, but it felt like it was hitting bone.

Driving down St. Nicholas Avenue, Sean said, “There b-b-b-b-better not be b-b-b-blood in the b-b-b-boot of me v-v-v-vehicle.”

Dillon yanked off his tennis sneaker – a three-inch-long rusty nail came off with it. He said, “Fook, and I just bought these shites at Modell’s.”

In the back seat of the cab, Max Fisher put on his curly blond wig. He knew he looked ridiculous – like a goddamn clown – but he figured it was better than nothing. He was still paranoid about why Detective Simmons never came back to talk to him and the last thing he needed was to be seen checking into a hotel room with his executive assistant.

When he went to work this morning he had no idea he’d wind up where he was now. His plan was to have a normal day at the office, get back to work, keep his mind occupied. But he had no idea how fucking tempting it would be to see Angela sitting at her desk, wearing one of her skirts that barely covered her butt-cheeks. Usually, he’d find some way to get her into his office and they’d have a quickie, but he knew that anything like that would be impossible today, and probably for a long time. Everyone was talking about how a detective was here last week, asking everyone questions about him and Deirdre, and if anybody had any “theories” about what might have happened. This proved to Max that he wasn’t being paranoid – Simmons was definitely on to him.

Trying to bang Angela now would be nuts, but Max couldn’t help himself. Knowing she was so close by, wanting her so badly, was driving him wild. Before lunchtime, he called her into his office, but left the door open. As she went over Max’s schedule for the rest of the day, Max winked at her. Angela saw him, immediately smiled as Max wrote, “I have to be with you” on a pad and slid it across the desk to her. She wrote back, “How?”

Like two students passing notes back and forth in a classroom, Max and Angela plotted out their strategy for meeting later on at the Hotel Pennsylvania. He figured it would be better to meet at a big hotel, where there was a lot of activity, than at a small hotel where they were more likely to be noticed. He often set his clients up with call girls at the Hotel Pennsylvania and they never had any problems. Besides, they were planning to take precautions. They’d arrive separately, check in under phony names, and he’d wear a wig. The wig was his idea. Angela wrote that she could go buy him a nice one during her lunch break. He tried it on in his office, knowing right away that it made him look like Harpo Marx, but deciding that it was worth it to be alone with Angela.

When he entered the hotel lobby, he looked around, made sure he wasn’t being followed. Surprisingly, people passing by didn’t give him funny looks – maybe the wig didn’t look as ridiculous as he thought. He’d already called the hotel from work and found out there were plenty of vacancies tonight and there wouldn’t be a problem booking a room at the last minute. He checked in under the name “Brown” and told the woman who was working at reception that his wife would be meeting him, when she arrived to please send her right up. Then he paid for the room in advance, with cash.

In room 1812, Max made himself comfortable – showering, and then lying in bed, relaxing, watching TV, his right hand slowly sliding under his boxers down to his crotch, touching what felt like a spot where the skin was irritated. He quickly took off his underwear to examine the area more closely. He discovered it wasn’t really irritation – shit, it was more like a blister, and there were several smaller ones there as well. They itched and hurt like hell. How could he not have noticed them before?

He rushed into the bathroom, sat on the toilet bowl, and leaned over his lap, examining himself more carefully. The longer he looked at the blisters, the larger they seemed to grow. He tried to squeeze them, but this only made the itching and pain worse. Soon the discomfort was unbearable. As usual, he thought the worst first and imagined he had ebola, smallpox, that flesh-eating virus. It had to be something horrendous.

After a few more minutes of total panic he realized he wasn’t dying, but the word “herpes” crept into the back of his mind.

When Angela came into the room, Max was still in the bathroom. He had started crying. Although he’d washed his face with cold water, when he came out of the bathroom Angela immediately knew something was wrong.

Max’s lips quivered – he couldn’t get the word out. Then he dropped his boxers and held out his penis for Angela to examine. He was trying to see if she seemed surprised, but she didn’t show any particular reaction, saying, “What’s wrong?” Then she said. “Oh, I get it. It’s some kind of joke, right?”

“Look closer,” Max said.

Angela got on her knees, said, “Is that all you’re worried about?”

“It looks like…” Max still couldn’t say the word.

“What?” Angela said.

His face turning red, starting to cry again, Max blurted out, “Herpes!”

“Herpes?” Angela said, like it was the most ridiculous idea possible. “That’s just a little rash, that’s all. Knowing you, you probably made it worse from all your feckin’ scratching.”

“They look like blisters to me.”

Angela laughed, said, “Jaysus, listen to you. You should go back to worrying about your heart, a wee rash and you’re blubbering like a big baby.”