Ken Bruen - Bust

The man extended his hand, said, “You certainly can. Name’s Bobby Rosa.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“I want to talk to you and I got a hunch you’re gonna want to listen.”

It was the same guy, all right. Wanting to break the bastard’s teeth, Max said, “Look, I don’t know why you’re here, but you’re lucky I don’t get you fired for what you did. I would’ve but we felt sorry for you because you’re retarded.”

Bobby smiled proudly. “You really thought I was retarded, huh?”

Shit, Max thought. If the guy wasn’t a retard maybe he wasn’t a housekeeper either.

Looking around, Bobby said, “Nice place you got here. You must have, what, ten thousand square feet? What kind of rent you pay?”

Max looked over at the temp who seemed to be busy typing. Lowering his voice and stepping away from the reception desk, Max said, “Look, if you don’t get the hell out of here right now, I’m going to get someone to take you out. Got that?”

Bobby said, “You got a good set of balls on you for a little guy. It’s no wonder you’re such a successful businessman.”

Max said, “You want me to call the cops, I’ll call the cops.”

“You’re not gonna call anybody.” They were both talking in low mutters now, but the fucking temp was probably listening to every word. Still, it’d look worse if Max asked her to leave them alone, wouldn’t it?

“Yeah?” Max said, leaning close to Bobby’s ear. “And why won’t I?”

“Because,” Bobby said, “I have some pictures here that I doubt you’re gonna want the cops to see.”

Max noticed now, for the first time, the manila envelope on Bobby’s lap.

“Why don’t you come into my office?” he said.

Max went right to the bar and started making a stiff vodka tonic, his groin itching like hell. Bobby wheeled in behind him, stayed by the door.

Without looking at Bobby, Max said, “Now what the fuck are you talking about, pictures? Is this some bullshit joke ’cause if it is, I’m not laughing.”

“Sit down,” Bobby said.

Max, holding his drink at the bar, turned around slowly.

“What did you say?”

“I told you to sit down.”

“Look, if you think I’m gonna let you get away with any more of this bullshit just because you’re paralyzed, you’re out of your mind.”

Bobby took out a five-by-seven glossy and slid it across the desk. Max looked back and forth between Bobby and the photo several times, then walked slowly toward his swivel chair. Although he was scared out of his mind, he tried to keep his cool. But when he sat down his hands were already shaking. He looked up at Bobby, whose face was expressionless. Who was this guy, some detective? The only explanation Max could think of was that Harold and Claire Goldenberg had hired him to investigate the murders.

“So who the fuck are you?” Max asked.

“Under the circumstances I think I should be the one asking the questions, don’t you?”

“Are you a detective?”

“No, I’m not a detective.”

“Then who are you?”

“I’m the guy’s got a picture of you fucking your secretary while your wife’s not even cold in her fucking grave. Might get some people thinking, you know what I’m saying?”

“What do you want?”

“What do you think I want?”

Max stared at Bobby for a few seconds, wondering if the guy was crazy – he sure as hell looked crazy – then he got up and went back to the bar to make another drink. He said, “You like vodka?” thinking that maybe he could warm the guy up.

But Bobby said, “I don’t drink.”

“You have liver problems?”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t drink. Is it because you have a bum liver?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I just don’t like what alcohol does to my brain.” He touched his index finger to his head, said, “I like to stay sharp upstairs.”

“I know what you mean,” Max said, turning on the charm, starting to schmooze with the guy. “The only reason I drink is to keep my HDL up and my LDL down – doctor’s orders.” Max drank half the drink in one gulp. “What’s your LDL?”

“My what?”

“Your bad cholesterol level.”

“I don’t pay attention to that shit. But yours… I figure yours is right off the goddamn chart. Am I right or am I right?”

Max, walking back to his desk with the drink, said, “I hope you’re kidding, Bobby. I mean, you must be in your forties, right? I probably have about ten years on you, but you should still start thinking about HDL and LDL. Believe me, problems can sneak up on you, especially if you have a high-fat, low-fiber diet. And you especially need to watch yourself, I mean being crippled and all. You probably don’t get your heart rate up a lot.”

Bobby, glaring, said, “Thanks for the medical advice.”

“No problem,” Max said, resting the drink on the desk. “Now, Bobby, look. You can see I’m a nice guy, can’t you? I mean I’m concerned about your health and everything. And you seem like a pretty nice guy to me. We’re both older guys, been around the block a few times – we probably have a lot in common we don’t even know about. So what I want to know is why can’t you just be straight with me and tell me exactly who you are and why you took that picture.”

“Why I took that picture? Because if I didn’t have that picture you wouldn’t pay me the quarter of a million dollars you’re going to.” He seemed like he was getting a big rush from this, fucking with a big shot businessman. Yeah, this was probably the highlight of this loser’s life.

Max’s hand was shaking, but he said, “Why the hell would I pay you one cent? So you have a picture of me screwing my executive assistant. Big shit. I could’ve hired someone to take that picture myself if I really wanted it.”

Max forced a laugh, but Bobby stayed deadpan.

“You’re going to pay me a quarter of a million dollars cash on Monday morning at nine o’clock,” Bobby said. “If not, a copy of that picture’s going to the NYPD.”

Max stared at Bobby. Finally, he smiled, said, “That was a joke, right?”

“I’ll be here at nine o’clock sharp,” Bobby said. “I want the money in one suitcase, two at most. How you get it in there is your problem.”

He started to back away from the desk.

Max said, “Whoa, whoa, hold up a second. This is all bullshit. I mean you’re kidding, right?”

Bobby started wheeling away. Suddenly, Max was feeling light-headed and he wasn’t sure whether it was drunkenness or panic. He said, “Hey, get back here.”

Bobby stopped, turned around slowly.

In a hushed voice, Max said, “Look, usually I’d tell you to take a hike, but I really don’t need this bullshit in my life right now, so here’s what I’ll do – the picture for a thousand bucks.”

“My price is non-negotiable,” Bobby said.

“Come on, a quarter of a million dollars? You have to be out of your fucking mind.”

“I know a lot more about you than you think,” Bobby said. “I read the papers, but I also use my head, I put two and two together. ‘Grieving husband’ my gimp ass.”

Max said, “Look, even if I wanted to give you that kind of money, I don’t have it.”

“Monday – nine A.M. sharp. Oh, and you can keep that copy of the picture.” Bobby looked up at the poster of the blonde on the Porsche. “Maybe you wanna hang it on the wall.”

After Bobby left, Max poured himself another vodka tonic. His head was spinning and he had lost sensation in his face. Feeling dizzy, he opened his door and called for Angela to come into his office. When she came inside, Max was lying on the couch, holding his head.

“What’s wrong?”