Ken Bruen - Bust

Then Max remembered the weird pin that Popeye had been wearing at the pizza place. Like the idiot didn’t have enough heat on him already, he had to steal the pin off a cop he’d killed.

“Lemme ask you something,” Max said. “Let’s say I was in that hotel with a woman that night – which I absolutely wasn’t – and let’s say we checked in under – what did you say the name was?”

“Brown.”

“All right – let’s say we checked in under the name Brown. How the hell would that help you find out who killed my wife?”

“We think the gun that was used to kill Kenneth Simmons was the same one used to kill your wife and niece. He was either killed on Twenty-fifth Street or else he was taken to Harlem and killed up there. But the only reason he ended up in either place was because he followed your girlfriend – excuse me, Mrs. Brown – out of the Hotel Pennsylvania. If we know what went on in that hotel it may tell us why he followed her when she left.”

“I guess that makes sense.”

“So, then, Mr. Fisher,” Ortiz said, “are you ready to tell me anything?”

Max thought for a moment, then shook his head.

“What about the man in the sketch?” Ortiz took out a copy of the sketch from his drawer and slid it across the desk for Max to look at. “You ever seen him before?”

Max stared at the sketch of Popeye for a good ten seconds, trying to make it look like he was really studying it, then said, “No, never.”

Ortiz glared at Max. “Where were you before you got home today?”

“I was at work. You gonna try to book me for that too?”

Ortiz pressed the stop button on the recorder.

“Maybe we should do this again,” he said. “This time without all the bullshit.”

“I’d rather not.”

“How about taking a polygraph?”

“Not without my lawyer.”

“It won’t matter anyway,” Ortiz said, “after I take a look at that surveillance tape.”

Dillon’s book of Zen wisdom wasn’t weaving its magic no more. He poured a shot of Jameson, the bottle nearly empty. Everything was running down. The tinker he’d killed crossed his mind and he gave an involuntary tremor. He downed the whiskey, then waited for the hit and muttered, “That shite burns.”

To erase the tinker, he dredged up another memory, a dog he’d owned. Mongrel called Heinz, cos of the 57 ingredients it had. That mutt loved him, completely. He’d deliberately starved it for a week, see how it fared. Not so good – lotsa whining in there. He’d got back to the shithole he was living in then, put out his hand to the pooch and the fooker, the fooker bit him. He almost admired the sheer balls of the little runt. But, of course, no one, no thing, ever bit Dillon, at least not twice. He got his hurly, made from the ash, honed by a master craftsman. Dillon had never used it, except to bust heads. He’d stolen it at a match in Croke Park, and if he remembered correctly, Galway had their arse handed to them by fookin Cork.

The dog had backed away and Dillon cooed, “Come on boy, come get yer medicine.”

Took him fifteen minutes to beat the little fook to death, gore all over the walls, the tiny animal not going easy.

For devilment, Dillon had told this story to Angela, hoping to get a rise out of the bitch.

She’d been horrified and then he asked, “You ever been hungry, alanna?”

She didn’t know what he meant and he said. “There’s a little moral here mo croi, and it’s don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

Then, near to tears, she’d said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

And he laughed, delighted, said, “And isn’t that the bloody beauty of it?”

Bobby popped a wheelie coming out of the D’Agostino supermarket on Columbus. He was in a good mood, still thinking about last night with Angela. He couldn’t wait to call her later – maybe she’d want to come over and listen to some Ted Nugent.

Then, looking over his shoulder, he saw the guy walking about ten yards behind him. It was him all right – same thin, gray guy with the lips who was in the police sketch on TV and in all the newspapers. He was wearing faded jeans and his hands were tucked deep into the pockets of a leather jacket.

It was cooler than it had been on recent nights and there were still a lot of people on the street, shopping or coming home from work. Bobby didn’t think Popeye would try to shoot him here, with all these witnesses – but he might use a knife.

Instead of crossing Columbus, Bobby turned left on Eighty-ninth and headed toward Central Park. It was a darker, emptier, quieter block, with mainly four-story brownstones. Bobby rode at a slow, steady pace and listened closely to what was happening behind him. He had always had great ears. In Iraq, he used to hear the towel-head snipers even when they were a hundred or so yards away. Now he listened to Popeye’s footsteps, hearing them get gradually closer. There was something unusual about the way he was walking. He was taking one solid step, followed by a softer dragging step, like he had a limp. But the footsteps were definitely getting closer. Just before he reached the darkest part of the block, which was shaded by dense, overhanging trees, Bobby braked and wheeled around. The bag of groceries fell off his lap and crashed onto the sidewalk, gushing dark purple liquid. He raised his arm in one fluid motion, taking his Glock from his jacket pocket and aiming it between Popeye’s eyes.

Obviously surprised, Popeye stopped about ten feet from Bobby, his left arm by his side and his right hand in the lower pocket of his leather jacket.

“Look what you did, asshole,” Bobby said. “You broke my fuckin’ grape juice.”

Popeye started to move his right hand. Bobby went, “Move one more fuckin’ inch I’ll put a hole in your head.”

“Jaysus, take it easy fellah.” Popeye said. “No harm, no damage done. Just take it fookin’ easy, me man.”

Wondering if the guy knew how stupid he sounded, Bobby said, “Take your hand out of your pocket slowly. It comes out with anything – I don’t care if it’s your fucking house keys – I’m gonna start shooting.”

For a moment, Popeye remained still, then he showed his empty hand.

“Now your jacket. Drop it on the sidewalk, and take five steps backwards.”

Cursing in Irish under his breath, Popeye slowly took off his jacket and let it fall.

“Now back up.”

Popeye backed away a few steps, then Bobby slowly wheeled himself forward one-handed. Keeping the gun aimed, he leaned down, picked up the coat and removed a switchblade from one pocket and a. 38 from the other. He put the gun and the knife in the pocket of his windbreaker.

“Okay, dickhead. We’re going for a walk.”

Bobby said to his doorman, “I want you to meet my cousin Popeye – he’s visiting from out of town.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Popeye,” the doorman, an old guy, said.

Inside his apartment, Bobby ordered Popeye to sit on the couch and Popeye said, “Okay, so who told you about me? Fisher?”

“What do you mean?”

“You knew my name. Jaysus, I knew I should never’ve trusted that prick. When did he put you on to me?”

“I think, under the circumstances, I should be the one asking the questions,” Bobby said, aiming the gun.

“You think I’m gonna sweat you, some fuck in a wheelchair? Lemme tell yeh, fellah, I’ve had weapons aimed at me by the very best. I’ve had an Orange bastard, fueled on anti-Papal hysteria, believing the only good Catholic was a dead one, put a an AK-47 in me mouth and I survived that, so you think I give a shite’s fuck about you and yer feckin’ Glock?”