Giles Blunt - No Such Creature

Yeah, yeah, keep it up, Max. I know you’re upset.

Owen fitted the buds of his iPod into his ears. This little gizmo was the legacy of a raid they had pulled on a dinner party in the Hamptons a couple of years ago. It wasn’t one of the video models, but it was still a little gem. Owen dialed up a pod-cast of flutey New Age stuff, supposedly for meditation but perfect for reading. By the time he had finished the story of Conchis and the Nazis and switched out his light, all was silent in Denmark, the curtain having apparently come down on Hamlet and his depression. Owen drifted off to the whirr of the Rocket’s air conditioner and the traffic on the distant Strip.

He was awakened sometime during the night by a cry ringing in his ears-loud enough that his heart was jacked up and his eyes wide open. He lay still, hearing nothing but the rattle from the AC. Then another shout.

Max and his nightmares. A burst of incoherent cries got Owen out of bed and into his bathrobe. He opened the bedroom door.

“Max?”

Max was cowering against the head of the bed, striped pyjamas soaked in sweat, his face pressed into a pillow balanced on his knees.

“Max?”

“Wuh-hah!” He thrashed at the air with one hand, clutching the pillow with the other. A quiver shook his massive frame.

Owen went over and laid a hand on his shoulder.

Max heaved with a great intake of breath and lifted his head from the pillow. His eyes opened, glazed and bloodshot.

“The Butcher,” he said hoarsely. “The Butcher was here. Right here. In my room. In this very room.”

“The Alcatraz guy?”

“S’blood, boy. I could have reached out and touched his cleaver. Fuh! Sitting in that chair, talking to me.”

Max leaned toward his night table, straining mightily, and hoisted his water glass. An interlude of gulps and slurps.

“Blood up to his elbows. Both hands. Blood over his face. Like he’d been swimming in it. And he says to me, ‘Welcome home, Maxie. I think we’re going to get along fine.’”

“It was just a nightmare.”

“No! I tell you he was in this room. Alive as you or me.”

“Max, you had a nightmare.”

“He reeked of prison. I wouldn’t survive if I had to go back inside, boy. I frankly prefer death, d’you hear?”

“Max, take it easy. You’re not going to prison.”

“Boy, listen to me.” He clasped Owen’s hand between two hot paws. “I’ve not been the perfect father, God knows. But I’ve done my best to bring you up like my own. Asked nothing in return. Nothing big, anyway-well, nothing too big. But now I am, I do, I must. Look me in the face, boy.”

The old eyes were red and watery and full of fear.

“D’you love me, kid?”

Owen couldn’t believe his ears; he wanted to flee. “Uh, yeah, Max. Of course I do.”

“I need you to promise me something. I need you to promise me that, no matter what happens, you will never let me go back to prison.”

“Max, how can I promise that? You know the old rule: if you-”

“If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime. Not a rule I’ve ever lived by. My rule is, if you’re going to get caught, not. That’s why I’m the most conservative thief the country has ever seen. But if something should happen-God forbid-if something should go wrong and I’m facing a prison sentence again, I want you to promise to get me out of it.”

“Max, I’m not gonna machine-gun ten cops to get you out of jail.”

“I’m not talking about anyone else, I’m talking about me. Just think of it as putting the dog down.”

“Max, you always taught me to keep things non-violent. Now you expect me to shoot you?”

“All right, maybe you don’t do it yourself. You could hire someone. No one’s ever going to suspect you.”

Had it not been the middle of the night, and had Max looked even slightly less terrified and vulnerable, Owen might have put up further resistance, but as it was he found himself agreeing, regretting it even as he did so. “All right, yes. I promise. I won’t let you go to prison.”

“Swear it?”

“I swear.”

“That’s my boy. Now haste thee to thy bed.”

“Time for you to hit the road, Charlene.”

Zig was propped up on the pillows, watching her cute little fifteen-year-old butt waving in the air. She was down at the end of the bed totally absorbed in Zig’s collection of graphic novels-not reading them, just grooving on the drawings and exclaiming every five seconds.

“That is so cool,” she would say, and flip another page.

“I got stuff to do this afternoon,” Zig said.

“This is so beautiful,” Charlene said, pronouncing it beauty-full .

Zig could have stared at her butt all day, except for the fact that they’d already done it twice. Amazing what the kids of today would do for free drugs. Although clearly he had misjudged his proportions. There was a real art to getting it just right.

He used to prefer his females totally unconscious, courtesy of Rohypnol or some variant. In fact, he had done serious time for a couple of those. But these days he preferred them, well, compliant and relaxed but not comatose. He’d been in the mood for a bit of fun, so he and Charlene, a kid he’d picked up near Covenant House, had been playing Ex, Dex and Sex, as he liked to put it. The Ex had worn off, but the Dex was obviously still working because she was speed-focused on his damn comics.

She said beauty-full once more and that did it. Zig got out of bed and put on his pants. He picked up the girl’s clothes from the floor and threw them at her in a ball. She looked up, giggling.

“You got thirty seconds to get dressed and get out of here.”

She looked back down at the book. Zig snatched it out of her hands.

“Hey!”

“I said beat it. Now get the fuck out.”

“There’s no need to get nasty about it.”

“You don’t know what nasty means. Keep talking and you’ll find out.”

Stu Quaig sipped his beer and tried to ignore the television behind the Five Card’s bar. He wasn’t interested in poker, mostly because he’d never won a poker game in his life, and he didn’t understand the current fascination with the game. He tried not to be too obvious about staring at himself in the bar mirror, but he could see his reflection between the Glenlivet and Johnnie Walker and he definitely needed a haircut. He seemed to enjoy a peak period of two weeks where his hair looked its best, and then all of a sudden he looked shaggy and pathetic and it was time to head back to the salon.

Clem Boxley was staring at the poker game as if at any minute money might fall out of the TV screen onto the bar. Stu was still on his first beer of the night, while Clem was rapidly disposing of his second margarita. Clem could line them up and drink them down, but it didn’t do anything positive for his interpersonal skills. He was congenial, even chummy, after one or two, but once he got onto three, four or more, chummy could turn gloomy could turn hostile and then there was no telling what kind of mayhem he would raise.

Clem held up his empty glass for the cute little bartender to see. Number three coming up.

Stu glanced at the mirror where half the lounge was reflected and saw Zig coming in.

“Boss is here,” he said.

Clem turned to greet Zig with extravagant heartiness, but Zig just ordered a beer and got right down to business.

“Old guy named Max Maxwell I met in stir. Shoulda retired a long time ago, but he’s in town and I think he’s still in the game. In fact, I think he’s feeling pretty flush.”

“Why?” Stu said. “He’s throwing money around?”

“He’s too smart for that. But I can read this guy and he’s in the chips. In fact, I think he may be behind this.” He held up a couple of pages downloaded from the San Francisco Chronicle , headlined THE DIVA AND THE THIEF. “An old guy and a kid pulled this off and got away with some serious bling, not to mention cash. I think it coulda been my old friend Max and his nephew.”