Giles Blunt - No Such Creature

“Jeannie Mac,” Max said, holding the pass card up to his face, studying it like a jeweller, “how for the love of Pete did our key work?” He took a step toward Tedesco. “I’ve no doubt yourself could use a drop about now. Please accept the bubbles as a token of-well, like a consolation, sort of.”

Max set the bottle down on the dresser and started toward the door.

“Hold it right there, pal. How about I call the manager and you explain all this to him?”

“Tony Tedesco,” Owen said, snapping his fingers. “The very man. I’ve seen you in tons of fillums. Highwire? Detective Blue ? Absolutely grand you were. I’m bettin’ you studied under some real coppers, because you had the look, you had the manner, you had the whole thing down perfect. Bruce Willis is bollocks next to you.”

“All right, Seamus,” Max said. “Let’s be off now and not inconvenience yer man any more than we already have.”

Tedesco snatched up the phone.

“Now, now, sir,” Max said. “Don’t be after phoning the authorities.”

“Why should it bother you?” Tedesco said. “You’re just in the wrong room, right? Honest mistake, right? And that’s your room key? I’m sure management will understand.”

“We’ll be off, then,” Owen said. “Take care, Mr. Tedesco. Sorry to disturb you.”

He tugged Max’s sleeve. Max shook him away and grabbed the champagne bottle. Before Owen could stop him, Max had swung the bottle full into the actor’s head. Tedesco slumped sideways and slithered to the floor.

“Jesus Christ,” Owen said, dropping the accent. “Jesus Christ.”

He knelt beside the actor, feeling his pulse. He was alive, but his jaw was crooked and blood flowed from his mouth onto the carpet.

“Leave him,” Max said in his normal voice. “Pookie will be waiting.”

Owen went to the bathroom and soaked a face cloth in cold water. “It’s not good to be unconscious too long,” he said. “You can end up in a coma.”

“Why don’t we call security while we’re at it?”

Owen pressed the cold face cloth against Tedesco’s forehead and the actor began to stir. Owen grabbed a cushion off the couch and placed it under him.

“Sorry for the misunderstandin’,” he said, back in character. “Didn’t mean to hurt no one.”

Tedesco groaned louder and his eyes fluttered open.

When they were in the elevator, Max said, “If you want to be Florence Nightingale, why don’t you go to a bloody nursing school.”

“You broke his jaw, Max.” Owen could hear the quaver in his own voice. “I’ve never even seen you get physical before, and you break the guy’s jaw. You broke some teeth. He’ll be lucky if he isn’t disfigured. And he’s an actor, Max. How could you do that to an actor?”

“It was him or us, lad. Him or us. I prefer us.”

The elevator door opened and they strolled into the lobby. The entire staff seemed to be on cellphones or engaged with computer screens and didn’t even look at them.

Pookie was in the limo halfway up the block, reading a Harry Potter novel.

“Quick,” Max said. “Get us out of here.”

Pookie spoke up, still the cheery Indian. “You have been enjoying a pleasant evening, I trust, sir?”

“Just drive, will you?” Max said.

“You have been imbibing some alcoholic beverage, I am thinking. You are no longer transporting your bottle of champers and your mood is noticeably darker. Have you been forcing alcohol on the young fellow, too? He is looking ghostly pale, is he not?”

“Pookie, for God’s sake move it.”

In the back seat, Max and Owen removed their wigs and other makeup, Max scratching at bits of glue on his eyebrows. The smell of rubbing alcohol filled the car. Sirens grew louder in the distance, but there were always sirens in Las Vegas. They struggled out of their costumes and into the casual stuff that was waiting for them in an open suitcase.

By the time Pookie dropped them off at the El Cortez parking lot-for security reasons, neither he nor Roscoe knew about the Rocket-they were once again the old British wig salesman and his nephew.

They paid Pookie and said good night.

“ Namaste ,” he said. “I am wishing you peace and joy always.”

“Pretty good haul,” Max said.

“You didn’t have to hit him,” Owen said.

Max was checking his face in the bathroom mirror, looking for any makeup he had missed. “Tony the Thug was going to either jump us or get us thrown in the slammer, and I wasn’t about to let that happen. I don’t see why you’re so jellified about it. We’re thieves, boy, we dance with danger. Part of the fun.”

“Fun? Suddenly out of the blue you smash a guy’s jaw? An actor? ”

“Tedesco is a well-known right-wing lunatic. I do not consider him a colleague. You’d be feeling a whole lot worse if we were sitting in jail now.”

“Max,” Owen said, “let’s please get out of this business before something terrible happens.”

“Get out any time you like, me lad. I’m in for the long haul.”

Max headed for the galley. It was their custom, after pulling a job, to have a snack before going to bed, but Owen got changed in the bathroom and climbed into his bunk.

“What’s this, lad? Going to bed without your midnight snack?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Nonsense. You hardly ate any supper. You’ll waste away.”

Owen turned out his light, wanting to put an end to the day.

The Rocket filled with smells of toast and the melted cheese in Max’s inevitable midnight omelette. Owen turned his back and stared at the wall.

Owen awoke the next morning to a soft rapping on the side of his bunk. It took him a moment to remember where he was-the Rocket, Las Vegas, Tony Tedesco’s jaw.

Max’s face was alarmingly close, his expression an almost comical rendering of sheepishness.

“Breakfast is served, boy.”

“I’ll be there in a sec.”

“A chorus line of pancakes awaits.”

“Great.”

But Max’s face stayed right there, worried and sad and-it had to be recognized-probably acting.

“Uh, boy,” he began, then turned politely aside while a series of throat clearings and prim little coughs was performed. “Boy, about last night …” Max went to the window opposite and opened the curtains, staring out at the vista of another Winnebago. He was wearing his Hyatt bathrobe. “You were right to speak sharply to me, boy. Your old uncle misbehaved, and-”

“I’ll say.”

“No, no, let me finish. You can’t go cutting a man off mid-apology. What I wanted to say was, I’m sorry.”

“It’s Tony Tedesco you have to apologize to. He’s probably in the hospital.”

Max raised his hand for silence. “I regret you were witness to mayhem. I was taken by a force-ten hurricane of panic. Utterly blew me over. So I lashed out.” He made a harmless-looking jab at the air, a kitten pawing a string.

“Sure didn’t look like panic,” Owen said. “For one thing, we weren’t in any danger. If we had just run right then, there’s no way hotel security would have caught us. We’d have been in the limo before they even got up to the room.”

“That’s why I’m apologizing, you clot-oops.” Max covered his mouth with his hand lest another insult escape. “Come and eat before it gets cold.”

Zig came out to the table carrying a latte in one hand and a cookie in a small paper bag in the other. He set the coffee down fast.

“Man, that’s hot. I think they got like a nuclear coffee maker back there or something.”

“Secret of Starbucks’ success,” Stu said. “Nuclear espresso machines.”

“Where’s Clem?”

“Went to get something in the mall. Here he comes.”