Giles Blunt - No Such Creature

“Maybe she rented a car. We should check rental outlets.”

“There must be hundreds of them in this city. Anyway, why rent when you could buy? She could go right out and buy herself a Mustang-she said that was her fantasy.”

The moment he said it, Owen wished he hadn’t. Max snapped his fingers and said, “Fire up the laptop, kid. We’ll need a list of Ford dealerships.”

“I don’t have the laptop on me. Let’s go outside and get some air.”

He took Max by the elbow and led him to a bench still damp from the earlier rain. Beside them, a bronze statue of an oilman ignored the pigeon balancing on his bronze hard hat. Owen had a sudden deep yearning for the streets of Manhattan, for the squirrels of Stuyvesant Town, for his life to come at Juilliard.

“I can’t accept it,” Max said. “I’ve been robbed by a mere slip of a girl. It must be a bad dream. Wake me, boy, wake me. Queen Mab is riding my cerebellum.”

“We’re just going to have to live with it.”

“It’s too humiliating.”

“The stuff she took? Two weeks ago we didn’t own any of it. There’s no point getting upset about losing it now.”

“There’s every point.”

“Let’s just head home. It’s time to call it a day.”

“Desist, surrender monkey.” Max stood up with much groaning, pressing his hands into the small of his back. “I have another plan.”

“Great, Max. I can’t wait.”

Max stood on tiptoe, a surprisingly delicate manoeuvre for one so middle heavy, and addressed himself to the bronze figure.

“I, Magnus Max Maxwell, am determined to get very drunk.”

Max’s “plan” dragged them through several drinking establishments. Owen was sticking to Coke, but after his third it was beginning to taste horribly sweet and he was having to pee every ten minutes.

Their current stop was Jimmy’s Roustabout Tavern; Owen hoped it would be the last. It was full of oil-drilling paraphernalia and murals of famous gushers. It was not a spot that appealed to people who were actually in the petroleum business, but it was clearly a hit with the criminal element. This may have had something to do with the proprietor, Jimmy Coughlin, who looked only slightly younger than Max and had tattoos of dragons flaming up his forearms.

“Jimmy, old son,” Max said over his tower of stout. “You remember John-Paul Bertrand, our sainted Pontiff?”

“Sure, I knew JP before he got sent up to Huntsville.”

“It’s his daughter has my attention just now.”

“Robbing the cradle, aren’t you? Even I have some standards.”

“Jimmy, I assure you, although she has attacked me in my heart’s core, my purpose is nothing romantic. In brief-”

“Max.” Owen squeezed his elbow hard and spoke right into his ear. “Max, cool it.”

Max didn’t even notice. “In brief, she has absconded with goods and chattels not her own.”

“She ripped you off? Really? The Pontiff’s kid?”

“A kid no longer. Her comely form doth cloak the heart of a jackal.”

“And you think she’s in Dallas?”

“Yes.” Max slapped the bar. “The slyboots must be found. Justice must be done.”

“Max,” Owen said between his teeth, “for God’s sake shut up.”

“Ooops. Pardon,” Max said to Jimmy. “The poor lad is pixilated by her. She’s not only run off with my treasure, she has run off with his heart. Tell me something, James, what has happened to that thing we all held so precious?”

“What thing would that be?”

“Honour, old son. Honour among thieves. What has become of it?”

“That’s actually pretty funny, Max. You’re the only person my entire career I heard mention it.”

“No, it’s true, I tell you. We must all aim to meet the standards set by our beloved Pontiff. I do hope he’s feeling better. He was looking a bit peaky the other day.”

“Oh, he’s definitely feeling better,” Jimmy said.

“Excellent news! He’s out of hospital?”

“He’s out of hospital,” Jimmy said.

“His health,” Max said, raising his glass. “Very fine news indeed.”

“Max,” Owen said, “he means he’s dead.”

“Heard it on the news this morning,” Jimmy said, wiping a glass.

“Dead? Who’s dead?”

“The Pontiff, for God’s sake,” Owen said.

“Oh, no,” Max said, slumping on his bar stool. “Oh, lamentable day.”

“Poor Sabrina.”

“Poor Sabrina!” Max roared at him, spraying stout. “She wouldn’t even visit the man! Her own father lying on his deathbed, and she wouldn’t even visit.”

“At least he had friends there,” Owen said. “I guess, if you’re gonna die, you want to have your friends around.”

“Just so, lad. Just so.” Max raised his glass again, nearly sliding off his seat. “To a happy end in the comfort of loved ones. Can’t ask for more than that.”

It was not unusual, particularly in pubs, bars and taverns, for people to assume that Max was drunk. He was, after all, loud, voluble and occasionally obnoxious. But the truth was, Max rarely drank to the point of intoxication. Too much ale interfered with his performance: he would start to forget his Shakespeare, he would have to interrupt his own histrionics with frequent trips to the men’s room, and, worst of all, he would lose control of his mouth, releasing compromising information in quarters that were, to say the least, insecure.

Tonight there was no question: Max was in his cups. As soon as a thug or ne’er-do-well would enter, he would sail toward him, listing badly. None of them knew who he was talking about. They were too young to remember the Pontiff, and Max’s woman troubles didn’t interest them. One or two of them looked like they might reply to his questions with violence. Owen couldn’t get him to shut up, and he couldn’t get him to go back to the Rocket.

Max was muttering morosely into his pint of stout when a man sat down beside him. Owen noticed he had a cool haircut and a lightweight pinstripe suit that made him look like a hip lawyer, if there could be such a thing. He ordered a margarita and stared up at the Sports Channel behind the bar, where a baseball player was being interviewed while unrelated captions unreeled beneath his image.

The man swivelled around, bored. He didn’t pay Owen any mind, but when he saw Max he squinted a little.

“Max?”

Max gave him a bleary look.

“Max, is that you? Stu Quaig, Max. We worked together one time.”

“Stu?” Recognition seemed to pull him from a heavy fog. “As I live and breathe, the very man. How now, good Stu?”

“I’m fine, Max. How you been?”

“Couldn’t be better. My nephew, Owen. Owen, this is Stu. Freelancer I was foolish enough to hire.”

They caught up on mutual friends. Whatever became of Bobo Valentine? Is Sylvester still in stir? Shame about the Pontiff.

“Max, I think we better head home now,” Owen said for the tenth time.

“Nonsense, boy. Just got here.” He batted Owen away like a troublesome fly and turned back to his old acquaintance. “Good man Stu, speaking of our hallowed Pontiff, peace be upon him, were you aware he had a daughter?”

“Never met the man in person,” Stu said. “Don’t know anything about him.”

“He had a babe,” Max said. “One Sabrina. And that babe has now grown up. I promised Ponti I’d look in on her now and again while he was away at Oxford.”

“That’s a good thing to do for a friend,” Stu said.

“Good, it turns out, is not always wise. Because this baby witch, this Sabrina, this devil child in Guess jeans has made off with my score, my security, my nest egg, my rainy day fund, my little something to fall back on. The girl has rooked me. And from this moment on,” Max said, raising a hand in oath, “I, Magnus Max Maxwell, do consecrate my life-or whatever frayed, splayed and gossamer threads may remain thereof-to finding the little horror.”