Giles Blunt - No Such Creature

“Oh, no, that’s okay,” Owen said. “I’ll be all right.”

“I don’t think so, sugar. Why don’t you come out with me?”

“Really. Max is my-” Owen looked over at Max. The old man gave him the slightest of New York shrugs, perhaps a last vestige of Dr. Pfeffernan. “Max is my uncle. The detective in charge out there knows the score. You just go ahead, Miss Leary, and I’ll be fine. I’m sorry for your inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience!” Miss Leary shook her head slowly back and forth. “Honey, you get out of this alive, got to be a job waiting for you in public relations. Inconvenience.”

Owen held the door open for her.

Miss Leary turned for one last look at Max. “I hate to tell you this, sugar, but your old man on a one-way ticket to Crazytown,” she said, and stepped out into the glare of Madison Avenue.

“Well, I hope you’re pleased,” Max said. “Now that we’re rendered defenceless.”

Owen watched as two cops in helmets and body armour jogged out to take Miss Leary by the arms and hustle her away.

The phone rang again.

“Good job, Owen,” Saperstein said. “Now let’s follow the same procedure with you and your uncle. You come out one at a time, him first. Hands in the air, understand?”

“Wait a minute. Why one at a time? I don’t like that.”

“One at a time because we don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Max isn’t going to hurt me.” Owen looked over at Max. “I’m more worried about you hurting him.”

“I understand that, kid, but we have to handle this the safest way for all concerned. Soon as you get out, you lie down on the sidewalk, hands above your head.”

“Me too?”

“You too. We have no way of knowing if he’s passed you a weapon or not. It’s not like you’re a hundred percent hostage, is it? So, no sudden moves or someone’s gonna get killed, understand?”

“I still don’t like the one-at-a-time thing.”

“Kid, your father, uncle or whatever he is, happens to be an armed bank robber who has taken hostages.”

“But you just said I’m not really a hostage. Don’t worry, I’ll bring him out and no one needs to get hurt.”

“Kid, one at a time, I’m telling you. Don’t try anything else, or-”

Owen hung up and told Max what Saperstein had said.

“Thank you, my boy, but I believe they have the right idea. Better to go out one at a time.”

“No, I’m not doing it that way,” Owen said. “As long as I’m beside you, they’re not going to shoot.”

“I envy your certainty. No, the safest thing is for you to go out first, then me.”

“We go out together, Max.”

Max rubbed a hand across his hair, came across the surgical mask and pulled it off, studying it. “You know, from now on I’m going to devote more of my time to the sciences. I believe I have the makings of an excellent doctor.”

“Well, you’re going to have lots of time to study, so let’s go.”

Max reached out and closed a hand around Owen’s forearm. “Listen, boy. About before …”

“I can’t even think about that now, Max.”

“I just want to be sure you understand. I never-”

“Max, please. Before they decide to throw tear gas in here and blast us to kingdom come.”

“You’re my boy, understand? Far as I’m concerned, no matter what else, you’re my boy. Best part of my life. You know, when you first came to live with me, you were still very small. Sometimes I’d come home and you’d run to me and I’d hoist you in the air and spin you around, and you giggled like a magical sprite. A creature not of this earth, of finer stuff. Or you’d take hold of my leg and cling like a limpet. I’d have to hobble around the house with you hanging on my leg. An absolute monkey. I loved you like my own, lad. Love you like my own.”

Still hanging on to Owen’s arm, Max raised himself up out of his chair.

“Leave the gun,” Owen said. “We don’t want to give them any reason to shoot.”

“Quite right, boy. Quite right.” Max set the snub nose on the chair. “You know what? Why don’t we have me sit in the chair and you wheel me out? Make a regal entrance.”

“Max, you’re not directing this, I am. We go out together, we lie face down on the sidewalk, hands above our heads. And no sudden moves or they’ll kill you. All right?”

“Face down. No sudden moves. Roger that. Did you know that ‘roger’ used to mean shtupping? Samuel Pepys used to regularly roger the female members of his staff.”

Owen tightened his grip on Max’s arm as they reached the door. “Remember, there’s going to be about a hundred guns pointed at us.”

“Yes, yes. Tedious trolls.”

Owen pushed open the door and the two of them stood arm in arm, blinking in the sunlight.

Someone, probably Saperstein, called over a megaphone, “Hands up, now.”

They both put their hands in the air.

“Face down on the sidewalk. Now.”

Owen started to kneel, saw Max wasn’t moving, and stopped halfway.

“Max, no funny stuff. Just do what they say.”

“Keep away from me, boy. They may shoot anyway, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

The megaphone again: “Face down! Now!”

“Max, just lie down on the sidewalk. Please.”

“Stop fussing, lad. I know how to hit my marks.”

They both got down on their knees. Owen lay down and spread his hands over his head.

There was a pause. A murmur of activity went up among the squads of police.

Then Max said, “Sorry, lad. Can’t go to prison again.”

He pushed himself up and started to run-a hopeless manoeuvre, since he was long past the age of swift acceleration. He didn’t get ten feet before a shot rang out, and he slammed against the plate glass of the bank before sliding down to the pavement. Owen crawled over to him. Max was slumped in a crooked seated position like a puppet from which the controlling hand has been withdrawn. In the sunlight, his makeup was obvious-the putty he had used to alter the shape of his nose, the sheen of glue at the edges of his added eyebrows.

Blood was pouring from the wound in Max’s chest. Owen pressed a hand over it, and blood flowed hotly over his fingers. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Max was trying to say something.

“Don’t talk, Max.”

Max’s voice was barely a whisper. His words emerged in a long, slow gasp, as if blown by a distant wind. “I have it,” he said. “And soundly, too.”

“Max, you’re too old to play Mercutio,” Owen said. “Be quiet now.”

Four cops surrounded them, guns pointed, as two more cops frisked them.

Paramedics appeared, wheeling a gurney.

Max was trying to say something else. Owen leaned closer to hear.

“You guys have any brandy?” Owen said. “He wants some brandy.”

The cops pulled Owen back. One of the medics felt Max’s neck; his head had lolled to one side.

The paramedic glanced up at Owen. “This guy a physician?”

Owen shook his head. “Actor.”

“Not anymore, kid.”

Monk’s Castle on Seventh street had always been Max’s favourite pub, not just because they served Guinness and a healthy variety of British ales, but because they had no television, their sound system played only classical music, and-best of all-the bartender and waiters wore monks’ robes complete with hoods, sandals and belts of knotted rope. Downstairs the place was all dark wood and stained glass, but the upstairs was a bright and lively space that the “monks” rented out for parties.

Max himself had held more than one celebration on the premises, so when it came time to choose a suitable venue for a memorial get-together, it had been the first place Owen thought of. The rafters were hung with huge posters of Max that he had had enlarged from his Photoshop files. Except for the presence of a jovial fat man in the foreground, they could have been used for a high school geography course. From the redwood forests of California to the rocky coast of Maine, from the badlands of the Dakotas to the boardwalks of New Orleans, Max had been there. In every photograph he was laughing, smiling or striking a pose, the camera his natural ally.