Ken Bruen - Bust

In the back of Famiglia Pizza on Fiftieth and Broadway, Max Fisher was dabbing his plain slice with a napkin, trying to soak up as much grease as he could, when a man sat down diagonally across from him with a large cupful of ice. The guy looked nothing like the big, strong-looking hit man Max was expecting he looked more like a starving greyhound. He couldnt have weighed more than 130 pounds, had a medium build, startling blue eyes, a thin scar down his right cheek, and a blur of long gray hair. And something was very weird about his mouth. It looked like someone had put broken glass in there and mangled his lips.

The guy smiled, said, Youre wondering what happened to me mouth.

Max knew the guy would be Irish, but he didnt think hed be so Irish, that talking to him would be like talking to one of those Irish bartenders at that place uptown who could never understand a fucking word he was saying. Hed ask for a Bud Light and theyd stare back at him with a dumb look, like something was wrong with the way he was talking, and hed think, Whos the potato eater just off the boat, pal? Me or you?

Max was about to answer then thought, Fuck that, Im the boss, and asked, Are you?

The man put a finger to his messed-up lips, made the sound Sh sh, then added, No names. He sucked on the ice, made a big production out of it, pushing his lips out with the cube so Max had to see them. Then, finally, he stuck the cube in his cheek like a chipmunk and asked, Youll be Max?

Max wondered what had happened to no names. He was going to say something about it, but then figured this guy was just trying to play head games with him so he just nodded.

The guy leaned over, whispered, You can call me Popeye.

Before Max could say, You mean like the cartoon character? the guy laughed, startling Max, and then said, Fook, call me anything except early in the morning. Popeye smiled again, then said, I need the money up front.

Max felt better negotiating was his thing and asked, Its eight, right? I mean, isnt that what Angela?

The guys eyes widened and Max thought, Fuck, the no-name rule, and was about to say sorry when Popeye shot out his hand and grabbed Maxs wrist. For such a bone-thin guy he had a grip like steel.

Ten, its ten, he hissed.

Max was still scared shitless but he was angry about the money too. He tried to free his wrist, couldnt, but managed to say, Hey, a deals a deal, you cant just change the terms.

He liked that, putting the skinny little mick in his place.

Finally Popeye let go, sat back and stared at Max, sucking on the ice some more, then in a very low voice he said, You want me to kill your wife, I can do whatever the fook I want, I own your arse you suited prick.

Max felt a jolt in his chest, thought, Shit, the heart attack his fucking cardiologist told him could happen at any time. He took a sip of his Diet Pepsi, wiped his forehead, then said, Yeah, okay, whatever, I guess we can renegotiate. Five before and five after. Hows that?

Bottom line, he wanted Deirdre gone. It wasnt like he could hold interviews for hit men, tell each candidate, Thank you for coming in, well get back to you.

Then Popeye reached into his leather jacket it had a hole in the shoulder and Max wondered, Bullet hole? and took out a funny-looking green packet of cigarettes, with Major on the front, and placed a brass Zippo on top. Max thought that the guy had to know he couldnt actually light up in a restaurant, even if it was just a shitty pizzeria. Popeye took out a cigarette; it was small and stumpy, and he ran it along his bottom lip, like he was putting on lipstick.

Man, this guy was weird.

Listen closely yah bollix, he said, Im the best there is and that means I dont come cheap, it also means I get the whole shebang up front and thats, lemme see, tomorrow.

Max didnt like that idea, but he wanted to get the deal done so he just nodded. Popeye put the cigarette behind his ear, sighed, then said, Righty ho, I want small bills and noon Thursday, you bring them to Modells on Forty-second Street. Ill be the one trying on tennis sneakers.

I have a question, Max said. How will you do it? I mean, I dont want her to suffer. I mean, will it be quick?

Popeye stood up, used both hands to massage his right leg, as if he was ironing a kink out of it, then said, Tomorrow Ill need the code for the alarm and all the instructions and the keys to the flat. You make sure youre with somebody at six, dont go home till eight. If you come home early Im gonna pop you too. He paused then said, You think you can follow that, fellah?

Suddenly Popeye sounded familiar. Max racked his brain then it came to him Robert Shaw in The Sting.

Then Popeye said, And me mouth, a gobshite tried to ram a broken bottle in me face, his aim was a little off, happened on the Falls Road, not a place youd like to visit.

Max never could remember if the Falls were the Protestants or the Catholics, but he didnt feel it was the time to ask. He looked again at the hole in Popeyes leather jacket.

Popeye touched the jacket with his finger, said, Caught it on a hook on me wardrobe. You think I should get it fixed?

Bobby Rosa sat in his Quickie wheelchair in the middle of Central Parks Sheep Meadow, checking out all the beautiful young babes. He had his headphones on, Motley Crues Girls, Girls, Girls leaking out, thinking that his own crew would love all these great shots he was taking. Man, these chicks mustve been starving themselves, probably doing all those Pilates, to look this good. Finally, he saw what he was looking for three thin babes in bikinis lying on their stomachs in a nice even line. They were about thirty yards away perfect shooting distance so Bobby took out his Nikon with the wide-angle lens and zoomed in.

He snapped about ten pictures some whole-body shots and some good rear shots. Then he wheeled toward the other end of the Sheep Meadow and spotted two blondes, lying on their backs. From about twenty yards away, he snapped a dozen boob shots, saying things to himself like, Oh, yeah, I like that, Yeah, thats right, Yeah, right there baby. Then, right next to the blondes, he spotted a beautiful curvy black chick, lying alone on a blanket. She was on her stomach and the string on her bikini bottom was so thin it looked like she was naked. Bobby went in for a close-up, stopping about five yards behind her. He snapped the rest of the roll. He had another roll in the jacket of his windbreaker, but he was happy with the shots hed gotten, so he pushed himself out of the Sheep Meadow, on to the parks west drive.

A panhandler came up to Bobby, with that annoying sadeyed yet pissed-off look that all homeless fucks had. The guy looked strung out and the smell of piss, sweat and booze made Bobby want to puke.

Got a few bucks, buddy?

With the headphones on, Bobby couldnt hear him, but he could read the guys lips. He gave him a long stare, thinking there was no way in hell some scumbag like this would have had the balls to come up to him back in the day. Just then, the Crue went dead, right in the middle of Bad Boy Boogie, as the cassette got mangled cheap rip-off piece of shit he bought on the street in Chinatown, what, ten years ago? He tore the crap out of his Walkman, thinking he had to go current, get one of those iPods. Then he flung the messed-up tape at the guy, spat, and said, Heres some Crue. Broaden your fuckin horizons, jackass and take a fuckin shower while youre at it.