One day, Max’s wife Deirdre came into the office and had one of her fights with Max. Deirdre was a nasty spoiled rich hag who’d probably never worked a day in her life. She wore designer clothes and expensive jewelry and always seemed to be coming and going from a manicure or an appointment with her hairdresser. Angela didn’t know what they were fighting about today, but it didn’t matter because it was always about something stupid. Angela heard Deirdre cursing at Max, then Max called her a “fucking bitch” and then, finally, they were both quiet. Max had told Angela that Deirdre was manicdepressive and was on medication, but Angela thought Max was just as pathetic for fighting with her all the time. She was sick – what was his excuse?
On her way out of the office, Deirdre stopped by Angela’s desk and ordered, “Call Orlando at Orlo and confirm my three o’clock appointment.”
Deirdre was wearing the same perfume that Max had bought her, but she used so much of it that she stunk up the whole office. She was overweight, but confident, swinging her big butt, walking on her three-inch pumps, a push-up bra making her chest look like a freak cartoon. Her short hair was dyed a blond that seemed almost orange and she was wearing her usual full face of makeup, like someone had just hurled it at her, letting it stick wherever.
“Why don’t you call him yourself?” Angela said, wanting to add “yah dumb cunt.”
Deirdre stopped and looked back at Angela with her mouth open, like she was shocked. “What did you just say?”
“Call him yourself,” Angela said. “I’m not your fookin’ slave.”
“I would suggest you not speak to me that way,” Deirdre said, “if having a job is important to you. You girls, you come over here, think you have cousins in the NYPD, think that dumb accent is the ticket to the good life. Well let me tell you, Maureen O’Hara is no Halle Berry, if you get my drift.”
Deirdre laughed snootily then marched out of the office.
“Fuck you,” Angela whispered then, the mick blood boiling, added, “yah fecking hoor’s ghost!”
Angela knew that Deirdre couldn’t get her fired – Max would just laugh if Deirdre complained to him – but she still didn’t like being put down by some uppity bitch. It just didn’t seem fair that Deirdre and Max had all that money and lived in that great townhouse. Angela knew if the shoe were on the other foot, and she was the rich lady, she’d be gracious, treat her inferiors with respect, helping out the poor, giving her old Donna Karan or whatever to Goodwill. She’d do a lot of stuff straight from her heart like that.
It was so frustrating – if only Angela had Max’s money, she knew her life with Dillon could be perfect. Then the thought came to her for the first time: why couldn’t they have Max’s money? All he had to do was divorce Deirdre – whom he hated anyway – and then he and Angela could get married. Max would eventually have a heart attack and die and Angela and Dillon would be set. But when Angela brought up the divorce idea to Max the next day he said he’d never even consider it. He was so cheap he’d rather stay with a wife he hated than give half his money away in a divorce settlement.
What could you expect from a bollix who didn’t tip?
That was when Angela came up with the murder idea. The way she saw it, it was the only way things could ever work out with Dillon. The key was, she had to explain it to Dillon the right way. She couldn’t say, “I’ve been screwing my boss for three months, you want to help me kill his wife?” She’d have to bring it up another way, tell him, “I know a way to get all of my boss’s money, you want to help me?” Naturally, he’d say yes, once he found out exactly how much money he stood to make. He’d drop that Zen book in a hurry, replace it with a gun in jig time, that was for sure. Then she’d say that it would mean she’d have to fool around with Max a little. She’d say “fool around with him a little” on purpose, make it sound like it wasn’t something serious.
When Angela told Dillon, he said he thought it was a great idea. He didn’t even have a problem when she got to the part about “fooling around a little.” He said, “But you can’t say I’m gonna do it. You gotta tell him it’s a friend of yours or some shite like that.”
“I’ll say you’re a friend of my cousin’s, but I need a name.”
“Tell him I’m Popeye.”
“Why Popeye?”
“’Cause he ate spinach and we should keep the deal green.”
Angela laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“I’m just imagining my boss’s face,” Angela said, still laughing, “when he finds out a guy named Popeye is gonna kill his wife.”
“It was dumb to ask for ten,” Angela said to Dillon. “You should’ve just stayed at eight.”
Angela and Dillon were sitting in the dining area of her apartment eating Apple Jacks and milk. The place was maybe four hundred square feet and there was no separate kitchen or living area. There was just a small area against one wall for the kitchen appliances and a countertop and a larger area with barely enough room for a full-size bed, a dresser, a small table and folding chairs from Bed Bath amp; Beyond, and a fourteen-inch color TV.
“He said yes, didn’t he?” Dillon said. “You should be thankin’ me. I got us two thousand extra dollars. You know how many Protestants I’d have to kill for that? A lot.”
“You could’ve blown everything,” Angela said.
“Blowing stuff is what I do, it’s me birthright. That stupid fooker is going to bring us all that money. You should have seen his face – how scared he was.”
Dillon’s mutilated lips looked even uglier when he said this, as if he relished putting the fear of be-jaysus into someone.
“He was scared?”
“Fook yeah.” Dillon started laughing. “You know what I told him? I told him he better not be home when I was there ’cause if he was home I might pop him too.” Dillon was laughing harder. “I don’t know how I didn’t start laughing my arse off right then. But I kept looking at him like this…” Dillon made a serious face, his ruined lips making his features even more horrific. “It was like I was feckin’ Michael Collins when he was arranging to kill the Brit agents, you should see that fillum, it’s mighty. It was like I could see him thinking, Uh-oh, this fellah wouldn’t be codding. It’s amazing how somebody so rich could be so feckin’ stupid.”
“He’s stupid all right,” Angela said, “but he’s not as stupid as you think. I mean a guy doesn’t make so much money, own a company like that, being stupid.”
“That’s not true,” Dillon said. “Look around sometime. There’re a lot of stupid people in this city, and a lot of feckin’ rich people too.”
Dillon took his last bite of Apple Jacks, slurped down the flesh-colored milk, then reached for the bottle of Jameson. He poured a shot, called it his eye opener, and drained it. He waited for the liquid to hit his stomach, then gave what he called his delicious shudder.
Angela had a minor scare when Max said, “The only thing I’m worried about is this Popeye character.” Everything had been going well, but now she was afraid that he would find out about everything.
Later that day, Angela had another scare when Diane in accounting came up to her at the coffee machine and said in a hushed voice, “Can I ask you a personal question?”
Angela knew that when a woman asked another woman that, it was a given that some kind of bitchiness was on its way.
“Sure,” Angela said.
Diane was always trying to lose weight – lately she was on The Cabbage Soup Diet. Maybe she was going to ask for some diet advice, get some crack in that Angela should try the diet too, not that she needed to lose weight or anything because she looked so good. Yeah, right.
But instead Diane said, “Is there something going on between you and Max?”
“Max?” Angela said.