“You know…” Diane said, “I mean you’re always going into his office, locking the door…”
“Who told you that?”
“No one. I just noticed it myself and I was just wondering, that’s all.”
“There’s nothing going between me and Max,” Angela said as though the idea repulsed her. But, just for effect, she held her stomach like she was going to throw up and said, “That’s really disgusting. I mean, how gross is that? Could you imagine going down on that flabby belly?”
“I knew it couldn’t be true,” Diane said. “I mean, it’s bad enough working for him. Who would want to sleep with him?”
Angela hoped Diane would forget all about it, but she’d have to watch her closely just in case. Then, walking away, she thought, And hon, the diet, it’s like, not working.
That night Angela said to Dillon, “You know what that asshole said to me today? That I should add a cup size to my breasts.”
They were in bed, passing a joint back and forth. Dillon took his hit and passed the joint to Angela then said, “So?”
“So?” Angela said. “What do you mean, So?”
“I mean, So? Like so what so.”
Jesus, he sure knew how to annoy the shite out of a person.
“What? You don’t like my breasts either?”
“I didn’t say that,” Dillon said. “I happen to like your tits, but I like your arse better.”
“Thanks a lot,” Angela said.
“You’re welcome.”
Angela sat up, looking down at her breasts. “I don’t care what anybody says – I like them just the way they are.”
Dillon sat up and started rolling another joint under the lamp on the night table. Angela, leaning over, started kissing his back and stomach. He had the smell of peat, the smell of the bogs, but she liked it. She said, “You know what else he told me. He said he wants to marry me.”
“So?” Dillon said. “You gotta marry him so we get his money, right? That’s the plan, right?”
“Yeah,” Angela said.
She’d been hoping Dillon was going to propose himself one of these days. Dream on.
Dillon licked the edge of the rolling paper and sealed the joint. He lit up and took a long hit, then passed it on to Angela. Dillon said, “Dunno why I smoke this shite, it hasn’t had an effect on me since the eighties. Now you give me a double of Bushmills, I can whistle the whole of the Star Spangled Banner.”
She’d always gotten a big kick out of this – Dillon claiming that pot had no effect him. Meanwhile, he’d smoke a joint, then pick up a shot of Bushmills and try to put it in his ear.
His voice already getting really slow, he asked, “See… what… I… mean?”
The day of the murder Angela kissed Dillon goodbye before she went to work, knowing it would be the last time she’d see him before Deirdre Fisher was dead. Dillon was in the dining area, sitting on a chair reading his book.
He held up a finger, said, “Listen to this.” Then in his richest, most gorgeous voice intoned, “This is from Shunryu Suzuki… What do you want enlightenment for?… You may not like it.”
She didn’t get it, said, “I don’t get it.”
He laughed, said, “Tis few do.”
Dillon said he loved New York, called it his twisted city, and she wanted to add, “Yeah, matches your lips,” but never did because she was afraid of his temper. Although Dillon had never hit her, she thought he was the type who could. Violence simmered in him. It was never turned off – just went dormant sometimes.
“I’m going to take this town by the balls,” he said, and she said, “Good luck.”
He stood, produced a green emerald brooch, and said, “Back home, on Paddy’s day, we have the wearing of the green.” He pinned it on her breast, hurting her a little, but she didn’t even flinch. She figured, like all his countrymen, he was truly fucked up and wouldn’t give a shit anyway.
He put on a pair of very snazzy shades and said, “One time I was in Lizzie Bordello’s in Dublin. U2 were holding court and I nicked Bono’s glasses, you think I look like him?”
He looked like a horse’s ass but being a woman, she said, “You kidding? You make Bono look like Shrek.”
Dillon smiled, said, “Hold that thought, allanna.”
Eight
I had to give the guy credit. He didn’t back down easy. I’d have to watch him closely. His type could sneak right up and bite you in the ass.
Sixteen years ago, when he got back from Desert Storm, Bobby took an acting class at some place downtown on Broadway. He didn’t want to be an actor – no, that pussy Hamlet, Streetcar, Death of a Whatever shit wasn’t for him. He just wanted to learn how to play a role, make people know right away he was the type of guy who didn’t take shit from nobody.
He knew he needed some acting lessons big time when he pulled his first bank job, out at a Chase in Astoria. He went up to the teller, slid the note under the window, and stood there, trying to look like a guy who didn’t fuck around, like Ray Liotta in Something Wild. But the girl looked at him, just for a second, like, Are you for real? Bobby thought he even saw her start to smile for a second there, like she didn’t believe a guy looked like him could pull a bank job. His crew got away with the cash, no problem, but the girl’s reaction still annoyed the hell out of Bobby. He wanted instant respect.
Before the next job, Bobby watched Scarface like a dozen times, trying to get the whole Pacino badass shit down cold. He thought he had it, but when he went up to the window at the bank the same thing happened. He thought it must be nerves or something. When he pulled smaller jobs, at grocery stores and supermarkets, it was even worse. He’d whip out his piece, say, “This is a stick up,” and his mouth would be dry and the words would come out sounding all wimpy.
So he figured enough was enough and he signed up for the acting class. He felt out of place around all of the artsy-fartsy types, like he was crashing a party or something. He would’ve bailed but the teacher was this hot-looking little thing named Isabella. She’d been in something on Broadway and was in some soap opera for a couple of years. She knew her shit about acting and she gave great head too. Bobby stopped going to the class and got private lessons from Isabella. When she wasn’t going down on him, she was teaching him how to emote, use stuff from his past, shit like that. Sometimes they’d read lines from plays to each other. It took him a while, but he finally got good at it. Isabella said he should start auditioning and that’s when he knew it was time to dump her. From then on, whenever he pulled a job all he had to do was look at the fuckers and they knew what was going down. He probably could’ve robbed anyplace he wanted without ever showing a weapon.
Since Bobby got paralyzed he hadn’t tried to act at all. But he knew that for what he had planned with Victor at the hotel, he was gonna have to have his acting skills sharp as a fucking tack or the plan would have zero chance of working.
Bobby opened his old Riverside Shakespeare book to a random scene in Macbeth. He took a couple of minutes to memorize the line, then he looked in the mirror, trying to look tough, like DeNiro in Taxi Driver, and said, “Come to my woman’s breast and take my milk for gall you murthering ministers, wherever in your sightless substance you seek peace…”
He tossed the book away, realizing this was a waste of his fucking time. He still had the magic.
The townhouse was a lot bigger than Dillon had expected. He knew it would be big, but he didn’t know it would be like big big, like a feckin’ palace. There were three floors and the whole place was filled with all kinds of rich, ugly shite – couches, tables, chairs, mirrors, God-ugly paintings on the wall. Dillon couldn’t wait till he was livin’ in this gaff – then he’d make some serious changes. First he was going throw out all this ugly shite. Then he was going to put in a Shebeen bar downstairs with one of them giant screen TVs – like the kind they had in the sports bars – and then he was going to have his own feckin’ club – call it A Touch of the Green. Every night he’d be blasting the Pogues with his own private DJ, and he’d invite all his boyos to come down, and they’d rock the place with jigs and reels. He might even teach some bollix how to play the spoons. He already knew how to play the odds.