When Angela came into the office Max asked her to close the door behind her. Then, after she sat down with her pad, he said in a low, but serious voice, “Thanks for giving me herpes, you stupid bitch.”
Angela seemed surprised, but Max was pretty sure she was acting.
She said, “Herpes? What the hell?”
“You don’t have to deny it anymore – I just came back from my doctor. Irritation my ass. You knew you had herpes and you didn’t even tell me.”
“You went to a doctor? When?”
“This morning. Come on, I don’t have time for this bullshit. Just admit it.”
“Are you sure he isn’t making a mistake? I mean how can he tell without a blood test?”
“They don’t take a blood test, they take a Pap smear, but it’s herpes all right. He’s treated tons of cases before.”
“Well, I didn’t…” Angela lowered her voice and continued, “I didn’t give it to you.”
“Then where did I get it, a fucking toilet seat?” Max noticed that the left side of her face looked slightly purple, said, “What the hell happened to you?”
“Oh, it was nothing,” Angela said. “My roommate opened the bathroom door last night and it hit me. I’ll live.”
But Max, not paying attention, said, “Well, if I didn’t catch it from you, you got it now, so you better go see a doctor and pretty damn soon.”
“Maybe your feckin’ whore of a wife gave it to you,” Angela said.
Her temper was coming out and the fire in her eyes was ferocious.
“My wife?”
“Yeah. How do you know she wasn’t doing it with some bollix behind your back?”
Max considered this for a moment. Deirdre having an affair? It seemed crazy. Then he imagined Kamal naked, on top of her, and a sick feeling started to build in his stomach. Kamal was the only other man he knew about who’d had any sort of contact with Deirdre and he remembered how unusually upset he’d been to hear about her death. But that was crazy. He’d never heard Kamal even talk about a woman before and, besides, he was almost positive the guy putted from the rough.
“That’s crazy,” Max said. “No guy would’ve been interested in Deirdre and besides – you have to have sex to get herpes and Deirdre and I didn’t exactly have an active sex life.”
“I’m telling you the truth,” Angela said. “If you don’t believe me it’s your feckin’ problem, not mine.”
There was quiet knock on the door. Max said, “What is it?”
The receptionist who was temping this week poked her head into the office. She said to Max, “There’s a man here to see you.”
“A man?” Max said, looking at Angela. “I don’t have any appointments this morning, do I?”
Angela shook her head. Max said to the girl, “Did he say what his name was?”
“No. But he said it’s very important that he speak to you.”
“It’s probably a fucking salesman. Tell him to leave his business card and we’ll get back to him if we’re interested.”
“He said he’s not a salesman.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“I think he’s telling the truth. He’s in a wheelchair. He said he won’t leave till he sees you.”
“A wheelchair? Jesus H., he’s probably working for some handicapped charity. He’s-” A wheelchair. Jesus fuck. Max looked at Angela, then quickly looked away and said, “I’ll go see him.”
Max went toward the front of the office, rubbing the back of his neck to help ease his suddenly pounding headache. He managed not to scratch his groin but, Jesus Christ, he wanted to.
The man in the wheelchair was waiting near the reception desk. He had a thick black beard and dark, serious eyes. He was a big guy, stocky, looked Italian or maybe Spanish. Was it the same guy? Max wasn’t sure. The retard at the hotel had been in shadow. But two guys in wheelchairs showing up in one week? What were the odds?
Max said, “Can I help you with something?”
The man extended his hand, said, “You certainly can. Name’s Bobby Rosa.”
“What the hell do you want?”
“I want to talk to you and I got a hunch you’re gonna want to listen.”
It was the same guy, all right. Wanting to break the bastard’s teeth, Max said, “Look, I don’t know why you’re here, but you’re lucky I don’t get you fired for what you did. I would’ve but we felt sorry for you because you’re retarded.”
Bobby smiled proudly. “You really thought I was retarded, huh?”
Shit, Max thought. If the guy wasn’t a retard maybe he wasn’t a housekeeper either.
Looking around, Bobby said, “Nice place you got here. You must have, what, ten thousand square feet? What kind of rent you pay?”
Max looked over at the temp who seemed to be busy typing. Lowering his voice and stepping away from the reception desk, Max said, “Look, if you don’t get the hell out of here right now, I’m going to get someone to take you out. Got that?”
Bobby said, “You got a good set of balls on you for a little guy. It’s no wonder you’re such a successful businessman.”
Max said, “You want me to call the cops, I’ll call the cops.”
“You’re not gonna call anybody.” They were both talking in low mutters now, but the fucking temp was probably listening to every word. Still, it’d look worse if Max asked her to leave them alone, wouldn’t it?
“Yeah?” Max said, leaning close to Bobby’s ear. “And why won’t I?”
“Because,” Bobby said, “I have some pictures here that I doubt you’re gonna want the cops to see.”
Max noticed now, for the first time, the manila envelope on Bobby’s lap.
“Why don’t you come into my office?” he said.
Max went right to the bar and started making a stiff vodka tonic, his groin itching like hell. Bobby wheeled in behind him, stayed by the door.
Without looking at Bobby, Max said, “Now what the fuck are you talking about, pictures? Is this some bullshit joke ’cause if it is, I’m not laughing.”
“Sit down,” Bobby said.
Max, holding his drink at the bar, turned around slowly.
“What did you say?”
“I told you to sit down.”
“Look, if you think I’m gonna let you get away with any more of this bullshit just because you’re paralyzed, you’re out of your mind.”
Bobby took out a five-by-seven glossy and slid it across the desk. Max looked back and forth between Bobby and the photo several times, then walked slowly toward his swivel chair. Although he was scared out of his mind, he tried to keep his cool. But when he sat down his hands were already shaking. He looked up at Bobby, whose face was expressionless. Who was this guy, some detective? The only explanation Max could think of was that Harold and Claire Goldenberg had hired him to investigate the murders.
“So who the fuck are you?” Max asked.
“Under the circumstances I think I should be the one asking the questions, don’t you?”
“Are you a detective?”
“No, I’m not a detective.”
“Then who are you?”
“I’m the guy’s got a picture of you fucking your secretary while your wife’s not even cold in her fucking grave. Might get some people thinking, you know what I’m saying?”
“What do you want?”
“What do you think I want?”
Max stared at Bobby for a few seconds, wondering if the guy was crazy – he sure as hell looked crazy – then he got up and went back to the bar to make another drink. He said, “You like vodka?” thinking that maybe he could warm the guy up.
But Bobby said, “I don’t drink.”
“You have liver problems?”
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t drink. Is it because you have a bum liver?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I just don’t like what alcohol does to my brain.” He touched his index finger to his head, said, “I like to stay sharp upstairs.”
“I know what you mean,” Max said, turning on the charm, starting to schmooze with the guy. “The only reason I drink is to keep my HDL up and my LDL down – doctor’s orders.” Max drank half the drink in one gulp. “What’s your LDL?”