She became aware of a guy sitting on the stool next to her. He was young, around twenty-three, in a business suit and she saw a couple of other guys – his friends – giggling to each other. The guy said, “Hey, is this Woodstock or something?”
Angela was confused for a second then realized he was making fun of her for being barefoot.
“Just leave me the feck alone, yeh arsehole!”
The guy, looking terrified, went back to his friends.
Angela left the bar and headed toward home. She approached her apartment building, hoping Dillon had calmed down a little. Food and weed usually took his edge off, but she knew it was only a matter of time before he really lost it. Then she thought about Bobby Rosa again. The guy was really into her – that much was obvious. And, yeah, he was in a wheelchair, but there was something about him that made her think he could take care of himself. But could he take care of Dillon?
Angela didn’t have the key to her apartment. She kept ringing the buzzer, but Dillon wouldn’t answer it. Finally, after nearly an hour, someone leaving the building let her in and she went upstairs. The door to her apartment was open.
Dillon was sitting on the bed, watching videos and reading his damn Zen book. He said, “I wouldn’t go in that bathroom if I were you. That fookin Chinese food, it was off.”
Angela went to the fridge and poured herself a glass of soda.
Dillon said, “While I was in there on the bowl, shittin’ out me organs, I was thinking this guy in the wheelchair is our problem too. I don’t trust that bollix, Max. If he cracks, he’s taking us down with him. You know that, right?”
Angela didn’t answer.
Dillon said, “So my question is how much should I charge?”
“Charge?”
Dillon glared at her like she was stupid.
“For blasting a guy in a wheelchair.”
Sixteen
Muggers are plain creepy.
Max said to Kamal, “Have you ever had herpes?”
They were in Max’s kitchen where Kamal was busy cooking Max’s macrobiotic meals for the rest of the week. Three pots were going on the stove and Kamal was chopping up beets and potatoes.
“Herpes?” Kamal said pausing with the cutting knife in his right hand. “Why do you ask that?”
“No reason,” Max said. “I mean it’s not like I think you’re gonna infect the food or anything like that. It was just something that was on my mind.”
“No,” Kamal said, still looking confused. “I do not have any venereal diseases.”
“Ah-ha,” Max said. “So you haven’t been tested for herpes.”
“No, I do not believe so. Unless it was part of my regular physical examination.”
“Very interesting,” Max said. “Very very interesting.”
Now Max was almost one hundred percent sure that the little Indian guy had been banging Deirdre, probably had been banging her for some time. The last time Max had had sex with her must have been three or four months ago and he must have caught the virus then.
“You can just admit it,” Max said.
“Admit what?” Kamal asked.
“That you and Deirdre were, you know… a couple. Don’t worry, I won’t fire you or anything like that.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Kamal said.
“Come on,” Max said, “you think I’m blind? I saw how much time you and Deirdre spent together. It’s obvious you two were very close.”
“I admired your wife a great deal,” Kamal said, “but I could never imagine having relations with her.”
“Not even one time,” Max said, “just for the hell of it?”
“I’m offended that you would even ask me such a thing. I am a Sikh from Punjab – we are very spiritual people. We don’t sleep with other men’s wives, not even if we wanted to, and I did not want to sleep with your wife. No offense but, western women, they have a peculiar odor – it’s from eating meat perhaps. I like the smell of curry and spices, if you can understand.”
Max stared at him deadpan, thinking, Is this guy for real?
Then Max demanded, “You swear to God?”
“Why should I-”
“If you didn’t do anything you shouldn’t have a problem swearing to God about it.”
Kamal slid the potatoes and beets into the steamer then said, “I do not believe in God the same way you do.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Max said. “Then do you swear to the Buddha about it?”
“The Buddha does not ask anything to swear to it. The Buddha is not a singular being or concept. The Buddha is all things.”
Max picked up a plate and held it up. He said, “Fine, so let’s say this plate is the Buddha. Do you swear to this plate that you never banged my wife?”
Kamal looked at Max like he was crazy, then said, “I did not do anything with your wife. I’m giving you my word which should be enough, now please, do not say any more disrespectful things about the Buddha. It is very, very hurtful to me.”
The little rice eater looked like he was about to cry.
Max stared at him for a few seconds and decided that he was probably telling the truth after all. But if Kamal didn’t give the herpes to Deirdre that meant that Max must have gotten it from Angela.
“Eh, just forget about it,” Max said. “What difference does it make anyway?”
Max went to the fridge and poured himself a glass of skim milk.
“You know, you should really consider joining me at the ashram sometime,” Kamal said, stirring the big pot of brown rice. “I think it would very healing for you.”
“I’m Jewish,” Max said.
“Our guru welcomes people of all faiths,” Kamal said. “And meditating and chanting can be very cleansing. It can help you to become at peace with your inner self.”
“I’m not gonna sit on the floor and chant like some hippie,” Max said. Then he wondered if he could meet some classy Indian woman at the ashram. Hell, he could do rice and, for a decent lay, he’d chant till the crows came home or till the whatever fucking birds they had in India came home. Besides, what the hell was he doing with Angela anyway? He used to think he was in love with her, but lately he wasn’t so sure. She had a nice body and that great accent, but there wasn’t much more going on there. What had he been thinking?
“Lemme ask you something,” Max said. “Do women come to these ashrams?”
“Yes, of course,” Kamal said. “The spiritual journey is not just for men.”
Kamal was trying not to smile. Was something funny?
“Yeah, lemme ask you something else,” Max said. “Are they well-endowed?”
“Excuse me?”
“Tits. Do they have big tits?”
Kamal waited a few seconds, checking the vegetables, then said, “Some of them do, yes.”
“In that case, maybe I’ll give the hippie shit a shot,” Max said. “I mean after I get through with my mourning of course.”
Then he looked away and glanced at the copy of the Daily News on the table. Some Jap tourist got his throat cut on Forty-second Street and the police had no suspects. Max chuckled, thought, I guess Times Square ain’t no Disneyland after all.
Seventeen
I lose it, flapping about in the rain and kicking the hell out of the dog. I don’t deserve this. I don’t fucking deserve all this fucking bad luck and this stupid fucking life.
The next day another Manhattan murder was the lead story on the six o’clock news. The rat-gnawed body of forty-one-year-old Homicide Detective Kenneth Simmons of the 19th Precinct had been discovered by some children in an empty lot in Harlem. The body had two gunshot wounds and a stab wound to the chest. The police had released a police sketch of a suspect in the case – a white male, approximately five-five or five-six, maybe 130 pounds, with gray hair, last seen wearing an old leather jacket and dirty blue jeans and new sneakers. On Monday morning, the suspect had been spotted in a pawnshop on Bayard Street in Chinatown selling jewelry that was stolen during the recent murders of two Upper East Side women. Police believed that he might be a suspect in those murders as well since Detective Simmons had been working on that case when he was killed. People with any information regarding the case were urged to call a special police hotline number or 577-TIPS.