When she turned off the water, she thought she heard a noise in the other room. She waited, even held her breath, but there was nothing; the sound must’ve come from another apartment. She remembered what always happened in those horror movies, how whenever it seemed like the killer was dead, it turned out he was still alive. Angela wished she had taken the gun or something with her into the bathroom. She opened the bathroom door slowly and peeked her head out. She relaxed when she saw Dillon still lying on the floor in the same position she’d left him in, his wide-open eyes looking up at nothing. It annoyed her that the bastard looked so fucking relaxed, even Zen-like.
Angela had no idea what she was going to do now. With Bobby dead, she had no one left in the world to help her, except Max, and she knew Max would never get involved in something like this. He’d probably go to the police and say the whole thing had been her and Dillon’s idea, that he’d had nothing to do with it. The police would probably believe him too.
Then Angela noticed the white shopping bag that Dillon had left in the bathroom. She looked inside and saw five containers of Drano. She could only think of one thing that Dillon could’ve been planning to do with them. Well, as her mother used to say, waste not, want not.
Holding him by the feet, she dragged Dillon’s body into the bathroom, leaving behind a long streak of blood across the floor. Her arm ached, and it was hard to lift him up to put him into the bathtub. But she forced herself, lifting Dillon’s legs up first then standing in the bathtub and pulling the rest of him up and over.
Next, she put the stopper over the drain and poured a container of Drano over Dillon’s body, saying, “Who’s the tinker now, huh, you prick? Who’s the tinker now?” She added the other four containers and then she pulled the shower curtain closed.
Back in the main part of the apartment, it crossed her mind to throw his Zen book in after him. But she decided not to, thinking it wasn’t worth having to see his face again. Besides, maybe Max might want the book. God knows the guy could use something to help him relax.
Only then did Angela realize how stupid she’d been. How was she supposed to wash up now with Dillon in the bathtub? She could use towels to clean her leg, but she hated washing her hair in the sink.
She had small cuts on her hands from the glass. She poured peroxide all over her wounds, wincing from the pain, and then wrapped the worst of them with more paper towel and painting tape.
Angela was exhausted. She just wanted to get some rest and worry about everything else in the morning. It wasn’t as if she could solve all of her problems tonight anyway. She turned the dial on the stereo to an easy listening station and lowered the volume. There was still a huge bloodstain on the floor, in the middle of the room. She didn’t feel like mopping now, but she felt uncomfortable sleeping next to a pool of blood all night, knowing it had come from Dillon. She pulled the bed out, away from the wall, to cover the blood – that was better. Then she shut off the light and lay back down, listening to the soft rock music. She decided she’d just have to go over to Max’s tomorrow night and take a shower at his place.
Then, as she was falling asleep, she thought she heard faint laughter. It reminded her of a tinker she’d seen in the park when she was a little girl, one who had been laughing his mad head off. But one thing she was sure of – it wasn’t Dillon. At least she had one less nightmare to worry about.
Twenty-Two
He might have tried to hide it by dressing in a smart, well-cut suit and putting an easy smile on his face as soon as he saw me, but I could tell this straight away: Roy Fowler was one of the world’s guilty.
In 1979, when Max needed a lawyer for his business, he had picked Sid Darrow out of the yellow pages, figuring that a guy with the last name Darrow must know something about the law. But it turned out Darrow wasn’t nearly as good as his namesake, bungling a couple of simple contract negotiations that wound up costing Max thousands of dollars. Later, Max found out Darrow’s name had been shortened from Darrowicz, but Max didn’t fire Darrow for this misrepresentation or for his incompetence. Through the years, he had kept Darrow on the payroll, mainly because he was too lazy to look for someone else and because he figured that all lawyers were basically the same anyway.
When Max called Darrow for a reference to a good criminal lawyer Darrow asked Max what the problem was. Max explained how the police had questioned him last night about his wife’s murder.
“If you want my opinion,” Darrow said, “you shouldn’t have answered any of those questions.”
“I don’t want your opinion,” Max said.
Darrow gave Max the name of a criminal lawyer – Andrew McCullough. Max couldn’t think of any famous lawyers named McCullough, but he didn’t have time to be choosy. Once the police played back that security tape and saw him and Angela arriving at the hotel the situation would be way out of control. Max knew that Angela wasn’t bright enough to keep her story straight and it was only a matter of time until she mentioned Popeye and the murders.
McCullough wasn’t in. Max said to his secretary, “Well, can you tell him to call me as soon as he comes in?… Yeah, it’s fucking urgent – the cops’re trying to nail my ass!”
As Max slammed the phone down there was a knock at his door.
“What?” he yelled.
The door opened slowly. Harold Lipman entered.
“What the hell do you want?”
“I could come back later if…”
“No, come in,” Max said. “Sit the hell down.”
When Harold sat down across from him, Max could tell by the way Harold wouldn’t make eye contact with him that he hadn’t made any progress.
“Let me guess,” Max said, “you lost the sale?”
Lipman nodded slowly, looking at his lap. Sweat glistened on his forehead.
“What happened?” Max asked.
“He went with someone else,” Lipman said dejectedly. “I did the best I could, but our prices just weren’t competitive enough. The guy’s quote was twenty, thirty thousand dollars lower than ours.”
Max was seriously pissed.
“I told you what you had to do to close that sale.”
“I’m sorry,” Lipman said, “but there was nothing I could do.”
“I’m sorry too,” Max said, “but your best obviously wasn’t good enough. The company can’t afford to keep you on, paying you the draw that you’re making now, when you’re not producing. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to let you go.”
“You’re firing me?” Lipman said. “Just like that?”
“You have a half an hour to clean out your desk and leave the premises. And don’t take any leads with you – all leads are property of NetWorld.”
“Come on, Max – give me another chance. Please. I swear I’ll do better.”
Max was shaking his head.
“I gave you solid sales advice and you refused to take advantage of it. I’m sorry, but the decision is final – you’re terminated.”
Max had always loved firing people. In fact, when it came right down to it, it was probably his favorite part of running his own business. He loved controlling people’s lives. It made him feel like… well, like God.
He knew he still had a lot of deep shit to climb out of, but tried to focus on the positives. Last night Popeye had killed Bobby Rosa. Now Max’s only problem was Angela. He couldn’t fire her right away. He’d just have to tell her he wanted to let things cool for a while and hope she kept her mouth shut. Then, after enough time passed, he’d terminate her Greek-Irish ass and hope he never saw her again. His only other problem would be that hotel videotape, but it wouldn’t be nearly as harmful as Bobby Rosa’s pictures could have been. All the videotape would show was him and Angela checking into the hotel that night, but it wouldn’t be real evidence of an affair. A hotshot criminal lawyer like McCullough would be able to get around it somehow and then he’d be home free.