Bobby knew there was no way he would be able to fall back asleep now. He put on some clothes and went down to the deli and bought a couple ham and egg sandwiches on rolls, a large black coffee, and a copy of the Daily News. Back in his apartment, he wolfed down the sandwiches and read the newspaper articles about the Riverside Park shooting. Like on TV, there was no mention of Max Fisher and no mention of any possible suspects. He didn’t know if this was good or bad. Fuck, he didn’t know shit about anything anymore.
Later, Bobby was finishing his bladder routine when he noticed something funny and muttered, “The hell is that?”
It looked like a blister down there, then he looked closer and noticed that there were others clustered around. Bobby laughed. If he’d caught herpes a few years ago he might have been upset, but now he couldn’t feel any pain down there so what the hell difference did it make?
Bobby started to plan his mother’s funeral. He got hold of a funeral home on Amsterdam Avenue and arranged for them to pick up the body from the morgue at the nursing home. Then he called Information in Brooklyn and got the phone numbers of a few of his mother’s oldest friends. One of them, Carlita Borazon, had died a couple of years ago, her husband told Bobby, but her two other close friends – Anna Gagliardi and Rose-Marie Santos – were alive and well. They both seemed very upset when Bobby broke the news.
After he got off the phone with Rose-Marie, Bobby turned on the TV. There was an update on the Riverside Park shooting. A spokesman from the hospital said that Angela was out of her coma. She was awake and alert, but still in critical condition.
“Fuck!” Bobby shouted and threw the remote at the TV.
He got the address of Columbia Presbyterian Hospital from the phone book, then went down to the street and took the Broadway bus uptown to 168th Street. The hospital lobby was crammed with reporters and camera crews, but no one paid much attention to him, some guy in a wheelchair. It took a long time, but Bobby finally made his way through the halls to the nursing station and found a clipboard that showed what room Angela was in. He half expected to see a pair of cops stationed outside the door and was prepared to just keep rolling if there were, but the door was open and there was no one outside it, so he just went in.
Angela looked like shit. Her face was white and there were tubes coming in and out of her body. How the hell had she survived? The luck of the Irish, that’s how. Ask any Brit – it’s friggin’ impossible to kill those mothers. No wonder the Irish made such a big deal about funerals. It was so hard to put a mick in a box, they actually celebrated when they got one there.
Bobby wheeled close to the bed. The easiest thing would have been to smother her with a pillow, like what that Indian did to Jack Nicholson in that Cuckoo’s Nest movie. But that would be crazy with the door open and cops in the building.
Angela was sleeping or resting, but when Bobby touched her wrist her eyes opened. She turned her head slowly in his direction.
“Don’t try to talk,” Bobby said. “I just came by to see how you were doing.”
“I’m doing okay,” Angela said weakly.
She squeezed Bobby’s hand. Bobby felt uncomfortable, but he left his hand there anyway.
“Did the cops talk to you yet?” Bobby was trying not to sound too anxious.
Angela shook her head.
“That’s good,” Bobby said. “That’s real good. What about what happened in the park? Did you see who shot you?”
Again Angela shook her head, then said, “All I remember is lying on the ground bleeding.”
“Some kid with a gun probably took a pot shot at you,” Bobby said. “Fucking kids these days – running around, shooting people for kicks. I ever get my hands on them…”
He let the threat hang there, to show how much he cared about her. Man, he was a great actor.
Now Angela was squeezing Bobby’s hand tighter. She was trying to say something, but Bobby couldn’t hear her.
Then Bobby said, “Don’t worry, everything’s gonna be all right. I just talked to your doctor and he said you’ll be walking out of here in no time, so you don’t gotta worry about that. Understand?”
Angela nodded.
“But listen,” Bobby whispered, “the police are gonna want to talk to you and it’s very important what you say to them. You listening? They found Dillon in your bathtub, but you don’t have to worry about it. He came after you and you killed him in self-defense – it’s as simple as that. But here’s the important thing – when the police ask you about Fisher hiring Dillon to kill his wife you have to say you know nothing about that. Remember – you knew nothing about that. Whatever you do, don’t finger Max. I don’t wanna see you get in trouble and this is your only way out of this mess. So just tell the police you know nothing about Max – tell them the robbery was all Dillon’s idea. Max had nothing to do with it, got it?”
She managed to smile, then said weakly, “Oh, I understand, Bobby. It’s really sweet of you to try to protect me. But there’s one thing you’ve got to understand, too.” Her voice was fading and she had to pause to take a breath. Bobby had to lean close to hear her say, “I get half the money.”
That night Angela was the top story on all the newscasts. She claimed that her live-in boyfriend, Thomas Dillon, had killed Deirdre Fisher and Stacy Goldenberg and that Fisher’s husband Max had nothing to do with it. She also said that Dillon killed that cop, Kenneth something.
Bobby knew he could do it now. He could show up at Fisher’s office Monday morning and go for his full bank account, his stocks, his cars, get him to sell that fucking townhouse. It was all there for him to take. Even half the take would be a nice score. But, for some reason, he couldn’t get psyched up about it. Part of it was the idea that he’d have to split the money with that lying bitch, but that wasn’t all of it. He needed to do something, to show that he still had what it took to get the job done. The business in the park had really gotten to him, shaken his confidence. He had to prove to himself that he hadn’t lost the touch.
He called Victor. He got his voicemail, said, “I’m gonna leave an envelope at the desk for you. Don’t say I never gave you nothin’ you dumb fuck.” Then he hung up, feeling nice and pumped.
Yeah, he knew exactly what he had to do next.
Twenty-Six
I love storms.
Monday morning, Max wasn’t expecting a party in his office, but he thought there would at least be a few smiling faces. Instead, no one even said hello to him. Max didn’t understand it. Didn’t anyone read the papers or watch the news on TV? Didn’t they know that Angela had cleared his name? He’d fire all these bastards, see what they thought then. Christ, couldn’t an innocent guy get a break?
Max went to Diane Faustino’s desk and asked her to please come into his office. He had steel in his voice, thinking, You wanna play hardball, baby? All right, then come to Daddy, sweetie. Come to Daddy.
“What for?”
“I’m your boss – I don’t need a reason.” He let his eyes turn to stone. He’d seen Eastwood do that.
Diane breathed deeply, then followed Max.
In his office, Max asked her to shut the door then he said, “All right, now what the hell’s going on here?”