Angela had the cash, now all she had to do was trade it for the weapons and the car Max wanted. Way back, her boyfriend Dillon, that wannabe boyo – and what a piece of work he’d been – had introduced her to Sean, a genuine boyo, as lethal as they came. She’d seen him roll a dead cop in a blanket and dump him like an old carpet. Sean was from that fierce and ferocious school of old paramilitaries, the sort that’d never surrender, they’d sooner go down in a blaze of armalites and were always tooled to the max.
Sean, whose only claim to an income came from irregular shifts as a taxi driver, had a stammer and an atrocious record with women. He’d get seriously drunk, approach the most attractive woman in a room, and with his stammer go, “I’m Se… a… n… I’ve… n-n-n-n-n-o… job… will you let me r-r-r-r-r-ride you?”
Subtle, right? It was certainly clear and direct communication, but he was batting zero.
Angela knew he had the hots for her, due to the drool that leaked from his lips any time he looked at her. Time to make it sing.
He lived in an abandoned warehouse on the Lower East Side. He didn’t bother too much with security. His rep was well known – you rip off the boyos, dig a deep hole.
Angela knew how to visit a murderous mick: Bring a seven course feast – six bottles of the black and a litre of Jameson.
She climbed the shabby, worn stairs to his apartment on the second floor, seeing rats scurrying in the stairwell corners. They didn’t trouble her. After Greece, four-legged rodents were the least of her fears.
She knocked on his door, which had a massive Green Harp on it. He pulled it open and she thought, Jesus, he’s gone downhill.
Never an oil painting, he was dressed in a Galway Hurling T-shirt and baggy combats. He was barefoot and his face, under the red beard… it looked like someone had taken a blowtorch to it. Probably someone had – though Sean was still here, so whoever did it was surely now feeding whatever still swam in the East River. She noticed the SIG in his left hand, held casually.
Took him a moment to register who she was, then he went, “A…n… g-g-g-g-g-gela?”
Nothing wrong with his memory.
She smiled, said, “Conas ata tu?” How are you?
You want to lure a boyo, talk Irish.
He smiled. Most of his front teeth missing, and his gums, burned because he’d forgotten to close his mouth when they used the blowtorch. She did the real smart thing, the sort of move that kept her, if only precariously, in the game. She hugged him tight. He was an Irish man, and with that bust up against him, he was already signed, sealed and fooked.
Then Angela said, “I’ll be needing some weapons and a car,” and Sean went, “I d-d-d-dri-v-ve a c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-cab.”
She oh so accidently brushed his cock. The bastard was rock hard. She wondered how long it had been since he’d gotten laid. Yeah, how long since the Pope gave a shite?
She said, “Let’s have a jar. You still drink, Sean, darling?”
Let sensuality leak all over his name. He’d come before the next teardrop fell.
He said, “I… I… t-t-t-t-t-ta… k-k-k-ke… the od-d-d-d-d-d jar, right… e… n-n-n-nough.”
She went into his tiny kitchen and surprise, it was spotless. Bachelors, they went one of two ways, became total slobs – i.e., Max – or became obsessive-compulsive. He was the latter.
She found some Galway Crystal Glasses, those babies went for a fortune, weighed serious tonnage and were no doubt an heirloom from his beloved mother. The micks loved their Mums; no doubt there was some fookin’ Irish lace tablecloth neatly folded and lovingly stored somewhere in the place. She made the working stiff’s version of The Black and Tan, always amused the boyos, and they were one hard fooking act to amuse. Ask the Brits.
A large shot of the Jay and add just the right amount of Guinness, it was an acquired taste but it got you there, fast.
She brought the glasses in and, indicating the immaculate sofa, cooed, “Join me a gra.”
Nervously, he did, his combats showing a massive tent. She handed him the glass, said, “Slainte amach.”
The very personal version of cheers.
His hand shook as he took it and they clinked the precious glasses and drank deep. Well, Sean drained his, and she hopped up, said, “Let me freshen that, amach, and we’ll talk guns and why you’re going to help me.”
She added three fingers of the Jay and not so much of the black.
He half finished that, a dribble coming from his lips, tried, “A-a-a-a-ngela… I… d-d-d-d-dr… iv-v-v-ve… a… cab.”
She put her hand on his dick, said, “I always had a thing for you, Sean.”
The continued use of his name and with such tenderness, plus the booze, was really screwing with his head. Not that it looked like it took much, since the blowtorch incident; looked like his mind was mostly scrambled eggs anyway.
She unzipped him, asked, “Would you like me to take care of that stallion you have rearing up there?”
Would he fooking ever. He’d have sold the mother’s linen, glasses and grave for it.
She said, “I’m going to be your woman, okay, darling?”
He nodded, too weak to speak, and she asked, “The guns?”
He stuttered, “How… m-m-m-m-m-man… y… d-d-d-d-o… y-y-y-y-you, you… y-y-you… w-w-w-w-w-want?”
Seventeen
“He had to hit him, but only him and only once.
After that it was sadism.”
In the morning before the night when all hell broke loose, Max met Paula for an interview session for the book. She’d arranged to have another private meeting, wearing something super low-cut, but this time the view didn’t give Max any liftoff.
“Sorry, babe, the wedding’s cancelled, kaput, finito.”
Said it stone-faced, no emotion, figured, Why sugar-coat it? Gotta hit hard, hit low, and hit early. And, man, he loved delivering bad news – what a fuckin’ rush! It reminded him of the days when he was a CEO and he got to fire people. That was the best part of his job – crushing the assholes’ dreams, watching them fucking melt.
“Oh,” she asked, “and why’s that?”
He could tell she wasn’t taking it well. She’d probably been planning for the big day, telling all her friends. Fuck, she’d probably had the band picked out.
“No offense, baby, but something bigger and better came along. A lot bigger and a lot better.”
Still hurting she asked, “This won’t affect the book, will it?”
“No, my motto is, Always do what you say you’re gonna do.”
“All right, then,” she said.
Was she stifling tears? Yeah, probably.
But she was a pro and managed to put it behind her. She started in with her questions: Do you remember your first meeting with Angela Petrakos? Was it love at first sight? What are your impressions of her boyfriend at the time, Thomas Dillon, AKA Popeye?
It was rough for Max, having to relive that dark period in his life. Well, it wasn’t really, but he acted like it was, knowing that sounding like it had been painful and traumatic was what sold books. Wasn’t that how Oprah did it?
Then Paula started asking the harder questions like: Did you want to kill your wife? Did you plot with Angela and Dillon to kill your wife? And – the most potentially incriminating of all – did you hire Dillon to kill your wife?
If Max hadn’t been flying so high, if he hadn’t been in the midst of the power trip to end all power trips, he might’ve thought it over first and realized that confessing to his wife’s murder, and admitting involvement in other murders and crimes he’d never been charged for, wasn’t exactly in his best interest. But, hell, he let it fly. It was the equivalent of an outright confession, details that could get him the death penalty.
But right then Max wasn’t thinking penalty, he was thinking publicity, he was thinking celebrity. That was what it was all about, right? Why hold back on the meat? You’re gonna open the door, open it all the way.