He had his gun in his hand and could feel grief and rage engulfing him.
Rufus was pleading and crying and then Max heard him say he loved her. Loved her? His Angela? And, worse, Rufus was going on now about how they’d been kissing just before she got wasted, how she was the best damn kisser he’d ever met. It was so tender, yo, so sweet.
Kissing?
He put the first round in Rufus’s belly – weren’t gut shots supposed to be agony? – and Rufus stared up at him with shock in his eyes. Max jammed the barrel in Rufus’s mouth, went, “Fucking kiss this.”
Emptied the clip.
Sean had been in a drunken stupor but the gunfire woke him – you want a mick’s attention, let off a few rounds. He staggered out of the back room, the pump shotgun in his hands and saw the black man’s almost headless torso lying at Max’s feet.
Sean looked stunned, like he was in awe of Max, and why wouldn’t he be? Guy from Ireland, IRA connections, he must’ve seen a lot of crazies in his bedraggled life, but there was crazy and there was Max crazy. Max knew he took insanity to a whole new level. Nobody was as crazy as he was, nobody.
Sean carefully lowered the shotgun, then asked, “W-w-w-w-w-w-w-where’s A-A-A-A-A-Ang-g-g-g-gel-l-l-la?”
Max said, “She’s dead. The love of my life, mon cherie, mon amour, mon Juliette.”
Sean said, “Sh-sh-sh-she… w-w-w-w-was… m-m-m-m-mine.”
“Well she’s no one’s now,” Max said. “Saddle up pilgrim, time to hit the trail.”
They packed fast and burned rubber out of there like the very Hound of Heaven was after them.
Max, sipping from the remains of the Jay while Sean drove, began a long monologue about Angela and busts and dickless cracker kids. Then he punched Sean on the shoulder, a tear in his eye, and said, “Last of the campaneros.”
Twenty-Two
“Words are not as adequate as teeth.”
Paula Segal was stunned. She had written what she felt was a very compelling proposal for The Max, which included a synopsis of the entire book, and pretty soon expected to be living the literary high life – author tours, press conferences, award ceremonies. One thing she wasn’t expecting – rejection.
Her agent broke the news to her over – yep – lattes at Starbucks.
He said, “There was a fairly strong consensus among the editors I went out to. The material’s simply too dark.”
Paula was in shock. This had to be a bad dream, or at least a bad joke. Her agent would crack a smile at any moment, say, Had you going there, huh? And then unveil the real news, that there was currently a bidding war going on for the book. All the major houses wanted it, and it was only a matter of whose eight-figure deal to accept: Knopf’s or Harper Collins’. Or maybe there was only one major player, Sonny Mehta from Knopf, and on a signal from her agent Sonny would come through the door, ear-to-ear smile, and give her a big welcoming hug and say, “Welcome aboard, hon.”
But, nope, her agent was still looking at her with that helpless expression that she’d gotten to know all too well over the years as her fiction-writing career had descended farther and farther into the toilet. But this wasn’t fiction, this was non-fiction, true crime. This was supposed to be where all the bucks were, and she had the inside track on the hottest crime story of the year.
“What the hell do you mean, too dark? It’s crime, it’s murder, it’s drugs, it’s a riot, it’s a prison break, it’s IRA hit men, it’s cold-blooded murder. It’s supposed to be fucking dark.”
Paula was yelling. A few customers and the baristas were looking over.
“Believe me, I understand where you’re coming from.” Her agent was looking around, smiling apologetically. “But there’s dark and there’s dark. As Ken Wishnia says, there’re twenty-three shades of black.”
She didn’t want to hear about fucking Wishnia, she wanted to hear about a fucking book deal.
“Okay, so we got some rejections,” she said. “Big whoopty shit. What’s the next move?”
Her agent looked discouraged again, said, “Well, there’s the second tier, but if I’m being completely honest I think it’s unlikely the second tier will be interested. I went out with this fairly wide and, just to be completely up front, we didn’t hear anything very encouraging from anybody. They all said the same thing: subject matter too dark, characters too unlikable.”
“Wait,” Paula said, knowing what was coming next. “What do you want me to do? You’re saying you want me to-”
“How about writing a young adult novel?”
“You’ve gotta be kidding. You want me to give up The Max, my baby?”
“It’s not a matter of what I want,” he said. “It’s what the market wants. And the market doesn’t want Max Fisher.”
“Bullshit,” Paula said. “Bull fucking shit.”
She stormed out of the Starbucks, deciding, Fuck agents, she’ll sell it herself. How hard could it be to sell a hot property, the next In Cold Blood?
She sent the proposal out with a well-thought-out cover letter to practically every editor in New York and they all had the same response – story too dark, characters too unlikable. It had to be collusion, some kind of conspiracy. Or maybe her agent was bad-mouthing her all over town? Something like that. Years as a telemarketer had primed her well for rejection, but hearing all the negativity about The Max was tough to take. She was doubting herself, starting to lose hope.
She was almost ready to give up, head back to the call center, when she opened a copy of Time Out New York and saw that Laura – yes, her Laura – was reading tonight from her latest book at the Barnes amp; Noble on Union Square. She thought, Has to be a sign.
She rushed to her salon, demanded an appointment even though her hairdresser’s schedule was full for the day. When Sergio asked her what she wanted done she took out a copy of Mystery Scene with Laura on the cover and said. “I want to look like her.”
Sergio gave her the Lippman do, a short bob, flirty and sexy but not too showy about it. Afterward she couldn’t have been more pleased. She looked as classy as Laura herself. When Laura saw her she’d have to realize they were meant to be together. Drinks would follow, maybe dinner, another meeting or two. Maybe she’d eventually move in with Laura in Baltimore, or they could just travel around the world together, two hot literary goddesses on the road…
And in the meantime Laura would help her get The Max into the hands of an editor who didn’t have his head so far up his ass he couldn’t see Pulitzer Prize material when it was handed to him.
A few minutes after Paula arrived at Barnes amp; Noble, Laura entered, rushing in, taking off her coat as she went, elegant and graceful as always, smiling, saying hello to all her adoring fans. Paula, in the front row, was staring at her, trying desperately to make eye contact. Surely Laura would remember her from the bar in El Paso and from their Internet exchanges. But after apologizing breathlessly for being late – traffic, her cab couldn’t budge – and telling an effortlessly witty story about her signing the night before at the Mystery One bookstore in Milwaukee, Laura went right into her talk, and then read from her latest Tess Monaghan mystery. The book was another winner, no surprise there. A line of about thirty people formed, and Paula got on it at the end. Her heart was racing.
She was worried that she might actually pass out. How embarrassing would that be? Fainting at her future lover’s book signing.
Finally it was Paula’s turn. She handed over a copy of Laura’s book and Laura, smiling, said, “Thank you so much for coming. Who should I make it out to?”
Paula thought, It’s not possible. She’s looking right at me.
Then she thought, Come on, cut the poor woman some slack. After all, she was a best-selling novelist in the midst of a major book tour. She was probably burnt out, that’s all.
“You can make it out to me. Paula Segal.”