SEVENTEEN
T
HEY’D BEEN FOLLOWING THE OLD MAN AND THE KID
since Vegas, and now the girl too. They got Tucson from Pookie—his hotel booking in the datebook section of his PalmPilot. Roscoe had given them Dallas, and Zig had insisted on lugging the sap all the way to Dallas in case he might know any more. There were only half a dozen RV parks in the Dallas-Fort Worth area, and of these only two had facilities big enough for vehicles the size of Max Maxwell’s Winnebago. Which was how they’d tracked them to the Texas-T trailer park. Clem and Stu had split the bird-dog duties, meaning Clem had to waste his entire day following this girl around, and he could not for the life of him figure out why.
Clem seriously believed that if he stayed in the car another minute he was going to go out of his screaming mind. Parked in the McDonald’s lot, staring at the Texas-T sign—pretty soon they’d have to haul him off to a psychiatric hospital, to spend the rest of his days drooling before a TV set playing
America’s Funniest Home Videos
or some other lame-ass show he’d never watched except by accident in a bar maybe.
He’d been here for two hours now, rain tapping on the car roof and dribbling down the windshield. He couldn’t listen to the radio any longer without running the battery down. He snatched up his cellphone and called Zig.
“How much longer you expect me to do this?”
“Do what?” Zig said. “What are you doing?”
“I’m parked outside the goddamn trailer park waiting for something to happen. I’m telling you, the girl’s got nothing to do with these guys’ business. She’s a friend or relative or something. Spent the day shopping, for Chrissake.”
“Who with?”
“Some dame. Friend, I think. Older. Absolutely nothing of interest happened.”
“They see anybody else?”
“No one. Well, there was one guy come out of the old lady’s place when they got back from shopping. Could be the broad’s husband, I don’t know. Anyway, girl took a taxi back here an hour ago and I’m—Hang on, there’s a cab coming out of the park now. Yeah, it’s her.”
“Stay on her.”
“Zig, I’m getting sick of pissing in a bottle here. Why the fuck am I watching this girl?”
“Because we don’t know if she’s part of this crew or what.”
“Well, let Stu do it.”
“Stu’s watching Max and the kid downtown, and I’m watching Jeopardy Joe here. Don’t you lose her, Clem, or I’ll light up your ass, I swear I will.”
Clem threw the phone down and pulled out into the traffic, wipers flapping. The cab was two cars ahead. He snatched up the phone again and switched it off. What was Zig doing all this time? Probably screwing one of his underage druggies too stoned to know any better.
“Fuck you,” he said, and threw the phone in the glove compartment.
“There’s no way we can do it,” Owen said. “Not without Pookie and Roscoe. You checked out the new wing.”
Max steered the Taurus through the Dallas traffic, which seemed so used to sunshine that it was utterly stymied by rain.
“It’s a hospital, my boy. Hardly a fortress. My plan is not only feasible, it is elegant. A good round plan. The lobby will be filled with doctors and lawyers and do-gooders all drinking to excess. They’re opening a wing—they’re not expecting to get robbed. All those speeches, they’ll be stultified.”
“Max, just yesterday you didn’t know your own goddamn name.”
“That is a low blow, lad. I refuse to dignify it with a reply.”
“Max, you’ve got four mezzanines looking down on the lobby where everyone’s going to be. You’ve got four huge exits. And there’s going to be newspaper photographers, TV cameras, who knows what else?”
“I fear no cameras. A disguise is a disguise whether on camera or in the flesh. As to mezzanines—”
“Max, please. You’re scaring me. What’s the point of doing reconnaissance if you’re going to ignore everything you find out? Besides which, since when do we rob hospitals?”
“We wouldn’t be robbing the hospital, we’d be robbing the rabid right-wing lunatics who attend such things. Need I remind you that it’s to be called the Thomas P. Craine Center for Reconstructive Surgery? Do you know who Thomas P. Craine is?”
“Just because he’s a rich Republican doesn’t mean he isn’t doing something good. Hey, watch out!”
Max had suddenly pulled over in front of an FTD shop, eliciting even more horns from behind.
“Flowers to Tucson,” he said. “That fellow who was injured.”
“The one you shot, you mean.”
“There’s no need to call a spade a bloody shovel. It was a workplace accident. You mock my finest instincts.”
The florist was a Korean man dressed in a soccer jersey and a fisherman’s cap. An old newspaper clipping was taped to the cash register: “From DMZ to DFW: Korean Poet Kim Wa Yeung’s Long Journey from Word Power to Flower Power.” The transaction took forever owing to Max’s insistence on discussing Shakespeare with the florist. When they were finished, Owen bought a dozen miniature daffodils.
“Why this sudden urge for daffodils?” Max inquired, back in the car.
“They’re for Sabrina,” Owen said.
“Careful, laddie. She hasn’t had your upbringing. The Pontiff, bless him, was not what you’d call a family man. Business with him was not seasonal—no, no, he was a full-time thief—and I fear his daughter has paid the price. But to return to the subject at hand: I don’t want to rule out a ripe prospect at the first sign of adversity.”
“Max, have you totally forgotten yesterday? It’s okay—it’s not your fault you’re getting old and your synapses maybe don’t fire the way they used to—but you didn’t even know your own name. You’re not in any shape for a big show. It’s not even an option. You might as well hang a sign on your back that says ‘Arrest Me.’”
Max wouldn’t listen. He was feeling fine, never better. Yesterday had been a fleeting episode. One was only human. Mountain molehill. They went back and forth on the subject all the way to the campground. They were still arguing when they opened the Rocket’s door.
“Max, remember what you used to tell me? ‘One has to have the courage
not
to pull a job.’”
“Tush, boy. You mistake the howl of fear for the song of reason. Hang on …”
“What’s wrong?”
“The dishwasher’s been moved.”
“You moved it when you came back from visiting the Pontiff.”
“Just so. And I set it back exactly as always.”
Max got down on his knees and slid the dishwasher away from its fittings. Usually you had to unscrew two braces in the floor before you could do that, but they were loose. His head disappeared into the gap as he reached around behind the machine.
“It’s gone.”
“You’re kidding.”
“All of it.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“See for yourself.”
Owen dropped the flowers on the table. He got down on the floor and felt behind the dishwasher. There was nothing at all in the hutch.
The two of them stood in the galley, speechless.
After a minute Owen noticed the rack across from the bunks. “Sabrina’s suitcase is gone. So’s her backpack. They were up there next to mine.”
“She robbed us,” Max said. “The filthy little scrubber robbed us.”
“Jesus, Max. It’s far more likely the Subtractors got her. Or
someone
got her. Whoever got Pookie. Whoever got Roscoe. Now they’ve got Sabrina. Why would you assume she ripped us off?”
Max held up a piece of paper. Owen grabbed it from him and read the following:
Owen, Max
,
Opportunity knocks and I hope as fellow thieves you will understand. Thanks
for everything!
“The filthy, cozening slut.”
“Don’t call her that, Max.”
“Obviously she noticed the dishwasher the other night. The false witch was feigning sleep when you stashed the stuff, and now she has stripped us bare. And you bought her flowers,” Max said, laying a damp, heavy paw on Owen’s shoulder. “How positively heartwarming.”
EIGHTEEN
T
HEY WERE ON THEIR FOURTH HOTEL NOW
, the Monte Carlo, keeping to the more luxurious ones since it was likely Sabrina was “feeling pretty flush,” as Max put it. But none of the desk clerks recognized her from the photo they held up, the one of her at Carlsbad.
They sat down in the Monte Carlo’s plush lobby for a breather.
“Max, we’re acting like a couple of amateur detectives here. Doesn’t that bother you?”
“The woman has done me bold and saucy wrongs,” Max said, mopping his brow. “She must be found.”
“Think about it,” Owen said. “If you were Sabrina, would you rob us and then head for a hotel? I wouldn’t. I would head straight to the nearest airport or train station—and where does that leave us? Are we going to head out to the airport and ask every ticket clerk if they’ve seen her?”
“The vixen was bound for New York, was she not? That narrows it down.”
“Max, we’re not going to find her in Dallas. We
might
find her in New York if she really does head back to school there.”
“Maybe she rented a car. We should check rental outlets.”
“There must be hundreds of them in this city. Anyway, why rent when you could buy? She could go right out and buy herself a Mustang—she said that was her fantasy.”
The moment he said it, Owen wished he hadn’t. Max snapped his fingers and said, “Fire up the laptop, kid. We’ll need a list of Ford dealerships.”
“I don’t have the laptop on me. Let’s go outside and get some air.”
He took Max by the elbow and led him to a bench still damp from the earlier rain. Beside them, a bronze statue of an oilman ignored the pigeon balancing on his bronze hard hat. Owen had a sudden deep yearning for the streets of Manhattan, for the squirrels of Stuyvesant Town, for his life to come at Juilliard.
“I can’t accept it,” Max said. “I’ve been robbed by a mere slip of a girl. It must be a bad dream. Wake me, boy, wake me. Queen Mab is riding my cerebellum.”
“We’re just going to have to live with it.”
“It’s too humiliating.”
“The stuff she took? Two weeks ago we didn’t own any of it. There’s no point getting upset about losing it now.”
“There’s every point.”
“Let’s just head home. It’s time to call it a day.”
“Desist, surrender monkey.” Max stood up with much groaning, pressing his hands into the small of his back. “I have another plan.”
“Great, Max. I can’t wait.”
Max stood on tiptoe, a surprisingly delicate manoeuvre for one so middle heavy, and addressed himself to the bronze figure.
“I, Magnus Max Maxwell, am determined to get very drunk.”
Max’s “plan” dragged them through several drinking establishments. Owen was sticking to Coke, but after his third it was beginning to taste horribly sweet and he was having to pee every ten minutes.
Their current stop was Jimmy’s Roustabout Tavern; Owen hoped it would be the last. It was full of oil-drilling paraphernalia and murals of famous gushers. It was not a spot that appealed to people who were actually in the petroleum business, but it was clearly a hit with the criminal element. This may have had something to do with the proprietor, Jimmy Coughlin, who looked only slightly younger than Max and had tattoos of dragons flaming up his forearms.
“Jimmy, old son,” Max said over his tower of stout. “You remember John-Paul Bertrand, our sainted Pontiff?”
“Sure, I knew JP before he got sent up to Huntsville.”
“It’s his daughter has my attention just now.”
“Robbing the cradle, aren’t you? Even I have some standards.”
“Jimmy, I assure you, although she has attacked me in my heart’s core, my purpose is nothing romantic. In brief—”
“Max.” Owen squeezed his elbow hard and spoke right into his ear. “Max, cool it.”
Max didn’t even notice. “In brief, she has absconded with goods and chattels not her own.”
“She ripped you off? Really? The Pontiff’s kid?”
“A kid no longer. Her comely form doth cloak the heart of a jackal.”
“And you think she’s in Dallas?”
“Yes.” Max slapped the bar. “The slyboots must be found. Justice must be done.”
“Max,” Owen said between his teeth, “for God’s sake shut up.”
“Ooops. Pardon,” Max said to Jimmy. “The poor lad is pixilated by her. She’s not only run off with my treasure, she has run off with his heart. Tell me something, James, what has happened to that thing we all held so precious?”
“What thing would that be?”
“Honour, old son. Honour among thieves. What has become of it?”
“That’s actually pretty funny, Max. You’re the only person my entire career I heard mention it.”
“No, it’s true, I tell you. We must all aim to meet the standards set by our beloved Pontiff. I do hope he’s feeling better. He was looking a bit peaky the other day.”
“Oh, he’s definitely feeling better,” Jimmy said.
“Excellent news! He’s out of hospital?”
“He’s out of hospital,” Jimmy said.
“His health,” Max said, raising his glass. “Very fine news indeed.”
“Max,” Owen said, “he means he’s dead.”
“Heard it on the news this morning,” Jimmy said, wiping a glass.
“Dead? Who’s dead?”
“The Pontiff, for God’s sake,” Owen said.
“Oh, no,” Max said, slumping on his bar stool. “Oh, lamentable day.”
“Poor Sabrina.”
“Poor Sabrina!” Max roared at him, spraying stout. “She wouldn’t even visit the man! Her own father lying on his deathbed, and she wouldn’t even visit.”
“At least he had friends there,” Owen said. “I guess, if you’re gonna die, you want to have your friends around.”
“Just so, lad. Just so.” Max raised his glass again, nearly sliding off his seat. “To a happy end in the comfort of loved ones. Can’t ask for more than that.”
It was not unusual, particularly in pubs, bars and taverns, for people to assume that Max was drunk. He was, after all, loud, voluble and occasionally obnoxious. But the truth was, Max rarely drank to the point of intoxication. Too much ale interfered with his performance: he would start to forget his Shakespeare, he would have to interrupt his own histrionics with frequent trips to the men’s room, and, worst of all, he would lose control of his mouth, releasing compromising information in quarters that were, to say the least, insecure.
Tonight there was no question: Max was in his cups. As soon as a thug or ne’er-do-well would enter, he would sail toward him, listing badly. None of them knew who he was talking about. They were too young to remember the Pontiff, and Max’s woman troubles didn’t interest them. One or two of them looked like they might reply to his questions with violence. Owen couldn’t get him to shut up, and he couldn’t get him to go back to the Rocket.
Max was muttering morosely into his pint of stout when a man sat down beside him. Owen noticed he had a cool haircut and a lightweight pinstripe suit that made him look like a hip lawyer, if there could be such a thing. He ordered a margarita and stared up at the Sports Channel behind the bar, where a baseball player was being interviewed while unrelated captions unreeled beneath his image.
The man swivelled around, bored. He didn’t pay Owen any mind, but when he saw Max he squinted a little.
“Max?”
Max gave him a bleary look.
“Max, is that you? Stu Quaig, Max. We worked together one time.”
“Stu?” Recognition seemed to pull him from a heavy fog. “As I live and breathe, the very man. How now, good Stu?”
“I’m fine, Max. How you been?”
“Couldn’t be better. My nephew, Owen. Owen, this is Stu. Freelancer I was foolish enough to hire.”
They caught up on mutual friends. Whatever became of Bobo Valentine? Is Sylvester still in stir? Shame about the Pontiff.
“Max, I think we better head home now,” Owen said for the tenth time.
“Nonsense, boy. Just got here.” He batted Owen away like a troublesome fly and turned back to his old acquaintance. “Good man Stu, speaking of our hallowed Pontiff, peace be upon him, were you aware he had a daughter?”
“Never met the man in person,” Stu said. “Don’t know anything about him.”
“He had a babe,” Max said. “One Sabrina. And that babe has now grown up. I promised Ponti I’d look in on her now and again while he was away at Oxford.”
“That’s a good thing to do for a friend,” Stu said.
“Good, it turns out, is not always wise. Because this baby witch, this Sabrina, this devil child in Guess jeans has made off with my score, my security, my nest egg, my rainy day fund, my little something to fall back on. The girl has rooked me. And from this moment on,” Max said, raising a hand in oath, “I, Magnus Max Maxwell, do consecrate my life—or whatever frayed, splayed and gossamer threads may remain thereof—to finding the little horror.”
“What are you going to do when you find her?”
“I shall do such things as will be the terror of the earth.”
“You’re not going to do anything to her,” Owen said. “Max, please. It’s time to go home. Don’t listen to him,” he said to Stu. “He makes shit up. He’ll say anything when he’s had too much to drink. Come on, Max, let’s go.”
“Yeah, I figured,” Stu said.
“I shall be extremely sarcastic,” Max said. “I shall be a verbal Subtractor. I shall attack her with cutting remarks until, writhing in guilt and shame, she hands over my swag.”
Stu leaned forward and said in the quietest voice, “Let me get this right. Some girl stole your score?”
“Thou sayest true.”
“The entire thing?”
“Kit and caboodle.”
“Max, have you ever thought about retiring?”
“
Et tu
, Stu? I can’t bear it. Sweet Jesu, such a handsome score it was, too.”
“Max,” Owen said, taking him by the shoulders and shaking him, “can we please get the hell out of here?”