“It was him or us, lad. Him or us. I prefer us.”
The elevator door opened and they strolled into the lobby. The entire staff seemed to be on cellphones or engaged with computer screens and didn’t even look at them.
Pookie was in the limo halfway up the block, reading a Harry Potter novel.
“Quick,” Max said. “Get us out of here.”
Pookie spoke up, still the cheery Indian. “You have been enjoying a pleasant evening, I trust, sir?”
“Just drive, will you?” Max said.
“You have been imbibing some alcoholic beverage, I am thinking. You are no longer transporting your bottle of champers and your mood is noticeably darker. Have you been forcing alcohol on the young fellow, too? He is looking ghostly pale, is he not?”
“Pookie, for God’s sake move it.”
In the back seat, Max and Owen removed their wigs and other makeup, Max scratching at bits of glue on his eyebrows. The smell of rubbing alcohol filled the car. Sirens grew louder in the distance, but there were always sirens in Las Vegas. They struggled out of their costumes and into the casual stuff that was waiting for them in an open suitcase.
By the time Pookie dropped them off at the El Cortez parking lot—for security reasons, neither he nor Roscoe knew about the Rocket—they were once again the old British wig salesman and his nephew.
They paid Pookie and said good night.
“
Namaste
,” he said. “I am wishing you peace and joy always.”
“Pretty good haul,” Max said.
“You didn’t have to hit him,” Owen said.
Max was checking his face in the bathroom mirror, looking for any makeup he had missed. “Tony the Thug was going to either jump us or get us thrown in the slammer, and I wasn’t about to let that happen. I don’t see why you’re so jellified about it. We’re thieves, boy, we dance with danger. Part of the fun.”
“Fun? Suddenly out of the blue you smash a guy’s jaw? An
actor?
”
“Tedesco is a well-known right-wing lunatic. I do not consider him a colleague. You’d be feeling a whole lot worse if we were sitting in jail now.”
“Max,” Owen said, “let’s please get out of this business before something terrible happens.”
“Get out any time you like, me lad. I’m in for the long haul.”
Max headed for the galley. It was their custom, after pulling a job, to have a snack before going to bed, but Owen got changed in the bathroom and climbed into his bunk.
“What’s this, lad? Going to bed without your midnight snack?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Nonsense. You hardly ate any supper. You’ll waste away.”
Owen turned out his light, wanting to put an end to the day.
The Rocket filled with smells of toast and the melted cheese in Max’s inevitable midnight omelette. Owen turned his back and stared at the wall.
SEVEN
O
WEN AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING TO A SOFT RAPPING
on the side of his bunk. It took him a moment to remember where he was—the Rocket, Las Vegas, Tony Tedesco’s jaw.
Max’s face was alarmingly close, his expression an almost comical rendering of sheepishness.
“Breakfast is served, boy.”
“I’ll be there in a sec.”
“A chorus line of pancakes awaits.”
“Great.”
But Max’s face stayed right there, worried and sad and—it had to be recognized—probably acting.
“Uh, boy,” he began, then turned politely aside while a series of throat clearings and prim little coughs was performed. “Boy, about last night …” Max went to the window opposite and opened the curtains, staring out at the vista of another Winnebago. He was wearing his Hyatt bathrobe. “You were right to speak sharply to me, boy. Your old uncle misbehaved, and—”
“I’ll say.”
“No, no, let me finish. You can’t go cutting a man off mid-apology. What I wanted to say was, I’m sorry.”
“It’s Tony Tedesco you have to apologize to. He’s probably in the hospital.”
Max raised his hand for silence. “I regret you were witness to mayhem. I was taken by a force-ten hurricane of panic. Utterly blew me over. So I lashed out.” He made a harmless-looking jab at the air, a kitten pawing a string.
“Sure didn’t look like panic,” Owen said. “For one thing, we weren’t in any danger. If we had just run right then, there’s no way hotel security would have caught us. We’d have been in the limo before they even got up to the room.”
“That’s why I’m apologizing, you clot—oops.” Max covered his mouth with his hand lest another insult escape. “Come and eat before it gets cold.”
Zig came out to the table carrying a latte in one hand and a cookie in a small paper bag in the other. He set the coffee down fast.
“Man, that’s hot. I think they got like a nuclear coffee maker back there or something.”
“Secret of Starbucks’ success,” Stu said. “Nuclear espresso machines.”
“Where’s Clem?”
“Went to get something in the mall. Here he comes.”
Clem came up the escalator. His sunglasses were Ray-Bans, but they were just a touch crooked. He was carrying a magazine.
“Where the fuck you been?” Zig said.
“Magazine store,” Clem said, offended. “Got the new
Woodworker
. I got a subscription at home, but I didn’t want to wait. They got a feature on gun racks.”
“Magazine store? Then how come you reek of alcohol?”
“One drink, I swear. Shot of Johnnie Walker.”
He sat down heavily on the metal chair and pulled closer to the table, making a horrible scraping noise on the floor.
“It’s eleven o’clock in the morning,” Zig said. “Already you’re drinking. I want you to stop right now, you got that? From now on you drink like a normal human being or I’m gonna kick your ass, you got it?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Don’t say yeah, yeah. I asked you if you got it.”
“Yes, Zig. I got it.”
“All right, what’s the scoop? What’d you find out?”
“I gotta get a coffee first.”
“No you don’t. Just tell me what you found out.”
“The fuck, man. You guys got coffee.” Clem started to get up but, seeing Zig’s look, sat back down. “All right. Your fat man has got two associates that we’ve seen so far. Three if you count the kid.”
“I don’t count the kid. Who are they?”
“Roscoe Lukacs and Terry Pook—bald guy. People call him Pookie.”
“I met Pookie on the job I did with Maxwell,” Stu said. “Good driver. Seemed like he was a steady guy, you know, reliable. That was a long time ago. Haven’t seen him since.”
“What about the other guy?”
“Lukacs used to work with Jonny Knapp few years back. Totally minor player. Strictly freelance. Lives in Seattle, where he does something in real estate—manages a couple of buildings.”
“So why’s he working with a guy like Max?”
“Why am I working with a guy like you?” Stu said, and Zig glared at him. “He likes to steal shit.”
“You figure out which trailer they’re in?”
“Yeah, we did. And it ain’t a trailer, it’s a Trailersaurus. Biggest damn Winnebago you ever saw.”
That night, Max insisted that Owen get dressed to the nines before they went out to dinner. When he saw Luigi’s Restaurant, he was glad he had put on the Armani. The casual opulence of the place made him feel like a movie star enjoying a night out incognito. Max was resplendent in summer-weight Zegna. He looked like a European film producer.
Having Pookie and Roscoe along would be “good for
esprit de corps
,” he had explained to Owen as they drove over from the trailer park. “They’re loyal little bastards,” he had said with some affection, “and they are underpaid. I like to make up for it once in a while.”
“Why don’t you just pay them more?”
“Honestly, Sunshine, you are such an infant.”
It was obvious to Owen that one of the reasons Max liked to have Pookie along was that Pookie just out-and-out worshipped him. Tonight he was trying out a cowboy accent.
“Pookie, speak normally,” Max said. “Really, sometimes you are insupportable.”
Roscoe was staring out the window, coloured light flowing over his long, angular features. Without even turning to the others, he said, “Christopher Jones was captain of what vessel?”
“O base Hungarian,” Max said. “Spare us the trivia just once?”
“The
Pinta
,” Owen said.
“That was Columbus,” Pookie said. “The man distinctly said Christopher Jones. Who the hell is Christopher Jones?”
“Christopher Jones,” Max said, “as all you pathetically ignorant Yanks should know, was captain of the
Mayflower
.”
“
Mayflower
is correct,” Roscoe intoned. “We have a winner.”
They all went quiet when their waitress arrived—not out of politeness, but just because she was that kind of beautiful. She handed out their menus, and then Max surprised everyone by asking her to wait a moment.
“Everybody,” he said, “I want you to meet Sabrina, child of an old, old friend of mine. My dear, there are a thousand Maxwells in the phone book but only one Magnus Max. Surely you remember? Used to visit you when you were still playing with dolls.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I can’t say I do. You knew my parents? How’d you know where to find me?”
“Your father has had people looking out for you here and there, and I’ve done my own modest research. I asked Luigi to make sure we were seated in your section.”
Max introduced everyone at the table. When he came to Owen, Owen found himself blushing for no reason whatsoever, other than the fact that Sabrina was flat-out gorgeous. Her dark hair was pulled back into a twist, exposing a perfect neck. The effect was erotically prim, and Owen found himself imagining her with her hair spilling over her shoulders. Her eyes were green and caught the light in a way that reminded him of certain purloined items back at the Rocket.
“I still miss your mum,” Max said. “Sweet lady. I used to love to visit just to bask in her beauty. You’re the very image of her.”
“I am not,” Sabrina said. “She was way more elegant than I’ll ever be.”
Max raised a hand to forestall argument. “My dear, the two halves of a cleft apple are not more like. Now, before we move on to food, we shall require an extremely cold bottle of Dom Pérignon. Have to get the best,” he added with a nod toward Roscoe and Pookie. “I’m trying to buy their loyalty.”
“Do you think it’ll work?” Sabrina said.
“It will fail miserably,” Max said. “But I shall be happy as a clam nevertheless.”
Sabrina smiled and it was as if the power had just been restored after a blackout. Owen had to fix his gaze on the tablecloth to avoid gaping at her. Pookie and Roscoe were entranced as well, though Roscoe registered this by fiercely gripping his menu, and Pookie by drumming his fingers on the tablecloth, skull-and-crossbones ring flashing.
“Sabrina,” Max informed the table when she was gone, “is no other than the daughter of John-Paul Bertrand, otherwise known as the Pontiff. The thief’s thief, and a gentleman of the first order. Promised him the day he was hauled off to Oxford that I would look in on her whenever I could. Make sure she was okay.”
“Looks okay to me,” Roscoe said.
Pookie ran through the menu, warning the others of cholesterol here and triglycerides there. He became more fanatical on the subject each year.
Sabrina returned with the champagne and Owen felt her beauty pass through him in waves of benign radiation.
“A timely arrival, my sprite,” Max said to her. “We are gnawed by the tooth of hunger.”
The champagne was followed by a bottle of Amarone, and then another. Owen burnt his tongue on his spinach ravioli and had to keep cooling his mouth with sips of wine.
Max noisily devoured a huge plate of osso bucco. “Nothing like a first-class meal,” he said, swilling the last of the Amarone in his glass. “Makes all seem right with the world.”
“What word do the Amish use,” Roscoe inquired, “to refer to anyone outside their community?”
“Auslander,” Pookie said.
“Amish—Not,” from Owen.
“Must we?” Max said.
Roscoe looked around the table, solemn as a horse. “English.”
“I’m so glad we cleared that up,” Max said. He launched into a war story about Peter O’Toole, making the others laugh. He became bossy over dessert, ordering tiramisu for everyone. Owen wished they could have ordered separately, just to keep Sabrina lingering at their table.
Later, the older people had brandies and espressos.
“I gotta say, that Sabrina is one good-looking girl,” Pookie said.
“She doth indeed teach the torches to burn bright.”
“I think the kid here is smitten,” Pookie said, pointing across the table at Owen. “He’s looking a little dreamy.”
“It’s just the wine,” Owen said, and excused himself to go to the washroom.
On his way back to the table he passed close by Sabrina, who was waiting at the end of the bar for a round of drinks.
“You having a good time?” she asked him.
“This may be the best restaurant I’ve ever been to,” he said, hoping desperately to come up with something witty to say and failing.
“That’s nice to hear.”
She turned her attention back to the bartender, and Owen made his way back to the table.
They lingered over their brandy, the trivia questions popping back and forth and Max spouting quotations. Owen barely listened. He kept analyzing his brief exchange with Sabrina with the intensity of a code-breaker. He knew there probably was no code, that she was just being polite. In any case, by the time they left, the busboys were putting chairs upside down on stripped tables and Sabrina was gone.
“So why didn’t we bring Stu along?” Clem wanted to know.
Zig didn’t answer. He hated being cooped up in a car with Clem, who suffered mightily from low frustration tolerance, ADD, claustrophobia and all the other disorders formerly known as ants in the pants. Clem was not one to suffer in silence.
“Boss? Did you hear me? I asked you why didn’t we bring Stu along?”
“Maybe I don’t trust him yet.”
“Stu’s a stand-up guy,” Clem said. “You think I’m gonna recommend some jerk-off’s gonna waste your time?”
“I’ll trust him when I feel like trusting him.”
Clem reached for the radio dial.
“Don’t.”
Clem sat back again. There were only a handful of cars left in the restaurant lot. Three hours now they’d been sitting here watching people coming out of Luigi’s looking pleased with themselves. Clem was getting more and more hyper, obviously, but Zig didn’t mind sitting it out. He was sure Max was behind the San Francisco job. Old guy, young guy, two associates. And he’d heard Max’s theories about dinnertime robbery back in Ossining.
“Finally,” Clem said.
“Looks like they’ve been into the vino pretty good.”
“Bald guy’s Pookie. Other guy’s Roscoe.”
The kid had to practically lever Max into their car, the old guy was so busy holding forth. He boomed and blustered and cackled, even as the kid was getting into the driver’s side. The other two got into separate cars.
“Three cars, three Tauruses,” Clem said. “Musta got a volume discount.”
“Staying in separate places too, I bet,” Zig said. “That’s smart.”
“So which one we gonna take down?”
“I like Baldy.”
“A fine evening,” Max said when they were moving. “Sumptuous meal. Good service. See, lad, these are the good things the diligent life will bring your way. The rewards of application far outweigh talent. The productive man wants for nothing.”
“Last week you said there was no meritocracy.”
“Oh, plague me not with your last week this and your previously that.”
“You’re always contradicting yourself.”
“Last week I was talking of the theatre. Not real life.”
“Hey, look!”
They were stopped at a traffic light. In the parking lot beside them a man was screaming at a girl. Owen rolled down his window.
“Ask yourself this question, missy,” the man yelled. “Just ask yourself what kind of woman do you want to be? Do you want to be the good woman, whose worth is above rubies? Or do you want to be some no-account whore of Babylon?” The man grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him.
“Do my eyes deceive me,” Max said, “or is that not Sabrina?”
The man slapped her across the face, and the report echoed off the surrounding buildings.
Owen was out of the car before he even thought about it.
The man had her by the hair and was slapping her repeatedly across the face.
Owen was wishing he knew a few Jet Li moves.
Sabrina twisted this way and that, trying to escape. The man yanked her closer, and spoke as if to the multitude.
“‘The loose woman is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword.’ Is that the kind of woman you want to be? I am not gonna sit by and watch it happen, Sabrina.”
Owen launched himself from ten feet away and hit the man mid-chest—too high to knock him over, with the result that Owen fell to the ground.
“Get away from me, boy, or I will bust your sorry ass, and that’s a promise.”