No Such Creature (27 page)

Owen took off and ran straight through the crime scene tape. He was in the cordoned-off area, trying not to think of the snipers positioned above him. The front door was open; he was able to walk right in.

“Owen, me lad. What brings you here?”

The actual sight of Owen shook Max into dropping the American accent. He was in his surgical scrubs, seated in one of two executive chairs that had been pulled from offices. The other was occupied by a black woman with big gold earrings. A telephone on a long extension cord was on the floor between them.

“This is Miss Leary,” Max said. “She’s playing the role of hostage, though with a disappointing lack of conviction. I let the others go.”

“Oh, you an Englishman now?” Miss Leary said. “Why don’t you make up your mind who you are before you go robbing banks? You know this man?” she said to Owen. “Would you inform him, please, that his ass is in a world of trouble?”

“You have to let her go,” Owen said. “There must be a hundred cops out there. Snipers. Helicopters. The works.”

“Well, yes, that’s the point,” Max said. “If I let Miss Leary go, all those guns are very likely to go off.”

“Max,” Owen said, “the show is over. You’re not getting out of this. The only question is how hard you want to make it on yourself. The sooner you let her go, the easier things will be.”

“The sooner I’ll be back in Sing Sing, you mean.”

“Don’t you talk trash to this boy when he’s telling you the truth,” Miss Leary said. “Mister, I get the feeling you a whole lot dumber than you look.”

“Madam, can you not at least try to understand your role?” Max said. “Could we have some cowering, please? Some begging? Quivering?”

“The only person going to be begging around here,
Doctor
, is you when I get the chance to kick your fat ass.”

“Casting problems,” Max said to Owen. “Make an error in casting and no amount of good writing or good direction can make up for it. Look what I’m stuck with.” He gestured at Miss Leary as if she had been delivered to his door by mistake.

“You think you in some kind of movie here? This my life we’re talking about. Yours too, and this sensible young man’s as well.”

“Madam, you don’t know him,” Max said. “He’s the least sensible person I’ve ever met. Wants to be an actor.”

“Max,” Owen said, “I told them you’d let her go, that you don’t really want to hurt anyone.”

“Thank you for that, Owen. That’s very helpful. I do hope your acting career takes off, because you’re not what I’d call a first-class negotiator.”

“Young man, would you tell this old party to undo this handcuff?” Miss Leary pulled up on her manacle, shaking it. “Believe it or not, I do not enjoy being held prisoner in my place of employment.”

“You’re not a real prisoner,” Max said. “You’re only playing one.”

“Well, if that’s the case, and we all just on a movie set, I’d like to go to my trailer now, please.”

“Max, give me the key,” Owen said.

Max went over to the window and peered out between the blinds. “The plan was good,” he said. “I had backups and redundancies built in. For example, a change of clothes. Unfortunately, I forgot to bring them, and if you say I told you so, I shall smite you.”

“Max, give me the key and let’s get Miss Leary out of here. You can use me as a hostage.”

The phone on the floor rang.

“Take a message,” Max said. “Tell them I’m at the club.”

Owen picked up the phone.

“Saperstein. What’s the progress, kid?”

“Miss Leary will be coming out in a minute,” Owen said. “Make sure no guns go off by accident.”

“Nothing’s going to happen by accident. You just send her out and we’ll take care of her. But I’m warning you, do not try anything fancy. Anyone who makes any sudden moves when she comes out is going to get shot, you understand?”

“I understand.”

Owen hung up. Max was back in his executive chair, rocking it.

“Max, give me the key.”

“I’m ashamed to say I forgot it.”

“Jesus Christ, Max. Do you hear how ridiculous that is? I told you you should be seeing a doctor, getting tests done, but no—you had to rob a goddamn bank. Fine, she can go out in the chair. It’s got wheels. I’ll push her out the door and they can come and get her.”

“Actually, I was just kidding.”

Max reached into the pocket of his scrubs and pulled out the tiny key. Owen undid the handcuff and Miss Leary stood up. Max, ever the gentleman, stood up as well.

“Get you gone, madam.”

Miss Leary looked him up and down, hands on hips. “Mister, you are too smart to be pulling shit like this. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Thank you for auditioning. Don’t call us.”

The woman folded her arms across her impressive chest and rested her weight on one cocked hip. “You a fool, and that’s the truth.”

“Madam, I said get you gone. Why do you linger?”

She pointed at Owen. “Frankly, I am concerned about this boy. I don’t want you using him as some kind of bargaining chip.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay,” Owen said. “I’ll be all right.”

“I don’t think so, sugar. Why don’t you come out with me?”

“Really. Max is my—” Owen looked over at Max. The old man gave him the slightest of New York shrugs, perhaps a last vestige of Dr. Pfeffernan. “Max is my uncle. The detective in charge out there knows the score. You just go ahead, Miss Leary, and I’ll be fine. I’m sorry for your inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience!” Miss Leary shook her head slowly back and forth. “Honey, you get out of this alive, got to be a job waiting for you in public relations. Inconvenience.”

Owen held the door open for her.

Miss Leary turned for one last look at Max. “I hate to tell you this, sugar, but your old man on a one-way ticket to Crazytown,” she said, and stepped out into the glare of Madison Avenue.

“Well, I hope you’re pleased,” Max said. “Now that we’re rendered defenceless.”

Owen watched as two cops in helmets and body armour jogged out to take Miss Leary by the arms and hustle her away.

The phone rang again.

“Good job, Owen,” Saperstein said. “Now let’s follow the same procedure with you and your uncle. You come out one at a time, him first. Hands in the air, understand?”

“Wait a minute. Why one at a time? I don’t like that.”

“One at a time because we don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Max isn’t going to hurt me.” Owen looked over at Max. “I’m more worried about you hurting him.”

“I understand that, kid, but we have to handle this the safest way for all concerned. Soon as you get out, you lie down on the sidewalk, hands above your head.”

“Me too?”

“You too. We have no way of knowing if he’s passed you a weapon or not. It’s not like you’re a hundred percent hostage, is it? So, no sudden moves or someone’s gonna get killed, understand?”

“I still don’t like the one-at-a-time thing.”

“Kid, your father, uncle or whatever he is, happens to be an armed bank robber who has taken hostages.”

“But you just said I’m not really a hostage. Don’t worry, I’ll bring him out and no one needs to get hurt.”

“Kid, one at a time, I’m telling you. Don’t try anything else, or—”

Owen hung up and told Max what Saperstein had said.

“Thank you, my boy, but I believe they have the right idea. Better to go out one at a time.”

“No, I’m not doing it that way,” Owen said. “As long as I’m beside you, they’re not going to shoot.”

“I envy your certainty. No, the safest thing is for you to go out first, then me.”

“We go out together, Max.”

Max rubbed a hand across his hair, came across the surgical mask and pulled it off, studying it. “You know, from now on I’m going to devote more of my time to the sciences. I believe I have the makings of an excellent doctor.”

“Well, you’re going to have lots of time to study, so let’s go.”

Max reached out and closed a hand around Owen’s forearm. “Listen, boy. About before …”

“I can’t even think about that now, Max.”

“I just want to be sure you understand. I never—”

“Max, please. Before they decide to throw tear gas in here and blast us to kingdom come.”

“You’re my boy, understand? Far as I’m concerned, no matter what else, you’re my boy. Best part of my life. You know, when you first came to live with me, you were still very small. Sometimes I’d come home and you’d run to me and I’d hoist you in the air and spin you around, and you giggled like a magical sprite. A creature not of this earth, of finer stuff. Or you’d take hold of my leg and cling like a limpet. I’d have to hobble around the house with you hanging on my leg. An absolute monkey. I loved you like my own, lad. Love you like my own.”

Still hanging on to Owen’s arm, Max raised himself up out of his chair.

“Leave the gun,” Owen said. “We don’t want to give them any reason to shoot.”

“Quite right, boy. Quite right.” Max set the snub nose on the chair. “You know what? Why don’t we have me sit in the chair and you wheel me out? Make a regal entrance.”

“Max, you’re not directing this, I am. We go out together, we lie face down on the sidewalk, hands above our heads. And no sudden moves or they’ll kill you. All right?”

“Face down. No sudden moves. Roger that. Did you know that ‘roger’ used to mean
shtupping?
Samuel Pepys used to regularly roger the female members of his staff.”

Owen tightened his grip on Max’s arm as they reached the door. “Remember, there’s going to be about a hundred guns pointed at us.”

“Yes, yes. Tedious trolls.”

Owen pushed open the door and the two of them stood arm in arm, blinking in the sunlight.

Someone, probably Saperstein, called over a megaphone, “Hands up, now.”

They both put their hands in the air.

“Face down on the sidewalk. Now.”

Owen started to kneel, saw Max wasn’t moving, and stopped halfway.

“Max, no funny stuff. Just do what they say.”

“Keep away from me, boy. They may shoot anyway, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

The megaphone again: “Face down! Now!”

“Max, just lie down on the sidewalk. Please.”

“Stop fussing, lad. I know how to hit my marks.”

They both got down on their knees. Owen lay down and spread his hands over his head.

There was a pause. A murmur of activity went up among the squads of police.

Then Max said, “Sorry, lad. Can’t go to prison again.”

He pushed himself up and started to run—a hopeless manoeuvre, since he was long past the age of swift acceleration. He didn’t get ten feet before a shot rang out, and he slammed against the plate glass of the bank before sliding down to the pavement. Owen crawled over to him. Max was slumped in a crooked seated position like a puppet from which the controlling hand has been withdrawn. In the sunlight, his makeup was obvious—the putty he had used to alter the shape of his nose, the sheen of glue at the edges of his added eyebrows.

Blood was pouring from the wound in Max’s chest. Owen pressed a hand over it, and blood flowed hotly over his fingers. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Max was trying to say something.

“Don’t talk, Max.”

Max’s voice was barely a whisper. His words emerged in a long, slow gasp, as if blown by a distant wind. “I have it,” he said. “And soundly, too.”

“Max, you’re too old to play Mercutio,” Owen said. “Be quiet now.”

Four cops surrounded them, guns pointed, as two more cops frisked them.

Paramedics appeared, wheeling a gurney.

Max was trying to say something else. Owen leaned closer to hear.

“You guys have any brandy?” Owen said. “He wants some brandy.”

The cops pulled Owen back. One of the medics felt Max’s neck; his head had lolled to one side.

The paramedic glanced up at Owen. “This guy a physician?”

Owen shook his head. “Actor.”

“Not anymore, kid.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

M
ONK’S
C
ASTLE ON
S
EVENTH
S
TREET
had always been Max’s favourite pub, not just because they served Guinness and a healthy variety of British ales, but because they had no television, their sound system played only classical music, and—best of all—the bartender and waiters wore monks’ robes complete with hoods, sandals and belts of knotted rope. Downstairs the place was all dark wood and stained glass, but the upstairs was a bright and lively space that the “monks” rented out for parties.

Max himself had held more than one celebration on the premises, so when it came time to choose a suitable venue for a memorial get-together, it had been the first place Owen thought of. The rafters were hung with huge posters of Max that he had had enlarged from his Photoshop files. Except for the presence of a jovial fat man in the foreground, they could have been used for a high school geography course. From the redwood forests of California to the rocky coast of Maine, from the badlands of the Dakotas to the boardwalks of New Orleans, Max had been there. In every photograph he was laughing, smiling or striking a pose, the camera his natural ally.

With the help of a schoolmate, Owen had dressed up a series of mannequins in a selection of Max’s favourite costumes—Catholic priest, Saudi sheik, British major—and stood them up around the tavern with mugs of ale in their hands, like an exhibition of multicultural bon vivants. He had painstakingly gone through every contact in Max’s tiny, pencil-smeared address books and sent out invitations with plenty of notice.

And now the place was crammed with villains of wildly divergent shapes and predilections, but they all had one thing in common: they had worked with Max at some point or other, and cherished the memory. There were many Owen didn’t really know, who offered condolences and a funny story. There were lots of old guys, quite a few British accents, and there was Bobo Valentine, whose weight had doubled since Owen had seen him last and must now have been approaching metric tonnage. Sylvester Keech arrived in black silk Vietnamese pyjamas, being currently in love with a young chef at Indochine. Jimmy Coughlin came all the way from Dallas, tattoos and all, toting a case of single malt. And there was Ted “Brick” House, whose grey hair had unaccountably turned orange.

Best of all, Roscoe showed up and nearly broke Owen’s heart by bursting into tears when he saw the photos. After a few snorts he pulled himself together enough to give a speech; Owen was too emotional to manage it himself.

“Max Maxwell was a great man,” Roscoe told the crowd, “but a truly mediocre trivia player. His knowledge of geography was mostly restricted to the rivers of Warwickshire, his astronomy didn’t go much farther than the Big Dipper, but his Shakespeare …” (Here Roscoe was interrupted by much cheering.) “His knowledge of Shakespeare delighted all of us who knew him, even if we didn’t know Shakespeare.”

He told several Max anecdotes that even Owen hadn’t heard before, and finished up by saying, “Max loved three things, no, four things, no—wait, I can’t count the things Max Maxwell loved, because he pretty much loved everything. He loved beer, he loved acting, he loved food, he loved Shakespeare, he loved thieving. But most of all—and way beyond all the others—he loved his one and only son, who organized this wonderful afternoon for us—Owen Maxwell.”

Owen was barely able to smile and wave to the peculiar gang that swirled around him. He thanked Roscoe and went downstairs for a moment to pull himself together. The bar seemed pitch-dark after the noise and brightness upstairs. All of the booths were empty, except for one where a young couple talked in hushed tones. A monk came over to Owen, but he shook his head.

His breathing was just about back to normal when someone approached his booth from behind him.

“Is it okay if I join you?”

Light from one of the pub’s stained glass lamps turned Sabrina’s face shades of rose and royal blue. She was wearing jeans and a white shirt, and those two everyday items had never looked so good. She seemed a lot taller than Owen remembered.

He didn’t reply, but she sat across from him in the booth anyway, setting her backpack on the floor. “I came to say I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you have someone else to fuck over? Personally, I’m not interested.”

She placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward, dark hair cascading over one eye. “I’m sorry, Owen. I was raised by a criminal, same as you. Sometimes my moral compass goes out of whack, and I was hoping maybe you—you of all people—could understand how that might happen.”

“You don’t have a moral compass.”

Owen looked over at the bar, trying to find something to focus on. Sabrina’s voice was doing more to him than her words.

“The jewels, the cash, everything was just sitting there, Owen. It was a perfect opportunity, you have to admit. And—and I didn’t know what I wanted.”

“Money, Sabrina. It’s called money. You sandbagged us, all right? I don’t even care a hell of a lot about that, but I really fell for you. I actually believed you were starting to feel the same—don’t know where I could’ve got that idea—and I really wasn’t ready to get kicked in the gut by some half-smart slut who fucks her way into my confidence.”

“I’m sorry, Owen.”

“And worse than that, because of you, Max felt he had to make up what we lost, and that’s what got him killed.” This was not strictly true, but it felt good to say it.

Sabrina opened her backpack and drew out a smaller canvas bag. She put it on the table between them, and it made a clunk as she set it down.

“It’s all here,” she said. “I sold the Mustang. So this is everything I took, minus about three thousand I lost on the car.”

“I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it.”

“Maybe so, but I still have to give it back.”

Owen kept staring at the words
in beer veritas
over the bar. He didn’t want to look her in the face; her eyes would undo him. He looked away, surveying the other booths, the quiet couple, as if they were of great interest to him. An uninvited bagpiper had wandered in and one of the monks was gently urging him to turn around.

“The money, the jewellery, that’s one thing,” Sabrina said. “But I wanted to say, I’m sorry I hurt you. It wasn’t what I wanted to do. I just—I guess I was in a kind of panic.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I was running from—well, you know what I was running from—and suddenly the idea of being in any kind of relationship scared me to death. Part of me figured this was a good way to make sure that wouldn’t happen.”

“Being an ice-cold bitch is pretty effective.”

“Okay, I deserve that. But the truth is, I’m not cold, Owen. I was frightened, I was confused, and—”

“And badly brought up.”

She reached out to touch him, but he pulled his arm away, feeling childish even as he did it.

“And badly brought up,” she said. “But I want you to know, there hasn’t been a single hour or a single day in the past couple of months I haven’t thought about you. You saved my life at least once, maybe twice. And it’s not like I got away unscathed.”

Owen looked at her sharply. “What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not looking for sympathy, I’m just saying—if it makes you feel better, I’ve already paid dearly for what I did.”

“I never wanted you to get hurt,” Owen said, “even when I was pissed off at you.”

She cupped a hand to her mouth and whispered, “Did I kill that guy?”

“Max finished him off. He would have killed us all.”

She nodded, pursing her lips. “I’ve been hanging around Juilliard hoping to bump into you. I even saw you one day, but you were with a really good-looking girl, so I …”

“I think I need some fresh air.”

Owen got up and walked outside. Traffic was getting noisy on the avenues, but Seventh Street was still relatively quiet. The bagpiper, kilt and all, blew a few raucous test notes through his instrument.

“So now you’ve found me,” Owen said when Sabrina stepped out.

They were quiet for a couple of minutes, walking slowly toward Second Avenue. A woman with five tiny dogs on a single lead was just ahead of them, addressing her charges in crisp monosyllables. A slight breeze picked up, and suddenly Owen could smell Sabrina’s hair. How could a fragrance, a mere sensation in his nose, have such power over him?

“I was sorry to hear about Max,” she said. “Max was … Max was really something.”

“He was very fond of you, too.”

“Oh, sure. I bet.”

That smile at last. It went through him just like the first time.

Sabrina tapped the canvas bag. “Max would take it back. You know he would.”

That was true. Max would have taken it back, and Max would have forgiven her. It had never been in Max’s character to hold a grudge, and, for a criminal, he was actually the most trusting of men.

“They didn’t connect him to the … other things?”

“Nope. Far as they were concerned he was a wig salesman—a failed actor who suddenly snapped. Autopsy showed signs of senile dementia.”

“Not such a failed actor, then. I’m glad you didn’t get charged with anything, at least. Think you’ll keep on the straight and narrow now?”

“Well, seeing as how everyone I’ve ever loved has been killed because of crime, yeah—I’d say I’m done with it.” Owen suppressed the urge to ask about her own plans, but Sabrina answered as if she had heard the thought anyway.

“Right now I’m working in a restaurant while I figure out what to do next. I like the people I work with—they’re all either actors or writers or artists, all completely devoted to something. But what I like best about them is they all have clear consciences. They’re terrified about their careers, they’re in a constant panic about making the rent, but none of them is getting up in the morning thinking, ‘God, I did something really, really wrong. I’m a bad person.’”

“You don’t know what’s in their heads.”

“I think I know them at least that well. Anyway, it’s something I want to try out for a while. A clean conscience. I want to see how it feels.”

They reached the corner of Second Avenue and Owen stopped. “I gotta get back.”

She handed him the canvas bag, and he took it.

“What will you do with that stuff?”

“Way I feel right now, I’ll probably mail it back to the people it came from.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know, Sabrina. I’m still feeling a little … uncertain, you know what I mean?”

When they were back outside Monk’s Castle, the bagpiper was well into “Amazing Grace,” marching slowly back and forth before the tavern. They watched him for a minute, then Sabrina said, “Have you ever walked along Forty-seventh Street?”

“The diamond district? Yeah, why?”

“Well, it just struck me, some of those places would be so easy to knock over, you know? It’s amazing, the lack of security.”

“Yeah, that’s true. But Max was a firm believer in working out of town—until his final performance, anyway—so it was never an option.”

“Right. Good policy.”

“That’s Max. Slow but steady.” Owen put a dollar into the bagpiper’s open jar, then jerked his thumb at the door. “I’m going back in.”

“Okay. But I was thinking—a young couple, maybe scouting out wedding rings, could really get a good look at places like that. They could walk right in and who’s going to suspect them?”

Owen shook his head. “Not interested.”

“I know. It was just a fantasy.”

“Then again,” Owen said, sweeping his arm to include the street, the oblivious bagpiper, the entire vast immensity of New York City, “the whole damn thing is fantasy.”