Read Online Bust by Jason Starr, Ken Bruen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jason Starr, Ken Bruen
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“Why don’t you call him yourself?” Angela said, wanting to add “yah dumb cunt.”
Deirdre stopped and looked back at Angela with her mouth open, like she was shocked. “What did you just say?”
“Call him yourself,” Angela said. “I’m not your fookin’ slave.”
“I would suggest you not speak to me that way,” Deirdre said, “if having a job is important to you. You girls, you come over here, think you have cousins in the NYPD, think that dumb accent is the ticket to the good life. Well let me tell you, Maureen O’Hara is no Halle Berry, if you get my drift.”
Deirdre laughed snootily then marched out of the office.
“Fuck you,” Angela whispered then, the mick blood boiling, added, “yah fecking hoor’s ghost!”
Angela knew that Deirdre couldn’t get her fired — Max would just laugh if Deirdre complained to him — but she still didn’t like being put down by some uppity bitch. It just didn’t seem fair that Deirdre and Max had all that money and lived in that great townhouse. Angela knew if the shoe were on the other foot, and she was the rich lady, she’d be gracious, treat her inferiors with respect, helping out the poor, giving her old Donna Karan or whatever to Goodwill. She’d do a lot of stuff straight from her heart like that.
It was so frustrating — if only Angela had Max’s money, she knew her life with Dillon could be perfect. Then thethought came to her for the first time: why couldn’t they have Max’s money? All he had to do was divorce Deirdre — whom he hated anyway — and then he and Angela could get married. Max would eventually have a heart attack and die and Angela and Dillon would be set. But when Angela brought up the divorce idea to Max the next day he said he’d never even consider it. He was so cheap he’d rather stay with a wife he hated than give half his money away in a divorce settlement.
What could you expect from a bollix who didn’t tip?
That was when Angela came up with the murder idea. The way she saw it, it was the only way things could ever work out with Dillon. The key was, she had to explain it to Dillon the right way. She couldn’t say, “I’ve been screwing my boss for three months, you want to help me kill his wife?” She’d have to bring it up another way, tell him, “I know a way to get all of my boss’s money, you want to help me?” Naturally, he’d say yes, once he found out exactly how much money he stood to make. He’d drop that Zen book in a hurry, replace it with a gun in jig time, that was for sure. Then she’d say that it would mean she’d have to fool around with Max a little. She’d say “fool around with him a little” on purpose, make it sound like it wasn’t something serious.
When Angela told Dillon, he said he thought it was a great idea. He didn’t even have a problem when she got to the part about “fooling around a little.” He said, “But you can’t say I’m gonna do it. You gotta tell him it’s a friend of yours or some shite like that.”
“I’ll say you’re a friend of my cousin’s, but I need a name.”
“Tell him I’m Popeye.”
“Why Popeye?”
“’Cause he ate spinach and we should keep the deal green.”
Angela laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“I’m just imagining my boss’s face,” Angela said, still laughing, “when he finds out a guy named Popeye is gonna kill his wife.”
“It was dumb to ask for ten,” Angela said to Dillon. “You should’ve just stayed at eight.”
Angela and Dillon were sitting in the dining area of her apartment eating Apple Jacks and milk. The place was maybe four hundred square feet and there was no separate kitchen or living area. There was just a small area against one wall for the kitchen appliances and a countertop and a larger area with barely enough room for a full-size bed, a dresser, a small table and folding chairs from Bed Bath & Beyond, and a fourteen-inch color TV.
“He said yes, didn’t he?”
“Why don’t you call him yourself?” Angela said, wanting to add “yah dumb cunt.”
Deirdre stopped and looked back at Angela with her mouth open, like she was shocked. “What did you just say?”
“Call him yourself,” Angela said. “I’m not your fookin’ slave.”
“I would suggest you not speak to me that way,” Deirdre said, “if having a job is important to you. You girls, you come over here, think you have cousins in the NYPD, think that dumb accent is the ticket to the good life. Well let me tell you, Maureen O’Hara is no Halle Berry, if you get my drift.”
Deirdre laughed snootily then marched out of the office.
“Fuck you,” Angela whispered then, the mick blood boiling, added, “yah fecking hoor’s ghost!”
Angela knew that Deirdre couldn’t get her fired — Max would just laugh if Deirdre complained to him — but she still didn’t like being put down by some uppity bitch. It just didn’t seem fair that Deirdre and Max had all that money and lived in that great townhouse. Angela knew if the shoe were on the other foot, and she was the rich lady, she’d be gracious, treat her inferiors with respect, helping out the poor, giving her old Donna Karan or whatever to Goodwill. She’d do a lot of stuff straight from her heart like that.
It was so frustrating — if only Angela had Max’s money, she knew her life with Dillon could be perfect. Then thethought came to her for the first time: why couldn’t they have Max’s money? All he had to do was divorce Deirdre — whom he hated anyway — and then he and Angela could get married. Max would eventually have a heart attack and die and Angela and Dillon would be set. But when Angela brought up the divorce idea to Max the next day he said he’d never even consider it. He was so cheap he’d rather stay with a wife he hated than give half his money away in a divorce settlement.
What could you expect from a bollix who didn’t tip?
That was when Angela came up with the murder idea. The way she saw it, it was the only way things could ever work out with Dillon. The key was, she had to explain it to Dillon the right way. She couldn’t say, “I’ve been screwing my boss for three months, you want to help me kill his wife?” She’d have to bring it up another way, tell him, “I know a way to get all of my boss’s money, you want to help me?” Naturally, he’d say yes, once he found out exactly how much money he stood to make. He’d drop that Zen book in a hurry, replace it with a gun in jig time, that was for sure. Then she’d say that it would mean she’d have to fool around with Max a little. She’d say “fool around with him a little” on purpose, make it sound like it wasn’t something serious.
When Angela told Dillon, he said he thought it was a great idea. He didn’t even have a problem when she got to the part about “fooling around a little.” He said, “But you can’t say I’m gonna do it. You gotta tell him it’s a friend of yours or some shite like that.”
“I’ll say you’re a friend of my cousin’s, but I need a name.”
“Tell him I’m Popeye.”
“Why Popeye?”
“’Cause he ate spinach and we should keep the deal green.”
Angela laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“I’m just imagining my boss’s face,” Angela said, still laughing, “when he finds out a guy named Popeye is gonna kill his wife.”
“It was dumb to ask for ten,” Angela said to Dillon. “You should’ve just stayed at eight.”
Angela and Dillon were sitting in the dining area of her apartment eating Apple Jacks and milk. The place was maybe four hundred square feet and there was no separate kitchen or living area. There was just a small area against one wall for the kitchen appliances and a countertop and a larger area with barely enough room for a full-size bed, a dresser, a small table and folding chairs from Bed Bath & Beyond, and a fourteen-inch color TV.
“He said yes, didn’t he?”
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