My Darling Husband(57)
As usual, Maxim is impeccably dressed. Custom suit, three-piece and pin-striped. Double-knotted silk tie. Pocket scarf, arranged just so. His hair is still thick and white, combed straight back off his forehead. Say what you will of Maxim’s businesses, but he’s got the mobster look down pat.
On the other end of the line, Tony launches into what promises to be a longwinded rebuttal, which Maxim cuts off ten seconds in.
“Tomorrow. You have until the end of the day.” He punches a button and gives the phone a noisy shove. “Well, well, well. If it ain’t the Steak King, as I live and breathe.”
Barely. Maxim’s lungs sound like a rock tumbler filled with gravel, a noisy in and out that makes my own chest seize in sympathy. Maxim smokes like a chimney. He doesn’t exercise or sleep. He eats fried potatoes and red meat drowning in butter sauce, which he washes down with booze. But he’s trim and energetic and when he’s zipping around town in his convertible Maserati, he looks like a million bucks. Maxim is like one of those deep-water sharks—he’ll live to be four hundred.
I lift a hand in greeting. “Maxim. You’re looking good. Have you been working out again?”
He laughs, a harsh, phlegmy sound. “Flattery will get you nowhere, kid. Now sit down and tell me some good news. You look like shit, by the way.”
I glance behind me for one of the matching white leather chairs stationed across from his desk, and that’s when I see him—a guy I didn’t notice before, leaning against the far glass wall like a silent sentry. I take in his oily hair, his black leather jacket, and he lifts a pocked chin in greeting.
I turn back, sinking onto the chair. I don’t love the idea of an audience, especially considering what I came here to do—beg Maxim for another loan, a whopper, and before I’ve paid back what I owe him on the last one—but I also don’t have a choice. The clock is ticking, each second pounding with urgency in my chest.
“I feel like shit, too, honestly.” My leg is going to town under the glass table, and I swing my ankle over the knee and bear down, forcing the thing to stop bouncing. I tell myself to calm down, slow down. Business with Maxim always requires a bit of finessing. “It’s been a day.”
“I hear Nick pulled through.”
Nick—an employee of Maxim’s I’ve met only once, in a dark and abandoned parking lot in Castleberry Hill, who wore an oversize puffy coat and a Braves cap pulled so low, there’s no way in hell I could ever pick him out of a lineup. That night I passed him ten thousand in cash, and then I did what Maxim ordered and tried to forget Nick ever existed.
It was a lot easier than I thought it would be.
Now it takes every bit of my will to hold on to my poker face. “I thought you and I were never to speak of that name again.”
“This is my house, Cam. Regular rules don’t apply here.” Maxim flicks his gold lighter at the end of a fresh Marlboro and gives a mighty suck, blowing the smoke from lips like sun-aged leather. “Did everything go as planned?”
The question ignites in my gut, but I manage to nod without pause. “The fire started in the outlet.” I don’t have to mention which one, or that it was next to the cooking grease. I’m positive Nick reported back to the boss. “Faulty wiring, apparently.”
“And the alarm?”
“Malfunctioned.”
Maxim lifts a brow. “See? I told you Nick was good. So that’s done, then. You can move on.”
Move on. If I weren’t so totally miserable I would laugh.
Pain seeps across my chest, and as much as I want to ram it with a fist, I can’t. Maxim would see, and he’d know there’s something I’m not telling him—that Nick’s job wasn’t all that clean, that despite my performance with Flavio and George the inspectors are already throwing around the word arson, which means the insurance payout I’m counting on to dig myself out of this hole isn’t looking like the sure thing Nick promised when I forked over that ten thousand.
And then there’s Maxim. No way he’ll give me another loan, not without the promise of that insurance money, and definitely not on top of the $100,000 I already owe him, plus a three point vig. That’s 3 percent interest, tacked on at the end of every week, and onto an amount that is cumulative—meaning it adds up fast. By the time the loan comes due, at the end of the month, it will have more than doubled. Naked ladies and criminal connections are not Maxim’s only source of income, or even his primary. Maxim is a loan shark, a highly successful one.
“The insurance adjustor assures me I’ll have a check in my hand by Monday morning at the latest. When that happens, your palm will be the first I slap.”
I try not to think about what Maxim will do when he finds out I’m lying, but it’s impossible. He will send one of those goons guarding the hallway to find me, along with a weapon heavy enough to knock out a kneecap, or a saw that will cut through muscle and bone. A chef missing a finger or two can still cook, but all things considered, I’d really prefer to keep all ten.
Maxim squints into the smoke. “So what’s this, then? A social visit?”
The irony punches me in the gut. “Not even close. I’m here because I don’t know where else to go. Because I have nowhere else to turn. You’re my last hope, Maxim, and I know how weird that sounds but—”