She’d never been possessed before, at least not in the man-woman sense. Not even with Cameron. He let her go her own way. Whenever she’d pushed him too far, he’d simply walked out, sort of like a reverse time-out one would force on a child. They didn’t discuss. They didn’t compromise. They simply ignored whatever had happened when he came back.
That didn’t mean she was right. In fact, most of the time she was in the wrong. She picked fights when she was worried or scared. And a lot of things had worried or scared her when Cameron was alive. Her stressful job at Kirby, O’Brien and Dakajama. Cameron’s constant harping on her so-called personal issues. Her past. Maybe, instead of letting her feed him her crap, he should have squashed her. If he’d squashed her that last night instead of walking out on her, he wouldn’t be dead.
Max wondered if Witt was up to squashing her when she really acted up. A big guy, broad shoulders, massive chest and with a cop’s attitude, he was certainly capable of it. He hadn’t squashed his first wife, though, not even when she’d told him she wouldn’t clean the bathroom anymore unless he sat when he took a leak. For Witt, that had been the last straw. He’d walked out on her then because, in his words, it was his God-given right to stand and piss.
Okay, there’d also been the fact that Debbie Doodoo had an abortion without telling Witt. Since that tidbit had come from Ladybird with no confirmation from the big guy himself, Max couldn’t very well count it into the mix.
That was the thing. A well-deserved squash could save a marriage. But it had to be done before the last straw got broken.
Did that mean her marriage to Cameron had been doomed even without the 7-11?
It was then that Angela returned, in the middle of that very thought and at precisely nine-thirty, rescuing Max from her maudlin mood and too many notions of squashing and leaving.
The woman stopped at Hammerhead’s table, but didn’t give him cash. He pointed in Max’s direction, Angela glanced over as they exchanged words and a smile.
Max tightened her grip on her wineglass. She didn’t like that scurvy, malicious smile. What the hell were they up to? It wasn’t normal to offer pimping and protection to a woman you’d never seen before. She could be an undercover cop. She could be a serial killer. She could be a bored housewife who’d rat on their operation once she got an attack of nerves or conscience.
In the end, their reasons didn’t matter as long as she found out what had happened to Lance.
Heading straight for Max, Angela wended her way through the tables. Eyes followed. Young eyes, old eyes, girl eyes, guy eyes, envious eyes, wanting eyes. Angry eyes. Witt’s eyes. She could feel them boring into her even through the potted palms.
Angela’s body expunged the eyes as she took the seat opposite Max. She held out a smooth, pale-skinned hand, fingers long and delicate, nails painted a soft shade of coral, a sapphire tennis bracelet circling her wrist. “Angela Rocket.”
“Max Starr.” Not questioning the use of her real name, Max held on to Angela’s hand longer than necessary. “I love sapphires.” Gently twisting the hand in hers, first left, then right, she leaned down to take in the brilliance of the stones. They sparkled in the flickering light of the table candle. “It’s beautiful.” She dropped Angela’s hand and sat back. “Where’d you get it?”
“Lance, Lance, Lance” flashed in green neon in Max’s head, but she didn’t expect the true answer, had the heck surprised out of her when she got it. “A friend of mine.” Angela held the bracelet up, turning it to the light as Max had done. “He died. This is all I have left of him.”
There was a certain wistfulness to her tone. Her eyes misted, not with tears, but with fond memory. Max had to ask herself, was this the look of a killer?
Could be. Cameron the skeptic. Nice of him to pop in like the proverbial fly on the wall. Or maybe he was more like the bad penny. Whatever, he was right. Max couldn’t count Angela out of the game on the basis of one tender facial expression.
Though it did give the working girl a certain sense of sympathy.
The moment ended. Angela got down to business. “Hammerhead says you’re interested in working with me?”
Max felt her eyes widen without intention. “Not with you.”
The girl leaned forward, smiling with perfect lips and perfect teeth. These days everyone seemed to have perfect, dentally-enhanced teeth. Perfect breasts, perfect legs, too. Damn, what was an imperfect woman like Max supposed to do?
“Don’t worry, Max Starr, I won’t make you do girl-on-girl. Not even a ménage a trois.” Which didn’t mean Angela Rocket wasn’t above it.
Why did the table of three loud and slightly tipsy females chose that moment to fall silent? Max’s glance flitted from Witt in the lobby to Hammerhead to the Greek God whose head had snapped toward them. A flush rose to Max’s cheeks, though she managed to keep the shock from her face.