The Max by Ken Bruen

Author:Ken Bruen [Bruen, Ken; Starr, Jason]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780857683953
Publisher: Titan
Published: 2011-03-14T16:00:00+00:00

He was toasting Daddykins when a voice asked, “Who the hell are you?”

Turned to see a woman in her fifties, with a cleaning brush and apron. He was startled, then tried, “Golly, one wasn’t expecting the char to arrive.”

For the life of him, he couldn’t remember the name of the bloody cow who lived here. Meanwhile, the cleaning woman was like all her class, suspicious, and accused, “You’re a burglar.”

In his agitation, he thought she called him a bugger. Now I mean, steady on, a chap had some horseplay with the rugger boys in boarding school, it was part of being English, but to be actually called a homo...

She picked up the phone near the bed, said, “I’m calling the coppers.”

A combination of herpes shock, bugger accusation, gin, and Ripley’s Game meshed and he had the phone cord round her neck in no time. She fought like a demon, they fell over the bed, but he held on for grim life and even began to laugh hysterically, shouting, “Ride ‘em, cowboy!”

Took a time and she managed to scrape his face, hurt like a... a bugger? The cord was near embedded in her throat when she finally gave out and went limp.

He was shaking, rose off her. He got all his loot together, too drunk to realize his prints were all over the place. He didn’t dare call a cab, so he legged it down the leafy lane, found a tube station and, loath as he was to use that service, he did. On the train, a wino asked him for a contribution and he answered, “Bugger off.”

When he finally got to Earls Court, he was seriously knackered, the adrenaline long gone, and his hangover had kicked in with a serious intent. Probably explains why he didn’t notice his door had been forced. He just wanted to have a shower and count the loot and oh, have a large gin. Killing people was harder work than they led you to believe. He’d done it twice, and you know, it didn’t get easier.

He was reaching for the light switch when he got a massive wallop to the head that sent him sprawling across his tiny living room, the bag of swag spilling every which way, a rainbow of miniature paintings, jewelry, Krugerrands, cash, a few pair of the girl’s lace panties he’d grabbed, even one of the flokati rugs.

He turned to see Georgios standing over him. Georgios, how the fuck could that be? The guy was fish meat off the cliffs of Santorini. Jesus, how rough was his hangover? Hallucinating already?

Georgios hissed, “I’m going to cut your balls off, mallakas, for the death of my cousin.”

Good to his word, he had a very lethal looking knife in his right hand. Sebastian held up a hand, asked, “You’re his cousin?”

He didn’t know whether to feel relief or fear. He ranted, “I tried to save Georgios. It was that crazy American bitch killed him. Why do you think I left her behind? She’s completely mad.

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