Bust by Jason Starr, Ken Bruen

was gone. With all these people around, Max imagined how aggravated he would have felt if Deirdre had been there, going on and on about herself and her problems or confronting people like some kind of maniac. Now, for the first time in years, Max felt like he could relax in his own house. The way he was handling his grief, his whole attitude, was having an impact too. Was it his imagination or was he standing a little more erect? Posture had always been a problem but, hey, murder your old lady, you didn’t need a chiropractor. Radical therapy, maybe, but it worked.
    Max was also starting to feel less guilty about Stacy’s murder. Yeah, it was horrible that she had to die, and yeah, he was upset about it. But it wasn’t as if he had killed anybody. Popeye was the crazy one — he’d pulled the trigger. Stacy’s death was just an accident, no different than if she had been walking across a street and been run over by a bus. The fact that she was murdered in Max’s house, by a hit man whom Max had employed, was an unfortunate coincidence that Max had had no way of preventing.
    And, besides, she died with her dreams intact, no major disappointments yet. He’d kind of done her a favor, when you thought about it.
    On the news that night, there were reports about a woman in Brooklyn who had strangled her two children and set them on fire and a janitor in a Bronx elementary school who was discovered having sex with a nine-year-old girl.It was a good thing New York was full of sickos, Max decided — it meant that the stories of Deirdre and Stacy’s murders would be quickly overshadowed.
    The next day, Monday, was the funeral. Max wore a Hugo Boss suit, one he knew made him look good. Harold and Claire were at the chapel, along with the rest of Deirdre’s relatives and friends. Many of Max’s relatives were there too. Some people from the office came, including NetWorld’s CFO and Vice President. Although Max was hoping Angela would show up, he realized it was probably better that she hadn’t. Probably no one would have noticed, but it might have seemed slightly unusual for someone who had been with the company less than a year to take such a strong interest in her boss’s personal affairs. Besides, they wouldn’t have had a chance to talk in private anyway.
    Max was barely listening to the rabbi’s eulogy, but when he realized that everyone was breaking down in tears, he knew he had to show some reaction. He couldn’t force out any tears, so he just put on his sunglasses and just stared down at his lap. He tried to emit some loud sighs but feared it sounded like he was breaking wind. He decided to let it slide, let the shades do the talking, like rock stars did.
    After the rabbi, Claire stood at the podium and made a long sad speech about how she had lost two of the most important people in her life. This actually made Max cry and he took off his sunglasses for everyone to see. He was going for that swollen eyelid look that women seemed to pull off naturally.
    Deirdre was buried in her family plot on Long Island. Max was glad they hadn’t bought plots together and that he would never have to be anywhere near Deirdre again. After Deirdre was lowered into the ground, each family member covered the coffin with a shovelful of dirt. Maxfelt another wave of relief when the dirt he dropped clattered on top of her coffin.
    Then came his moment, the grand slam, the slamdunk. He approached the grave, letting a slight tremor rack his body, then produced one white rose. He’d planned to let it flutter into the hole as he gave a perfect moan but, fuck, he missed and the flower landed on the side. He had to bend down, dirtying his new suit, then muttered, Fucksake , and threw the goddamned thing in.
    The shiva sitting was at Max’s house. During the next few days, people dropped by the townhouse, bringing food, and sharing stories about Deirdre. As much as Max had enjoyed the mourning bit at first, it was getting old. Besides, it