Summer Sundays

The first man was killed in the grassy field behind the Hilton Hotel on Boulevard de Waterloo. It was a small park divided by a stone walkway that lead south to the Grand Place, the city’s largest plaza. The murder was set up to look like a robbery gone wrong. The rain pelted down hard during those days, driving even hardy Belgians inside. No one found the body for two days, until the feral dogs started to dismember the corpse. The deceased was an expat staying at the Hilton Hotel. Without a wallet or passport but a dented forehead meant the deteriorating heap left the world without a sanctifying prayer.

The second man died in his hotel room, at the Sheraton Hotel on the inner Ring Road, east of the famous Grand Place. This was staged to look like as a murder. But the police found the medical report on the bedside table describing the man was at stage four cancer, destroying his brain. The Medical Examiner wrote the man had voluntarily killed himself, saving his family involved with a prolonged death process.

However, the death was by suffocation by the two passport thieves. The ME’s conclusion ignored the man’s bruised neck.

Millie and Max, after stealing the passport, left through the hotel doors by the Sheraton’s concierge station. Max Diamante was satisfied that he had rifled through the man’s room sufficiently to make it look like a burglary and murder. Millie O’Hara, stationed in front of the room, watched the elevators for guests. She carried a small suitcase in case someone from the hotel staff questioned this wandering guest.

“He didn’t fight as the other did,” Max whispered with an American accent in the elevator. Wearing his suit and tie presented himself as another businessman: Black pants and shoes, black shirt buttoned at the neck, gold cufflinks.

“Did you get everything?” asked Millie in her Northern Ireland accent, as she touched his pants then hooked her finger into a belt loop. Raising an elbow, she paused lifting his pants.

“Too easy. Son-of-a-bitch didn’t even lock the safe in his room.” Max patted his breast pocket then lifted his hand to Millie’s chin as she lifted his pants. “Don’t play with me if you don’t mean it, Millie sweetheart.”

Moving her hand down the front of his pants, she flicked her fingers at his bulge and laughed. “You wish. But you won’t get beyond shopping,” she sneered, hostility radiating in her tone. Turning toward the mirror in the elevator she fluffed her deep red hair, then pulled it over her shoulders. She ignored his owl-like eyes the rest of the way down.

The humid air smelled like dank worms. Walking with a longer stride, Max pulled ahead of Millie as they walked toward the Place. She wouldn’t play his game, trying to keep up with the police-trained Max Diamante, falling further behind him. Besides, he never would talk to her after leaving the scene of the crime.

At this distance Millie observed Max’s unusual stride on the deserted street as they turned to the walking street, heading to the Coffin bar. Walking pigeon toed Max dragged his right foot, planted it, then moved his left foot forward. Observing this strange gait Millie realized what he was doing. She let out a small laugh stopping Max.

“What?” In a threatening voice he turned around.

“Nothing, I was just sneezing,” Millie sang catching up with Max. “Just a sneeze, nothing more, nothing less. Fire up!” She poked his shoulder with her index finger.

Max looked at her, his marbled, glass-like eyes boring into hers. “Sneeze, eh?” Bending his shoulder, he stared at her finger for a second, then looked at her eyes. “Funny sneeze you have.” Laughing absurdly he walked toward the street. Mechanically he said, “Is Joseph in the car?” pointing at the Mercedes Benz parked at the intersection of Le Brava.

“Yah. He’s probably already here,” Millie said facing the bar’s door. “The Coffin, his fav. He counts the money then reviews the passport. With a nod we then celebrate.”

As she talked a man exited from the Coffin Bar.

Leaning to her ear, Max said, “I could collect another passport. I’m convinced he’s carrying one. Wanna bet?”

“Stop it,” said Millie, as she pushed Max away. “Stop acting like you can hit  anyone.”

“It’s in his breast pocket.”

“We’re next to Joseph’s car. Can it.”

Shifting his view Max pointed at the man that was buttoning his coat as he walked toward the Audi.

“Put your finger down. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Millie barked at Max.

“Are there others tonight?”

“Joseph will give us the bloody list at the bar. New group of expats playing tourists. He and Larry Larrigetta run a gimmicky tour. Something called Summer Sundays that brings the expats to us. Can it be better?”

As Max focused on Joseph getting out of his car, Millie shook her head, knowing his boxers were too small and bunched up on him as he walked.

His boxers making him squirm, of all things! Millie glowered.