by Ken Bruen
Sino’s boys, man, they started laughing, tears coming out their eyes. Sino knew they were laughing at the maricon, not him, but he didn’t like it. Then his boy Paco said, still laughing, “Man, you gonna take that shit?”
Sino wasn’t.
First he shot Paco in the head, send a message to the rest of his crew, you laugh at Sino, you gonna get popped. Didn’t matter that he and Paco knew each other eighteen years, their madres came over from Panama together. Had to set the shit straight with somebody and Sino was sending the message, I pop my best friend, I can pop all you, so, chingate, you better watch your laughin’ asses.
Shooting Paco shut up the rest his crew real quick. Then the bandajo that started it all, the white guy, turned, tried to run. Sino put four in the maricon ’s back. He had one shot left, went up to the guy. He was still on the ground, trying to move, but he couldn’t. He was still alive though. He was making noises in his throat and blood was coming out of his mouth. Now that shit was funny.
Sino laughed, said to the maricon, “Say you sorry, papi. Say you sorry and I won’t pop you no more.”
The maricon was trying to talk, making sounds like, “S… sah… sah… sar… sar… sah.”
“Can’t hear you,” Sino said and popped him in the head and walked away.
Yeah, Sino, wished he was on the street right now, had a nine on him. He’d put six in Fisher’s back real quick. Listen to him beg and shit first, then put one in his head. Or, nah, would be more fun to kill Fisher with his manos, squeeze that little-ass neck till he die. He wouldn’t mind fucking Fisher too. Maricon got a big flabby ass, just the kind Sino liked. Maybe he’d fuck him first then kill him, or kill him then fuck him. Depends what kinda mood he was in.
Max was settling in all right. Already he had the rep, a priceless commodity, and he had fresh-pressed denims every day and it looked like the library gig was as good as his. And they’d be stupid not to give it to him – come on, who knew more about books than The… A.X.? He’d taken a little spin around the library the other day, told one of the guys working there he was “unimpressed” with the selection. Lots of Grisham and Danielle Steele, but where was the beef? No Eddie Bunker, no Genet, shit, not even any Tim fucking Willocks. The fuck? They did have the book about the caged bird by that Maya Angelou broad. Max liked the author photo in the back of that one. Maya was a hot-looking older chick all right, but the picture was a head shot, and Max wondered what her body looked like, if she was in shape. He figured an African chick, her hair in braids, wearing some big baggy blousy African thing, she must have a big set in there somewhere.
Max was also learning the pecking order, the food chain of life in the joint. Like there was a sissy on Tier 2 who washed and ironed Max’s demins every damn day, and Max, learning fast, treated him like shit. You’re in the game, you gotta play it, right? He had his sleeves rolled up and a pack of Marlboro Red tucked in there, like Jimmy Dean. Yeah, he even had the white T inside his shirt, shining in its whiteness, that sissy sure could starch.
He managed to pick up the yard swagger, the one that strolled slowly, aggression leaking from every pore. Yep, he was living it up, living in the moment like a true Buddhist monk. Just being in the prison, day in and day out, seeing the respect, no, fear, in all these fuckers’ faces gave him a bigger rush than smoking crack ever had. If anybody even looked at The… A.X. the wrong way, Max would get into the guy’s face, go, “You got a fuckin’ problem, motherfucker?” Glaring like Denzel in Training Day.
Yeah, no doubt about it, The… A.X. was The King of fucking Attica. His favorite thing was just to walk around and soak up all the respect and admiration he was getting from everybody. Sometimes Max would have some extra fun with it, suddenly rushing up to some fuck’s crotch and making a snip-snip motion with his fingers. Man, the assholes looked like they were gonna shit their pants and Max would start laughing his ass off.
In the yard, when The… A.X. came by people stopped whatever they were doing and they’d say, “Yo, Max,” and “What up, Max, man?” It seemed like the whole prison was in awe of him. Well, except for one little hitch.
The population had to be eighty percent black, but there were pockets of other ethnic groups. There were the Crips, Sino’s crew of, what’re you supposed to call them this week, Latinos, Hispanics, Latin Americans? What the fuck ever. There were also some white people, mostly sissies, but also The Aryan Brotherhood, led by a massive cracker with a whole crew of mutants straight out of The Hills Have Eyes, their mouths drooling and always giggling and cussing among themselves.
Jeez, was that English?
He knew these guys didn’t give a shit if he once cut off a man’s dick or not. These freaks probably chopped off dicks on a regular basis.
The cracker’s name was Arma – short for Armageddon. What was up with these deranged assholes shortening their names? Max wondered if she should shorten his name, start calling himself “The Ma.” Maybe that would get him even more respect. Nah, it would probably have the opposite effect. Didn’t Freud say all guys wanted to fuck their mothers?
If anything he should start calling himself The Ax. Had a menacing vibe to it.
Nah, had to be The… A.X.
Arma fronted Max in the yard, his Aryan brothers all around him, went, “You-all’s the dick cutter, right?”
Max didn’t feel the time was right to say, Grammatically speaking, there is only one of me. The guy didn’t exactly look like he had a sense of humor.
He nodded, his throat choked from fear. This guy had the dead-eyed stare of a fucking serial killer.
The guy said, “Y’all shacked up with the big dumb nigger, what’s with that boy?”
And Max, to his amazement, lied. “I’m working on the inside, we gonna bring them apes into line, we gotta know what they’re planning, you cool with that?”
The guy stared at him and it was up for grabs. He’d either gut Max right there or…
He laughed, exposing a whole row of yellowed teeth and many, many gaps. All that moonshine, no doubt. All around him, the brothers laughed along.
Arma slapped Max on the shoulder, said, “You-all’s one bright fellah. You was one of them high flyers, m’I right?’
Max, so relieved he nearly wet himself, said, “I made my moola off the niggers. We gonna go up against Zog, we need serious bucks.”
Zog? He had no idea really what this meant but on the Discovery Channel he’d heard a Klansman say it.
But, shit, it fuckin’ worked.
And then Max on a roll, tried, “The crips, they’re gonna move against you, soon.”
The riot that was to come down the pike got its seeds right there with Max spouting off crap he’d no idea about.
The cracker frowned, asked, “Them Mex gangs, Sino and ’em, they got weapons?”
Max nodded, as if he couldn’t take the risk on verbalizing the lethal threat.
The cracker handed him a leather band, said, “You wear that, you’re part of my crew, ain’t no one gonna fuck with you.”
Max, learning, improvising all the time, took the pack of Reds, handed them over, said, “On me, bro.”
Smokes were the currency of the yard. A pack could get you a sissy for a night, a carton would get you anyone wasted.
Arma and his Nazis moved off, the cracker saying, Them Crips come gunning, you’re gonna be my right hand guy.
Max thought, Like fuck, but just wanted to get away.
He said, “You can count on me, bro.”
Later, at lunch, Sino sat down next to Max, smiled, went, “Man, I gotta give you props, yo. Cuttin’ off a man’s dick? That shit’s cold. Even Sino never done shit like that.”
Max glared at him, the look he’d been practicing, the one that said, I’m a cold detached psycho motherfucker, a fuckin Aryan, and y’all better not fuck with me. Then he gave him a sudden smile, throwing him a bone, and said, “Yeah, what can I tell you? I was havin’ a bad day.”
Sino smiled, said, “Yeah, tell me all a
bout it, cuz. Like how’d you do it? You use a blade, scissors, hedge clipper, what?”
Max, unprepared for the questioning, said, “Saw.”
“Saw? Fuck, man, how’d you work that shit out? You say to the puta , put your dick out on the table, I wanna saw it off, and the bandajo go, ‘Yeah, all right, cut my dick off,’ and took down his pantalones ?”
“Yeah,” Max said. “Something like that.”
“Oh, it was somethin’ like that, huh?” He was still smiling. “So now you don’t know for sure? Yeah, guess that makes sense. Scary motherfucker like you, goin’ ‘round, cuttin’ dicks off with saws all the time, you might start to forget some shit, right?”
Max was thinking, Don’t give in. He’s just toying with you. Truth is he’s scared shitless and he’s trying not to show it.
Glaring hard, Max said, “I cut off his dick with a saw because I didn’t like the way he was looking at me, and I don’t like the way you’re looking at me right now, hombre.”
That was the way – throw the Spanish shit right back at him. Man, he felt like John Wayne, Eastwood, The Rock – somebody bad-ass.
Sino laughed, still trying not to show his weakness, said, “Yeah, you’re a scary motherfucker all right, Fisher. Just sittin’ here next to you, I’m starting to piss up my pants and shit.” Then he touched the leather band on Max’s wrist and said, “I see you make some friends today. So now you’re what, a motherfuckin’ Nazi?”
If cigarettes were the currency of prison, then desserts were the icing on the cake. Max had heard about guys being shanked for a rice pudding. You wanted a favor, you slid your dessert across the table to the guy you wanted the favor from. Today’s delicacy was some kind of treacle pie, and Sino’s and Max’s were lined up in front of them. It was a sign of real juice to just let it sit there, as if just any old con could stroll up and grab it. Yeah, dream on.
Like two fortresses waiting to be attacked, a type of lethal jailhouse chess, Max and Sino stared at each other. Who’d move first? Sino, who didn’t exactly seem like the patient type, made a move for one and Max, said, “You don’t want to do that, hombre.”
He was as amazed as Sino was. Did he just, like, call Sino out?
Sino, his spoon almost ready to dip, hesitated. Bad move. You start a move in the joint, you have to make the play, no turning back. Sino cursed, then went, “Don’t call me hombre. You ain’t my hombre. Entiendes?”
Max, exhilarated at his sheer cojones, said, “I’m thinking I might bring that pie to my main guy, Rufus.”
And with that, he stood up, took both pies, winked at Sino, said, “Y’all keep it in your pants now, hear, pilgrim.”
Sino was too stunned to move. Meanwhile, Max went on his way, clueless that he’d just fanned the flames of an inferno that would rage with biblical ferocity.
Max placed the pies on Rufus’s bunk and the huge black man, who’d never seen two desserts in one place, was seriously impressed, asked, “How the fuck you get two?”
Max, adopting his lotus position, grabbing some of that inner peace, said, “Took ’em off that little punk, Sino.”
Rufus, adopting the lotus position now, though his bulk made it somewhat difficult, wonderingly asked, “We talkin’ the same Sino? Leader of the Crips?”
Max, closing his eyes, said, in total indifference, “That who he is? I bitch slapped him for giving me mouth.”
Max had already scared Rufus shitless with the dick-cutting rumor, but now Rufus stared at Max like he was looking at a mini-Manson, obvious admiration leaking from every inch of his massive frame.
Yeah, he was a believer.
Seven
“Lord Byron once said of Polidori that he was the sort of man to whom, if he fell overboard, one would offer a straw, to see if the adage was true that drowning men clutch at straws.”
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, IN A LETTER TO HIS PUBLISHER, JOHN MURRAY (1819)
Sebastian was at Athens airport. He’d been in a bit of a panic until he arrived in Athens, all his rat instincts shouting, Get to the bloody airport.
Finally did and, oh lordy, British Airways, God bless them, took his dodgy Platinum card without a murmur.
The woman at the counter asked, “Business class?”
He gave his best old-school smile, asked, “Is there any other way to fly?”
They had a good Brit chuckle about this.
He was whistling Rule, Britannia as he headed for the First Class Lounge, throwing a look of contempt to the, well, sorry, but let’s call them what they were, peasants, as they scuttled along for their economy seats.
He sat in the plush armchair, thought, C’est la vie.
This was the extent of his French and he tended to ration it. Though, come to think of it, perhaps Paris might be worth a gander. They still loved the Brits, though it was a shame the buggers had banned British beef, as if there was a better meat in the whole world.
He ordered a Campari and soda, didn’t say please. A true gent never said please to the help. He was just about to have a large sip when a very attractive blond girl in her twenties approached, asked, “I’m so sorry to bother you, Mr. Child?”
Child? The bloody hell was this? Then he spotted the paperback book in her hand. A thriller of some sort, written by that Lee Child fellow whom Sebastian had been mistaken for on several occasions. He was about to tell the woman to bugger off when she held out the book and said, “I’d be so honored to have your autograph, Mr. Child.
He gave her his most radiant smile, said, “Call me Lee. And the honor is mine, I assure you.”
She handed over the book and a pen. It was a Mont Blanc and he thought, Money. Then he thought, Mile-High Club.
Seeing as how the blushing woman was obviously convinced he was this writer fellow and just as obviously idolized him, he didn’t think a little joint trip to the loo would be hard to pull off at all. He scribbled an illegible scrawl on the book’s title page like a real pro, and added a little heart. Touch of class. You couldn’t teach that, either it came naturally or it didn’t come at all.
He handed her back the book, holding the pen as if he’d forgotten it, asked, “Dare I be so bold as to offer you a refreshment?”
She blushed an even deeper shade of crimson and he thought, Gotcha.
She was so flustered, flattered, she never even saw him slip the pen into his jacket. He had one tricky moment after she’d had her second vodka tonic when she asked, “What’s next for Reacher?” But he rallied, gave the enigmatic smile that had lured more quail than he could count into the sack, and said, “Now my dear, that would be telling.”
They had champagne cocktails after takeoff and he looked out at the cloud of pollution over Athens and thought about the American psycho bitch back on the island. She was probably still wondering where her cigs were.
He had to stifle a laugh, turned to the girl, asked, “What say you, my sweet, to another champers before dinner?”
Her glassy eyes as she nodded yes told him he was about to join the Club.
Later, after he’d rogered her, they crept back to their seats and he got a knowing look from the stewardess. Or was she giving him the come on? Sorry, gell, but he was shagged out. A chap had only so much to go round.
The girl snuggled up in her seat and was out in minutes. He waited till they dimmed the lights then went through her handbag. Ah, let’s have a look, shall we? Lots of crisp 50 sterling notes and a batch of credit cards. He took only two, a chap wasn’t greedy. He ordered a brandy, and some snacks, sat back to watch the movie, something starring Will Ferrell. This chap was in every movie, it seemed.
He started to nod off and had the familiar dream, the one about the student he’d killed. Sweat was rolling down his face as he relived the awful events.
Richard had been one of those upper-class pillow biters, the real deal, descended from one of the families related to the Royals. Well, who wasn’t? But he was about 1,000 in line to the throne, meaning only 999 buggers had to croak before Richar
d got a shot at it.
And, lordy, the chap was loaded, had buckets of dosh. And generous with it, too, spent it like it was water. Sebastian hated him, damn scoundrel had it all. But Richard fell in love with Sebastian, who encouraged him in the belief that buggery was definitely in the cards. Meanwhile, pay the freight you bloody homo.
Richard, like all blue bloods, had access to the best drugs, clubs, people; all of which was damn hunky fucking dory with Sebby. Yeah, what Richard called him. He’d pick out a suit from his closet, a beautiful Jermyn Street made-to-measure beauty and say, “I’m tired of this, Sebby, you have it,” and throw it across the room to him.
Time came to pay the freight, Sebastian was almost ready to let it happen. It was a Brit tradition, how else could you explain the whole Public School system?
They’d been partying hard, lots of the old champers, a little nose candy to chill out. They ended up back in Richard’s lovely flat.
First false note, Richard had ordered, not asked, “Pour me a Gordon’s.”
It was the imperious tone that irritated Sebastian to no end.
Sebastian, a little the worse for wear, snapped, “What am I? Your servant?”
And Richard, in that totally dismissive accent, said, “You’re the help, darling, a leech. So once you get the drinkie-poos, hop over here, Sebby, and service my Lancelot.”
He had a name for his dick? Well, all right, who didn’t. But he also had a name for Sebastian, and it was the more demeaning of the two.
Sebastian lost it, strangled the upper class twit with his Eton tie, screaming,
“Don’t you dare call me Sebby!”
And then horrified, strung him up from the light fixture, took all the available cash and yes, a few suits and ties, and prayed to everything unholy that he’d get away, that he’d, dare one say, swing it.