The Max

by Ken Bruen

  Suddenly Max found himself feeling like he was wasting his time with Paula. Yeah, the girl had a nice rack, and there was her book – but come on, there was no way he was gonna marry that cow if he could have Angela, the real deal. He and Angela were, like, destined to be together. Okay, yeah, so she’d tried to kill him a few times, but doesn’t all true love go through rough patches? He’d bet there were times when Cleopatra had been more than a bit pissed off with Tony. And Romeo and Juliet probably wanted to scratch each other’s fucking eyes out. Him and Angela, they were like Bonnie and Clyde – maybe occasionally too fast on the trigger, but still, together for life.

  Yeah, Max wanted Angela, he wanted her bad. He wanted to cop a real good feel of that rack, too, but he had to see what she wanted first. Naturally it was money but, hey, he couldn’t exactly blame her for that. Max had always been her Mr. Moneybags, her go-to guy for the green. And, he had to admit, her desperation was more than a bit of a turn-on for him. He didn’t know what she’d done to fuck up her life this time but it must have been something big, maybe the biggest yet, because she was clearly at the end of her tether. Man, Max loved playing this role – Max Fisher the hero, Super Max swooping down to save the day.

  But he wasn’t going to bail out the psycho bitch just for the hell of it. His mind was working double-time – when wasn’t it, right? – and he was thinking, How could he use this? Yeah, Rufus had invited him in on the break, but Max always liked to have a Plan B. Come on, let’s face it, Rufus didn’t have all the seeds in his apple. He probably had one-tenth or, hell, one hundredth the intellect of The… A.X. Rufus had claimed some friend of his, some fucking gangbanger, would be waiting in a getaway car after the break, but did Max want to gamble his life on that? Fuck, Max had always been the Big Boss; he wasn’t exactly comfortable letting some street thug he hadn’t even met call the shots.

  Which was why he’d slipped Angela a note to get weapons and a car. Knew he could trust the bitch as long as he was the one paying her. He figured he’d hit her with more instructions the next time he saw her. And, oh yeah, he knew she’d be back. Show Angela some moolah with the promise of more to come and you’d hooked her for life. It was what he loved about her. That, of course, and her tits.

  Leaving the visitor’s room, Max headed back to his cell. Sino was due to return from the hole tonight and, for the first time, Max caught a whiff of the riot in the air. It was a certain tension you could almost reach out and touch. Everyone was being ultra-careful, keeping their faces down and avoiding eye contact. The gangs were huddled together and the guards, the bulls, were way nervous. Tooling up, yeah, that was it. The gangs were stockpiling, shivs, crowbars, acid in bottles, you get that shit thrown in your face, that’s all she wrote. Plywood was disappearing from the woodshop and clubs were being honed for maximum damage.

  Max was getting a little concerned. All the talk about riots was cool and everything when it was all talk, but now it was getting a little too real, too imminent. But he psyched himself back up, telling himself he had the white supremacists all in his corner, plus Rufus. No one was gonna let The… A.X. get hurt.

  Straddling both sides, playing the middle, that was the way to go.

  Rufus told him their homies had some serious armament ready to roll and even though some of them muttered about the white boy being part of the crew, Rufus slapped them down.

  To sweeten the pie, Max had told him, “My main man, we get out of here, I’m going to set you up in a penthouse, lots of white meat and all the white powder you could stuff up that massive nose.”

  But the Crips, that was a different story.

  Rufus said, “That Sino, he got a hard-on for yo’ ass, boss. He get out, he gonna try to waste yo’ ass in the craziness and shit.”

  That worried Max a little till Rufus said, “No worries my man, they let him out, Sino gonna be washing his brown ass in de shower and, shit, I settle his jones right there.”

  Meanwhile, Rufus finally filled him in on the escape plan. It was so shot full of holes, Max couldn’t believe it. In the smoke and mayhem of the riot, Rufus and crew were gonna hijack a laundry van and just mosey on out the main gate before full lockdown happened. They already had the uniforms, hidden away in a corner of the laundry room.

  Could work, maybe, but Max was amazed. This was the plan they’d be working on for years? Max had figured they’d have a tunnel, a guy working on the inside, something. But he didn’t want to ruin the party by bringing up any, like, doubts. Besides, he figured sometimes you did better going with something so basic, so crude, no one would ever imagine you’d try it.

  When Rufus asked, “Boss, can you handle hardware, yo?” Max nearly sneered. He was the guy who’d emptied a full clip into the meanest muthahs you’d ever meet. Yeah, he could handle hardware, yo. He told Rufus all about the Colombians he’d smoked that time in Queens. Actually, he’d only shot one guy, and it had been a wild lucky shot, but like a fish story it got bigger with each telling. In the latest incarnation he’d smoked three sick-asses all packing serious heat.

  Max went, “Get me a Mach 10, it’s like my weapon of choice.”

  Rufus stared again at this stone cold killer, said, “Sound like you good to go, boss.”

  The Crips started the first step in what would be an out-and-out conflagration, burning their mattresses, taking a bull hostage. Later, the white supremacists cornered Max in the canteen. The leader, Arma, sitting Max down at his table, asked, “What’s the deal, dude?”

  Max, delighted to be called dude, said, “Ready to rumble.”

  “Ready? Man, it’s already started. The Crips are burning mattresses, getting everything riled up, and they’re coming for you first.”

  Max, terrified but not showing it, said, “I guess we’ll just have to go medieval on their inferior asses.”

  Arma asked, “Their top guy, that Sino, how good is he?”

  Max gave his superior laugh, made a show of looking at his watch, said, “About now, he’s having the last shower of his life, he’s going clean down the drain. One of my boys is helping him soap up as we speak.”

  Arma was impressed, said, “I’m impressed.” Then he said, “But speaking of your boys… the niggers… my boys are a little concerned how much you’re hanging with them.”

  Max leaned over, whispered, “They’re gonna burn, and you my man, you’re gonna own this joint.”

  He stifled a chuckle, thinking, What’s left of the fucking place.

  Arma said, “You’re one cold cracker.”

  Max, standing, said, “You ain’t seen nothing yet, dude.”

  Left him with his mouth hanging open.

  Fifteen

  “There’s an armor the city makes you wear and look at him defenseless, helmet dropped back blocks ago, no arm among enemies strong enough to string the arrow that could pierce his skin, rendering all cowards. Let us bow. No one bows.”

  COLSON WHITEHEAD, The Colossus of New York

  Sebastian was in New York. He did not want to be in fucking New York and he certainly did not want to be in New York with a homicidal Greek who smelled of olive oil all the time.

  Yanni had never once let him out of his sight and two days after their first meeting had bought tickets to America, saying, “We get this done now.”

  Sebastian was seriously afraid of the maniac. If he had demurred, he was sure the crazy bugger would have slit his throat. He tried to look on the bright side, maybe they would score some serious dosh off Angela. Assuming they could ever find her.

  What did irritate Sebastian a tad – well, ok, a lot – was that Sebastian was paying the freight. Yanni had disappeared with the biggest of the paintings; it had turned out to be the real deal, a bloody Constable, and he’d promptly fenced it. He’d flung ten large at Sebastian and said, “Your share.”

  Was he going to argue that the scoundrel had probably gotten a damn fortune for it, hell of a lot more than twenty K? He took the cash, and talk about damn cheek, Yanni made Sebastian
pay for the tickets, in business class no less. Put a hell of a dent in the ten.

  Yanni carried on scandalously on the plane, drinking champagne like it was water, leering at the hostesses and, when the in-flight movie came on, something starring Nicole Kidman, he kept nudging Sebastian and making lewd comments. Sebastian tried to act like he wasn’t with Yanni, knocking back gin and tonics like a good un and trying to make sympathetic eyes at the stewardesses, as if to say I’ve nothing to do with this cretin.

  In New York the heat and humidity was fierce and as Sebastian wiped his brow, Yanni scoffed, “This is tipota, in Santorini we see this as mild spring day.”

  Sebastian, his lined suit creased beyond repair, felt a hatred for this bounder like he’d never felt in his whole shallow life and resolved, soon as this business was concluded, he was going to kill the fucker slowly and whisper as he died, “That’s not heat, brother, it’s just a mild slashing of your olive stinking throat.”

  Ah, the things to look forward to.

  Then they were in a cab and heading for Queens. Who’d said anything about staying in Queens? Didn’t the fellow have the decency to consult him about their travel arrangements? He was planning on getting a couple of rooms at the Mansfield, a small hotel he’d read about in a cheap mystery novel once; it sounded classy and was right across the road from The Algonquin. Couldn’t ask for a better pedigree than that. But Yanni, lighting up a Karelia in the cab, didn’t care about pedigree. So off to Queens they went.

  Blowing smoke in Sebastian’s face, Yanni said, “We stay with my family in Astoria, they help us track the she-devil. She has Greek blood, they will track her down.”

  Sebastian finally found his voice, said, “Actually, old chap, I’d rather stay in midtown and we can meet up later, let you reunite with your family in peace.”

  Yanni, his eyes as black as hell, squeezed Sebastian’s thigh, hard – the animal had a grip like a vise – and said, “You don’t make decisions. I tell you how it is, you say epaharisto poli. You get to leave when this is done, you understand, mallakas? ”

  He did.

  The family were a nightmare and, lordy, how many of them were they, enough to storm Manhattan by themselves… and noisy, radios blaring, everybody roaring in Greek, tons of kissing and hugging, only not for Sebastian, whom they looked at with derision. No one said a word to him. It was like My Big Fat Greek Wedding without the one-liners.

  At dinner, more talk in Greek. It sounded like six arguments were going on at once. Sebastian couldn’t understand a thing, just wandered around, trying not to get in the way.

  One of the uncles, he noticed, had his wallet sticking out of his back pocket, just begging to be snatched. Sebastian often wondered why people were careless with their valuables. Were they trying to give their money away? Out of sheer boredom, Sebastian snatched it, not expecting to find much. The guy’s hair was a mess and he was wearing a horrendous shirt open to his belly button, proudly displaying a chunky wooden necklace – not exactly the look of a man of wealth.

  When the fellow discovered his wallet was missing there was the usual fuss with everyone talking at once, helping him look around for it. During the commotion, Sebastian managed to slip out of the apartment without Yanni seeing. He sprinted around the corner and then two more blocks, hopped a turnstile. A subway was at the station, ready to depart, and Sebastian yelled, “Hold the doors!”

  A homeless guy put his hand in front of one of the doors, delaying the close, and Sebastian managed to slip inside in the nick of time.

  “Thank you, squire,” he said. If he’d had some American coins he would’ve tipped the kind fellow, but he didn’t. He settled for shaking the man’s hand, a gesture neither of them enjoyed very much.

  He rode the subway into Manhattan, proud of his ingenuity. He was a cunning ol’ chappie, wasn’t he?

  It had been ages since he’d been to the city and he was planning to check into his usual room at the Mansfield – those kind fellows always gave him the top floor suite – and then take in some of the sights. He could do with some good food as well. There was a Brazilian restaurant in midtown he quite liked where the maitre d’ was a good sport and always gave him the best table in the place and, oh yes, free drinks. He didn’t know what they put in those bloody drinks but the last time he’d gone there he’d left so drunk he’d fallen over a pile of garbage on the curb and not gotten up for the better part of an hour.

  At the Fifty-ninth Street stop, Sebastian disembarked and was about to climb the stairs when he heard, “Where you think you going, Brit boy?”

  He thought he must be hallucinating but he turned around and sure enough Yanni was there. The bloody hell?

  Covering his anguish with a sarcastic grin, Sebastian said, “I was just going for a bit of a stroll, care to join me?”

  Back in captivity, or Queens, Sebastian spent days watching reruns of The Odd Couple and drinking that thick treacle they called coffee. The only thing that made it at all palatable was if you put a nip of Metaxa in it. And Heavens to Betsy, the Greeks might be a pain in the arse, no slur on their homoerotic heritage, but they sure did keep an awful lot of booze in the house.

  Another saving grace: One of the women of the house, Irini, had that dark sultry look, the doe-brown eyes and one of those lush Greek figures that so quickly ran to fat but until then was simmering hot. Her English was almost American, with only a slight Greek inflection. She was forever cleaning and each time he got a buzz building, giggling away at Oscar and Felix, there she’d be, telling – not asking, mind, telling – him to move his big English legs out of the way. The drinks, the reruns, and Irina helped him keep his mind off his situation.

  Which was looking worse each day. The men were pulling out all the stops to find Angela, but so far had found nothing, zilch, tipota. Like she’d vanished off the island of Manhattan, assuming she’d actually made it there in the first place. And Yanni’s brood were seriously pissed. The Greek network was good and they prided themselves on tracking any Greek, anywhere, but it wasn’t happening. And Sebastian was worried all that anger would wind up being let out in his direction someday soon.

  Irini, hands on her hips, her wedding band shining, asked Sebastian, “Why you no help the men, you sit here all day, doing nothing?”

  But he spotted a slight sheen of moisture above her lip and realized, this filly wanted rogering, a tad of the old Billy Bunter. And by golly, he was the chap to do it.

  He said, “I could find her in five minutes.”

  Her eyes widened, and she asked, looking a bit like a mare in heat, “How?’

  He gestured around the cramped living room, said, “They keep me a virtual prisoner, if I had access to a laptop, I’d have her tracked in no time.”

  She said, “I have a laptop. For my studies.”

  He wondered if there was a course in sweeping.

  She lowered her eyes demurely, said, “It is in my bedroom.”

  He rose languidly. Sebastian tried never to do anything in a hurry unless it was… flee.

  He said, “Show me what you’ve got.”

  Her room was filled with talismans – the evil eye, a mega statue of Makarios – and lo and fucking behold, in the middle of all this devotion, a poster of Guns N’ Roses.

  That was all she wrote. He rode her on the flokati rug and get this, the bitch bit him, twice, till he asked in his best Brit tone, “Try not to bite the merchandise.”

  Afterwards, still sweaty and naked, he opened the laptop and got Google to work its dark magic. His one idea was to find an address for Angela’s ex, that Max Fisher bloke she’d complained about so much. Instead, he read about Fisher’s bloody arrest. He was simply appalled to discover that Fisher had been a drug dealer. What sort of man had Angela been associating herself with? As if there had been any doubt, he was certain now he’d been the classiest lay she’d ever had.

  But arrested, this wasn’t good at all. He’d been hoping Fisher could help them find Angela. How could he help
them from a jail cell in Attica?

  But then he thought, who knows. That Hannibal Lecter chap had been able to help Jodie Foster from his jail cell in that movie, the Lambs one. Maybe this Fisher could be of at least some use.

  When you’ve only got one straw, you grasp at it.

  One article from the New York Post gave the address where Fisher was serving his sentence; that not only meant Sebastian knew where to find him, it also meant Angela knew. He’d have laid stiff odds that she had paid him at least one visit there, and who knows, maybe she’d come more than once. Maybe he’d know where she was and could steer them to her.

  Sebastian was downright proud of his ingenuity. A bloody Sherlock Holmes, he was. It would have taken the Greeks, what, five years to come up with this angle?

  Irini gave him a cold Amstel and, by golly, it was good. She said, “You must be quick.”

  He winked at her, said, “You sang a different tune on the rug.”

  She said, “If Marko comes home, he will cut your balls off.”

  He got right on it.

  Sixteen

  “The man who shoots people in the legs for effect, thinks that I might have been unnecessarily violent?”

  ALLAN GUTHRIE, Two-Way Split

  First thing Sino was gonna do when he got out – come at that bandajo Max Fisher hard. His two weeks in the hole, he been thinking about that shit all the time, thinking of different ways to make the man feel pain.

  Fuckin’ Fisher. Sino shoulda taken his gorda ass out himself, made a mistake out saucering that shit to that puta Carlito. You can’t trust a Mexican to do nothing ’cept make burritos and even then, check out all the PR’s they hire at Taco Bell.