The Max

by Ken Bruen

  Man, Max was soaking all this up, he didn’t want it to stop. He knew moments like this, they didn’t come along too often in life and he had to milk it for all it was worth. He had this huge terrifying black cellmate, a serious gangsta who could crush him with one hand, and not only was the man living his life in total fear of Max, he was also begging for his forgiveness. He glared at Rufus hard for a long time, as if he were weighing all his options.

  Then, expansive and like the Mahatma, forgiving like Gandhi but with a shitload of Chivas on board, Max finally said, “ De nada, senor. Ain’t no big thang.”

  Whoops, how did he go Texan? Eh, what the fuck ever. He was forgiving the mutherfucka, not forgetting, or as Dr. Phil might say, Moving on and moving up.

  But Rufus kept talking and truth to tell, it was grating just a tiny tad on Max’s nerves. He was about to snap when Rufus blurted out, “I got a secret, man.”

  Max, in his most humble, quiet voice, said, “Pray tell?”

  Which reminded him, he better get that preacher validation on the web, 100 bucks and you were like, An ordained preacher of the church of outreach saints. Two fags on the upper tier wanted to get hitched and he’d told them for four hundred bucks he would perform the ceremony. Was there truly no end to his talents? Prison was ripe, fucking abundant in business opportunities. Ask that Watergate guy, Colson.

  He had to refocus. Rufus was spilling, “We got a break comin’.”

  Max, muddled by the Chivas and his myriad schemes and languages, thought first he meant someone was, like, going to cut them a bit of slack, then he realized, prison break. Sweet Jesus, like the TV series. This would put the book up there with Dan Brown. Wait till Paula heard about this. It would have to at least get him a great blowjob, right?

  Rufus was saying, “Yo, I only trustin you cause you a gangsta and I got respect for you an’ shit. I ain’t even tol’ the rest of my crew, but you the man, Max Fisher, know what I’m sayin’? We been plannin’ this shit for three years. And we ain’t stupid and shit neither. We’re gonna do this shit up right, know what I’m sayin’? Now we got a gangsta like you on our side, shit, we’re gonna be all set up. So you wanna be in, you just say the word and you in, know what I’m sayin’?”

  Max waited, trying his hardest to stay stone-faced, to put the fear of God in his cellmate, then asked, “When y’all gonna make your move?”

  “When them riots come down,” Rufus said, “know what I’m sayin’? Everybody be fightin’ and shit and we be sneakin’ our asses outta this jail. Damn, I can’t wait to get outside an jam my dick into some real pussy, know what I’m sayin’? Man, I been fuckin’ so many sissies’ asses I don’t even ’member what real pussy feel like.”

  Max was thinking: Riots, a prison break, Hollywood, fame. Was he the luckiest guy on the planet or what?

  “Count me in, baby,” he nearly shouted.

  Thirteen

  “All day long I experienced infinite sadness amid grey surroundings. I collected one by one my sullied hopes, and I cried over each of them.”

  ANDRE GIDE, The White Notebook

  Manhattan used to give Angela a big buzz, but not anymore. The city had disappointed her so many times that arriving in midtown and being in the center of it all once again left her feeling depressed more than anything else. It reminded her of all the failures, all her disappointments, all her dreams gone to shite. She couldn’t even muster up a fantasy that this time around things would work out differently. Why should they?

  Her cash was running so low – maybe that gift to the British girl on the ferry hadn’t been the smartest move in the world – that she couldn’t afford a cab and had to take a bus into the city. A hotel was out of the question, so it was either Max Fisher or bust. She had no idea if he’d take her back, but she was out of options. If this didn’t work she might have to sleep on the street tonight, or on the subway.

  She took the 6 train uptown and headed over to the apartment building on the Upper East Side where she’d spotted him briefly the last time she was in the city. In a strange way she was looking forward to seeing him again. Yeah, he was bonkers and sleazy, but she wasn’t exactly the portrait of mental health and fidelity her own self. Maybe they were destined to be together – two tortured souls who’d been around the block more than a few times and who, in the end, realize they’re perfect for each other. You could even see something romantic about it, if you squinted.

  She went to the concierge desk. The guy was on the phone and Angela looked around, impressed with the decor in the lobby. Jaysus, Max was probably rolling in it. Before she’d left for Greece, she’d read in the paper how he’d become a drug dealer, and she knew he must have been doing well at it, to live in a swank building on the Upper East Side. But she’d had no idea he’d been doing this well. Too bad she didn’t look her best after the long flight, the ferry ride to Athens and the, well, encounter in the Greek prison. She knew a first impression was everything and she wanted Max to see her in her best light. But then she expanded her chest and looked down proudly, remembering that with Max these babies were all she’d ever needed.

  The concierge finished the call and Angela said, “I’m here to see Max Fisher.”

  The guy nearly laughed, said, “He doesn’t live here anymore.”

  “Oh, okay, do you know where he’s living now?”

  “Yeah, Attica.”

  Angela was still lost in her daydream, imagining living off of Max’s millions, straightening out her life once and for all. She figured, Attica, that must be the name of some luxury condo: The Attica. Yeah, it was probably right next door to Trump Tower or something.

  “Is that on the Upper East Side, too?” she asked hopefully.

  The guy laughed again, said, “It’s a jail, honey. You know in upstate New York? He got sent away. You didn’t hear about it? He left owing three months rent. Cheap son of a bitch never tipped me, not once… You’re not a relative, are you?”

  She didn’t answer, just walked away.

  She should’ve known. Wasn’t it always the way? Whenever she had the slightest hope that things might work out for her after all, fate always snuck up on her and kicked her in the ass.

  She went outside and naturally it had started to rain. Pushing her suitcase ahead of her, the rain pouring down on her, she walked across town to the Port Authority bus terminal and spent the last of her money on a one-way ticket to Attica.

  The bus didn’t leave till five a.m. so Angela had to spend the night in the terminal. The saddest thing was no one even tried to pick her up.

  When she was a teenager, living with her parents in Weehawken, New Jersey, she took buses into the city all the time and guys at the Port Authority always hit on her. Once, when she was seventeen a guy in a leather vest with a handlebar mustache approached her and asked her if she was interested in becoming a model. She was so naive then she actually thought it was a good career opportunity, that she’d been discovered. So they went to his “studio” – it didn’t ever occur to her to ask why a photographer would have his studio in a practically condemned… R.O. in Hell’s Kitchen – and after a few minutes of general-type questions he asked her to take her clothes off. She thought this was a little, well, unusual, but he explained that all the girls did it and if she wanted to make a thousand bucks a week she’d have to take nude modeling gigs.

  She knew where this was leading and asked, “Wait, so are you, like, a porno director?”

  “I make adult films, yes,” he said.

  She couldn’t figure out if she was offended or flattered. She knew she should be offended, but it was kind of exciting, the thought of getting into the adult entertainment business. And, hey, she could be the next Jenna Jameson.

  So she took off her shirt and undid her bra, waiting for the admiration to begin. But when the guy got a look at her barely A-cup breasts he said, “Sorry, no thanks,” and practically kicked her out of the place.

  She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, she’d just bee
n pissed off; but if there was a life-changing moment in Angela’s life, that had been it. The rejection by the porno director had led to a downward spiral. Several years later she took the Pam Anderson/Anna Nicole Smith route and got her boobs done and went blonde and even started wearing the blue contacts. She barely looked like her old self. But had her new look made her any happier? Had it fuck. For years her body had sent out the wrong signals, attracted the worst possible men, and what was it doing for her now? Men were walking by her, ignoring her, like she was fooking invisible. If you couldn’t get a guy to notice you at the Port Authority you knew you were way past your sell-by date.

  Finally, she got on the bus and, unable to sleep, stared blankly out the window. If she’d been in a less hopeless state she might have realized that there wasn’t much point in spending the last of her money to go visit Max. After all, how would a guy serving a stiff jail sentence, who was apparently broke when he got sent up and whose life had clearly gone down the shitter, be able to help her? In her desperation, she was hoping that Max had stashed some money away and would help her out for old time’s sake. Yeah, okay, their relationship hadn’t always been great and she’d nearly gotten him killed a couple of times, but it hadn’t been all bad. There had been times when she felt close to him, when she’d actually enjoyed his company. Okay, maybe she was just imagining this, but he was certainly the wisest man she’d ever known. All right, maybe that wasn’t saying much given her dating history. But despite all his shortcomings, there was no doubt that he was a sharp guy, right? He’d built a business and become a self-made millionaire. You can’t pull that off and be a total idiot, can you? He also seemed to have made quite a splash as a drug dealer, showed that the first time wasn’t just a stroke of luck. He was also in touch with himself, always meditating and talking about Buddhist shite. Maybe at the very least he could advise her, tell her what to do to straighten her life out.

  When she arrived in Attica, she was exhausted, had barely slept in forty-eight hours. Still, she was focused and went right to a drugstore. Her checkered history had taught her some things like check out for CCTV. Nope, nothing she could see, so she helped herself to some Chanel. Max had always been partial to his lady smelling fine. Then she went down the block to a thrift shop. The owner was absorbed, reading a copy of the local pennysaver, so she went to the back and boosted a dress, low cut to let that cleavage show, and though hardly cutting-edge fashion, it was clean and bright. She already had her heels, never left home without them.

  Good to go, she left the store, her mood slightly elevated. It was a rush to shoplift right under the shadow of one of the country’s most notorious prisons. It lifted her confidence, showed she still had some moves, and she felt she was going to need them.

  She hitched a ride to the prison. Wasn’t hard – seemed like everyone was heading in that direction. It was apparently the big attraction in town, like freaking Disneyland.

  She hadn’t inquired about visiting hours and she found out she needed to arrange her visit in advance. No problem there though – a little flirting with the guard got her through, the stolen dress already paying some dividends.

  She was in the visitor’s room, waiting for Max to appear. She expected Max to shuffle in looking beaten, defeated and lost. Older guy like him, not exactly athletic, they’d have eaten him alive by now. She figured she’d give him a dose of sympathy, a little TLC, and that might shake the bucks loose from him.

  Her first surprise was when he was led into the room, was she imagining it or was the guard acting all deferential? And Max, glowing with well-being and satisfaction, a smile of utter confidence on his face. He looked like he’d been on a health farm for months. Even looked like he’d lost a few pounds.

  He motioned to the guard, and Angela could read his lips: I’ll call you if I need you, Bob.

  Dismissing him? The fook was this?

  He sat, stared at her deadpan for a while, then said, “So what’s shaking, babe?”

  Total strut, acting like he didn’t miss her at all, like he might’ve even forgotten she existed.

  She said, “I heard you were here and I was concerned and thought I better come and see if you needed anything.”

  He gave his high-pitched laugh, the one that had always grated on her nerves. But she hid her distaste, knowing pissing him off wouldn’t accomplish anything. Naturally he was staring at her tits.

  “Them the same babies I paid serious green for?”

  Actually, she’d paid for her own boob job, but if he wanted to believe they were his, why bust his bubble?

  She tried to look coy, been a long time since she’d had to use that gig, said, “All yours, hon.”

  Jesus, she could tell it was killing him, he was dying to come around, cop a feel. Instead, he sat back, yawned. Fucking yawned. Was she, like, boring him?

  He asked, “So, my treacherous bitch, what’s the real reason you’re here? Last time I saw you, you were putting it to me big time – and not your first shafting of The… A.X. either.”

  The… A.X.?

  She tried to stay coy, not easy, said, “We all got bent a little out of shape back in those crazy days but I realize now, I’ll never meet a man like you again.”

  Prick bought it. Always did.

  He said, “You got The… A.X., you don’t need nothin’ else, dig?”

  Christ, how could she have forgotten what a dumb arrogant bollix he was?

  Poverty will do that, make you stupid. But here she was and all out of options. She said, “I thought we might start over.”

  He stared at her, said, “You’re broke.”

  Not so dumb.

  She said, “Well, I won’t lie to you. Things have been a little tight.”

  “And you coming to The… A.X., cause he like yo’ fixer and shit, right?”

  God, was he for real? There’d never been a white man whiter than Max Fisher, and here he was talking like some kind of rapper.

  He spread his arm out, said, “See that yard out there, with the most dangerous dudes on the planet? I run ’em, run ’em like the fuckin’ losers they are.”

  How, she asked herself, had someone not gutted the little bastard already? And how on earth did he manage to become top rooster in such a place?

  “You always were extraordinary,” she said, and wanted to throw up.

  He leaned over, said, “Gonna share a secret with you babe, the joint ain’t been built that can hold The… A.X.”

  Jaysus, he was completely mad.

  He continued, “We’re busting outa here, me and my crew.”

  She didn’t know how to respond, tried lamely, “That’s wonderful.”

  He smiled, accepting the praise as his due, said, “You want back with The… A.X., you gonna have to prove your loyalty.”

  She said, getting the faint whiff of money, and remembering how if she didn’t hook up with somebody tonight she’d be sleeping on the street.

  “You name it darling, it’s done.”

  He scribbled something onto a piece of paper, then slid it across and said, “Get it done.”

  She looked down. He’d written two words:

  GUNS

  CAR

  She didn’t have bus fare back to the city and he wanted her to get him guns? Never mind a car.

  She nearly laughed till he reached in his denim shirt, took out a roll of bills, said. “To get you started. And oh, get some decent clothes, that dress looks like it came from fucking Goodwill.”

  Then he was standing and did cop a feel, a long one. She moaned. He mistook it for a sound of pleasure.

  He said, “Go get your pretty ass in gear. Sooner you get me out of here, the sooner The… A.X. will be putting the meat to you.”

  Then he shouted for Bob, winked at her, said, “Don’t fuck up this time, bee-otch, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  Fourteen

  “Hop smiled. ‘Nice, could you run my life, baby?’

  ‘Some challenges are too great, my friend.’
”

  MEGAN ABBOTT, The Song is You

  Max couldn’t believe it – Angela was fucking back! He’d had to contain himself because, hey, that’s the way you had to play it in the joint. Max had done his DD, studying the bros in yard, and almost all of them had the dead-eye glare. Not a lot of smiling faces in a maximum security prison and he knew if you wanted to survive you had to look hard, be hard, always have your game face on. Besides, it was part of Max’s hip-hop persona. Look at Eminem. If Slim Shady didn’t smile, Max sure as fuck wasn’t going to.

  But Jesus Christ, Angela looked fucking hot! Her bust, shit, it brought back so many great memories. Fuck, even her stretch marks looked hot. But what was up with that cheap dress? You wouldn’t see a crack whore on the West Side Highway in something like that. And she was nervous, too, not the confident, cocky Angela who’d screwed him over so many times before. She looked a little shocked – scratch that, way shocked. Hell, she looked defeated. Angela, down and out? The fuck did that happen? The Angela he knew never stopped fighting. No matter what shit came down the road, she was there, scratching and biting like an alley cat, mouthing like a fishwife on steroids, and screwing the world. She’d ripped him off and just about every other dumb bastard whose path she’d crossed, but she’d never caved, no siree.