The Max

by Ken Bruen

“Child?” Yanni asked. “Where child?”

  Then Sebastian, scotch calm, said, “Ah, you’ve rumbled me, the game is up as old Sherlock used to say, or was that afoot? I’m actually Lee’s half brother. We don’t get on, and truly, I’m chuffed with his success.”

  Yanni, tired of a conversation he was having trouble following, pointed his finger at the woman, asked, “Why are you here?”

  She’d drunk the scotch way too fast and it loosened her tongue.

  “I thought he was stealing my book,” she said, wagging a finger in Sebastian’s direction.

  “Your book? What are you talking about?” Sebastian asked.

  She told them all about some bloody awful book she was writing about Max Fisher and Angela, and about the murders Fisher had committed, and how he’d apparently become a feared man in prison. Sounded like a real winner all right. The punters would surely be rushing to the stores to buy that one.

  Then she told them about a prison break at midnight.

  Sebastian had a lightbulb moment, said, “Prison break?”

  “Yeah, there’re going to be riots, big riots. I’m a big riot!” She looked at her glass. “What’s in this shit anyway?”

  Sebastian egged her on, going, “So about the prison break…”

  “Oh, yeah, it’s at midnight tonight, at least that’s what The… A.X. said. The… A.X.!” She laughed. “You believe that’s what he calls himself now? He put a ‘the’ in front of his name and he has initials. Initials! Is he a character or what? I’m gonna make a fortune on this book and Pulitzer, look out. Oh, and Angela, I’m dying to meet that crazy bitch. She’s going to be in the getaway car with some IRA guy. Is this gonna be a trip or what?”

  Yanni put a switchblade to the woman’s throat said, “Shut up, cunt, and take us to this she-devil who killed my cousin. Now.”

  The woman continued to smile drunkenly until her eyes focused on the knife and she started to scream. Yanni backhanded her in the face and knocked her to the floor.

  Sebastian upended his tin cup and, patting its bottom, drained the last trickle of scotch. “Oh, lordy,” he said, “was that really necessary?”

  Eighteen

  Let the riots begin…

  Max was dozing when the riot began. He was gently stirred by Rufus who said, “It’s on, boss.”

  Max, still groggy, heard what sounded like the seventh circle of hell and smelled smoke, lots of smoke. He asked, “The riot?”

  A click sounded and their cell door slid open.

  Rufus said, “They already got in the control room, yo. The man, he gonna come down hard, we got to move, know what I’m sayin’, make it to the laundry truck. Once they bring in the troops, we gonna be fried meat.”

  He handed Max a bandana, said, “Rap the rag round your mouth, breathe through your nose, and stay real close, yo. Gonna be biblical out there.”

  Max was terrified and exhilarated all at once, and the bandana, shit, he felt like The Boss. He grabbed the bottle of Chivas, swallowed a fiery amount and handed it to Rufus who drained the rest. Then Max picked up a broomstick they’d stowed under the bottom bunk, broke it in half, said, “Rock ‘n’ roll.”

  The tier was chaotic, cons running everywhere, and Max saw one of the guards being held by a Crip, broken bottle to his neck. The Crip looked at Max, winked, then slashed the guard’s throat.

  Max felt the Chivas rebel and he let Rufus get ahead as he bent over, gagging. Then, out of the smoke, came Sino, his face streaked with blood like war paint, like a deranged angel of death. He hissed, “Hey, bandajo, where you goin’? I’m gonna cut yo’ ass in a hundred pieces and then I’m gonna burn yo’ puta ass, bitch.”

  Max was unable to move and as Sino closed in on him he thought, After everything, this is it. He felt his bowels loosen and then Sino’s eyes went wide, his mouth made a silent O and he looked down at the shaft of wood that had been driven through his chest. He fell forward.

  Arma, leader of the white supremacists, bent down, put his boot on Sino’s back, pulled out the shaft, said, “I’ll be needing that, spic.”

  Max was trying to form words that would express his thanks when a crew of Crips appeared, armed with homemade clubs, knives, even a frying pan.

  Arma turned to face them, then said to Max, “We’ll go down like white men, right, boy?”

  Max thought, Like fuck we will, and took off, looking back to see Arma disappear beneath a sea of Crips.

  Then Rufus grabbed Max’s arm, pulled him through the inferno.

  Before Rufus could drag Max to the next tier, a guard came running. It was the guy, Malis, who’d once been nice to Max in the yard. He stopped, begged, “Save me.”

  A tiny con grabbed the guard and said, “Your face is dirty,” and threw a jarful of acid at him. Max watched in disbelief as Malis’ face began to literally melt, peel off in layers. The con dropped the empty jar and ran, a knife coming loose from his belt and clattering to the floor as he went. Max whipped it up almost by reflex, grateful to have something deadly he could hold in his hand rather than just a broken broomstick.

  Rufus was pulling Max along again, going, “Gotta get yo’ ass in gear now, boss.”

  As Rufus dragged Max through the smoke and chaos, it hit Max hard that he hadn’t killed anybody yet. What the fuck? He was The… A.X., the alpha dog, the Big Boss, the Springsteen of the Big House, and he was what, getting yanked along like he was some kind of fucking sissy? He had to take somebody out, that’s what he had to do. His rep was on the line. He had to show Rufus that The… A.X. was one sick-ass muthafucka. Also, he knew that this was a moment he’d look back on his entire life. This moment would define him, make him proud. Didn’t all the World War II vets go on and on about all the nips they took out? Didn’t the Vietnam dudes reminisce about the gooks they’d blown away? This was Max’s war, the high point of his life, and if he choked now, didn’t come through with at least one killing, he’d never forgive himself.

  They went down a flight of stairs, stepping over bodies, then headed toward the delivery entrance. Up ahead in the smoke Max spotted a guy. He had a flashback to the time he’d killed all those drug dealers, blew ’em to smithereens, and that gave him the confidence boost he needed.

  Holding the knife, he broke free from Rufus and charged the guy. He was roaring as he ran, making crazed animal noises like Mel Gibson in Braveheart. He plunged the blade into the guy’s back, and it was fucking harder than it looked in the movies. It wouldn’t go in more than an inch at first and he had to use both his hands to work the blade in there. The whole time he was screaming his ass off, drooling like a rabid dog.

  When he was through he let go of the body, letting it fall to the floor. The guy looked dead all right. Fucking wasted.

  He wiped the blade of the knife on the dead man’s pants, then looked back at Rufus, expecting to see a terrified, respectful look from his soldier.

  Instead he got, “Fuck you do that for, boss?”

  Max, still pumped, said, “Didn’t like the way fuckin’ Crip was lookin’ at me. Bro had to go.”

  Rufus said, “Man, that wasn’t no motherfuckin’ Crip. That was our ride, yo.”

  Max didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, said, “The fuck’re you talkin’ about?”

  “That was K, man. He was with us an’ shit. He was gonna ride our asses out in the truck.”

  Max felt like, well, like a fucking moron, but he had to cover and went, “Your man was planning to double-cross us. Soon as we cleared the gates he would’ve wasted us both.”

  Rufus wasn’t buying it, went, “K wasn’t gonna double-cross nobody, yo. K was my boy an’ shit. Man, I been with the nigga since I got inside, knew the bitch on the outside, too. I been plannin’ this breakout with him, shit, since my first day in lockup.”

  It was starting to hit Max just how badly he’d fucked up.

  He said, “I know you don’t wanna believe your own man would fuck you over, but I got spies working for me, okay? And this g
uy, J-”

  “K,” Rufus said.

  “K, L, M, N, O, P,” Max said. “Who gives a shit what his name was? The guy was a fuckin’ rat, all right? So forget about him. He’s better off dead.”

  Max reached into K’s pocket, found a set of keys, then Rufus said, “Yo, K got the uniforms too. Gotta put that shit on.”

  Max found the uniforms, tucked under K’s shirt. They were bloody, but what the hell were you gonna do?

  They put the uniforms on as fast as they could, then they made it all the way down and the laundry truck was right there. Shit, this stupid plan might work.

  They were about to get in when Max heard, “Hey, dude.”

  He turned and saw Arma, battered, covered in blood. Shit, he looked like Bruce Willis at the end of the first Die Hard. He was still holding the bloody wooden shaft, going, “You ain’t turnin’ nigger on me, are you, dude?”

  Angela and Sean were in the sedan at the meeting point, about a mile away from the prison. They could hear the alarms sounding and knew the riot was on. Angela had taken time over her appearance, thinking, What does a girl wear to a riot besides a fookin’ Kevlar vest? She’d decided on basic black. Not only was it appropriate but it made you look thin, she hoped. Sean, well fashion was not his gig. He was wearing the green army jacket beloved of the boyos, they practically slept in them, along with his de rigeur combat pants and Doc Martens with steel toe cap. On his knee, he had a pump shotgun, and there was a mess of other weapons in the back. Angela had selected the SIG, she was familiar with that baby and you know, it sort of accessorized her outfit. Sean reached in his jacket, took out a flask, drank deep, offered it to her, and she took it, swallowed, raw Jay and by Jaysus, it burned.

  Sean said, “A…a… a… d-d-d-d-d-drop… of… of the… c-c-c-c-creature.”

  He reached in his other pocket. If he produced snacks, she’d shoot him.

  He didn’t, but he did take out a grenade.

  Catching her eye, he said, “Been sav-v-v-ing it f-f-f-f-f-f-for… a… s-s-s-spec… ial… occ-c-c-c-c-c-c-asion.”

  Even from where they were, they could see the smoke rising from the prison and the wail of sirens had started, like a hurt banshee. The copters would be there soon. She looked down to check out the SIG in her lap and saw a tent in Sean’s pants. She muttered, “Like, now? ”

  Not far from them but out of their line of vision were Sebastian and Yanni. They were watching Angela’s car.

  Yanni was slugging from a goatskin bag – where the hell had he got that? – and Sebastian knew it was ouzo. Sebastian was taking the traditional route, gin and tonic, in a plastic bottle. It was whispering to him, “Nothing to worry about.”

  Right.

  In the distance, Attica was burning, but here things were calm. For now anyway. Sebastian had begged Yanni not to just rush over to Angela’s car and blast away, and for once Yanni had listened to him. It was the possibility there might be money to be had if they waited for Fisher to show up that had convinced him. They were here to wreak vengeance – but a little profit would be nice, too.

  Yanni had a Ruger and the metal glinted as he turned it this way and that, waiting. He handled it like someone who had long experience with weapons. Sebastian was carrying a Walther PPK, for the love of Bond and Britain. He’d once gone pheasant hunting and managed to hit the gamekeeper, to the delight and hoots of his fellow drunken shooters. He’d give a lot to be back there now.

  Paula was lying across the back seat, still sleeping off her booze and the clout to the head.

  Yanni shifted suddenly and they saw a laundry truck pull up. An old guy – Fisher – and a huge black man jumped out. They piled into Angela’s car and the car pulled slowly away, no massive getaway, just a cautious stealing pace.

  Yanni hit the ignition and smiled grimly, said, “Poli mallakas.”

  Sebastian took a long swig from the gin and hoped he wouldn’t bloody castrate himself during the ride.

  Max knew he needed to think of something quick, went with, “I was just here gettin’ set to kill this here nigger.”

  Rufus, the fucking idiot, said, “You was doin’ what, boss?”

  Still calling him boss, just what Arma needed to hear.

  But it didn’t matter because Arma wasn’t buying the crap anyway. He said, “What y’all wearin’ laundry clothes for? Y’all tryin’ to run out and leave your Aryan brothers to burn? I save yer sorry ass back there and you turn coyote and leave me?”

  Max’s mouth sagged open, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. He couldn’t figure out how Arma had survived the heap of Crips who’d descended on him.

  “I shoulda known,” Arma said. “Shackin’ up with the dirtiest nigger in this here prison. He probably put so much a his black meat in you all them nights, he been gettin’ to you, made you black yerself. Ain’t that right, Fisher? You don’t know what color you are no more, do you?”

  The sirens were blaring. Lockdown was going to happen any second. If they were going to do this, they had to do it now.

  “I told you,” Max said, “I’m gonna kill the guy, but I want to do it in private. I just want it to be me and him, hombre a hombre.”

  Arma said, “I’ll show you how it’s done,” and the next second he was attacking Rufus, trying to stick his shaft into the big man’s neck. Rufus was fighting back, but Arma was quicker and the wood gave him a longer reach.

  Knowing this would be another defining moment in his life, Max went over and drove the knife into Arma’s back. This time he knew how do it, getting it in the first time, through all the bone and muscle and stuff.

  “Fisher, you fuckin’ nigger,” Arma said.

  He tried to turn, bring his shaft up to use on Max, but he crumpled to the ground.

  Holy shit, killing people was fun! Max felt like a hunter, like a real fucking man.

  Max left the knife in Arma’s back and said to Rufus, “You okay?”

  Rufus said, “Yeah, just some blood, ain’t no nothin’. But, yo, boss, you got some moves, yo.”

  They got in the truck and headed out of the prison. There was so much chaos at the gate, the guard took a cursory look at Max and Rufus and waved them through.

  “We did it, boss,” Rufus said. “We really fuckin’ did it.”

  Max was still lost in his own world, high from killing Arma. No wonder crackheads killed people, it was fucking addicting. Max couldn’t wait to kill again. He wanted more. More, more, more.

  Rufus gave Max directions and he followed them. About a mile away from the prison on a dirt road they approached a dark sedan. Max drove the laundry truck off the side of the road, out of view, and then he and Rufus ditched the truck and jogged over to the sedan.

  Angela and her IRA friend were in the front. Max and Rufus got in the back and Max said, “Where the fuck is Paula?”

  “Who?” Angela asked.

  “The big-chested girl? My biographer,” Max said, like it was obvious.

  “The fook’re you talking about?” Angela asked.

  He didn’t have time to explain, or to wait.

  “Drive,” he said, and the IRA guy drove away.

  Max leaned over the seat, gave Angela a big fat one on her full lips. Man, she smelled good, like fucking Irish Spring. He remembered how much he loved fucking Irish chicks and he couldn’t wait to give Angela the meat tonight. He said, “Man, I can’t wait to give you the meat tonight, bitch.”

  “Who’re you callin’ bitch, you fookin’ cunt.”

  Ah, the mouth on her. He loved it.

  Rufus was still babbling, “We did it, boss, we did it, yo. We really done an’ did it.”

  Then Max looked back and noticed the car behind them. It wasn’t directly behind them – it might’ve been thirty or forty yards back – but it was still unsettling to see it there, tagging along.

  “I think that car’s following us,” Max said.

  Angela looked back and said, “What car?”

  “There’s one car on the fucking
road,” Max said. “Pick one.”

  Angela was built, but he’d forgotten how dumb she was.

  Then the IRA guy spoke his first words. Well, if you call it speaking.

  “I’m p-p-p-p-p-positive… the c-c-c-car isn’t… f-f-f-f-f-f-fah-fah-fah-fah…”

  “The fuck is he saying?” Max asked.

  “I haven’t a clue,” Angela said.

  “He saying ain’t nobody back there, yo,” Rufus said.

  Figured, two idiots could understand each other.

  Max looked back again, but the headlights were gone.

  “Just sit back and start celebratin’, boss,” Rufus said. “We did it. We really motherfuckin’ did it.”

  Nineteen

  “I wanted more. Give me more.”

  MEGAN ABBOTT, Queenpin

  Angela needed a shower, a drink, to get laid and to get – of course, as always – rich.

  The drive to the Canadian border had been bizarre. Sean, muttering stuff in his stammer that nobody could follow and Max insisting they were being followed. She’d forgotten how paranoid he’d always been, long before anyone got hurt. And she was still seething about him “putting the meat to her.”

  He would, like fook.

  Angela was plain dumbfounded by the huge black man. With one hand he could have strangled them all and instead, he was brown-nosing Max, gazing at him with, there was no other word for it, total admiration. Was it some kind of gay thing? Prison does weird shite to people.

  They reached the border just before dusk and Sean pulled into a trailer park, said as he checked his notes and found a key, “W-w-w-we’re… nu-nu-num-b-b-b-b-ber… t-t-t-t-t-twenty s-s-s-six.”

  Nobody was saying much as they trudged their way to the trailer.

  Angela couldn’t believe it, she had finally hit bottom: trailer trash. She’d be here for life, wearing denim shorts, her hair permanently in rollers, no AC, and three snot-nosed brats wailing at her for sodas. And she’d have no man, of course.

  She shuddered.

  In the car, Max had reached over, asked, “Cold? Wait till I get in you, you’ll be so hot.”