by Ken Bruen
She’d nearly gut shot the bollix then and there.
Someone had made slight preparations for their arrival. There was coffee, a thermos, three bunk beds and, sitting in the middle of the trailer, a bottle of Jay and about twenty beers.
No food.
Angela heard Max whine, “No food?”
Then he grabbed the bottle of Jay, said, no, ordered, “Y’all grab some glass or other, The… A.X. has a toast to make.”
Jameson out of Styrofoam is a travesty but Angela figured it was one of the least of the sins on her conscience.
Max said, “I toast our valiant rescuers, Angela and…” He paused, getting ready for his renowned wit, continued, “Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh… Sean.”
No laughter, and the Irish guy was giving him a look that said, “You’re dead.”
Angela could see Max was confused by how badly his humor had backfired.
He added lamely, “The joint hasn’t been built that could hold The… A.X.”
Later, Rufus was making hungry noises and Max was famished too. Since Sean had already passed out drunk, it was decided Rufus and Angela would head for the nearest grocery store – a 7-Eleven off the highway – and stock up. Rufus would drive, stay out of view, and Angela would do the shopping.
At first, Angela was a little, well, concerned about being alone with Rufus. After all, he was a big, scary-looking guy and he’d been locked up so long, he probably couldn’t wait to get his big mitts all over a woman. But after what she’d been through in Greece, Angela wasn’t about to let a man get the best of her, no matter how menacing he was. She had a gun with her, in her handbag, and God knows she wasn’t afraid to use it.
In the car, Rufus was going on, telling her how great it was to be in the “outside” again and how the first thing he wanted to do was go see his mama in Syracuse. Angela was starting to zone out when she heard the word money.
Rabbit ears up, she echoed, “Money?”
“Yeah,” Rufus said, “from the job I pulled ’fore they sent my ass to Attica. Me an’ my crew we robbed a bank and shit. Got two hundred somethin’ thousand dollars, but they never found it ’cause I buried it in my mama’s backyard, that’s why. So when I get home, first thing I’m gonna do after I kiss my mama hello and eat some a her fine apple pie is I’m gonna dig up that money, then I’m gonna go off, live in Mexico.”
Suddenly Angela saw Rufus in a new light. He was no longer a scary, dangerous escaped convict who might rape and kill her. Now he was the sweet mama’s boy with two hundred grand in his backyard who was going to be her ticket to her new life. And, besides, she’d always liked black guys. Okay, not more than any other type, but not less either, and he was a big strong guy, he could protect her; and despite whatever awful things he might have done to wind up in prison, compared to some of the other men she’d dated he was practically a saint.
She wanted to make sure he knew she was available and interested. So she said, “Just so you know, I’m just here, helping Max out, for old time’s sake. We’re not together or anything like that.”
She could tell Rufus wanted her badly. Jaysus, it looked like his dick was about to burst though his pants.
He said, “Yo, that’s good, cause I like you and shit, yo. I think you fine. I never seen a set a titties on a white woman before like the ones you got. You got big ol’ black titties, know what I’m sayin’? They kinda like my gran’mas. Yo, I don’t mean I been lookin’ at my gran’ma’s titties an’ shit, but you know what I’m sayin’.”
Angela knew there had to be a compliment in there somewhere and said, “Thank you, I’m so flattered.”
Rufus continued, “But the way it is, yo’, I don’ wanna move in on the boss’s action, know what I’m sayin’? I know how much the boss love your titties too. ’Fore we broke out, every night he was goin’ on ’bout your titties, goin’, Wait till you see my bitch’s titties. I ain’t callin’ you bitch, that what The… A.X. be callin’ you.
He be goin’, You’re gonna love my bitch’s titties, they so big, they’re the best titties you ever seen. An’ wanna know somethin’? Muthafucka was right.”
Angela, thinking about that money, how it could change her fucking life, said, “Don’t worry about Max. If you want my titties they’re all yours.”
They pulled into the lot next to the 7-Eleven.
Rufus cut the engine, said, “Mind if I kiss you? Been a long time since I kissed a woman. Talkin’ about a natural-born woman, know what I’m sayin’?”
Angela batted her eyelashes, went, “I thought you’d never ask.”
Wow, Rufus knew how to kiss! He was tender and slow and he really knew how to use that big, long tongue of his. Was Angela imagining it or was she feeling a serious spark between them? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed something as simple as a kiss with man.
There was no doubt what she had to do: Ditch Max and go with Rufus. Max was broke anyway, so what use was he? And she had a feeling this Rufus thing had legs, it was the real deal.
Rufus waited in the car. Before Angela left he said, “I’ll be missin’ yo ass, baby.” He was such a sweet man, so thoughtful.
Angela stocked up on all the food Max had instructed her to buy: Yodels, Ring Dings, Fritos, Pop Tarts, lots of Slim Jims, etc. As she was paying at the register, she noticed a dark blue car pull up in the parking lot out front and just idle there. She didn’t think much of it, though, just collected her change from the guy at the counter and wished him a good night.
She was imagining life in Mexico, as Mrs. Rufus, when she stepped outside and noticed the guy walking toward her through the shadowy lot. She couldn’t see his face well but, fuck, there was no doubt he was Greek, and he looked familiar somehow. Then he passed under a lamppost and she saw why he looked familiar. He was a dead ringer for Georgios. She remembered the woman back in Santorini, vowing vengeance for Georgios’ murder, and she knew this had to be connected. A voice inside her head was saying, Oh, come on, stop with the paranoia, you’re starting to sound like Max. The Greek network for tracking people down is good, but it couldn’t be this fookin’ good.
But she knew that little voice was fooking wrong as soon as she saw the knife in the guy’s hand. He was coming at her, baring his teeth, and somewhere in the distance she heard a woman shriek. The man was almost on her, and he was saying something – it sounded like “she-devil.”
She managed to reach into her handbag, grab the gun. Before the guy could reach her she whipped the gun out and fired a shot, hitting him right in his goddamn face.
Then she ran, past the guy’s idling car, trying to get to Rufus. She didn’t make it. She had her hand on the door when she felt an intense pain ripping through her chest. The next moment she was on the ground, lying on her stomach with her cheek on the pavement. She saw a blurry image of a guy leaning out the open door of the idling car, holding a gun. It was Sebastian, that bastard.
Her last vision was of Sebastian, smiling, blowing spoke away from the barrel of the gun. She couldn’t believe it. Of all the guys who could’ve done her in, it had to be that useless fookin’ wuss? Talk about last laughs. That God, he had some fucking sense of humor.
Twenty
“Because the way things turned out, hearing what he heard, seeing what he saw, knowing what he knew, it was no way to live.”
JOE R. LANSDALE, Lost Echoes
Sebastian was getting a tad cranky, just how long were they going to follow this bloody car? They’d dropped back when Yanni had realized they’d been spotted, but then had caught up with Angela again a few miles further on, and as far as they could tell, no one in Angela’s car had noticed them since.
He had another shot of gin and realized he needed a piss and bad. Paula, awake now in the back seat, was scribbling notes – didn’t that make her sick, writing in a moving car like that? He hefted the Walther in his hands and by golly it was true, the gun maketh the man. That and a Savile Row suit, carnation in the buttonhole, of course. The car in
front finally showed brake lights and Yanni stopped, cut the engine. They could see a trailer park, and Sebastian thought, A rather shabby one, my dear.
Darkness was coming but they could see Angela, the Fisher chappie, some brooding-looking white guy in a combat jacket, and the mammoth black guy. Yanni raised his gun and hissed, “Now you die, you whore.”
Sebastian could hear Paula take a deep breath and he put his hand on Yanni’s arm, a very risky gesture, and said, “Steady on, old bean, you do it now, it’s too quick, she doesn’t get to feel it – and most importantly we don’t get any money.”
Yanni withdrew the gun, muttering a string of obscenities. Sebastian could swear his own beloved Mummy was in there.
Paula said, “I didn’t know there was going to be, like, you know, shooting and stuff.”
Yanni turned to her, spat on the seat, said, “Shut your mouth, you harlot.”
Sebastian thought that was more than a little rude and really, wasn’t it crossing the line? He began to wonder if ol’ Yanni had just the tiniest issue with women.
The trailer door opened and Angela and the black chappie came out, got in the car and took off.
Yanni, putting the car in gear, asked, “What is this?”
Paula said, “Probably going to get supplies. There’s gotta be a 7-Eleven close by. You got a trailer park, you got a 7-Eleven.”
Sure enough they pulled up outside said establishment and, lordy, was Angela necking with the black fellow?
Sebastian muttered, “Get a room. And herpes.”
Finally, she got out and went into the store.
“Herpes,” Paula said. “That’s funny, Max was just telling me the story today, how Angela gave him herpes and how she said she got it from her ex-boyfriend, the Irish hit man.”
Just what Sebastian needed to hear – the bloody history of his condition.
“I kill the she-devil right now,” Yanni said, leaving the gun on the seat and pulling out a long-bladed knife he’d brought along.
“Let’s be sensible, shall we?” Sebastian said. “I wouldn’t mind doing away with the cow myself, but I don’t think you want to be committing a murder on CCTV now, do you?”
Paula, from the back seat, said, “Wait, you guys aren’t serious, are you? You’re not really going through with this, right?”
Then Angela was leaving the store, smiling blissfully, carrying an overstuffed bag of junk food, and Yanni was out of the car, charging her like a madman.
Paula shrieked, “Oh my God!” and then Angela pulled out a gun and shot Yanni right in the face. Sebastian had to give the ol’ gell credit, she had some tricks up her sleeve. Or, rather, in her purse.
But Sebastian couldn’t let her get any ideas and try to shoot him as well, could he? Beating her to the shot, so to speak, he aimed the Walther and fired at her back as she passed, hitting her spot on. Not bad at all. Rather like shooting pheasants.
Sebastian was still feeling right proud of his accomplishment when he remembered the black guy waiting in the car. He was going to walk over, do away with him as well, but, dammit, the car was already speeding out of the car park.
Watching Angela get killed had been sad and horrifying, of course, and the image of the puddle of blood pooling around her on the asphalt would stay with her forever, but Paula wouldn’t have traded the experience for anything. What true crime author gets a ringside seat for a homicide? A double homicide if you included the crazed Greek. After The Max was written and published and beloved by millions, the demand would be huge for a book solely about Angela Petrakos. She was the ultimate femme fatale – hey, that wouldn’t make a bad subtitle, got to write that down – and who would be more qualified than Paula to tell her story? The ideas were vivid, so fresh in Paula’s head, she started scribbling them down in her pad, afraid she’d forget them.
She’d written maybe three pages when she snapped out of her writer’s high and realized she was in the back seat of a car with Lee Child’s homicidal half-brother driving.
Suddenly terrified, Paula asked, “What’re you going to do to me?”
Sebastian said, “Nothing much. No offense, gell, but I don’t really fancy lesbians, I’m afraid. And least when it’s not a menage.”
He pulled over on to the shoulder, took all her cash and jewelry, and ordered her to get out of the car. She shut her eyes and cringed, afraid he’d shoot her, but he just said, “ Ciao, mi amore,” and left her in the dust.
Twenty-One
“Shit, he thought, as his eyes glazed over and the roaring in his ears slowly receded.
I can’t believe I’m dying in a goddamn trailer.”
M ICHELLE G AGNON, The Tunnels
When Rufus returned alone, Max instinctively got his piece and put it in the waistband of his jeans, like the cool guys did in the movies. Rufus entered the trailer, fell to his knees, sobbing like a baby, and began to spill out a story of some white guy offing Angela.
Max felt his heart lurch, Angela gone? He couldn’t fucking believe it.
He shouted at Rufus, “Yeah, and how come you’re still alive? And where’s her body – you just left her lying there? I treat you like my son and this is what I get?”
He had his gun in his hand and could feel grief and rage engulfing him.
Rufus was pleading and crying and then Max heard him say he loved her. Loved her? His Angela? And, worse, Rufus was going on now about how they’d been kissing just before she got wasted, how she was the best damn kisser he’d ever met. It was so tender, yo, so sweet.
Kissing?
He put the first round in Rufus’s belly – weren’t gut shots supposed to be agony? – and Rufus stared up at him with shock in his eyes. Max jammed the barrel in Rufus’s mouth, went, “Fucking kiss this.”
Emptied the clip.
Sean had been in a drunken stupor but the gunfire woke him – you want a mick’s attention, let off a few rounds. He staggered out of the back room, the pump shotgun in his hands and saw the black man’s almost headless torso lying at Max’s feet.
Sean looked stunned, like he was in awe of Max, and why wouldn’t he be? Guy from Ireland, IRA connections, he must’ve seen a lot of crazies in his bedraggled life, but there was crazy and there was Max crazy. Max knew he took insanity to a whole new level. Nobody was as crazy as he was, nobody.
Sean carefully lowered the shotgun, then asked, “W-w-w-w-w-w-w-where’s A-A-A-A-A-Ang-g-g-g-gel-l-l-la?”
Max said, “She’s dead. The love of my life, mon cherie, mon amour, mon Juliette.”
Sean said, “Sh-sh-sh-she… w-w-w-w-was… m-m-m-m-mine.”
“Well she’s no one’s now,” Max said. “Saddle up pilgrim, time to hit the trail.”
They packed fast and burned rubber out of there like the very Hound of Heaven was after them.
Max, sipping from the remains of the Jay while Sean drove, began a long monologue about Angela and busts and dickless cracker kids. Then he punched Sean on the shoulder, a tear in his eye, and said, “Last of the campaneros.”
Twenty-Two
“Words are not as adequate as teeth.”
TOM PICCIRILLI, The Dead Letters
Paula Segal was stunned. She had written what she felt was a very compelling proposal for The Max, which included a synopsis of the entire book, and pretty soon expected to be living the literary high life – author tours, press conferences, award ceremonies. One thing she wasn’t expecting – rejection.
Her agent broke the news to her over – yep – lattes at Starbucks.
He said, “There was a fairly strong consensus among the editors I went out to. The material’s simply too dark.”
Paula was in shock. This had to be a bad dream, or at least a bad joke. Her agent would crack a smile at any moment, say, Had you going there, huh? And then unveil the real news, that there was currently a bidding war going on for the book. All the major houses wanted it, and it was only a matter of whose eight-figure deal to accept: Knopf’s or Harper Collins’. Or maybe there
was only one major player, Sonny Mehta from Knopf, and on a signal from her agent Sonny would come through the door, ear-to-ear smile, and give her a big welcoming hug and say, “Welcome aboard, hon.”
But, nope, her agent was still looking at her with that helpless expression that she’d gotten to know all too well over the years as her fiction-writing career had descended farther and farther into the toilet. But this wasn’t fiction, this was non-fiction, true crime. This was supposed to be where all the bucks were, and she had the inside track on the hottest crime story of the year.
“What the hell do you mean, too dark? It’s crime, it’s murder, it’s drugs, it’s a riot, it’s a prison break, it’s IRA hit men, it’s cold-blooded murder. It’s supposed to be fucking dark.”
Paula was yelling. A few customers and the baristas were looking over.
“Believe me, I understand where you’re coming from.” Her agent was looking around, smiling apologetically. “But there’s dark and there’s dark. As Ken Wishnia says, there’re twenty-three shades of black.”
She didn’t want to hear about fucking Wishnia, she wanted to hear about a fucking book deal.
“Okay, so we got some rejections,” she said. “Big whoopty shit. What’s the next move?”
Her agent looked discouraged again, said, “Well, there’s the second tier, but if I’m being completely honest I think it’s unlikely the second tier will be interested. I went out with this fairly wide and, just to be completely up front, we didn’t hear anything very encouraging from anybody. They all said the same thing: subject matter too dark, characters too unlikable.”
“Wait,” Paula said, knowing what was coming next. “What do you want me to do? You’re saying you want me to-”
“How about writing a young adult novel?”
“You’ve gotta be kidding. You want me to give up The Max, my baby?”
“It’s not a matter of what I want,” he said. “It’s what the market wants. And the market doesn’t want Max Fisher.”
