The Max

by Ken Bruen

  “Bullshit,” Paula said. “Bull fucking shit.”

  She stormed out of the Starbucks, deciding, Fuck agents, she’ll sell it herself. How hard could it be to sell a hot property, the next In Cold Blood?

  She sent the proposal out with a well-thought-out cover letter to practically every editor in New York and they all had the same response – story too dark, characters too unlikable. It had to be collusion, some kind of conspiracy. Or maybe her agent was bad-mouthing her all over town? Something like that. Years as a telemarketer had primed her well for rejection, but hearing all the negativity about The Max was tough to take. She was doubting herself, starting to lose hope.

  She was almost ready to give up, head back to the call center, when she opened a copy of Time Out New York and saw that Laura – yes, her Laura – was reading tonight from her latest book at the Barnes amp; Noble on Union Square. She thought, Has to be a sign.

  She rushed to her salon, demanded an appointment even though her hairdresser’s schedule was full for the day. When Sergio asked her what she wanted done she took out a copy of Mystery Scene with Laura on the cover and said. “I want to look like her.”

  Sergio gave her the Lippman do, a short bob, flirty and sexy but not too showy about it. Afterward she couldn’t have been more pleased. She looked as classy as Laura herself. When Laura saw her she’d have to realize they were meant to be together. Drinks would follow, maybe dinner, another meeting or two. Maybe she’d eventually move in with Laura in Baltimore, or they could just travel around the world together, two hot literary goddesses on the road…

  And in the meantime Laura would help her get The Max into the hands of an editor who didn’t have his head so far up his ass he couldn’t see Pulitzer Prize material when it was handed to him.

  A few minutes after Paula arrived at Barnes amp; Noble, Laura entered, rushing in, taking off her coat as she went, elegant and graceful as always, smiling, saying hello to all her adoring fans. Paula, in the front row, was staring at her, trying desperately to make eye contact. Surely Laura would remember her from the bar in El Paso and from their Internet exchanges. But after apologizing breathlessly for being late – traffic, her cab couldn’t budge – and telling an effortlessly witty story about her signing the night before at the Mystery One bookstore in Milwaukee, Laura went right into her talk, and then read from her latest Tess Monaghan mystery. The book was another winner, no surprise there. A line of about thirty people formed, and Paula got on it at the end. Her heart was racing.

  She was worried that she might actually pass out. How embarrassing would that be? Fainting at her future lover’s book signing.

  Finally it was Paula’s turn. She handed over a copy of Laura’s book and Laura, smiling, said, “Thank you so much for coming. Who should I make it out to?”

  Paula thought, It’s not possible. She’s looking right at me.

  Then she thought, Come on, cut the poor woman some slack. After all, she was a best-selling novelist in the midst of a major book tour. She was probably burnt out, that’s all.

  “You can make it out to me. Paula Segal.”

  Still no recognition.

  “So how’ve you been?” Paula asked.

  Now Laura looked at her, the first prolonged eye contact. She was squinting, trying to get it to click.

  “You know, Paula Segal. We met at Left Coast Crime in El Paso a few years ago?”

  Still nothing.

  Trying to jar her memory, Paula said, “You know, Paula Segal. I was a Barry Award finalist. I write the McKenna Ford mysteries?”

  After a few seconds Laura’s face suddenly brightened and she said, “Oh, right. It’s great seeing you again. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  Paula was trying to hold Laura’s gaze, to let her know she was interested in a lot more than just getting a stupid book signed.

  Then Laura said, “Should I make it out to you, McKenna?”

  “No, my name’s Paula.”

  “Oh, that’s right, I’m sorry, Paula,” Laura said. “It’s been a crazy day. How do you spell your last name?”

  “S-E-G-A-L.”

  Was it possible that Laura actually didn’t remember her?

  Nah, Laura had to remember.

  “Yeah, so, I’m writing the Max Fisher story,” Paula said. Then she couldn’t help adding, “For Knopf.”

  Paula was proud of the way she’d just casually dropped that little lie, and prouder of how she’d been so modest about it. Like, Yeah, I’ve written the biggest true crime story of the new millennium, but it was no biggie, just another day in the life of a future Pulitzer winner.

  Laura finished writing, handed her back the book, said, “I’m sorry, Fishman?”

  “Fisher,” Paula said. “You know, Max Fisher? The infamous businessman-slash-drug dealer who escaped from Attica last month?”

  Laura looked lost then smiled and said, “I’m sorry, I’ve been touring for three weeks straight and I’m a little behind on the news lately. But that’s great, congratulations. I wish you lots of luck with it.”

  The next guy in line was holding a stack of books and was inching closer. Laura was already smiling in his direction, making eye contact with him. But there was no way Paula was moving along – not yet anyway.

  She didn’t want to blow her one opportunity. After all, when would she get a chance like this again?

  “I was thinking,” Paula said, “maybe we could go out for a drink after you finish up here. You know, just to catch up.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Laura said. “I’d love to, really, but I have plans.”

  “Just one drink,” Paula said.

  Shit, was she being too insistent? No, just eager, that’s all, and there was nothing wrong with eagerness. Eagerness was the way she’d made it as far as she had. If she weren’t an eager beaver she never would’ve landed the Fisher project in the first place.

  But did Laura just say “I can’t”?

  Nah, must’ve heard her wrong.

  “So what time’s good?” Paula asked. “Maybe around eight o’clock, eight thirty?”

  “I said I can’t make it.”

  Paula was stunned, went, “Please, it’ll be so great. We have so much in common we can probably go on and on, talking all night long.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m actually having dinner with Dennis Lehane tonight.”

  Den, it figured. Paula knew Lehane from the convention circuit. Nice guy, he’d bought her a couple of beers at Bouchercon in Chicago. For an hour she’d gushed to him about how much she loved Mystic River – the book, not the film – but did he ask for her room key or even her phone number? Um, no. God, Paula was so glad she was through with men. But there was no way Paula was going to let fucking Dennis Lehane or anyone else get in the way of her and Laura. She decided to take a chance.

  “But I love you,” she nearly shouted.

  Paula knew she’d rushed it, that she should’ve at least waited till they’d had a chance to talk a little. But desperate times and all that.

  Laura seemed totally confused and maybe a little shocked. She said, “I’m sorry?”

  “I’ve known it since we met in El Paso, Laura. We’re soul mates, we have everything in common, we should be spending the rest of our lives together.”

  A bookstore employee came over and said, “You’re going to have to step away, ma’am. Other people want to get their books signed too.”

  How had this happened? How had it all gone to shit so quickly?

  “We have to be together,” Paula pleaded. “I’ve read Charm City twelve times. I nominate you for the Anthony every year. I even read your fucking short story in Bloodlines. ”

  “Ma’am,” the bookstore employee said.

  “Shut up, you skinny little bitch,” Paula said.

  Shit, did she really just say that? Why was Laura getting up, backing away? Why was someone yelling for security?

  “Laura, wait, come back here!”

 
Paula tried to go after her but a security guard grabbed her and hauled her toward the escalator. Laura was receding into the distance and Paula found herself screaming, “We were meant to be together! You were going to give me a fucking blurb!”

  But Paula couldn’t even see Laura anymore.

  “You’re off my top friends on My Space, bitch!” she yelled, her voice carrying as she was led out to the shameful street.

  Twenty-Three

  “We would all end up in an explosion of colliding bodies, clogging the cosmos with flying shit.”

  JIM THOMPSON, Child of Rage

  Somewhere in North Dakota, Max and Sean crossed the border into Canada. Max didn’t mind getting into the trunk, his only worry was that the dumb mick would forget to let him out.

  Turned out his concerns were justified.

  Over an hour after the border crossing Max was still screaming, banging, trying to get the fucker’s attention. Good thing he had his piece with him and could shoot a couple of holes in the trunk or he would’ve suffocated. Still, for a while he thought he might die back there, trapped in a trunk. What a way to go. The gunfire had set up a whole range of odd sounds in his head and it was almost like music. He laughed out loud, thinking, Now there’s a title for a book, Trunk Music.

  See, The… A.X. was always working the angles, never stopped with his sheer genius. You put some other bollix – and using the word, he shed yet again another tear for his beloved Angela – in the trunk of a car, he’d be screaming in panic. But The… A.X., he was thinking up book titles.

  Finally the idiot pulled over, opened the trunk, babbling, “S-s-s-s-s-s-sorry… M-M-M-Max. I fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh… gah-gah-gah…”

  Max slapped him around a little, nothing too heavy. After all, he needed the kid, he was stupid but a good driver, another fucking Rain Man, and a big-time prison escapee like Max Fisher couldn’t be driving himself around, now, could he? Yeah, the guy had been some kind of legendary paramilitary, but all the fight had gone out of him ever since Angela died.

  It was starting to sink in for Max, just what he’d accomplished. He turned on the radio, listened to reports of the Attica riots on NPR as they drove. Forty-two people had been killed, including six guards and, of course, there was also Angela and Rufus and the crazy Greek, though the authorities hadn’t put it all together yet. But who was left standing? That’s right, the only legend in these here parts was The… A.X.

  And get this – the reports were calling him “armed and dangerous.” Man, did that sound good! Meanwhile, he was a free man, in fucking Canada. It made Max want to weep. Maybe there was justice in the world after all.

  Later, they stopped off at a shopping mall and Sean went to feed his face. There was a small bookstore and Max went in, looked at the bestsellers to see if The Max was number one yet. Nope. Zilch. Nada. The fuck was up with that? Some guy named Richard Aleas was selling well but no Paula Segal.

  The clerk was eying him and Max, afraid he’d get recognized, figured he’d better buy something. He spotted the Will and Ian Ferguson book, How To Be a Canadian.

  Bought that, the clerk asking, “On vacation?”

  Max answered him in an Irish brogue, another little tribute to Angela, saying, “Ary, no, I’m over here to see me cousins.”

  Boy, he thought that was pitch perfect. The tiny germ of an idea was taking shape in his head.

  While he was waiting for Sean to return he flicked through the book and found this: There is nothing you can’t discuss in Canada when it comes to sex. Do not talk about love, however. That makes Canadians uncomfortable.

  Then, from behind him he heard, “T-t-t-tis me.”

  Here was Sean, ketchup on his upper lip.

  Max muttered, “Fuck on a bike.”

  Across the mall from them were two Mounties and, seeing them, Sean said, “Th-th-th-th-they… a-a-a-a-a-always… g-g-g-g-get… their m-m-m-m-man.”

  Max, trying out some more Irish, hissed, “Don’t you be drawing bad luck down on us, laddie.”

  Then he thought, Wait, was that more like Scottish?

  They got back in the car, more of fucking Canada. Was this country, like, endless? They were in the middle of nowhere and Max saw a sign saying Grand Prairie, 479 Kilometers. Gee, now that was something to look forward to, a grand prairie. Jesus Christ, a guy could get fucking bored in this place. Where were all the goddamn people?

  Meanwhile, Sean – Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the guy was getting on Max’s fucking nerves. The constant stuttering, not understanding a goddamn word he was saying. They checked into a motel and Sean in the bathroom started going, “T-t-t-t-t… f-f-f-f-f-f-fah… l-l-l-l-lo-lo-lah…” Max screamed, “The fuck’re you saying? Lolita? What the fuck about Lolita?” and Sean continued, “L-l-l-l… g-g-g-g-g-g-ga…” Max didn’t know if know if the guy had a speech impediment or he was just a fucking moron, but there was a limit to how much more of this shit he could take. He was a patient guy but this was fucking ridiculous.

  The next day, they were driving, continuing north and west. They bought burgers and were eating them on the side of the road, and Sean started going, “You want some k-k-k-k-k-k-ketch-ketch-ketch,” and Max suddenly lost it and said, “I’ll give you ketchup, you stuttering fuck,” and shot the asshole in the head, in mid-stammer.

  Max shot him again, and that shut him up for good.

  He took Sean’s wallet and passport and then pushed him out of the car, onto the side of the road, where there was a bit of scrub to cover the body. Then he wiped up the car as much as he could using the paper napkins from the burgers and took off on his own.

  He kept the radio turned off, didn’t want to hear about armed and dangerous or hot pursuit. Man, it was nice to have Sean off the board. In the silence, though, he could hear Sean’s voice, going, Th-th-th-th-they… a-a-a-a-a-always… g-g-g-g-get… their m-m-m-m-man, and he almost wished the fuck was still alive, just so he could shoot him again.

  He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Canada was even more boring when you were driving through it all by yourself. He was missing Angela like hell. He knew it was crazy to miss a bitch who’d fucked up his life twice and probably would have fucked it up again, but he felt like he’d lost a, well, a part of himself. Things just wouldn’t be the same without her around. Even when he was locked up in jail, thinking he’d never see her again, it was nice knowing she was out there somewhere.

  In Edmonton, he checked into a hotel under Sean’s name, using the cash from Sean’s wallet to pay. But this couldn’t go on for long. The money would run out and then what?

  He was drinking again – what else was there to do in Canada? It was too goddamn calm here, everyone was too goddamn nice. He needed edge, he needed assholes, he needed America. Besides, he was certain that while he was up here freezing his nuts off he was missing out on all his fame back home. That dame’s book was probably exploding right now, it was probably bigger than Da Vinci and Potter, and Scorcese was probably filming the movie, or maybe Spielberg. God, Max loved that. Spielberg knew how to yank the heartstrings and when Max got sent away to Attica the whole audience would be fucking bawling. If he was in New York right now he’d probably be mobbed by adoring fans, signing autographs. Instead he was holed up in a motel in Saskatchewan, or wherever the hell he was, living under the name Sean Mullan.

  Then the idea hit him – a way to get back in the game, to get back on top. It was so obvious, he didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it sooner.

  A few days later, he drove to the Washington border, at the Pacific Crossing on Route 15. He did his DD of course, found out from some locals at the pub that the best time to cross the border was early morning, and that of all the border inspectors the young blond guy in the leftmost lane was the most lax. Max waited another couple of weeks for his beard to come in a little thicker, then he dyed it red.

  The morning he was going to attempt to cross the border, Max checked himself out in the mirror, compared his appearance to Sean’s passport photo. It w
asn’t too bad. Yeah, Max looked a lot older, but if Sean had put on some weight and started losing his hair since having the photo taken, it wasn’t so far off.

  All right, so maybe the resemblance wasn’t there at all but, fuckit, Max had to give it a shot.

  He drove to the border, stayed in the left lane. Sure enough, a young blond guy took his passport, asked, “Enjoy your time in Canada?”

  “Yes, had me a great time,” Max said.

  Bingo, the brogue was working in full force. So far, so good.

  The guy was looking at the passport, said, “I have an aunt from Ireland.”

  “Is that right, is it?” Max asked.

  Who gave a fuck, but he had to keep the BS going.

  “Yeah, from Limerick. That near where you’re from?”

  “No, me from Belfast,” Max said.

  Shit, that sounded more Tarzan than Irish. At least the lilt was okay. He had to stay with it.

  “Oh, yeah?” the guy said. “It’s rough over there, I imagine. Bombs going off all the time, right?”

  Would the asshole let him through already?

  “Oh, a few wee bombs,” Max said. “ ’Tis nothing.”

  The guy squinted, “You got anything on you? Any weapons?”

  Max had unloaded all the hardware. Only had one piece, a SIG, tucked away just in case.

  “No, no weapons, me afraid. Me left me weapons back in Belfast.”

  The guy looked at Max closely, squinted, said, “Why do I feel like I’ve seen you before?”

  “Maybe ’tis an Irish thing,” Max said. “Don’t the Brits say we all look alike?”

  He thought this would at least get a laugh.

  “No, that’s not it,” the guy said. “You come through here before?”

  Max, sweating through his shirt, said, “Sometimes. I have me family in Seattle and I visit them every wee while.”

  Fuck, he was losing it. The whole plan was going to shite.

  “Irish family in Seattle, huh? How’d they wind up there?”

  Max couldn’t think of anything, said, “Gold rush.”