Ken Bruen - The Max

If anything he should start calling himself The Ax. Had a menacing vibe to it.

Nah, had to be The… A.X.

Arma fronted Max in the yard, his Aryan brothers all around him, went, “You-all’s the dick cutter, right?”

Max didn’t feel the time was right to say, Grammatically speaking, there is only one of me. The guy didn’t exactly look like he had a sense of humor.

He nodded, his throat choked from fear. This guy had the dead-eyed stare of a fucking serial killer.

The guy said, “Y’all shacked up with the big dumb nigger, what’s with that boy?”

And Max, to his amazement, lied. “I’m working on the inside, we gonna bring them apes into line, we gotta know what they’re planning, you cool with that?”

The guy stared at him and it was up for grabs. He’d either gut Max right there or…

He laughed, exposing a whole row of yellowed teeth and many, many gaps. All that moonshine, no doubt. All around him, the brothers laughed along.

Arma slapped Max on the shoulder, said, “You-all’s one bright fellah. You was one of them high flyers, m’I right?’

Max, so relieved he nearly wet himself, said, “I made my moola off the niggers. We gonna go up against Zog, we need serious bucks.”

Zog? He had no idea really what this meant but on the Discovery Channel he’d heard a Klansman say it.

But, shit, it fuckin’ worked.

And then Max on a roll, tried, “The crips, they’re gonna move against you, soon.”

The riot that was to come down the pike got its seeds right there with Max spouting off crap he’d no idea about.

The cracker frowned, asked, “Them Mex gangs, Sino and ’em, they got weapons?”

Max nodded, as if he couldn’t take the risk on verbalizing the lethal threat.

The cracker handed him a leather band, said, “You wear that, you’re part of my crew, ain’t no one gonna fuck with you.”

Max, learning, improvising all the time, took the pack of Reds, handed them over, said, “On me, bro.”

Smokes were the currency of the yard. A pack could get you a sissy for a night, a carton would get you anyone wasted.

Arma and his Nazis moved off, the cracker saying, Them Crips come gunning, you’re gonna be my right hand guy.

Max thought, Like fuck, but just wanted to get away.

He said, “You can count on me, bro.”

Later, at lunch, Sino sat down next to Max, smiled, went, “Man, I gotta give you props, yo. Cuttin’ off a man’s dick? That shit’s cold. Even Sino never done shit like that.”

Max glared at him, the look he’d been practicing, the one that said, I’m a cold detached psycho motherfucker, a fuckin Aryan, and y’all better not fuck with me. Then he gave him a sudden smile, throwing him a bone, and said, “Yeah, what can I tell you? I was havin’ a bad day.”

Sino smiled, said, “Yeah, tell me all about it, cuz. Like how’d you do it? You use a blade, scissors, hedge clipper, what?”

Max, unprepared for the questioning, said, “Saw.”

“Saw? Fuck, man, how’d you work that shit out? You say to the puta , put your dick out on the table, I wanna saw it off, and the bandajo go, ‘Yeah, all right, cut my dick off,’ and took down his pantalones ?”

“Yeah,” Max said. “Something like that.”

“Oh, it was somethin’ like that, huh?” He was still smiling. “So now you don’t know for sure? Yeah, guess that makes sense. Scary motherfucker like you, goin’ ‘round, cuttin’ dicks off with saws all the time, you might start to forget some shit, right?”

Max was thinking, Don’t give in. He’s just toying with you. Truth is he’s scared shitless and he’s trying not to show it.

Glaring hard, Max said, “I cut off his dick with a saw because I didn’t like the way he was looking at me, and I don’t like the way you’re looking at me right now, hombre.”

That was the way – throw the Spanish shit right back at him. Man, he felt like John Wayne, Eastwood, The Rock – somebody bad-ass.

Sino laughed, still trying not to show his weakness, said, “Yeah, you’re a scary motherfucker all right, Fisher. Just sittin’ here next to you, I’m starting to piss up my pants and shit.” Then he touched the leather band on Max’s wrist and said, “I see you make some friends today. So now you’re what, a motherfuckin’ Nazi?”

If cigarettes were the currency of prison, then desserts were the icing on the cake. Max had heard about guys being shanked for a rice pudding. You wanted a favor, you slid your dessert across the table to the guy you wanted the favor from. Today’s delicacy was some kind of treacle pie, and Sino’s and Max’s were lined up in front of them. It was a sign of real juice to just let it sit there, as if just any old con could stroll up and grab it. Yeah, dream on.

Like two fortresses waiting to be attacked, a type of lethal jailhouse chess, Max and Sino stared at each other. Who’d move first? Sino, who didn’t exactly seem like the patient type, made a move for one and Max, said, “You don’t want to do that, hombre.”

He was as amazed as Sino was. Did he just, like, call Sino out?

Sino, his spoon almost ready to dip, hesitated. Bad move. You start a move in the joint, you have to make the play, no turning back. Sino cursed, then went, “Don’t call me hombre. You ain’t my hombre. Entiendes?”

Max, exhilarated at his sheer cojones, said, “I’m thinking I might bring that pie to my main guy, Rufus.”

And with that, he stood up, took both pies, winked at Sino, said, “Y’all keep it in your pants now, hear, pilgrim.”

Sino was too stunned to move. Meanwhile, Max went on his way, clueless that he’d just fanned the flames of an inferno that would rage with biblical ferocity.

Max placed the pies on Rufus’s bunk and the huge black man, who’d never seen two desserts in one place, was seriously impressed, asked, “How the fuck you get two?”

Max, adopting his lotus position, grabbing some of that inner peace, said, “Took ’em off that little punk, Sino.”

Rufus, adopting the lotus position now, though his bulk made it somewhat difficult, wonderingly asked, “We talkin’ the same Sino? Leader of the Crips?”

Max, closing his eyes, said, in total indifference, “That who he is? I bitch slapped him for giving me mouth.”

Max had already scared Rufus shitless with the dick-cutting rumor, but now Rufus stared at Max like he was looking at a mini-Manson, obvious admiration leaking from every inch of his massive frame.

Yeah, he was a believer.

Sebastian was at Athens airport. He’d been in a bit of a panic until he arrived in Athens, all his rat instincts shouting, Get to the bloody airport.

Finally did and, oh lordy, British Airways, God bless them, took his dodgy Platinum card without a murmur.

The woman at the counter asked, “Business class?”

He gave his best old-school smile, asked, “Is there any other way to fly?”

They had a good Brit chuckle about this.

He was whistling Rule, Britannia as he headed for the First Class Lounge, throwing a look of contempt to the, well, sorry, but let’s call them what they were, peasants, as they scuttled along for their economy seats.

He sat in the plush armchair, thought, C’est la vie.

This was the extent of his French and he tended to ration it. Though, come to think of it, perhaps Paris might be worth a gander. They still loved the Brits, though it was a shame the buggers had banned British beef, as if there was a better meat in the whole world.