Ken Bruen - The Max

Dammit, must’ve fallen out of his pocket while he was bending over, wrapping the body in plastic. Fucking credit cards, always came back to bite you in the bum.

The Greek pushed his glass towards Sebastian, grunted, “More.”

Sebastian thought, the scoundrel might have tried please. But this was probably not the best moment to mention it.

The man said, “My name is Yanni.”

Would Damn jolly good to meet you be overdoing it? Sebastian settled for, “Glad to meet you. Alas, I wish it were under happier circumstances, but be assured, I will track this lady down and wreak revenge for you and your family.”

He was thinking, give the bastard five hundred for his trouble and get shot of him. Well, let’s not be rash, two hundred was probably a fortune to a chappie like this.

The guy had rock-hard eyes, said, “We.”

Sebastian echoed, “We?… I’m not sure I follow you, old chap.”

Yanni was looking at the knife again, said, “I don’t trust you English, we stay together till this is avenged, okay?”

With a sinking heart, Sebastian mustered his best grin, said, “Splendid, rather chuffed to have you on board.”

Yanni grabbed a pile of cash and Sebastian thought, Steady on.

The Greek was heading for the door, said, “Now we eat, drink some ouzo, and plan how we find this she-devil.”

Sebastian wanted a shower and more gin and to be rid of this lunatic.

“Capital,” he said.

Dyke City

If there was a dyke scene in Attica, New York, Paula Segal sure as hell was going to find it. She did a couple of lines of coke on the dashboard, made sure her pushup bra was doing its necessary pushing up, and was ready to roll.

She drove to downtown Attica and a good thing she didn’t blink too long or she would’ve missed it. It was the typical small upstate New York town that had been thriving during the time they filmed It’s a Wonderful Life but now it looked like a ghost town, probably the casualty of a nearby Wal-Mart. But the lesbians had to hang out somewhere, right? She drove by a few dilapidated blocks, past the mostly abandoned shops. There were a few bars, but only one getting any business. As she entered, Kiss’ “Rock And Roll All Night” was blasting. She had a feeling this wasn’t a good sign.

The place was crowded, that was the good news. The bad news was the ratio was bad, i.e. there were practically all men. Standing in the doorway, Paula felt the sets of male eyes leering at her desperately, as if she was the first woman they’d seen in years. Jeez, was the whole town of Attica a freaking prison? Did they release them right into the goddamn bars?

One guy grabbed her arm – he looked frighteningly like Sean Penn in Dead Man Walking – and said, “Hey, how about a little dance, honey?”

Like you could dance to Kiss.

She yanked her arm free, hissed, “Fuck you, townie.”

God, men were so fucking gross. Did she actually used to like them or had she gone through the eighteen years of her sexually active life faking it? Eh, whatever, she was just so glad she was through with all of that crap.

The woman working the bar – she wasn’t bad looking. Blond, a little heavy but, hey, Paula liked big girls. The woman looked briefly in Paula’s direction and half-smiled, but Paula couldn’t tell if there was more to it, if it was a come-on or not. As a newbie lesbian, Paula’s gaydar wasn’t fully developed yet. Since she’d, well, turned, she’d accidentally hit on several straight women and she was sure she’d let some hardcore dykes, easy lays, slip through her fingers. She hoped it all averaged out in the end.

Paula sat at the bar and decided to go native, ordered a bottle of Schlitz.

Watching the woman get the drink, Paula eyeballed her ass. Nice. She liked her shoulders, too – they were big and meaty. She had at least a few tattoos, wasn’t wearing makeup, and her hair was cut short, boyish. Looked like a dyke all right.

“Hey, I’m Paula.”

“Bonny,” the woman said.

Paula smiled, said, “Shake your bon-bon, shake your bon-bon.”

Bonny was deadpan. Maybe she didn’t like Ricky Martin?

Trying to loosen her up, Paula said, “It’s kinda guy-heavy here tonight, huh?”

“Yeah,” Bonny said, “but this is the clientele. What’re you gonna do, you know?”

“I know what I’m gonna do,” Paula said.

She smiled, letting the implication linger, as if there was any doubt what she had in mind.

“Excuse me, are you hitting on me?” Bonny asked.

She seemed if not disgusted, seriously annoyed.

Before Paula could respond a fat guy with a scraggly red beard appeared.

He said, “What’s the problem, honey?

“This lady’s hitting on me,” Bonny said.

Paula said, “Um, I think there’s a, um, misunder-”

“You tryin’ to pick up my wife?” Bearded Guy asked.

Somebody in the bar yelled, “She’s a fuckin’ dyke!” and then everybody started yelling.

Paula hightailed it out of there, back to her car. As she was getting in, Bearded Guy came running over, saying, “Hey, if you’re lookin’ to have one of ’em threesomes, maybe I can talk Bonny into it!”

Back in her motel room, Paula got undressed and into bed, thinking, So much for hooking up in this hick town. She read a few chapters of Lippman’s What the Dead Know, then on pay-per-view she found a good all-girl porno movie – Horny College Chicks Get Dirty. As the girls went at it, wrestling and clawing at each other in the mud, she moved her hand over her crotch, whispering, “That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.”

In the morning, Paula left bright and early for her first session with Max.

The warden had come through, and she found herself sitting face-to-face next to Fisher, a guard near the door. Fisher was, naturally, staring at her bust.

After last night the last thing she was in the mood for was a predatory man. But she reminded herself that her career was at stake and she had to put on her game face.

Fisher asked, “So you wanna set a date?

She stared at him. She didn’t know what he was talking about, said, “What’re you talking about?”

“Tomorrow my morning’s full,” he said, “but how about the afternoon?”

Talk about gaydar malfunctioning, what was wrong with this guy?

“I’m sorry, a date for what?”

“Our fucking wedding,” he said. “The… A.X. needs to get his pipes cleaned. I already got permission from my counselor and last night I wrote out a pre-nup. It basically says, You don’t get shit. Sorry to be so blunt about it but, hey, I learned from the Donald. I know it’s probably not legally binding, but it’ll give me something to fall back on when our marriage goes to pieces and, let’s face it, I know it’s gonna feel like a honeymoon now, but it’s only a matter of time before it all goes to shit. Trust me, when it comes to shit relationships I’ve been there, done that.”

Trying not to laugh, she said, “This is all so sudden. I need some more time to think about it.”

Fisher wouldn’t crack. He said, “I need an answer pronto. No marry, no talkie. You have ten seconds to decide.”

He started the countdown and she was thinking how she couldn’t lose this book deal. But marry Fisher? God, he made Ron Jeremy look like a catch. But if she had to do it, she had to do it. This was her last shot and she wasn’t giving it up for anything.

He was at “two” when she blurted, “Yes, yes, I’ll marry you, I’ll marry you.”

Fisher leaned over and, Jesus Christ, he kissed her. Cringing, she was thinking of that line from Planet of the Apes when Dr. Zira kisses Charlton Heston: You’re so damn ugly.

She couldn’t wait to get out of there, to take a shower, but she reminded herself of her ultimate goal, to write the best damn true crime book ever, and she tried to keep her disgust from showing.