Ken Bruen - The Max

When she arrived in Attica, she was exhausted, had barely slept in forty-eight hours. Still, she was focused and went right to a drugstore. Her checkered history had taught her some things like check out for CCTV. Nope, nothing she could see, so she helped herself to some Chanel. Max had always been partial to his lady smelling fine. Then she went down the block to a thrift shop. The owner was absorbed, reading a copy of the local pennysaver, so she went to the back and boosted a dress, low cut to let that cleavage show, and though hardly cutting-edge fashion, it was clean and bright. She already had her heels, never left home without them.

Good to go, she left the store, her mood slightly elevated. It was a rush to shoplift right under the shadow of one of the country’s most notorious prisons. It lifted her confidence, showed she still had some moves, and she felt she was going to need them.

She hitched a ride to the prison. Wasn’t hard – seemed like everyone was heading in that direction. It was apparently the big attraction in town, like freaking Disneyland.

She hadn’t inquired about visiting hours and she found out she needed to arrange her visit in advance. No problem there though – a little flirting with the guard got her through, the stolen dress already paying some dividends.

She was in the visitor’s room, waiting for Max to appear. She expected Max to shuffle in looking beaten, defeated and lost. Older guy like him, not exactly athletic, they’d have eaten him alive by now. She figured she’d give him a dose of sympathy, a little TLC, and that might shake the bucks loose from him.

Her first surprise was when he was led into the room, was she imagining it or was the guard acting all deferential? And Max, glowing with well-being and satisfaction, a smile of utter confidence on his face. He looked like he’d been on a health farm for months. Even looked like he’d lost a few pounds.

He motioned to the guard, and Angela could read his lips: I’ll call you if I need you, Bob.

Dismissing him? The fook was this?

He sat, stared at her deadpan for a while, then said, “So what’s shaking, babe?”

Total strut, acting like he didn’t miss her at all, like he might’ve even forgotten she existed.

She said, “I heard you were here and I was concerned and thought I better come and see if you needed anything.”

He gave his high-pitched laugh, the one that had always grated on her nerves. But she hid her distaste, knowing pissing him off wouldn’t accomplish anything. Naturally he was staring at her tits.

“Them the same babies I paid serious green for?”

Actually, she’d paid for her own boob job, but if he wanted to believe they were his, why bust his bubble?

She tried to look coy, been a long time since she’d had to use that gig, said, “All yours, hon.”

Jesus, she could tell it was killing him, he was dying to come around, cop a feel. Instead, he sat back, yawned. Fucking yawned. Was she, like, boring him?

He asked, “So, my treacherous bitch, what’s the real reason you’re here? Last time I saw you, you were putting it to me big time – and not your first shafting of The… A.X. either.”

The… A.X.?

She tried to stay coy, not easy, said, “We all got bent a little out of shape back in those crazy days but I realize now, I’ll never meet a man like you again.”

Prick bought it. Always did.

He said, “You got The… A.X., you don’t need nothin’ else, dig?”

Christ, how could she have forgotten what a dumb arrogant bollix he was?

Poverty will do that, make you stupid. But here she was and all out of options. She said, “I thought we might start over.”

He stared at her, said, “You’re broke.”

Not so dumb.

She said, “Well, I won’t lie to you. Things have been a little tight.”

“And you coming to The… A.X., cause he like yo’ fixer and shit, right?”

God, was he for real? There’d never been a white man whiter than Max Fisher, and here he was talking like some kind of rapper.

He spread his arm out, said, “See that yard out there, with the most dangerous dudes on the planet? I run ’em, run ’em like the fuckin’ losers they are.”

How, she asked herself, had someone not gutted the little bastard already? And how on earth did he manage to become top rooster in such a place?

“You always were extraordinary,” she said, and wanted to throw up.

He leaned over, said, “Gonna share a secret with you babe, the joint ain’t been built that can hold The… A.X.”

Jaysus, he was completely mad.

He continued, “We’re busting outa here, me and my crew.”

She didn’t know how to respond, tried lamely, “That’s wonderful.”

He smiled, accepting the praise as his due, said, “You want back with The… A.X., you gonna have to prove your loyalty.”

She said, getting the faint whiff of money, and remembering how if she didn’t hook up with somebody tonight she’d be sleeping on the street.

“You name it darling, it’s done.”

He scribbled something onto a piece of paper, then slid it across and said, “Get it done.”

She looked down. He’d written two words:

GUNS

CAR

She didn’t have bus fare back to the city and he wanted her to get him guns? Never mind a car.

She nearly laughed till he reached in his denim shirt, took out a roll of bills, said. “To get you started. And oh, get some decent clothes, that dress looks like it came from fucking Goodwill.”

Then he was standing and did cop a feel, a long one. She moaned. He mistook it for a sound of pleasure.

He said, “Go get your pretty ass in gear. Sooner you get me out of here, the sooner The… A.X. will be putting the meat to you.”

Then he shouted for Bob, winked at her, said, “Don’t fuck up this time, bee-otch, you know what I’m sayin’?”

Max couldn’t believe it – Angela was fucking back! He’d had to contain himself because, hey, that’s the way you had to play it in the joint. Max had done his DD, studying the bros in yard, and almost all of them had the dead-eye glare. Not a lot of smiling faces in a maximum security prison and he knew if you wanted to survive you had to look hard, be hard, always have your game face on. Besides, it was part of Max’s hip-hop persona. Look at Eminem. If Slim Shady didn’t smile, Max sure as fuck wasn’t going to.

But Jesus Christ, Angela looked fucking hot! Her bust, shit, it brought back so many great memories. Fuck, even her stretch marks looked hot. But what was up with that cheap dress? You wouldn’t see a crack whore on the West Side Highway in something like that. And she was nervous, too, not the confident, cocky Angela who’d screwed him over so many times before. She looked a little shocked – scratch that, way shocked. Hell, she looked defeated. Angela, down and out? The fuck did that happen? The Angela he knew never stopped fighting. No matter what shit came down the road, she was there, scratching and biting like an alley cat, mouthing like a fishwife on steroids, and screwing the world. She’d ripped him off and just about every other dumb bastard whose path she’d crossed, but she’d never caved, no siree.

Suddenly Max found himself feeling like he was wasting his time with Paula. Yeah, the girl had a nice rack, and there was her book – but come on, there was no way he was gonna marry that cow if he could have Angela, the real deal. He and Angela were, like, destined to be together. Okay, yeah, so she’d tried to kill him a few times, but doesn’t all true love go through rough patches? He’d bet there were times when Cleopatra had been more than a bit pissed off with Tony. And Romeo and Juliet probably wanted to scratch each other’s fucking eyes out. Him and Angela, they were like Bonnie and Clyde – maybe occasionally too fast on the trigger, but still, together for life.