Ken Bruen - The Max

Yeah, Max wanted Angela, he wanted her bad. He wanted to cop a real good feel of that rack, too, but he had to see what she wanted first. Naturally it was money but, hey, he couldn’t exactly blame her for that. Max had always been her Mr. Moneybags, her go-to guy for the green. And, he had to admit, her desperation was more than a bit of a turn-on for him. He didn’t know what she’d done to fuck up her life this time but it must have been something big, maybe the biggest yet, because she was clearly at the end of her tether. Man, Max loved playing this role – Max Fisher the hero, Super Max swooping down to save the day.

But he wasn’t going to bail out the psycho bitch just for the hell of it. His mind was working double-time – when wasn’t it, right? – and he was thinking, How could he use this? Yeah, Rufus had invited him in on the break, but Max always liked to have a Plan B. Come on, let’s face it, Rufus didn’t have all the seeds in his apple. He probably had one-tenth or, hell, one hundredth the intellect of The… A.X. Rufus had claimed some friend of his, some fucking gangbanger, would be waiting in a getaway car after the break, but did Max want to gamble his life on that? Fuck, Max had always been the Big Boss; he wasn’t exactly comfortable letting some street thug he hadn’t even met call the shots.

Which was why he’d slipped Angela a note to get weapons and a car. Knew he could trust the bitch as long as he was the one paying her. He figured he’d hit her with more instructions the next time he saw her. And, oh yeah, he knew she’d be back. Show Angela some moolah with the promise of more to come and you’d hooked her for life. It was what he loved about her. That, of course, and her tits.

Leaving the visitor’s room, Max headed back to his cell. Sino was due to return from the hole tonight and, for the first time, Max caught a whiff of the riot in the air. It was a certain tension you could almost reach out and touch. Everyone was being ultra-careful, keeping their faces down and avoiding eye contact. The gangs were huddled together and the guards, the bulls, were way nervous. Tooling up, yeah, that was it. The gangs were stockpiling, shivs, crowbars, acid in bottles, you get that shit thrown in your face, that’s all she wrote. Plywood was disappearing from the woodshop and clubs were being honed for maximum damage.

Max was getting a little concerned. All the talk about riots was cool and everything when it was all talk, but now it was getting a little too real, too imminent. But he psyched himself back up, telling himself he had the white supremacists all in his corner, plus Rufus. No one was gonna let The… A.X. get hurt.

Straddling both sides, playing the middle, that was the way to go.

Rufus told him their homies had some serious armament ready to roll and even though some of them muttered about the white boy being part of the crew, Rufus slapped them down.

To sweeten the pie, Max had told him, “My main man, we get out of here, I’m going to set you up in a penthouse, lots of white meat and all the white powder you could stuff up that massive nose.”

But the Crips, that was a different story.

Rufus said, “That Sino, he got a hard-on for yo’ ass, boss. He get out, he gonna try to waste yo’ ass in the craziness and shit.”

That worried Max a little till Rufus said, “No worries my man, they let him out, Sino gonna be washing his brown ass in de shower and, shit, I settle his jones right there.”

Meanwhile, Rufus finally filled him in on the escape plan. It was so shot full of holes, Max couldn’t believe it. In the smoke and mayhem of the riot, Rufus and crew were gonna hijack a laundry van and just mosey on out the main gate before full lockdown happened. They already had the uniforms, hidden away in a corner of the laundry room.

Could work, maybe, but Max was amazed. This was the plan they’d be working on for years? Max had figured they’d have a tunnel, a guy working on the inside, something. But he didn’t want to ruin the party by bringing up any, like, doubts. Besides, he figured sometimes you did better going with something so basic, so crude, no one would ever imagine you’d try it.

When Rufus asked, “Boss, can you handle hardware, yo?” Max nearly sneered. He was the guy who’d emptied a full clip into the meanest muthahs you’d ever meet. Yeah, he could handle hardware, yo. He told Rufus all about the Colombians he’d smoked that time in Queens. Actually, he’d only shot one guy, and it had been a wild lucky shot, but like a fish story it got bigger with each telling. In the latest incarnation he’d smoked three sick-asses all packing serious heat.

Max went, “Get me a Mach 10, it’s like my weapon of choice.”

Rufus stared again at this stone cold killer, said, “Sound like you good to go, boss.”

The Crips started the first step in what would be an out-and-out conflagration, burning their mattresses, taking a bull hostage. Later, the white supremacists cornered Max in the canteen. The leader, Arma, sitting Max down at his table, asked, “What’s the deal, dude?”

Max, delighted to be called dude, said, “Ready to rumble.”

“Ready? Man, it’s already started. The Crips are burning mattresses, getting everything riled up, and they’re coming for you first.”

Max, terrified but not showing it, said, “I guess we’ll just have to go medieval on their inferior asses.”

Arma asked, “Their top guy, that Sino, how good is he?”

Max gave his superior laugh, made a show of looking at his watch, said, “About now, he’s having the last shower of his life, he’s going clean down the drain. One of my boys is helping him soap up as we speak.”

Arma was impressed, said, “I’m impressed.” Then he said, “But speaking of your boys… the niggers… my boys are a little concerned how much you’re hanging with them.”

Max leaned over, whispered, “They’re gonna burn, and you my man, you’re gonna own this joint.”

He stifled a chuckle, thinking, What’s left of the fucking place.

Arma said, “You’re one cold cracker.”

Max, standing, said, “You ain’t seen nothing yet, dude.”

Left him with his mouth hanging open.

Sebastian was in New York. He did not want to be in fucking New York and he certainly did not want to be in New York with a homicidal Greek who smelled of olive oil all the time.

Yanni had never once let him out of his sight and two days after their first meeting had bought tickets to America, saying, “We get this done now.”

Sebastian was seriously afraid of the maniac. If he had demurred, he was sure the crazy bugger would have slit his throat. He tried to look on the bright side, maybe they would score some serious dosh off Angela. Assuming they could ever find her.

What did irritate Sebastian a tad – well, ok, a lot – was that Sebastian was paying the freight. Yanni had disappeared with the biggest of the paintings; it had turned out to be the real deal, a bloody Constable, and he’d promptly fenced it. He’d flung ten large at Sebastian and said, “Your share.”

Was he going to argue that the scoundrel had probably gotten a damn fortune for it, hell of a lot more than twenty K? He took the cash, and talk about damn cheek, Yanni made Sebastian pay for the tickets, in business class no less. Put a hell of a dent in the ten.

Yanni carried on scandalously on the plane, drinking champagne like it was water, leering at the hostesses and, when the in-flight movie came on, something starring Nicole Kidman, he kept nudging Sebastian and making lewd comments. Sebastian tried to act like he wasn’t with Yanni, knocking back gin and tonics like a good un and trying to make sympathetic eyes at the stewardesses, as if to say I’ve nothing to do with this cretin.