Hard Case Crime: The Max (12 page)

Another con stopped, asked, “Mr. Max, you need me to run any errands, stuff like that?’

Max gave him his imperial look, said, “I seem to be running low on decent booze.”

Let it hover.

The guy, some variety of spic, licked his lips, said, “There’s the prison hooch, I can get you a bottle of
that.” Trailed off as The... A.X. gave him the silent treatment then said, “There’s a bottle of Chivas going for like five cartons.”

Max gave him a tiny pat on the shoulder, said, “Now you’re talking,
hermano
, deliver it to my cell in say, ten minutes?”

When Max finally got back to the cell, Rufus was standing there, gazing in wonder at a bottle of Chivas, said, “You the man, yo, how the hell you get this shit? How much it gonna cost?”

Rufus, who knew how the system worked, had never even seen real booze in all his years in lockup. Max smiled, took the bottle, said, “I let him live.”

Max clinked his prison-issue tin cup again Rufus’s. Chivas in a tin cup. Thought to himself, Hmmmm, maybe a good title for the book of poetry he’d been thinking he might write someday. He was just so on fire. Then he laughed to himself and said out loud, “I’m a fucking riot.” Later, he’d remember saying this, after he’d become the cause of one of the bloodiest fucking riots to come down the pike. Wouldn’t seem so funny then, but for now he couldn’t stop chuckling.

He had another shot of the Chivas, man, that was good shit, he didn’t know if the big guy appreciated the finer things in life but hey, hang in there, The... A.X. would bring him right along. He reminded Max of the giant in
The Green Mile
, and he made a metal note, tell the writer babe to put ol’ Rufus in there.

Then he realized the big guy was...
sobbing?
The fuck was that? How good was this booze?

Max, allowing his sensitive side to show, asked, “Hey,
amigo mio
, whassup?”

Then to keep his Spanish in trim, added,
“Que pasa, compadre?”

Rufus, massive tears rolling down those cheeks, said, “Yo, Max, man, I just been feeling so bad and shit, know what I’m sayin’? When you came in here, me wantin’ to ram a rod up yo’ pretty ass and shit? That shit was wrong, know what I’m sayin’? That shit wasn’t me talkin’, man, you gotta know that shit’s true.” He sobbed some more, then said, “Outside, man, I never even been lookin’ at another man’s ass, know what I’m sayin’? But inside here, shit, it fucks with a man’s mind and shit. You see the sissies walkin’ ‘round shakin’ they pretty asses and you start wantin’ some of that shit yourself, know what I’m sayin’? You start sayin’, ‘Gimme some a dat shit,’ ‘I want some a dat shit.’ ‘I wanna fuck that shit.’ Know what I’m sayin’?” He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. “And, Max, yo, if I been knowin’ you was some hot shit gangsta an’ shit, I wouda been cleanin’ yo’ ass fer you every day ‘stead a wantin’ to fuck it, know what I’m sayin’? Why would I would I wanna fuck some big time gangsta’s ass for? That’s shit’s crazy, man, shit makes no sense and shit. And some a the shit I been sayin’ to you, man, like how I been hatin’ Moslems and shit, I didn’t mean none of that shit. I don’t know why I said that ’cept I was crazy cause I been in this jail too long and I been gettin’ too much sissy ass. It fucks with a man’s brain and shit, know what I’m sayin’? And now,
every night, I been afraid. Yeah, I been afraid that I wake up my dick won’ be on my body no more. Every night, ’fore I go to sleep I pray to Jesus you won’t take off my dick. And every mornin’ when I wake up, first thing I do is I check to make sure my dick’s still there. So that’s what I’m sayin’ to you is thank you, man. Thank you for not takin’ my dick off, and I hope you forgive me for disrespectin’ you and shit. I didn’t mean none of that shit. That was just bullshit talkin’, that wasn’t me.”

Man, Max was soaking all this up, he didn’t want it to stop. He knew moments like this, they didn’t come along too often in life and he had to milk it for all it was worth. He had this huge terrifying black cellmate, a serious gangsta who could crush him with one hand, and not only was the man living his life in total fear of Max, he was also begging for his forgiveness. He glared at Rufus hard for a long time, as if he were weighing all his options.

Then, expansive and like the Mahatma, forgiving like Gandhi but with a shitload of Chivas on board, Max finally said, “
De nada, señor.
Ain’t no big thang.”

Whoops, how did he go Texan? Eh, what the fuck ever. He was forgiving the mutherfucka, not forgetting, or as Dr. Phil might say,
Moving on and moving up.

But Rufus kept talking and truth to tell, it was grating just a tiny tad on Max’s nerves. He was about to snap when Rufus blurted out, “I got a secret, man.”

Max, in his most humble, quiet voice, said, “Pray tell?”

Which reminded him, he better get that preacher validation on the web, 100 bucks and you were like,
An ordained preacher of the church of outreach saints
. Two fags on the upper tier wanted to get hitched and he’d told them for four hundred bucks he would perform the ceremony. Was there truly no end to his talents? Prison was ripe, fucking abundant in business opportunities. Ask that Watergate guy, Colson.

He had to refocus. Rufus was spilling, “We got a break comin’.”

Max, muddled by the Chivas and his myriad schemes and languages, thought first he meant someone was, like, going to cut them a bit of slack, then he realized,
prison break
. Sweet Jesus, like the TV series. This would put the book up there with Dan Brown. Wait till Paula heard about this. It would have to at least get him a great blowjob, right?

Rufus was saying, “Yo, I only trustin you cause you a gangsta and I got respect for you an’ shit. I ain’t even tol’ the rest of my crew, but you the man, Max Fisher, know what I’m sayin’? We been plannin’ this shit for three years. And we ain’t stupid and shit neither. We’re gonna do this shit up right, know what I’m sayin’? Now we got a gangsta like you on our side, shit, we’re gonna be all set up. So you wanna be in, you just say the word and you in, know what I’m sayin’?”

Max waited, trying his hardest to stay stone-faced, to put the fear of God in his cellmate, then asked, “When y’all gonna make your move?”

“When them riots come down,” Rufus said, “know
what I’m sayin’? Everybody be fightin’ and shit and we be sneakin’ our asses outta this jail. Damn, I can’t wait to get outside an jam my dick into some real pussy, know what I’m sayin’? Man, I been fuckin’ so many sissies’ asses I don’t even ’member what real pussy feel like.”

Max was thinking: Riots, a prison break, Hollywood, fame. Was he the luckiest guy on the planet or what?

“Count me in, baby,” he nearly shouted.

“All day long I experienced infinite sadness amid grey surroundings. I collected one by one my sullied hopes, and I cried over each of them.”

A
NDRE
G
IDE
,
The White Notebook

Manhattan used to give Angela a big buzz, but not anymore. The city had disappointed her so many times that arriving in midtown and being in the center of it all once again left her feeling depressed more than anything else. It reminded her of all the failures, all her disappointments, all her dreams gone to shite. She couldn’t even muster up a fantasy that this time around things would work out differently. Why should they?

Her cash was running so low — maybe that gift to the British girl on the ferry hadn’t been the smartest move in the world — that she couldn’t afford a cab and had to take a bus into the city. A hotel was out of the question, so it was either Max Fisher or bust. She had no idea if he’d take her back, but she was out of options. If this didn’t work she might have to sleep on the street tonight, or on the subway.

She took the 6 train uptown and headed over to the apartment building on the Upper East Side where she’d spotted him briefly the last time she was in the city. In a strange way she was looking forward to
seeing him again. Yeah, he was bonkers and sleazy, but she wasn’t exactly the portrait of mental health and fidelity her own self. Maybe they were destined to be together — two tortured souls who’d been around the block more than a few times and who, in the end, realize they’re perfect for each other. You could even see something romantic about it, if you squinted.

She went to the concierge desk. The guy was on the phone and Angela looked around, impressed with the décor in the lobby. Jaysus, Max was probably rolling in it. Before she’d left for Greece, she’d read in the paper how he’d become a drug dealer, and she knew he must have been doing well at it, to live in a swank building on the Upper East Side. But she’d had no idea he’d been doing
this
well. Too bad she didn’t look her best after the long flight, the ferry ride to Athens and the, well, encounter in the Greek prison. She knew a first impression was everything and she wanted Max to see her in her best light. But then she expanded her chest and looked down proudly, remembering that with Max these babies were all she’d ever needed.

The concierge finished the call and Angela said, “I’m here to see Max Fisher.”

The guy nearly laughed, said, “He doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Oh, okay, do you know where he’s living now?”

“Yeah, Attica.”

Angela was still lost in her daydream, imagining living off of Max’s millions, straightening out her life once and for all. She figured, Attica, that must be the
name of some luxury condo: The Attica. Yeah, it was probably right next door to Trump Tower or something.

“Is that on the Upper East Side, too?” she asked hopefully.

The guy laughed again, said, “It’s a jail, honey. You know in upstate New York? He got sent away. You didn’t hear about it? He left owing three months rent. Cheap son of a bitch never tipped me, not once... You’re not a relative, are you?”

She didn’t answer, just walked away.

She should’ve known. Wasn’t it always the way? Whenever she had the slightest hope that things might work out for her after all, fate always snuck up on her and kicked her in the ass.

She went outside and naturally it had started to rain. Pushing her suitcase ahead of her, the rain pouring down on her, she walked across town to the Port Authority bus terminal and spent the last of her money on a one-way ticket to Attica.

The bus didn’t leave till five a.m. so Angela had to spend the night in the terminal. The saddest thing was no one even tried to pick her up.

When she was a teenager, living with her parents in Weehawken, New Jersey, she took buses into the city all the time and guys at the Port Authority always hit on her. Once, when she was seventeen a guy in a leather vest with a handlebar mustache approached her and asked her if she was interested in becoming a model. She was so naïve then she actually thought it
was a good career opportunity, that she’d been discovered. So they went to his “studio” — it didn’t ever occur to her to ask why a photographer would have his studio in a practically condemned... R.O. in Hell’s Kitchen — and after a few minutes of general-type questions he asked her to take her clothes off. She thought this was a little, well, unusual, but he explained that all the girls did it and if she wanted to make a thousand bucks a week she’d have to take nude modeling gigs.

She knew where this was leading and asked, “Wait, so are you, like, a porno director?”

“I make adult films, yes,” he said.

She couldn’t figure out if she was offended or flattered. She knew she should be offended, but it was kind of exciting, the thought of getting into the adult entertainment business. And, hey, she could be the next Jenna Jameson.

So she took off her shirt and undid her bra, waiting for the admiration to begin. But when the guy got a look at her barely A-cup breasts he said, “Sorry, no thanks,” and practically kicked her out of the place.

She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, she’d just been pissed off; but if there was a life-changing moment in Angela’s life, that had been it. The rejection by the porno director had led to a downward spiral. Several years later she took the Pam Anderson/Anna Nicole Smith route and got her boobs done and went blonde and even started wearing the blue contacts. She barely looked like her old self. But had her new look made her any happier? Had it fuck. For years
her body had sent out the wrong signals, attracted the worst possible men, and what was it doing for her now? Men were walking by her, ignoring her, like she was fooking invisible. If you couldn’t get a guy to notice you at the Port Authority you knew you were way past your sell-by date.

Finally, she got on the bus and, unable to sleep, stared blankly out the window. If she’d been in a less hopeless state she might have realized that there wasn’t much point in spending the last of her money to go visit Max. After all, how would a guy serving a stiff jail sentence, who was apparently broke when he got sent up and whose life had clearly gone down the shitter, be able to help her? In her desperation, she was hoping that Max had stashed some money away and would help her out for old time’s sake. Yeah, okay, their relationship hadn’t always been great and she’d nearly gotten him killed a couple of times, but it hadn’t been all bad. There had been times when she felt close to him, when she’d actually enjoyed his company. Okay, maybe she was just imagining this, but he was certainly the wisest man she’d ever known. All right, maybe that wasn’t saying much given her dating history. But despite all his shortcomings, there was no doubt that he was a sharp guy, right? He’d built a business and become a self-made millionaire. You can’t pull that off and be a total idiot, can you? He also seemed to have made quite a splash as a drug dealer, showed that the first time wasn’t just a stroke of luck. He was also in touch with himself, always meditating and
talking about Buddhist shite. Maybe at the very least he could advise her, tell her what to do to straighten her life out.

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.