Hard Case Crime: The Max (18 page)

Sebastian muttered, “Get a room. And herpes.”

Finally, she got out and went into the store.

“Herpes,” Paula said. “That’s funny, Max was just telling me the story today, how Angela gave him herpes and how she said she got it from her ex-boyfriend, the Irish hit man.”

Just what Sebastian needed to hear — the bloody history of his condition.

“I kill the she-devil right now,” Yanni said, leaving the gun on the seat and pulling out a long-bladed knife he’d brought along.

“Let’s be sensible, shall we?” Sebastian said. “I wouldn’t mind doing away with the cow myself, but I don’t think you want to be committing a murder on CCTV now, do you?”

Paula, from the back seat, said, “Wait, you guys aren’t serious, are you? You’re not really going through with this, right?”

Then Angela was leaving the store, smiling blissfully, carrying an overstuffed bag of junk food, and Yanni was out of the car, charging her like a madman.

Paula shrieked, “Oh my God!” and then Angela pulled out a gun and shot Yanni right in the face. Sebastian had to give the ol’ gell credit, she had some tricks up her sleeve. Or, rather, in her purse.

But Sebastian couldn’t let her get any ideas and try to shoot him as well, could he? Beating her to the shot, so to speak, he aimed the Walther and fired at her back as she passed, hitting her spot on. Not bad at all. Rather like shooting pheasants.

Sebastian was still feeling right proud of his accomplishment when he remembered the black guy waiting in the car. He was going to walk over, do away with him as well, but, dammit, the car was already speeding out of the car park.

Watching Angela get killed had been sad and horrifying, of course, and the image of the puddle of blood pooling around her on the asphalt would stay with her forever, but Paula wouldn’t have traded the experience for anything. What true crime author gets a ringside seat for a homicide? A double homicide if you included the crazed Greek. After
The Max
was written and published and beloved by millions, the demand would be huge for a book solely about Angela Petrakos. She was the ultimate femme fatale — hey, that wouldn’t make a bad subtitle, got to write that down — and who would be more qualified than Paula to tell her story? The ideas were vivid, so fresh in Paula’s head, she started scribbling them down in her pad, afraid she’d forget them.

She’d written maybe three pages when she snapped out of her writer’s high and realized she was in the back seat of a car with Lee Child’s homicidal half-brother driving.

Suddenly terrified, Paula asked, “What’re you going to do to me?”

Sebastian said, “Nothing much. No offense, gell, but I don’t really fancy lesbians, I’m afraid. And least when it’s not a
ménage
.”

He pulled over on to the shoulder, took all her cash and jewelry, and ordered her to get out of the car. She shut her eyes and cringed, afraid he’d shoot her, but he just said, “
Ciao, mi amore
,” and left her in the dust.

“Shit, he thought, as his eyes glazed over and the roaring in his ears slowly receded.

I can’t believe I’m dying in a goddamn trailer.”

M
ICHELLE
G
AGNON,
The Tunnels

When Rufus returned alone, Max instinctively got his piece and put it in the waistband of his jeans, like the cool guys did in the movies. Rufus entered the trailer, fell to his knees, sobbing like a baby, and began to spill out a story of some white guy offing Angela.

Max felt his heart lurch, Angela gone? He couldn’t fucking believe it.

He shouted at Rufus, “Yeah, and how come you’re still alive? And where’s her body — you just left her lying there? I treat you like my son and this is what I get?”

He had his gun in his hand and could feel grief and rage engulfing him.

Rufus was pleading and crying and then Max heard him say he loved her
. Loved
her? His Angela? And, worse, Rufus was going on now about how they’d been kissing just before she got wasted, how she was the best damn kisser he’d ever met.
It was so tender, yo, so sweet
.

Kissing?

He put the first round in Rufus’s belly — weren’t gut shots supposed to be agony? — and Rufus stared up at him with shock in his eyes. Max jammed the barrel in Rufus’s mouth, went, “Fucking kiss this.”

Emptied the clip.

Sean had been in a drunken stupor but the gunfire woke him — you want a mick’s attention, let off a few rounds. He staggered out of the back room, the pump shotgun in his hands and saw the black man’s almost headless torso lying at Max’s feet.

Sean looked stunned, like he was in awe of Max, and why wouldn’t he be? Guy from Ireland, IRA connections, he must’ve seen a lot of crazies in his bedraggled life, but there was crazy and there was Max crazy. Max knew he took insanity to a whole new level. Nobody was as crazy as he was, nobody.

Sean carefully lowered the shotgun, then asked, “W-w-w-w-w-w-w-where’s A-A-A-A-A-Ang-g-g-g-gel-l-l-la?”

Max said, “She’s dead. The love of my life, mon cherie, mon amour, mon Juliette.”

Sean said, “Sh-sh-sh-she... w-w-w-w-was... m-m-m-m-mine.”

“Well she’s no one’s now,” Max said. “Saddle up pilgrim, time to hit the trail.”

They packed fast and burned rubber out of there like the very Hound of Heaven was after them.

Max, sipping from the remains of the Jay while
Sean drove, began a long monologue about Angela and busts and dickless cracker kids. Then he punched Sean on the shoulder, a tear in his eye, and said, “Last of the
campaneros
.”

“Words are not as adequate as teeth.”

T
OM
P
ICCIRILLI,
The Dead Letters

Paula Segal was stunned. She had written what she felt was a very compelling proposal for
The Max
, which included a synopsis of the entire book, and pretty soon expected to be living the literary high life — author tours, press conferences, award ceremonies. One thing she wasn’t expecting — rejection.

Her agent broke the news to her over — yep — lattes at Starbucks.

He said, “There was a fairly strong consensus among the editors I went out to. The material’s simply too dark.”

Paula was in shock. This had to be a bad dream, or at least a bad joke. Her agent would crack a smile at any moment, say, Had you going there, huh? And then unveil the real news, that there was currently a bidding war going on for the book. All the major houses wanted it, and it was only a matter of whose eight-figure deal to accept: Knopf’s or Harper Collins’. Or maybe there was only one major player, Sonny Mehta from Knopf, and on a signal from her agent Sonny would come through the door, ear-to-ear smile, and give her
a big welcoming hug and say, “Welcome aboard, hon.”

But, nope, her agent was still looking at her with that helpless expression that she’d gotten to know all too well over the years as her fiction-writing career had descended farther and farther into the toilet. But this wasn’t fiction, this was non-fiction, true crime. This was supposed to be where all the bucks were, and she had the inside track on the hottest crime story of the year.

“What the hell do you mean, too dark? It’s crime, it’s murder, it’s drugs, it’s a riot, it’s a prison break, it’s IRA hit men, it’s cold-blooded murder. It’s
supposed
to be fucking dark.”

Paula was yelling. A few customers and the baristas were looking over.

“Believe me, I understand where you’re coming from.” Her agent was looking around, smiling apologetically. “But there’s dark and there’s dark. As Ken Wishnia says, there’re twenty-three shades of black.”

She didn’t want to hear about fucking Wishnia, she wanted to hear about a fucking book deal.

“Okay, so we got some rejections,” she said. “Big whoopty shit. What’s the next move?”

Her agent looked discouraged again, said, “Well, there’s the second tier, but if I’m being completely honest I think it’s unlikely the second tier will be interested. I went out with this fairly wide and, just to be completely up front, we didn’t hear anything very encouraging from anybody. They all said the same thing: subject matter too dark, characters too unlikable.”

“Wait,” Paula said, knowing what was coming next. “What do you want me to do? You’re saying you want me to—”

“How about writing a young adult novel?”

“You’ve gotta be kidding. You want me to give up
The Max
, my baby?”

“It’s not a matter of what I want,” he said. “It’s what the market wants. And the market doesn’t want Max Fisher.”

“Bullshit,” Paula said. “Bull fucking shit.”

She stormed out of the Starbucks, deciding, Fuck agents, she’ll sell it herself. How hard could it be to sell a hot property, the next
In Cold Blood
?

She sent the proposal out with a well-thought-out cover letter to practically every editor in New York and they all had the same response — story too dark, characters too unlikable. It had to be collusion, some kind of conspiracy. Or maybe her agent was bad-mouthing her all over town? Something like that. Years as a telemarketer had primed her well for rejection, but hearing all the negativity about
The Max
was tough to take. She was doubting herself, starting to lose hope.

She was almost ready to give up, head back to the call center, when she opened a copy of
Time Out New York
and saw that Laura — yes,
her
Laura — was reading tonight from her latest book at the Barnes & Noble on Union Square. She thought,
Has to be a sign.

She rushed to her salon, demanded an appointment even though her hairdresser’s schedule was full for the day. When Sergio asked her what she wanted done she
took out a copy of
Mystery Scene
with Laura on the cover and said. “I want to look like
her
.”

Sergio gave her the Lippman do, a short bob, flirty and sexy but not too showy about it. Afterward she couldn’t have been more pleased. She looked as classy as Laura herself. When Laura saw her she’d have to realize they were meant to be together. Drinks would follow, maybe dinner, another meeting or two. Maybe she’d eventually move in with Laura in Baltimore, or they could just travel around the world together, two hot literary goddesses on the road...

And in the meantime Laura would help her get
The Max
into the hands of an editor who didn’t have his head so far up his ass he couldn’t see Pulitzer Prize material when it was handed to him.

A few minutes after Paula arrived at Barnes & Noble, Laura entered, rushing in, taking off her coat as she went, elegant and graceful as always, smiling, saying hello to all her adoring fans. Paula, in the front row, was staring at her, trying desperately to make eye contact. Surely Laura would remember her from the bar in El Paso and from their Internet exchanges. But after apologizing breathlessly for being late — traffic, her cab couldn’t
budge
— and telling an effortlessly witty story about her signing the night before at the Mystery One bookstore in Milwaukee, Laura went right into her talk, and then read from her latest Tess Monaghan mystery. The book was another winner, no surprise there. A line of about thirty people formed, and Paula got on it at the end. Her heart was racing.

She was worried that she might actually pass out. How embarrassing would that be? Fainting at her future lover’s book signing.

Finally it was Paula’s turn. She handed over a copy of Laura’s book and Laura, smiling, said, “Thank you so much for coming. Who should I make it out to?”

Paula thought,
It’s not possible. She’s looking right at me.

Then she thought, Come on, cut the poor woman some slack. After all, she was a best-selling novelist in the midst of a major book tour. She was probably burnt out, that’s all.

“You can make it out to me. Paula Segal.”

Still no recognition.

“So how’ve you been?” Paula asked.

Now Laura looked at her, the first prolonged eye contact. She was squinting, trying to get it to click.

“You know, Paula Segal. We met at Left Coast Crime in El Paso a few years ago?”

Still nothing.

Trying to jar her memory, Paula said, “You know, Paula
Segal
. I was a Barry Award finalist. I write the McKenna Ford mysteries?”

After a few seconds Laura’s face suddenly brightened and she said, “Oh, right. It’s great seeing you again. How are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

Paula was trying to hold Laura’s gaze, to let her know she was interested in a lot more than just getting a stupid book signed.

Then Laura said, “Should I make it out to you, McKenna?”

“No, my name’s Paula.”

“Oh, that’s right, I’m sorry, Paula,” Laura said. “It’s been a crazy day. How do you spell your last name?”

“S-E-G-A-L.”

Was it possible that Laura actually didn’t remember her?

Nah, Laura had to remember.

“Yeah, so, I’m writing the Max Fisher story,” Paula said. Then she couldn’t help adding, “For Knopf.”

Paula was proud of the way she’d just casually dropped that little lie, and prouder of how she’d been so modest about it. Like, Yeah, I’ve written the biggest true crime story of the new millennium, but it was no biggie, just another day in the life of a future Pulitzer winner.