Hard Case Crime: The Max (13 page)

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’?”

“Hop smiled. ‘Nice, could you run my life, baby?’

‘Some challenges are too great, my friend.’ ”

M
EGAN
A
BBOTT,
The Song is You

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.

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.

“There’s an armor the city makes you wear and look at him defenseless, helmet dropped back blocks ago, no arm among enemies strong enough to string the arrow that could pierce his skin, rendering all cowards. Let us bow. No one bows.”

C
OLSON
W
HITEHEAD
,
The Colossus of New York

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.