Hard Case Crime: The Max (17 page)

Knowing this would be another defining moment in his life, Max went over and drove the knife into Arma’s back. This time he knew how do it, getting it in the first time, through all the bone and muscle and stuff.

“Fisher, you fuckin’ nigger,” Arma said.

He tried to turn, bring his shaft up to use on Max, but he crumpled to the ground.

Holy shit, killing people was fun! Max felt like a hunter, like a real fucking man.

Max left the knife in Arma’s back and said to Rufus, “You okay?”

Rufus said, “Yeah, just some blood, ain’t no nothin’. But, yo, boss, you got some moves, yo.”

They got in the truck and headed out of the prison. There was so much chaos at the gate, the guard took a cursory look at Max and Rufus and waved them through.

“We did it, boss,” Rufus said. “We really fuckin’ did it.”

Max was still lost in his own world, high from killing Arma. No wonder crackheads killed people, it was fucking addicting. Max couldn’t wait to kill again. He wanted more. More, more, more.

Rufus gave Max directions and he followed them. About a mile away from the prison on a dirt road they approached a dark sedan. Max drove the laundry truck off the side of the road, out of view, and then he and Rufus ditched the truck and jogged over to the sedan.

Angela and her IRA friend were in the front. Max and Rufus got in the back and Max said, “Where the fuck is Paula?”

“Who?” Angela asked.

“The big-chested girl? My biographer,” Max said, like it was obvious.

“The fook’re you talking about?” Angela asked.

He didn’t have time to explain, or to wait.

“Drive,” he said, and the IRA guy drove away.

Max leaned over the seat, gave Angela a big fat one on her full lips. Man, she smelled good, like fucking Irish Spring. He remembered how much he loved fucking Irish chicks and he couldn’t wait to give Angela the meat tonight. He said, “Man, I can’t wait to give you the meat tonight, bitch.”

“Who’re you callin’ bitch, you fookin’ cunt.”

Ah, the mouth on her. He loved it.

Rufus was still babbling, “We did it, boss, we did it, yo. We really done an’ did it.”

Then Max looked back and noticed the car behind them. It wasn’t directly behind them — it might’ve been thirty or forty yards back — but it was still unsettling to see it there, tagging along.

“I think that car’s following us,” Max said.

Angela looked back and said, “What car?”

“There’s one car on the fucking road,” Max said. “Pick one.”

Angela was built, but he’d forgotten how dumb she was.

Then the IRA guy spoke his first words. Well, if you call it speaking.

“I’m p-p-p-p-p-positive... the c-c-c-car isn’t... f-f-f-f-f-f-fah-fah-fah-fah...”

“The fuck is he saying?” Max asked.

“I haven’t a clue,” Angela said.

“He saying ain’t nobody back there, yo,” Rufus said.

Figured, two idiots could understand each other.

Max looked back again, but the headlights were gone.

“Just sit back and start celebratin’, boss,” Rufus said. “We did it. We really motherfuckin’ did it.”

“I wanted more. Give me more.”

M
EGAN
A
BBOTT,
Queenpin

Angela needed a shower, a drink, to get laid and to get — of course, as always — rich.

The drive to the Canadian border had been bizarre. Sean, muttering stuff in his stammer that nobody could follow and Max insisting they were being followed. She’d forgotten how paranoid he’d always been, long before anyone got hurt. And she was still seething about him “putting the meat to her.”

He would, like fook.

Angela was plain dumbfounded by the huge black man. With one hand he could have strangled them all and instead, he was brown-nosing Max, gazing at him with, there was no other word for it, total admiration. Was it some kind of gay thing? Prison does weird shite to people.

They reached the border just before dusk and Sean pulled into a trailer park, said as he checked his notes and found a key, “W-w-w-we’re...... nu-nu-num-b-b-b-b-ber... t-t-t-t-t-twenty s-s-s-six.”

Nobody was saying much as they trudged their way to the trailer.

Angela couldn’t believe it, she had finally hit bottom: trailer trash. She’d be here for life, wearing denim shorts, her hair permanently in rollers, no AC, and three snot-nosed brats wailing at her for sodas. And she’d have no man, of course.

She shuddered.

In the car, Max had reached over, asked, “Cold? Wait till I get in you, you’ll be so hot.”

She’d nearly gut shot the bollix then and there.

Someone had made slight preparations for their arrival. There was coffee, a thermos, three bunk beds and, sitting in the middle of the trailer, a bottle of Jay and about twenty beers.

No food.

Angela heard Max whine, “No food?”

Then he grabbed the bottle of Jay, said, no,
ordered
, “Y’all grab some glass or other, The... A.X. has a toast to make.”

Jameson out of Styrofoam is a travesty but Angela figured it was one of the least of the sins on her conscience.

Max said, “I toast our valiant rescuers, Angela and...” He paused, getting ready for his renowned wit, continued, “Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh... Sean.”

No laughter, and the Irish guy was giving him a look that said, “You’re dead.”

Angela could see Max was confused by how badly his humor had backfired.

He added lamely, “The joint hasn’t been built that could hold The... A.X.”

Later, Rufus was making hungry noises and Max was famished too. Since Sean had already passed out drunk, it was decided Rufus and Angela would head for the nearest grocery store — a 7-Eleven off the highway — and stock up. Rufus would drive, stay out of view, and Angela would do the shopping.

At first, Angela was a little, well, concerned about being alone with Rufus. After all, he was a big, scary-looking guy and he’d been locked up so long, he probably couldn’t wait to get his big mitts all over a woman. But after what she’d been through in Greece, Angela wasn’t about to let a man get the best of her, no matter how menacing he was. She had a gun with her, in her handbag, and God knows she wasn’t afraid to use it.

In the car, Rufus was going on, telling her how great it was to be in the “outside” again and how the first thing he wanted to do was go see his mama in Syracuse. Angela was starting to zone out when she heard the word money.

Rabbit ears up, she echoed, “Money?”

“Yeah,” Rufus said, “from the job I pulled ’fore they sent my ass to Attica. Me an’ my crew we robbed a bank and shit. Got two hundred somethin’ thousand dollars, but they never found it ’cause I buried it in my mama’s backyard, that’s why. So when I get home, first thing I’m gonna do after I kiss my mama hello and eat some a her fine apple pie is I’m gonna dig up that money, then I’m gonna go off, live in Mexico.”

Suddenly Angela saw Rufus in a new light. He was no longer a scary, dangerous escaped convict who might
rape and kill her. Now he was the sweet mama’s boy with two hundred grand in his backyard who was going to be her ticket to her new life. And, besides, she’d always liked black guys. Okay, not more than any other type, but not less either, and he was a big strong guy, he could protect her; and despite whatever awful things he might have done to wind up in prison, compared to some of the other men she’d dated he was practically a saint.

She wanted to make sure he knew she was available and interested. So she said, “Just so you know, I’m just here, helping Max out, for old time’s sake. We’re not together or anything like that.”

She could tell Rufus wanted her badly. Jaysus, it looked like his dick was about to burst though his pants.

He said, “Yo, that’s good, cause I like you and shit, yo. I think you fine. I never seen a set a titties on a white woman before like the ones you got. You got big ol’ black titties, know what I’m sayin’? They kinda like my gran’mas. Yo, I don’t mean I been lookin’ at my gran’ma’s titties an’ shit, but you know what I’m sayin’.”

Angela knew there had to be a compliment in there somewhere and said, “Thank you, I’m so flattered.”

Rufus continued, “But the way it is, yo’, I don’ wanna move in on the boss’s action, know what I’m sayin’? I know how much the boss love your titties too. ’Fore we broke out, every night he was goin’ on ’bout your titties, goin’, Wait till you see my bitch’s titties. I ain’t callin’ you bitch, that what The... A.X. be callin’ you.

He be goin’, You’re gonna love my bitch’s titties, they so big, they’re the best titties you ever seen. An’ wanna know somethin’? Muthafucka was right.”

Angela, thinking about that money, how it could change her fucking life, said, “Don’t worry about Max. If you want my titties they’re all yours.”

They pulled into the lot next to the 7-Eleven.

Rufus cut the engine, said, “Mind if I kiss you? Been a long time since I kissed a woman. Talkin’ about a natural-born woman, know what I’m sayin’?”

Angela batted her eyelashes, went, “I thought you’d never ask.”

Wow, Rufus knew how to kiss! He was tender and slow and he really knew how to use that big, long tongue of his. Was Angela imagining it or was she feeling a serious spark between them? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed something as simple as a kiss with man.

There was no doubt what she had to do: Ditch Max and go with Rufus. Max was broke anyway, so what use was he? And she had a feeling this Rufus thing had legs, it was the real deal.

Rufus waited in the car. Before Angela left he said, “I’ll be missin’ yo ass, baby.” He was such a sweet man, so thoughtful.

Angela stocked up on all the food Max had instructed her to buy: Yodels, Ring Dings, Fritos, Pop Tarts, lots of Slim Jims, etc. As she was paying at the register, she noticed a dark blue car pull up in the parking lot out
front and just idle there. She didn’t think much of it, though, just collected her change from the guy at the counter and wished him a good night.

She was imagining life in Mexico, as Mrs. Rufus, when she stepped outside and noticed the guy walking toward her through the shadowy lot. She couldn’t see his face well but, fuck, there was no doubt he was Greek, and he looked familiar somehow. Then he passed under a lamppost and she saw why he looked familiar. He was a dead ringer for Georgios. She remembered the woman back in Santorini, vowing vengeance for Georgios’ murder, and she knew this had to be connected. A voice inside her head was saying, Oh, come on, stop with the paranoia, you’re starting to sound like Max. The Greek network for tracking people down is good, but it couldn’t be this fookin’ good.

But she knew that little voice was fooking wrong as soon as she saw the knife in the guy’s hand. He was coming at her, baring his teeth, and somewhere in the distance she heard a woman shriek. The man was almost on her, and he was saying something — it sounded like
“she-devil.”

She managed to reach into her handbag, grab the gun. Before the guy could reach her she whipped the gun out and fired a shot, hitting him right in his goddamn face.

Then she ran, past the guy’s idling car, trying to get to Rufus. She didn’t make it. She had her hand on the door when she felt an intense pain ripping through her
chest. The next moment she was on the ground, lying on her stomach with her cheek on the pavement. She saw a blurry image of a guy leaning out the open door of the idling car, holding a gun. It was Sebastian, that bastard.

Her last vision was of Sebastian, smiling, blowing spoke away from the barrel of the gun. She couldn’t believe it. Of all the guys who could’ve done her in, it had to be that useless fookin’ wuss? Talk about last laughs. That God, he had some fucking sense of humor.

“Because the way things turned out, hearing what he heard, seeing what he saw, knowing what he knew, it was no way to live.”

J
OE
R. L
ANSDALE
,
Lost Echoes

Sebastian was getting a tad cranky, just how long were they going to follow this bloody car? They’d dropped back when Yanni had realized they’d been spotted, but then had caught up with Angela again a few miles further on, and as far as they could tell, no one in Angela’s car had noticed them since.

He had another shot of gin and realized he needed a piss and bad. Paula, awake now in the back seat, was scribbling notes — didn’t that make her sick, writing in a moving car like that? He hefted the Walther in his hands and by golly it was true, the gun maketh the man. That and a Savile Row suit, carnation in the buttonhole, of course. The car in front finally showed brake lights and Yanni stopped, cut the engine. They could see a trailer park, and Sebastian thought, A rather shabby one, my dear.

Darkness was coming but they could see Angela, the Fisher chappie, some brooding-looking white guy in a combat jacket, and the mammoth black guy. Yanni raised his gun and hissed, “Now you die, you whore.”

Sebastian could hear Paula take a deep breath and he put his hand on Yanni’s arm, a very risky gesture, and said, “Steady on, old bean, you do it now, it’s too quick, she doesn’t get to
feel
it — and most importantly we don’t get any money.”

Yanni withdrew the gun, muttering a string of obscenities. Sebastian could swear his own beloved Mummy was in there.

Paula said, “I didn’t know there was going to be, like, you know, shooting and stuff.”

Yanni turned to her, spat on the seat, said, “Shut your mouth, you harlot.”

Sebastian thought that was more than a little rude and really, wasn’t it crossing the line? He began to wonder if ol’ Yanni had just the
tiniest
issue with women.

The trailer door opened and Angela and the black chappie came out, got in the car and took off.

Yanni, putting the car in gear, asked, “What is this?”

Paula said, “Probably going to get supplies. There’s gotta be a 7-Eleven close by. You got a trailer park, you got a 7-Eleven.”

Sure enough they pulled up outside said establishment and, lordy, was Angela
necking
with the black fellow?