Hard Case Crime: The Max (8 page)

She was so flustered, flattered, she never even saw
him slip the pen into his jacket. He had one tricky moment after she’d had her second vodka tonic when she asked, “What’s next for Reacher?” But he rallied, gave the enigmatic smile that had lured more quail than he could count into the sack, and said, “Now my dear, that would be telling.”

They had champagne cocktails after takeoff and he looked out at the cloud of pollution over Athens and thought about the American psycho bitch back on the island. She was probably still wondering where her cigs were.

He had to stifle a laugh, turned to the girl, asked, “What say you, my sweet, to another champers before dinner?”

Her glassy eyes as she nodded yes told him he was about to join the Club.

Later, after he’d rogered her, they crept back to their seats and he got a knowing look from the stewardess. Or was she giving him the
come on
? Sorry, gell, but he was shagged out. A chap had only so much to go round.

The girl snuggled up in her seat and was out in minutes. He waited till they dimmed the lights then went through her handbag. Ah, let’s have a look, shall we? Lots of crisp 50 sterling notes and a batch of credit cards. He took only two, a chap wasn’t greedy. He ordered a brandy, and some snacks, sat back to watch the movie, something starring Will Ferrell. This chap was in every movie, it seemed.

He started to nod off and had the familiar dream,
the one about the student he’d killed. Sweat was rolling down his face as he relived the awful events.

Richard had been one of those upper-class pillow biters, the real deal, descended from one of the families related to the Royals. Well, who wasn’t? But he was about 1,000 in line to the throne, meaning only 999 buggers had to croak before Richard got a shot at it.

And, lordy, the chap was loaded, had buckets of dosh. And generous with it, too, spent it like it was water. Sebastian hated him, damn scoundrel had it all. But Richard fell in love with Sebastian, who encouraged him in the belief that buggery was definitely in the cards. Meanwhile, pay the freight you bloody homo.

Richard, like all blue bloods, had access to the best drugs, clubs, people; all of which was damn hunky fucking dory with Sebby. Yeah, what Richard called him. He’d pick out a suit from his closet, a beautiful Jermyn Street made-to-measure beauty and say, “I’m tired of this, Sebby, you have it,” and throw it across the room to him.

Time came to pay the freight, Sebastian was almost ready to let it happen. It was a Brit tradition, how else could you explain the whole Public School system?

They’d been partying hard, lots of the old champers, a little nose candy to chill out. They ended up back in Richard’s lovely flat.

First false note, Richard had ordered, not asked, “Pour me a Gordon’s.”

It was the imperious tone that irritated Sebastian to no end.

Sebastian, a little the worse for wear, snapped, “What am I? Your servant?”

And Richard, in that totally dismissive accent, said, “You’re the help, darling, a leech. So once you get the drinkie-poos, hop over here, Sebby, and service my Lancelot.”

He had a name for his dick? Well, all right, who didn’t. But he also had a name for Sebastian, and it was the more demeaning of the two.

Sebastian lost it, strangled the upper class twit with his Eton tie, screaming,

“Don’t you dare call me Sebby!”

And then horrified, strung him up from the light fixture, took all the available cash and yes, a few suits and ties, and prayed to everything unholy that he’d get away, that he’d, dare one say,
swing it.

The family hushed it all up. Sebastian even read the eulogy at the very private mass, quoted a passage from Wilfred Owen.

Later, when he saw the movie
The Talented Mr. Ripley
, he so identified with Matt Damon, he almost shouted:
I’m with you, old chap!

“Cuccia was angry that he would have to renegotiate the price of a hit gone wrong, he would be dealing from a very weak hand.”

C
HARLIE
S
TELLA
,
Charlie Opera

After that shit in the mess hall, with the
bandajo
Max Fisher takin’ all his pies, and his whole crew sittin’ there, watching like, You gonna take that shit? Sino knew he had to make a move. Shit, not only was he dissed, but he got
called
by that white pudgy middle-aged white motherfucker.

His face burned, man, rage. He swore on his
abuela
’s life, he’d gut this white trash from his balding head to his tiny dick. He knew he’d have to act and fast, to be crewless was to be chowder. Yeah, he’d love to do Fisher himself, but that wasn’t the way it was done. When you were the main man in charge of a whole crew, you told people to do shit, you never did it yourself. White people had a name for that shit. Out saucering? Yeah, he was gonna out saucer this shit.

In the yard, he spotted a new fish, kid named Carlito.
Puta
’s first day, looked like somebody’d already cut him a new asshole. The
bandajo
’d been
caught driving a stolen car, first time. Man was Mex and got the max, five and change.

Yeah, was time to make the man earn his way in.

Carlito stood with his back to the wall. He’d been told about the train and couldn’t get Tom Hanks in that goddamn movie, going
All aboard the train
, out of his mind. He’d been told his only hope was to join a gang in, like, Speedy Gonzales time. But how the fuck did you join? He’d seen the Crips, and the other gangs, all giving him the dead eye, not like he could wander up, go, “What’s shakin’, dudes? And, oh, I wanna join the gang.”

Then he saw a dangerous-looking one heading his way. The guy was smiling, like a Great White, put out his hand, said, “
Muchacho
, how’s it hanging, boss?”

As Carlito took it and felt the man squeeze real tight, Carlito tried to figure out where it had all gone down the shitter. He’d had a nice lady, girl named Maria, and she’d been making marriage sounds. She was such a sweet
senorita
, they grew up together in Guadalajara. He was making seven bucks an hour from his job in the garage. Yeah, the garage — he knew cars, and that was how the shit hit the fan.

Maria had gone to see her Mama and Carlito had decided to let off a little steam. He’d been pulling twelve-hour shifts, getting the down payment ready on a little apartment, and Dios Mio, he was wound up awful tight, so he got together with a few
amigos
, they were downing some Dos Equis, nice and cold and
going down so easy, till one of the
hombres
ordered up shots of Tequila. Carlito was basically a beer and chips kinda guy, but he didn’t want to look bad, like some
maricon
, so he had the shot and then, Madre Mio, a whole lot more and he didn’t know, they were falling out of the bar, laughing and high fiving, when one of the
hombres
spotted the Firebird, red and with the keys in the ignition. The owner gone to the ATM. Next thing, Carlito was driving the baby, like he owned the highway. State Trooper chased him for half an hour before the bird ran outa gas and Carlito ran shit out of luck.

He’d paid all of their savings to a slimy lawyer who promised, “Probation, no problem, first offense,
no problema
.”

He got five years and change.
No problema?

The lawyer shrugged, said, “You got any more of that there green, I’ll lodge an appeal.”

Maria had taken off with the few remaining dollars and Carlito got to ride the bus.

Scared, chained, out of it. A guy sitting beside him asked, “First time,
chiquito
?”

He nodded in total misery.

The guy, covered in prison tats, said, “You’re a real pretty boy, they gonna ream you good,
compadre
.”

The guy was staring at Carlito’s solid gold Miraculous Medal. Carlito, with difficulty, using his manacled hands, tried to button the prison-issue shirt and the guy laughed, a laugh born of pure nastiness and worse, deep malevolent knowing, said, “First day in the joint,
it’s like, every worst nightmare you ever had and bro, it’s worse, ’cause it’s true and it ain’t gonna git no better, so you do what you can, you get wasted, you hear me, fish, you gotta get some serious dope going in your system — then it don’t, like, hurt. Me, I got my main running buddy up there, he’ll hook me up right after orientation, and you wanna, you want some of that good stuff, help you
get focused
, you come see me, I fix you right up but it costs, you know what I’m sayin’?”

He shut up for a bit then said, “Speed. The ol’ reliable, amphetamines, they set you right up and Bennies, ain’t nuttin on God’s good earth like those beauties.”

He laughed, obviously feeling the effect of some of the above, began to sing, “Benny and the Jets.” Was it horrible, man, or what? Even worse than having to hear Elt himself do it.

The guy added, “That there medal, always wanted me one of those babes. You want some
recreational drugs?
That there is the freight,
muchacho
.”

Carlito snapped himself out of his reverie, tried to pay attention to the guy holding onto his hand. Leader of the Crips. His mouth went dry and he smiled like some wetback fresh from the border.

Sino swept his arm round the yard, said, “Who you with?” Then in a mocking tone, continued. “I tell you, fish, you with nobody. You got, like,
de nada
, you hear me, fish?’

Carlito did.

Sino said, “See those
hombres
over there? Yeah, the ones lookin’ at you, like you a big juicy
empanada
. They gonna run a line through yo skinny ass, you don’t be with somebody.”

Carlito was already crying, bawling like a damn baby.

Sino moved in close, said, “Yo, you join my crew, you be safe, know what I’m talkin’ about?”

Carlito nodded. He’d have joined the army at this stage. Anything. Sino palmed him a toothbrush, handmade blade embedded on the top, said, “Yo, you wanna make some bones, you show yo’ got
cojones
. Know what I talkin’ about,
jefe
?”

Carlito wanted to run, but where?

Sino looked at his watch, a shiny TAG Heuer knock-off, said, “Twelve noon, fat middle-aged white dude, takes his shower on C... you go rip him a new one,
comprende
?”

Sino sauntered off and Carlito began a whole new set of tremors.

At twelve noon Carlito headed to the showers. He’d managed to score some bennies from the guy he’d rode the bus up with. Cost him his gold Miraculous Medal he’d always worn. In a haze of drug-induced adrenaline and outright fear, he saw the fat white dude and launched himself. The phrase
It got away from him
might be appropriate here. He was still slashing and chopping when the guards clubbed him senseless. One of them, who’d seen most all a prison could offer, muttered, “Holy Mother of Christ.”

And too bad for Sino, what remained of the fat dude on the shower floor was the armaments guy for the Aryan Brotherhood.

Carlito heard another guard say, “
Hombre
, you just fucked yourself good,” and everything faded out.

“A caged woman is a beast of ferocious instinct.”

S
EÑOR
R
ODRIGUEZ

When they brought Angela to the prison in Lesbos her first thought was, Jaysus, this place lives up to its name. She was brought to a holding cell with eight other women. Each was hotter than the last and most of them were in micro-minis, skimpy tube tops, a couple even in bikinis. Most were talking in Greek, and a couple of blondes were talking in some other language, maybe Swedish.

Angela went up to one of the blondes and asked for a smoke. Jaysus, with the day she’d had, she could’ve used a whole carton.

The woman’s friend, the other Swede, slid one out of a pack.

Angela took it, held it out for a light, said, “I’m Angela.”

“Inga,” the woman with the cigarettes said. “This is Katina.”

Angela asked, “So is this a prison or a nightclub?”

Thought she was making a joke, but Katina said, “Both.”

“There was a raid at Niko’s last night,” Inga explained. “Heroin or something.”

“But we have nothing to do with it,” Katina said.

She sounded a little too defensive. Angela glanced down, noticed the track marks on her skinny arms.

“Yes, we were just there, you know, partying, when the police come,” Inga said. “How do you say, the wrong places at the wrong times?”

Thinking,
The story of me life
, Angela asked, “So what did they charge you with?”

“We do not know what’s going on,” Inga said. “They told us nothing. They just bring us here, that’s it.”

“We are, how do you say,” Katina said, “in the dark.”

“What about you?” Inga asked. “What did you do?”

“Oh, nothing,” Angela said. “I was just having a drink, minding my own business, and next thing I knew two cops were taking me away.”

“It’s crazy in Greece,” Katina said. “They arrest everybody, no?”

The prison wasn’t like any prison Angela had ever heard of. The officers who’d arrested Angela hadn’t notified her of any charges, or at least she didn’t think they had. During the ride over they were talking in Greek and the only parts Angela picked up were when they were commenting on her
oreo megala vizia
— big, beautiful tits — no surprise there. But, of course, Angela knew why she was being taken away. The cab driver on Santorini must’ve told the authorities that she’d boarded a boat for Lesbos and then the Lesbos police — Lesbian police? Jaysus, it sounded like something
out of Greenwich Village, but that was probably what they called themselves — had been notified. They were probably just waiting now to coordinate with the Santorini cops. She didn’t know if they’d found some evidence that could hang her or if she was just a suspect by default. Not that it mattered. She’d heard enough stories over the years from her father about the Greek justice system. It was your classic, old-world, eye-for-an-eye, guilty-until-proven-innocent mentality. She figured she’d never be formally charged with anything. She’d be handed over to Georgios’ relatives and quietly killed, case closed.