case you stood out and became a target for young first-timers out to get a rep; there was nothing more ridiculous- looking than a cellblock hulk dying from a toothbrush shiv rammed in his jugular. Max was very fit before he'd gone into prison. He'd been a three-time Golden Gloves middleweight boxing champion in his teens, and he'd stayed in shape running, swimming, and sparring at a local boxing gym near Coral Gables. Exercise wasn't a quantum leap to him; he had the built-in discipline that comes from learning to swallow a punch whole. He'd been allowed half an hour in Attica. He'd hit the weights six days a week, upper body one day, legs the next. He'd done three thousand push-ups and crunches in his cell, every morning, five hundred at a time.
Although still attractive in the blunt and brutal sort of way that deceptively appealed to women with a taste for rough men and kamikaze relationships, his face wasn't too handsome. His skin was tight, but it was wrinkled and waxy pale, almost ghostly from the lack of sunlight. The needlepoint scars around his lips had faded. There was a new meanness in his blue eyes and a sour downturn to the ends of his mouth, which he recognized from his mother who, like he, had been left alone at the onset of her autumnal years. And as had happened to her at the same age, his hair had gone completely gray. He hadn't noticed the transition from the dark brown he'd been on the day of his incarceration, because he'd stayed bald in the joint, to appear more forbidding. He'd let his hair grow out in the last few weeks leading up to his release?a mistake he intended to rectify before he left town.
* * *
The next morning he went out. He needed to buy a warm winter coat and jacket, and a hat, too, if he was going to lose his old-man's hair. It was a bright, freezing-cold day. The air burned his lungs. The street was swarming with people. Suddenly he was lost and didn't know what he was doing or where he was going. He'd walked slap-bang into the middle of rush hour, everybody on their way to earn money and take shit with a thank-you and a smile, and build up a backlog of grudges and resentments in the process. He should've known better and prepared himself for it, but he felt as if he'd been beamed in from another planet against his will. A seven-year stretch of time slipped its leash and rushed at him, jaws wide open, belly empty. Everything had changed?clothes, hairstyles, walks, faces, brands, prices, languages?too much to take in and absorb and break down and analyze and compare. Too much too soon after prison, where everything stayed the same and you were on at least face terms with everyone you saw. Now he was straight in at the deep end. He could float but he'd forgotten the strokes. He plodded along, keeping two steps behind the people in front of him and two steps in front of those behind, chain-gang style. Maybe no matter how free we think we are, we're all prisoners in our own way, he thought. Or maybe he just needed time to wake up and get with the program.
He slipped out of the crowd and snuck into a small cafe. It was packed with people getting a caffeine fix before hitting their offices. He ordered an espresso. It came in a cardboard cup with a holder and a warning printed on the side that the drink was VERY HOT. When he tasted it, it was lukewarm.
What was he doing in New York? It wasn't even his town. What was he doing even thinking of traveling the world when he hadn't been home, got his bearings, and readjusted himself to freedom?
Sandra wouldn't have wanted him to do this. She would have said it was pointless, running away when he'd have to come back eventually. True. What was he scared of? Her not being there? She was gone. He'd just have to get over?and move on the best he could.
Fuck it. He'd go back to Miami on the first plane out.
* * *
In his hotel room, Max called up the airlines. All flights booked solid for the next two and a half days. He got a seat for the Friday afternoon.
Even though he didn't have a clue what he'd do when he got to Miami, he felt better now that he was heading somewhere familiar.
He thought about taking a shower and getting something to eat, and maybe that haircut if he could find a place.
The phone rang.
'Mr. Mingus?'
'Yes?'
'Allain Carver.'
Max didn't say anything. How had he found him here?
Dave Torres. He was the only one who knew where Max was. How long had he been working for Carver? Probably since Max had asked him to stop the calls he was getting in prison. Instead of going to the authorities, Torres had gone to the man himself. Double-dealing scumbag never missed an opportunity to make a buck.
'Hello? Are you still there?'
'What's this about?' Max said.
'I have a job you might be interested in.'
Max agreed to meet him the next day. His curiosity was back.
Carver gave him an address in Manhattan.
* * *
'Mr. Mingus? I'm Allain Carver.'
First impression: imperious prick.
Carver had stood up from behind an armchair when Max had walked into the club. Instead of coming over, he'd taken a few steps forward to identify himself and then stood where he was, arms behind his back, in the style of royalty meeting an ambassador from a former colonial state, now hopelessly impoverished and in dire need of a handout.
Tall and slender, dressed in a well-tailored navy blue wool suit, light blue shirt, and matching silk tie, Carver might have strolled in off a 1920s-set musical where he'd been cast as an extra in a Wall Street scene. His short, blond hair was slicked back from his forehead and parted down the middle. He had a strong jaw, long, pointed face, and tanned skin.
They shook hands. Firm handshake, soft, smooth skin unperturbed by manual labor.
Carver motioned him to a black-leather-and-mahogany tub chair set in front of a round table. He waited until Max had sat down before he took his place opposite him. The chair was high-backed and finished some two feet above his head. He couldn't see to his left or right without leaning all the way forward and craning his neck out. It was like being in his own booth, intimate and secretive.
Behind him was a bar that stretched the width of the room. Every conceivable spirit seemed to be lined up there?green, blue, yellow, pink, white, brown, clear, and translucent bottles glinting as gaily as plastic-bead curtains in a well-heeled brothel.
'What would you like to drink?'
'Coffee, please. Cream, no sugar.'
Carver looked over to the far end of the room and raised his hand. A waitress approached. She was fashion-model thin, with high cheekbones, pouting lips, and a catwalk strut. All the staff Max had seen so far looked like models: both the barmen had that slowburn, stubbled seducer look advertisers used to sell white shirts and cologne, while he could have seen the receptionist in a clothes-store catalogue, and in another life, the security guy monitoring the CCTV screen in a side office might have been the Diet Coke break guy on the construction site.
Max had almost missed the club. It was in an anonymous five-story townhouse in a cul-de-sac off Park Row, so anonymous that he'd walked past it twice before he'd noticed the number 34 stamped faintly into the wall near the door. The club was three flights up in a mirrored elevator with polished brass handles running around the middle and reflections accordioning to infinity. When the doors opened and he'd stepped out, Max thought he'd arrived in the lobby of a particularly luxurious hotel.
The interior was vast and very quiet, like a library or a mausoleum. All over the thickly carpeted floor, black tub chairs sprouted like burned-out oak stumps in a desecrated forest. They were arranged so you only saw their backs and not the people in them. He'd thought they were alone until he saw clouds of cigar smoke escaping from behind one of the chairs, and when he looked around more closely, he saw a man's foot in a beige slip-on beyond another. A single framed painting adorned the wall nearest to them. It was of a young boy playing a flute. He was dressed in a ragged, Civil War?era military uniform a good ten years too big for him.
'Are you a member here?' Max asked, to break the ice.
'We own it. This and several similar establishments around the world,' Carver replied.
'So you're in the club business?'
'Not particularly,' Carver answered with an amused look on his face. 'My father, Gustav, set these up in the late fifties to cater for his best business clients. This was the first. We have others in London, Paris, Stockholm, Tokyo, Berlin?and elsewhere. They're a perk. When individuals or their companies do over a certain amount of net dollar business with us they're offered free lifelong membership. We encourage them to sponsor their friends and colleagues, who of course pay. We have a lot of members, turn a good profit.'
'So you can't just fill out a form?'
'No,' Carver chuckled.
'Keep the peasants out, huh?'
'It's just the way we do business,' Carver said dryly. 'It works.'
There were traces of East Coast WASP wrinkling Carver's otherwise crisp English accent, an unnatural reining in of some vowels and an overexaggeration of others. English school, Ivy League diploma?
Carver resembled a matinee idol manque, looks fading agreeably. Max placed him as his own age,
