Max, in his most humble, quiet voice, said, “Pray tell?”
Which reminded him, he better get that preacher validation on the web, 100 bucks and you were like, An ordained preacher of the church of outreach saints. Two fags on the upper tier wanted to get hitched and he’d told them for four hundred bucks he would perform the ceremony. Was there truly no end to his talents? Prison was ripe, fucking abundant in business opportunities. Ask that Watergate guy, Colson.
He had to refocus. Rufus was spilling, “We got a break comin’.”
Max, muddled by the Chivas and his myriad schemes and languages, thought first he meant someone was, like, going to cut them a bit of slack, then he realized, prison break. Sweet Jesus, like the TV series. This would put the book up there with Dan Brown. Wait till Paula heard about this. It would have to at least get him a great blowjob, right?
Rufus was saying, “Yo, I only trustin you cause you a gangsta and I got respect for you an’ shit. I ain’t even tol’ the rest of my crew, but you the man, Max Fisher, know what I’m sayin’? We been plannin’ this shit for three years. And we ain’t stupid and shit neither. We’re gonna do this shit up right, know what I’m sayin’? Now we got a gangsta like you on our side, shit, we’re gonna be all set up. So you wanna be in, you just say the word and you in, know what I’m sayin’?”
Max waited, trying his hardest to stay stone-faced, to put the fear of God in his cellmate, then asked, “When y’all gonna make your move?”
“When them riots come down,” Rufus said, “know what I’m sayin’? Everybody be fightin’ and shit and we be sneakin’ our asses outta this jail. Damn, I can’t wait to get outside an jam my dick into some real pussy, know what I’m sayin’? Man, I been fuckin’ so many sissies’ asses I don’t even ’member what real pussy feel like.”
Max was thinking: Riots, a prison break, Hollywood, fame. Was he the luckiest guy on the planet or what?
“Count me in, baby,” he nearly shouted.
Thirteen
“All day long I experienced infinite sadness amid grey surroundings. I collected one by one my sullied hopes, and I cried over each of them.”
Manhattan used to give Angela a big buzz, but not anymore. The city had disappointed her so many times that arriving in midtown and being in the center of it all once again left her feeling depressed more than anything else. It reminded her of all the failures, all her disappointments, all her dreams gone to shite. She couldn’t even muster up a fantasy that this time around things would work out differently. Why should they?
Her cash was running so low – maybe that gift to the British girl on the ferry hadn’t been the smartest move in the world – that she couldn’t afford a cab and had to take a bus into the city. A hotel was out of the question, so it was either Max Fisher or bust. She had no idea if he’d take her back, but she was out of options. If this didn’t work she might have to sleep on the street tonight, or on the subway.
She took the 6 train uptown and headed over to the apartment building on the Upper East Side where she’d spotted him briefly the last time she was in the city. In a strange way she was looking forward to seeing him again. Yeah, he was bonkers and sleazy, but she wasn’t exactly the portrait of mental health and fidelity her own self. Maybe they were destined to be together – two tortured souls who’d been around the block more than a few times and who, in the end, realize they’re perfect for each other. You could even see something romantic about it, if you squinted.
She went to the concierge desk. The guy was on the phone and Angela looked around, impressed with the decor in the lobby. Jaysus, Max was probably rolling in it. Before she’d left for Greece, she’d read in the paper how he’d become a drug dealer, and she knew he must have been doing well at it, to live in a swank building on the Upper East Side. But she’d had no idea he’d been doing this well. Too bad she didn’t look her best after the long flight, the ferry ride to Athens and the, well, encounter in the Greek prison. She knew a first impression was everything and she wanted Max to see her in her best light. But then she expanded her chest and looked down proudly, remembering that with Max these babies were all she’d ever needed.
The concierge finished the call and Angela said, “I’m here to see Max Fisher.”
The guy nearly laughed, said, “He doesn’t live here anymore.”
“Oh, okay, do you know where he’s living now?”
“Yeah, Attica.”
Angela was still lost in her daydream, imagining living off of Max’s millions, straightening out her life once and for all. She figured, Attica, that must be the name of some luxury condo: The Attica. Yeah, it was probably right next door to Trump Tower or something.
“Is that on the Upper East Side, too?” she asked hopefully.
The guy laughed again, said, “It’s a jail, honey. You know in upstate New York? He got sent away. You didn’t hear about it? He left owing three months rent. Cheap son of a bitch never tipped me, not once… You’re not a relative, are you?”
She didn’t answer, just walked away.
She should’ve known. Wasn’t it always the way? Whenever she had the slightest hope that things might work out for her after all, fate always snuck up on her and kicked her in the ass.
She went outside and naturally it had started to rain. Pushing her suitcase ahead of her, the rain pouring down on her, she walked across town to the Port Authority bus terminal and spent the last of her money on a one-way ticket to Attica.
The bus didn’t leave till five a.m. so Angela had to spend the night in the terminal. The saddest thing was no one even tried to pick her up.
When she was a teenager, living with her parents in Weehawken, New Jersey, she took buses into the city all the time and guys at the Port Authority always hit on her. Once, when she was seventeen a guy in a leather vest with a handlebar mustache approached her and asked her if she was interested in becoming a model. She was so naive then she actually thought it was a good career opportunity, that she’d been discovered. So they went to his “studio” – it didn’t ever occur to her to ask why a photographer would have his studio in a practically condemned… R.O. in Hell’s Kitchen – and after a few minutes of general-type questions he asked her to take her clothes off. She thought this was a little, well, unusual, but he explained that all the girls did it and if she wanted to make a thousand bucks a week she’d have to take nude modeling gigs.
She knew where this was leading and asked, “Wait, so are you, like, a porno director?”
“I make adult films, yes,” he said.
She couldn’t figure out if she was offended or flattered. She knew she should be offended, but it was kind of exciting, the thought of getting into the adult entertainment business. And, hey, she could be the next Jenna Jameson.
So she took off her shirt and undid her bra, waiting for the admiration to begin. But when the guy got a look at her barely A-cup breasts he said, “Sorry, no thanks,” and practically kicked her out of the place.
She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, she’d just been pissed off; but if there was a life-changing moment in Angela’s life, that had been it. The rejection by the porno director had led to a downward spiral. Several years later she took the Pam Anderson/Anna Nicole Smith route and got her boobs done and went blonde and even started wearing the blue contacts. She barely looked like her old self. But had her new look made her any happier? Had it fuck. For years her body had sent out the wrong signals, attracted the worst possible men, and what was it doing for her now? Men were walking by her, ignoring her, like she was fooking invisible. If you couldn’t get a guy to notice you at the Port Authority you knew you were way past your sell-by date.
Finally, she got on the bus and, unable to sleep, stared blankly out the window. If she’d been in a less hopeless state she might have realized that there wasn’t much point in spending the last of her money to go visit Max. After all, how would a guy serving a stiff jail sentence, who was apparently broke when he got sent up and
