climbing on top of her, walloped him upside the head with it, said, “We call that cold cocked.”
She had to move fast. Did she think of releasing the other women? Did she fuck. It was every bitch for their own selves.
She was exhausted, and as she headed toward the docks she thought about how she’d gotten here, to this low point in her life. A few years ago, things had been going so well for her. It seemed like just yesterday she was living in New York, working as an executive assistant, dating guys, living in a studio apartment in Gramercy Park. Yeah, she’d made a few bad decisions – a few spectacularly bad decisions – but did she really deserve this?
She boarded a ferry to Naples. As the boat pulled away, she yelled, “Greece, you can kiss my Irish arse goodbye!”
She remained in the back of the ferry staring half-dazed, watching until the lighthouse at the tip of Lesbos faded to nothing. Good fookin’ riddance.
She counted the money from the kid’s belt, was surprised to find nearly two thousand euro. It’d be enough for a new outfit and a plane ticket, so sayonara you bastards, she was getting the first flight out of this shitehole and back to the States.
Of course then she’d be nearly broke again. But she knew that Max, the little bollix, he’d have money stashed and if she was in that place of total desperation she could do whatever it took to get hold of it. Then, just maybe she could use the stake she got to set up something to sustain her till she could come up with a longer-term plan.
Right there and then, she’d have killed for some lip gloss and perfume. She could still smell the guard. She was tempted to jump into the sea and wash herself clean.
Say what you want about Greek ferries, they have one great feature – a bar.
She headed down there, ignored various suggestions from the motley crew and ordered a large Metaxa. The barman leered at her and she gave him a look that no doubt withered his coming hard-on.
He muttered, “Mallakismeni.”
Yeah, like she gave a shit.
Over in a corner, she saw a girl in her very early twenties, sobbing quietly. She looked pale – maybe English, maybe a fucking albino – and broken.
Angela thought, Welcome to my world, honey. Had one motherfooker, like, ever helped her out? Was there one cocksucker on the whole planet who hadn’t fooked her over in some way? Nope, not one lousy decent human on the planet. She thought, You paddle your own frigging canoe, no time like the present to learn that life sucks and if you were a single woman, guess who gets to do the sucking?
Still, there was a good heart in Angela once upon a time and it still flickered – dimly, but there.
She approached, asked, “Join you, girl?”
The girl looked up, looking relieved to see not only a woman, but an American. She began to weep profusely, said, “Oh, please do.”
The British accent reminded her of Sebastian, but Angela was still sympathetic. She drank off half her brandy and Christ, it burned, bitter and with a kick like a Santorini mule. Which was why she was drinking the shite.
She offered the remainder to the girl, who protested, “Isn’t it a little early?”
Such a Brit.
Angela said, “Darlin’, it’s been too late for you and me since we landed in this fooking country.”
For a moment the girl seemed startled at the profanity and then they both began to laugh, prompting the Greek men at the bar to throw the evil eye at them. Nothing scarier for a macho type than the sound of women’s laughter. They fear it’s directed at them and they’re mostly right.
The girl told Angela the usual tired story, boyfriend fooked off with their cash. Same sad song, same sad result, and all she had was her return ticket on the ferry
Angela would never quite know why she asked, “How much is the airfare home?”
Stunned, the girl said she could get a cheap flight for maybe three hundred euro.
Angela gave her four hundred, gripped her hand tightly and said, “Buy yourself a nice dress, have a meal and get home as if the devil was chasing you.”
Ten
“Riots generally had no causes, or the causes were pretty small, like a particularly bad meal in the mess hall.”
Violence was in the air in Attica, you could practically smell it. After the Aryan was found dead in the shower, rumor spread that Sino’s crew was behind it. Two days later Carlito, the Mexican kid, was found dead in the shower – his throat slashed after he’d been gang raped. Max felt sorry for him, but, come on, what did the moron expect, going up against the Brotherhood with nothing but a sharpened toothbrush? Hadn’t he boned up on prison literature before he got sent away? Eh, not everybody could be as savvy and as street smart as The… A.X.
Rumors were spreading that when Sino got out of the hole the Aryans were gonna make their big move. Rufus and his boys were planning to get in on the fun, and the spic gangs and the Bloods were going to get their licks in, too. Max could hardly contain himself – a major prison uprising was brewing! Riots at Attica, it was so fuckin’ Pacino. Someday, when they filmed the story of his life, the riots would be the fucking set piece. It was going to be biblical, historical, and Max Fisher was going to be in the middle of it all.
One morning, when Sino had been away in the hole for about a week, the mail guy came by Max’s cell, held out an envelope, and said, “Fisher.”
Max was surprised to hear his name called. Rufus got letters all the time from God knows who, but so far Max had gotten nada. After all, who was there to write him? He didn’t expect to hear from his relatives, that was for sure. They all said he’d disgraced the family, they never wanted anything to do with him again, yadda yadda yadda. As far as Max was concerned, that was fine with him. His brother called him a loser and a lowlife. Jesus Christ, the guy was a fucking teacher and he was calling Max a loser? Come on.
Max was a big-time criminal, a fucking celebrity. He figured there had to be, like, dozens of websites devoted to him, and blogs, and, hell, fan clubs. Maybe the letter was from one of his fan club members.
Max looked at the return address: Paula Segal.
His first thought: Somebody I banged?
Yeah, probably. He’d had so many conquests over the years, how could he keep track? Now that he was famous, now that he’d made it, she probably wanted to weasel in, score some of his dough for herself. Yeah, like that was gonna happen. His ex-wife had taught him all about pre-nups.
He opened the envelope – there was a note and, oh yeah, baby, a picture. And, whoa, hold the phones, this chick was hot! After nearly three weeks in lockup, Rufus was looking better to him every night – but this girl, fuck, she was a serious knockout. Okay, Max hadn’t looked at her face yet, but those huge gazongas, had to be 36-C’s at least, maybe D’s. They were high, too, and he liked the way they were squished together in that little swimsuit, and so tight you could bounce a quarter off ’em.
Finally, after maybe a minute or two, he looked at her face. Nah, she didn’t look like an ex, but that didn’t mean anything. Would Hef recognize all of his conquests? When you were a big-time player like Max Fisher, women tended to blur.
He skimmed the note, something how she was a writer, knew some other chicks – Laura Lippman, Tess Gerritsen, hopefully they were stacked too – and, holy shit, she wanted to write his life story. See, Hollywood was calling, and sooner than he’d expected. Yeah, it was all coming together, just at its own pace, that’s all. He was already the most feared man at Attica, and now some hot babe from Manhattan, a big-time writer, was all over him. Obviously she’d want to fuck him. She had to get to know her subject as well as she could, didn’t she?
As soon as he could get his hands on some paper and a pen, Max wrote: Dear Paula, Love the picture!!!! As you can imagine I get A LOT of requests like this. James Patterson wanted to write my story, but I said, No, thanks,
