about Hot Blood, Tough City, toyed with Songs of Innocence. But, nope, it had to be The Max.
She was so excited. She went and made herself a dry martini; no one, she knew it, no one, made them drier. It was good, just the right amount of martini, and gave her the boost of confidence she needed as she wrote the following to Mr. Max Fisher, c/o Attica State Penitentiary: Dear Mr. Fisher, I am a mystery writer of high standing in my genre, a friend of Laura Lippman, Tess Gerritsen, etc. I have been commissioned by a very high profile publisher to write a true crime book and I truly feel you are the subject most deserving of my time. I believe you have been the most appalling victim of our Justice System and I would like to set the record straight and I must confess, as a woman, I find you hugely appealing. I enclose a photo. Yours sincerely Paula Segal (MWA, IACW, ITW, PWA)
She had the perfect photo for this schmuck – her, bursting out of a bikini, nearly topless. And her favorite part about the photo, she looked demure. Demure was a word you got to use when you were a writer of her caliber. Recalling the photos of Petrakos from the trial, she knew this asshole loved big busts, and was he ever getting the max with this shot. Her previous lover, an Annie Lebowitz wannabe, had taken it. The girl was a lousy lay but she sure could take good photo.
Delighted with her herself, she practically skipped down to the post office and sent the letter. Attica, just the thought of it made her shudder.
Four
“I think you should get on my body now.”
It wasn’t like Max had never been raped before. During a drinking binge in the south he somehow wound up in a motel room in Robertsdale, Alabama with a Chinese guy named Bruce. Maybe it wasn’t technically rape because Max might’ve gone up to the room willingly, but really the saving grace was that he’d been so bombed he couldn’t remember any of it.
Man, what he would have given for some hard liquor right now.
The worst part, it was only around noon, and he had nine hours till Rufus and lights out. First, lunch in the mess hall. Jesus Christ, eighty percent of the prisoners were goddamn black. He felt like it was that time in the city he was so absorbed reading a copy of Screw that he missed his stop on the 6 train and got out at fucking 125th Street. Walking through the mess hall he was thinking, Be Richard Pryor in Stir Crazy. He was even whispering to himself, “That’s right, I’m bad, I’m bad.” But he must’ve been shaking his ass too much because the walk didn’t get him any respect – it had the opposite effect, getting him catcalls from all the guys. They were whistling at him, calling him “sweety” and “honey,” and Max, shaking, thought, Jesus Christ there was gonna be a goddamn gangbang.
He knew he had to do something to get some respect. Maybe he should make a shank and cut somebody. Isn’t that what that Eddie Bunker said you were supposed to do? Yeah, but how the fuck was he supposed to get a shank his first day in the joint. Eddie, couldn’t you’ve given us a goddamn instruction manual?
Later, in the yard, more guys were eye-fucking him, saying things like, “Gimme some a dat” and “I wanna tap that big ol’ ass, gran’pa.”
Gran’pa?
That was the part that stung the most. Yeah, Max was in his fifties, but he’d always seen himself as a hip, happening dude. It hit Max that not only was he a lot whiter than these guys, he was a lot older. It seemed like every guy was a goddamn twenty-two-year-old. What, was he the only guy in the world over fifty who was into drugs and shooting people? He had thirty plus years on all these guys, so how come they weren’t treating him like the wise elder statesman? How come he wasn’t getting respect, like Morgan Freeman in Shawshank? Speaking of Shawshank, Max wasn’t going into the prison laundry room any time soon. Not until he made that shank, anyway.
As much as he feared the inevitable sexual assault, Max had to admit, on some level, all the attention was kind of, well, flattering. He couldn’t get women to look at him the way these guys were unless he was paying them good money, and even then Max never felt liked. Jesus, it was bringing tears to his eyes. The… A.X. crying? At Attica? Jesus, that had to be the absolute wrong thing to do – show your weakness. But he couldn’t help it. Maybe he was channeling his inner sissy, but what could he say? It felt good to be wanted.
A guy in the yard was bench-pressing – he looked Mexican, Puerto Rican, Dominican, something Spanish Harlemy. And the son of a bitch was huge, looked like he could be a linebacker for the fucking Jets.
Benching what looked like at least three hundred pounds he said, “ Hola, jovensita,” and blew Max a kiss.
The… A.X. knew his Spanish, the guy was calling him “young lady.” Jesus H.
Max turned away and the guy said, “Hey, I finish talkin’ to you, mi puta?”
Max tried, “ No hablo espanol.”
“Don’t worry,” the guy said, “you don’t gotta talk espanol. When you got my dick in your mouth all day I ain’t gonna hear nothin’ you sayin’ anyway.”
The guy laughed then let the weight fall onto the brackets so hard the whole bench shook.
“Look,” Max said. “ No necesito trouble.” Then, hearing the hillbilly in Deliverance saying, You in trouble now, boy, he said desperately, “I mean, I’ve got nada against Puerto Ricans.”
“Puerto Rican?” The guy sounded offended. “I look PR to you? Man, I should cut you just for saying that shit. I’m fuckin’ Panamanian.”
Jesus, weren’t Panamanians supposed to be, like, midgets? The only fucking Panamanian giant on the planet and Max had to run into him. Was that shit luck or what?
Then the guy said, “I should introduce myself properly, if you’re gonna be my little puta. Me nombre es Sino.”
Sino? What was that, fucking Chinese? The guy wasn’t fucking part Chinese, was he, some kind of ChinoManian? Max had had enough Chinamen visit his ass for one lifetime, thank you very much.
“Sino’s what they call me in the Bronx, shit’s short for asesino. You know why I got that name? ’Cause I like to kill people, that’s why. I killed sixteen people and you gimme your ass you won’t be number diecisiete. Most people in here, they don’t like to talk about people they took out, think it’s gonna fuck up their parole. But Sino got Life, No Parole hangin’ over his ass. Sino ain’t goin nowhere so Sino don’t give a shit.”
Max was about to give a shit – in his pants. But out of nowhere Rufus appeared and said, “Yo, lay off my bitch, bitch, ‘fore I beat yo’ ass.”
Sino stood face to face with Rufus, both mad bastards about the same height, and a crowd formed around them to watch the confrontation. Max felt like he was in high school – well, not like he himself had felt in high school, but like he might’ve felt if he’d been a popular girl in high school. It was like Max was head cheerleader and the two jocks were fighting over him. Max had to admit – it felt pretty damn good.
But the good feeling passed quickly. Max was thinking maybe he should’ve taken the Ed Norton in The 25 ^ th Hour route after all, gotten somebody to beat the crap out of him before he went away. He was just too damn pretty. A face like his, naturally guys couldn’t resist it. Maybe if he hadn’t been so interested in getting laid during his last forty-eight hours, and hadn’t wasted all his time reading books and watching movies, he could’ve thought of this practical shit.
Rufus was yelling into Sino’s face, “Mohammed Fisher’s my bitch. Stay off my bitch, know what I’m sayin’, bitch?”
And Sino was screaming back: “I don’t see no sign on his ass say he your bitch. I don’t see your dick in his ass neither.”
Rufus said, “There don’t gotta be no dick in his ass. Just ’cause there ain’t no dick in his ass don’t mean the bitch ain’t mine.”
Max was tempted to yell, You’re both fucking morons! but had a feeling that wouldn’t go over well. Maybe the guys would decide to share him, holy fuckin’ shit.
