The Max

Sixteen

First thing Sino was gonna do when he got out – come at that bandajo Max Fisher hard. His two weeks in the hole, he been thinking about that shit all the time, thinking of different ways to make the man feel pain.

Fuckin’ Fisher. Sino shoulda taken his gorda ass out himself, made a mistake out saucering that shit to that puta Carlito. You can’t trust a Mexican to do nothing ’cept make burritos and even then, check out all the PR’s they hire at Taco Bell.

Fourteen dias in the hole and it didn’t break Sino at all. Made him stronger, more duro. He spent the time workin’ out down there, doin’ a thousand push-ups a day, and thinkin’ maybe he do Fisher with his hands. Take his time with it, maybe start in on his face, to hear some bones breakin’, that was always a lot of fun. Fisher, the bandajo , would be screamin’ and beggin’, and that’d only get Sino goin’ more. Maybe he’d break his arms, then his legs, all the bones in his body one by one, till he was one big pile of maricon bones. But he’d still be alive ’cause, yeah, that’s what Sino wanted, to make the man stay alive, to keep feeling pain.

Or, maybe he should burn Fisher’s ass? Yeah, seeing a man die in fuera was like a fuckin’ fiesta.

Wait, hold up, Sino had a better way to do it. He’d get a shank and cut him up real good. Name’s Fisher, right? So Sino gonna cut him up like a fish. Do it nice and slow too. Little cuts first, make the man see some blood, then get in deeper, make him see some real blood. He’d cut his whole body up but save the best part for last. Man say he cut a man’s dick off, like to talk about it all the time? Maybe Sino gonna cut off Fisher’s dick, feed it to him, then kill him.

Make that bandajo wish he never took that pie from Sino.

Angela had the cash, now all she had to do was trade it for the weapons and the car Max wanted. Way back, her boyfriend Dillon, that wannabe boyo – and what a piece of work he’d been – had introduced her to Sean, a genuine boyo, as lethal as they came. She’d seen him roll a dead cop in a blanket and dump him like an old carpet. Sean was from that fierce and ferocious school of old paramilitaries, the sort that’d never surrender, they’d sooner go down in a blaze of armalites and were always tooled to the max.

Sean, whose only claim to an income came from irregular shifts as a taxi driver, had a stammer and an atrocious record with women. He’d get seriously drunk, approach the most attractive woman in a room, and with his stammer go, “I’m Se… a… n… I’ve… n-n-n-n-n-o… job… will you let me r-r-r-r-r-ride you?”

Subtle, right? It was certainly clear and direct communication, but he was batting zero.

Angela knew he had the hots for her, due to the drool that leaked from his lips any time he looked at her. Time to make it sing.

He lived in an abandoned warehouse on the Lower East Side. He didn’t bother too much with security. His rep was well known – you rip off the boyos, dig a deep hole.

Angela knew how to visit a murderous mick: Bring a seven course feast – six bottles of the black and a litre of Jameson.

She climbed the shabby, worn stairs to his apartment on the second floor, seeing rats scurrying in the stairwell corners. They didn’t trouble her. After Greece, four-legged rodents were the least of her fears.

She knocked on his door, which had a massive Green Harp on it. He pulled it open and she thought, Jesus, he’s gone downhill.

Never an oil painting, he was dressed in a Galway Hurling T-shirt and baggy combats. He was barefoot and his face, under the red beard… it looked like someone had taken a blowtorch to it. Probably someone had – though Sean was still here, so whoever did it was surely now feeding whatever still swam in the East River. She noticed the SIG in his left hand, held casually.

Took him a moment to register who she was, then he went, “A…n… g-g-g-g-g-gela?”

Nothing wrong with his memory.

She smiled, said, “Conas ata tu?” How are you?

You want to lure a boyo, talk Irish.

He smiled. Most of his front teeth missing, and his gums, burned because he’d forgotten to close his mouth when they used the blowtorch. She did the real smart thing, the sort of move that kept her, if only precariously, in the game. She hugged him tight. He was an Irish man, and with that bust up against him, he was already signed, sealed and fooked.

Then Angela said, “I’ll be needing some weapons and a car,” and Sean went, “I d-d-d-dri-v-ve a c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-cab.”

She oh so accidently brushed his cock. The bastard was rock hard. She wondered how long it had been since he’d gotten laid. Yeah, how long since the Pope gave a shite?

She said, “Let’s have a jar. You still drink, Sean, darling?”

Let sensuality leak all over his name. He’d come before the next teardrop fell.

He said, “I… I… t-t-t-t-t-ta… k-k-k-ke… the od-d-d-d-d-d jar, right… e… n-n-n-nough.”

She went into his tiny kitchen and surprise, it was spotless. Bachelors, they went one of two ways, became total slobs – i.e., Max – or became obsessive-compulsive. He was the latter.

She found some Galway Crystal Glasses, those babies went for a fortune, weighed serious tonnage and were no doubt an heirloom from his beloved mother. The micks loved their Mums; no doubt there was some fookin’ Irish lace tablecloth neatly folded and lovingly stored somewhere in the place. She made the working stiff’s version of The Black and Tan, always amused the boyos, and they were one hard fooking act to amuse. Ask the Brits.

A large shot of the Jay and add just the right amount of Guinness, it was an acquired taste but it got you there, fast.

She brought the glasses in and, indicating the immaculate sofa, cooed, “Join me a gra.”

Nervously, he did, his combats showing a massive tent. She handed him the glass, said, “Slainte amach.”

The very personal version of cheers.

His hand shook as he took it and they clinked the precious glasses and drank deep. Well, Sean drained his, and she hopped up, said, “Let me freshen that, amach, and we’ll talk guns and why you’re going to help me.”

She added three fingers of the Jay and not so much of the black.

He half finished that, a dribble coming from his lips, tried, “A-a-a-a-ngela… I… d-d-d-d-dr… iv-v-v-ve… a… cab.”

She put her hand on his dick, said, “I always had a thing for you, Sean.”

The continued use of his name and with such tenderness, plus the booze, was really screwing with his head. Not that it looked like it took much, since the blowtorch incident; looked like his mind was mostly scrambled eggs anyway.

She unzipped him, asked, “Would you like me to take care of that stallion you have rearing up there?”

Would he fooking ever. He’d have sold the mother’s linen, glasses and grave for it.

She said, “I’m going to be your woman, okay, darling?”

He nodded, too weak to speak, and she asked, “The guns?”

He stuttered, “How… m-m-m-m-m-man… y… d-d-d-d-o… y-y-y-y-you, you… y-y-you… w-w-w-w-w-want?”