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 whose life had clearly gone down the shitter, be able to help her? In her desperation, she was hoping that Max had stashed some money away and would help her out for old time’s sake. Yeah, okay, their relationship hadn’t always been great and she’d nearly gotten him killed a couple of times, but it hadn’t been all bad. There had been times when she felt close to him, when she’d actually enjoyed his company. Okay, maybe she was just imagining this, but he was certainly the wisest man she’d ever known. All right, maybe that wasn’t saying much given her dating history. But despite all his shortcomings, there was no doubt that he was a sharp guy, right? He’d built a business and become a self-made millionaire. You can’t pull that off and be a total idiot, can you? He also seemed to have made quite a splash as a drug dealer, showed that the first time wasn’t just a stroke of luck. He was also in touch with himself, always meditating and talking about Buddhist shite. Maybe at the very least he could advise her, tell her what to do to straighten her life out.
When she arrived in Attica, she was exhausted, had barely slept in forty-eight hours. Still, she was focused and went right to a drugstore. Her checkered history had taught her some things like check out for CCTV. Nope, nothing she could see, so she helped herself to some Chanel. Max had always been partial to his lady smelling fine. Then she went down the block to a thrift shop. The owner was absorbed, reading a copy of the local pennysaver, so she went to the back and boosted a dress, low cut to let that cleavage show, and though hardly cutting-edge fashion, it was clean and bright. She already had her heels, never left home without them.
Good to go, she left the store, her mood slightly elevated. It was a rush to shoplift right under the shadow of one of the country’s most notorious prisons. It lifted her confidence, showed she still had some moves, and she felt she was going to need them.
She hitched a ride to the prison. Wasn’t hard – seemed like everyone was heading in that direction. It was apparently the big attraction in town, like freaking Disneyland.
She hadn’t inquired about visiting hours and she found out she needed to arrange her visit in advance. No problem there though – a little flirting with the guard got her through, the stolen dress already paying some dividends.
She was in the visitor’s room, waiting for Max to appear. She expected Max to shuffle in looking beaten, defeated and lost. Older guy like him, not exactly athletic, they’d have eaten him alive by now. She figured she’d give him a dose of sympathy, a little TLC, and that might shake the bucks loose from him.
Her first surprise was when he was led into the room, was she imagining it or was the guard acting all deferential? And Max, glowing with well-being and satisfaction, a smile of utter confidence on his face. He looked like he’d been on a health farm for months. Even looked like he’d lost a few pounds.
He motioned to the guard, and Angela could read his lips: I’ll call you if I need you, Bob.
Dismissing him? The fook was this?
He sat, stared at her deadpan for a while, then said, “So what’s shaking, babe?”
Total strut, acting like he didn’t miss her at all, like he might’ve even forgotten she existed.
She said, “I heard you were here and I was concerned and thought I better come and see if you needed anything.”
He gave his high-pitched laugh, the one that had always grated on her nerves. But she hid her distaste, knowing pissing him off wouldn’t accomplish anything. Naturally he was staring at her tits.
“Them the same babies I paid serious green for?”
Actually, she’d paid for her own boob job, but if he wanted to believe they were his, why bust his bubble?
She tried to look coy, been a long time since she’d had to use that gig, said, “All yours, hon.”