Max felt like, well, like a fucking moron, but he had to cover and went, “Your man was planning to double-cross us. Soon as we cleared the gates he would’ve wasted us both.”
Rufus wasn’t buying it, went, “K wasn’t gonna double-cross nobody, yo. K was my boy an’ shit. Man, I been with the nigga since I got inside, knew the bitch on the outside, too. I been plannin’ this breakout with him, shit, since my first day in lockup.”
It was starting to hit Max just how badly he’d fucked up.
He said, “I know you don’t wanna believe your own man would fuck you over, but I got spies working for me, okay? And this guy, J-”
“K,” Rufus said.
“K, L, M, N, O, P,” Max said. “Who gives a shit what his name was? The guy was a fuckin’ rat, all right? So forget about him. He’s better off dead.”
Max reached into K’s pocket, found a set of keys, then Rufus said, “Yo, K got the uniforms too. Gotta put that shit on.”
Max found the uniforms, tucked under K’s shirt. They were bloody, but what the hell were you gonna do?
They put the uniforms on as fast as they could, then they made it all the way down and the laundry truck was right there. Shit, this stupid plan might work.
They were about to get in when Max heard, “Hey, dude.”
He turned and saw Arma, battered, covered in blood. Shit, he looked like Bruce Willis at the end of the first Die Hard. He was still holding the bloody wooden shaft, going, “You ain’t turnin’ nigger on me, are you, dude?”
Angela and Sean were in the sedan at the meeting point, about a mile away from the prison. They could hear the alarms sounding and knew the riot was on. Angela had taken time over her appearance, thinking, What does a girl wear to a riot besides a fookin’ Kevlar vest? She’d decided on basic black. Not only was it appropriate but it made you look thin, she hoped. Sean, well fashion was not his gig. He was wearing the green army jacket beloved of the boyos, they practically slept in them, along with his de rigeur combat pants and Doc Martens with steel toe cap. On his knee, he had a pump shotgun, and there was a mess of other weapons in the back. Angela had selected the SIG, she was familiar with that baby and you know, it sort of accessorized her outfit. Sean reached in his jacket, took out a flask, drank deep, offered it to her, and she took it, swallowed, raw Jay and by Jaysus, it burned.
Sean said, “A…a… a… d-d-d-d-d-drop… of… of the… c-c-c-c-creature.”
He reached in his other pocket. If he produced snacks, she’d shoot him.
He didn’t, but he did take out a grenade.
Catching her eye, he said, “Been sav-v-v-ing it f-f-f-f-f-f-for… a… s-s-s-spec… ial… occ-c-c-c-c-c-c-asion.”
Even from where they were, they could see the smoke rising from the prison and the wail of sirens had started, like a hurt banshee. The copters would be there soon. She looked down to check out the SIG in her lap and saw a tent in Sean’s pants. She muttered, “Like, now? ”
Not far from them but out of their line of vision were Sebastian and Yanni. They were watching Angela’s car.
Yanni was slugging from a goatskin bag – where the hell had he got that? – and Sebastian knew it was ouzo. Sebastian was taking the traditional route, gin and tonic, in a plastic bottle. It was whispering to him, “Nothing to worry about.”
Right.
In the distance, Attica was burning, but here things were calm. For now anyway. Sebastian had begged Yanni not to just rush over to Angela’s car and blast away, and for once Yanni had listened to him. It was the possibility there might be money to be had if they waited for Fisher to show up that had convinced him. They were here to wreak vengeance – but a little profit would be nice, too.
Yanni had a Ruger and the metal glinted as he turned it this way and that, waiting. He handled it like someone who had long experience with weapons. Sebastian was carrying a Walther PPK, for the love of Bond and Britain. He’d once gone pheasant hunting and managed to hit the gamekeeper, to the delight and hoots of his fellow drunken shooters. He’d give a lot to be back there now.
Paula was lying across the back seat, still sleeping off her booze and the clout to the head.
Yanni shifted suddenly and they saw a laundry truck pull up. An old guy – Fisher – and a huge black man jumped out. They piled into Angela’s car and the car pulled slowly away, no massive getaway, just a cautious stealing pace.
Yanni hit the ignition and smiled grimly, said, “Poli mallakas.”
Sebastian took a long swig from the gin and hoped he wouldn’t bloody castrate himself during the ride.
Max knew he needed to think of something quick, went with, “I was just here gettin’ set to kill this here nigger.”
Rufus, the fucking idiot, said, “You was doin’ what, boss?”
Still calling him boss, just what Arma needed to hear.
But it didn’t matter because Arma wasn’t buying the crap anyway. He said, “What y’all wearin’ laundry clothes for? Y’all tryin’ to run out and leave your Aryan brothers to burn? I save yer sorry ass back there and you turn coyote and leave me?”
Max’s mouth sagged open, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. He couldn’t figure out how Arma had survived the heap of Crips who’d descended on him.
“I shoulda known,” Arma said. “Shackin’ up with the dirtiest nigger in this here prison. He probably put so much a his black meat in you all them nights, he been gettin’ to you, made you black yerself. Ain’t that right, Fisher? You don’t know what color you are no more, do you?”
The sirens were blaring. Lockdown was going to happen any second. If they were going to do this, they had to do it now.
“I told you,” Max said, “I’m gonna kill the guy, but I want to do it in private. I just want it to be me and him, hombre a hombre.”
Arma said, “I’ll show you how it’s done,” and the next second he was attacking Rufus, trying to stick his shaft into the big man’s neck. Rufus was fighting back, but Arma was quicker and the wood gave him a longer reach.
Knowing this would be another defining moment in his life, Max went over and drove the knife into Arma’s back. This time he knew how do it, getting it in the first time, through all the bone and muscle and stuff.
“Fisher, you fuckin’ nigger,” Arma said.
He tried to turn, bring his shaft up to use on Max, but he crumpled to the ground.
Holy shit, killing people was fun! Max felt like a hunter, like a real fucking man.
Max left the knife in Arma’s back and said to Rufus, “You okay?”
Rufus said, “Yeah, just some blood, ain’t no nothin’. But, yo, boss, you got some moves, yo.”
They got in the truck and headed out of the prison. There was so much chaos at the gate, the guard took a cursory look at Max and Rufus and waved them through.
“We did it, boss,” Rufus said. “We really fuckin’ did it.”
Max was still lost in his own world, high from killing Arma. No wonder crackheads killed people, it was fucking addicting. Max couldn’t wait to kill again. He wanted more. More, more, more.
Rufus gave Max directions and he followed them. About a mile away from the prison on a dirt road they approached a dark sedan. Max drove the laundry truck off the side of the road, out of view, and then he and Rufus ditched the truck and jogged over to the sedan.
Angela and her IRA friend were in the front. Max and Rufus got in the back and Max said, “Where the fuck is Paula?”
“Who?” Angela asked.
“The big-chested girl? My biographer,” Max said, like it was obvious.
“The fook’re you talking about?” Angela asked.
He didn’t have time to explain, or to wait.
“Drive,” he said, and the IRA guy drove away.
Max leaned over the seat, gave Angela a big fat one on her full lips. Man, she smelled good, like fucking Irish Spring. He remembered how much he loved fucking Irish chicks and he couldn’t wait to give Angela the meat tonight. He said, “Man, I can’t wait to give you the meat tonight, bitch.”