“Selling it on eBay, huh?” Paula asked.
The guy’s face flushed as if she had nailed it.
As she was signing the book, she asked, “Where you from?”
“Florida panhandle.”
Yep, definitely a sheep fucker. Good thing Paula wasn’t wearing wool, the guy wouldn’t be able to control himself.
Paula was waiting for the Events Manager when she saw a fat guy in a crumpled suit chewing on a disgusting cigar and staring at her. She knew he wasn’t about to make her the next supermodel, gave him the finger.
He smiled and she thought, Whack job.
He came over, said, “A moment of your time, Paula.”
Was he a fan? And with no book, of course? Did they even sell books at this store anymore, or was it really a giant coffee bar? And where was her publicist to protect her from this vermin?
“I can’t sign now,” Paula said.
“I don’t want you to sign anything,” he said.
“What the hell’s wrong with you people?” Paula screamed. “Don’t you understand that this is a bookstore? Meaning a store that sells books?”
He showed a badge, went, “Joe Miscali, Manhattan North.”
The name registered. She knew Miscali, of course, as she knew all the major players in Max Fisher’s life. He was the partner of Kenneth Simmons, the cop who was killed by Angela Petrakos’ boyfriend. Simmons was a major character in Bust. While Miscali appeared in Bust as well, Paula had renamed him “Fusilli,” a shout-out to her writer friend, Jim Fusilli.
She shot back, “A little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you, officer?”
She had no idea if this were true but had seen it on Law & Order and had stolen it for the book.
He smiled, displaying nicotine-stained teeth, said, “Max Fisher.” Added, “A moment of your time.”
Could she refuse? Sure, but then what? Besides, she was curious.
She muttered, “Okay,” and he led the way to, naturally, the coffee bar.
Paula was definitely more curious than upset. Why was Miscali asking about Max Fisher? Fisher was officially on the Most Wanted list, but she hadn’t heard about any Fisher sightings in years.
“Get yah?” Miscali asked.
The future Pulitzer winner said, “A decaf frappe.”
He almost sounded friendly, said, “Take a seat.”
She did. Noticed a long-black-haired guy in the corner, rattling like a demon on his laptop and stopping periodically to laugh out loud then re-attack the keys with ferocity. Now that was the kind of guy she wanted to write with, not Stiegsson, whining about how it was too dark in Sweden to write, or whatever his complaint du jour was. Maybe when she got to book four in the series — she needed a good, snappy title for that one — she’d look this guy up.
The cop was back, placed the coffees on the table with two wedges of carbo nightmare Danish. Like she could, and watch the shit go right to her hips? No way, Jose. Not when she was looking to get into talk shows.
He said, “I shouldn’t,” then took a massive bite out of the Danish. “Oh... ugh... holy fuck, that’s good.” Then he wiped his mouth with a napkin, said, “Okay, to business. Where’s Fisher?”
“Why would you think I know where Fisher is?”
“You wrote a book about him.”
“About him. Why does that mean I know where he is? And he’s presumed dead, isn’t he? Is that what you are now, a ghost detective?”
Unamused, he said, “Have you had any contact with him since the Attica riot and his escape or not?”
She was astounded, said, “I’m astounded.”
He wasn’t buying. “You were part of his... circle before all the smoke in Canada.”
She composed herself, which meant she pushed her rack in his fat face, said, “I’m a writer, I write about lowlife, I don’t hang out with them. Well, aside from those Irish writers who come to mystery conferences, but you get my drift.”
“Yeah? You got a big book out there. Looks like you got lucky, huh?”
She was livid. Did Laura L. have to endure this kind of condescending attitude?
She tried for haughty, went, “I’m working with a European writer now. Maybe you saw his name on the posters in the window. He’s upstairs right now, in fact.”
“I’m not interested in the Swede, honey, I’m interested in you.”
“Are you harassing me, Officer?”
“Excuse me?”
“Honey?”
“Huh?”
“You called me fucking honey.”
“Jesus, it’s a figure of speech. It’s not like I called you a whore for fuck’s sake. Tell me, when exactly was the last time you spoke to Fisher?”
She refused to answer this. She looked over at the long-haired guy. He was still banging on the keys, oblivious to the world. Her type of guy. If she were straight she would’ve been all over him.
“I’ll ask you again,” he said through a mouthful of Danish. “When was the last time you saw him.”
“At Attica,” Paula said.
“I mean since then.”
“I haven’t seen him since then. I thought he was dead like everybody else.”
“He’s not dead.”
“How do you know?”
“A hunch.”
“That’s how you investigate these days? On hunches?”
“I’ll do my job and you do your job.”
“I want to do my job. My job is to greet my fans.”
“Some job.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean you get one lucky hit, you get some PR, and you think you wrote the next Godfather.”
“I don’t think it, honey, I know it.”
“Where the fuck is Fisher?”
“Okay, I admit it, I know where he is.” Paula paused then said, “He’s hiding out in Pakistan. Maybe you should send Kathryn Bigelow to go get him.”
The cop was standing, put his card on the table, said, “Fisher will show up, especially now that your book is out.” He’d said book with total disgust, as if it were the name of a disease, and now added, “Fisher is predictable, he’ll be in touch, always returns to those he knew. When he does, call me.”
Then he was gone, leaving her with the remains of the Danish staring at her. She resisted for all of a minute, then snatched it, swallowed half, drooled, “Oh God, that is so good.”
The sugar high only lasted a brief time but during the buzz, she wondered, Was Fisher actually alive?
Nine
What a place. I can feel the rats in the wall.
Max had lived in some shitholes in his time, try eking out a living in a bumfuck cell in Attica. So now, now it was live large.
PIMP was bigger than Max had ever imagined. His “It takes care of you” slogan was catching on, dealers all over the city using it to lure in customers. Max hired the fucks who’d worked for the scumbags he took out in Brooklyn and ran his business like an army. The business blew up faster than fucking Shake Shack. He was the general — you better fookin’ believe it — and he had his colonels, lieutenants, etcetera below him, all the way down to the dealers on the streets. After his bloody rampage in Brooklyn, Max was a freakin’ urban legend. They were calling him “The Red Devil.” The Max had a nickname! Another nickname. Fuck, it was like he was the villain in some comic book, but better, because there was no superhero to catch him.
Max was riding high, but he’d had enough lows in his life to know how things could go from sixty to zero in a hurry. He was cocky, fuck yeah, but he was also as paranoid as that kid in charge of North Korea. Nobody except his most trusted high-ups got any face time with him, and even they didn’t know his true identity.