Slide (15 page)

Twenty-Two

There are few more lethal creatures than an Irishwoman with a grudge.

I
RISH
S
AYING

Angela had been casing Max’s apartment and, Jesus, she’d nearly blown it. The other day he’d come out the front entrance, right on to Second Avenue, and nearly seen her. His face had taken on a stricken look, but then a cab had pulled up and distracted him, giving Angela a chance to duck out of sight.

She hated to admit it, but the bastard looked pretty good. He’d lost weight and was wearing a classy suit—shame about the beige, but it looked like Hugo Boss. He still made her stomach turn, and yet he had a certain air about him now, like he’d finally gotten it together. She liked that he was clean-shaven as Slide’s bearded Arab look was starting to bring her down big time, not to mention scare the living crap out of her. She was impressed with how Max had hailed the cab—no frantic arm waving, just a hand barely raised and then the cabbie had screeched to a halt, knowing a player when he saw one.

The next morning Angela was back in front of Max’s building when she saw Kyle, the young kid from the newspaper article, coming out the front door. He walked to the corner, waited for the light to change.

He had a forlorn country boy look about him, as if he’d hiked over here from the Ozarks or some place like that. He had a kind of cute face—in a lost, helpless sort of way. Best of all, as she walked up to him, swinging her hips slowly back and forth, she saw he was blushing. Every woman knows that when a guy starts blushing you’re going to be adding notches to the bedpost.

Angela said, “Hey, handsome, anybody ever tell you you look like Brad Pitt?”

Angela had used lots of pick-up lines over the years but her “Pitt-Depp technique” had been her most effective by far. It went like this—if the guy had blond hair she told him he looked like Brad Pitt; if he had brown hair she told him he looked like Johnny Depp. Guys soaked that shit up every time.

Although Kyle looked nothing like Brad Pitt, she could tell the line worked big time as he blushed some more, then said, “Wow, thanks, ma’am. And you know who you look just like?”

“Lindsay Lohan,” Angela said posing. She’d been to the hairdressers earlier and had asked for the Lindsay Lohan look.

“No, ma’am,” Kyle said. “You look like Meg Ryan.”

This was one Angela had never heard but, hey, maybe it was an Irish thing—seen one mick, seen ’em all.

She silently blessed that hairdresser, screw Lindsay Lohan, and she put her fingers to her lips and whispered, “Actually I’m Meg’s half sister.”

She’d meant it as a joke but he stammered, “N-no way.”

“Way,” Angela said, going along with it, thinking either this kid was putting her on or he was a total moron.

“Man, this is so awesome,” the kid said. “I’ve seen all your sister’s movies, like, a hundred times. Wait till The M.A.X. hears about this.”

The M.A.X.?
What the F?

“Have you seen
my
films?” Angela asked.

“You mean...you mean you’re an actress too?”

“One of the best.” Had this been Angela’s easiest pick-up or what? She moved right in close, his blush getting a notch redder, then she said in what she knew was her huskiest tone, “How would you like a signed picture?”

She could see his boner hit instantly and, she had to admit, that excited the hell out of her.

She added, “I have a small apartment in the city, for when I’m planning a shoot. How would you like to accompany me there? You could help keep the press away.”

He looked like he might pass out. Before he had a chance to even consider the sheer implausibility of any of this, she hailed a cab. Yes, she had to wave, a lot, but finally she got one to stop. She squished up close to Kyle, letting her breasts casually rub against his arm.

When the cab pulled up to the apartment on Sixth Street, the kid had zoned out, was in some kind of trance, and kept muttering stuff about Meg Ryan and Jesus. If they hadn’t needed Kyle as ransom bait she would’ve dumped him somewhere because she was getting seriously weirded out.

She slipped her hand in her bag, took out a pair of shades and said, “So I won’t be recognized.”

She led him down to the apartment. Slide was stretched on the sofa and Angela went, “My agent.”

Slide was impressed, asked, “How the fook did you pull it off?’

Angela turned to Kyle, whispered. “Why don’t you wait for me in the bedroom and I’ll sign the picture for you?” Then added, when he still hadn’t moved, “And if you’re a good boy, maybe I’ll call Meg and let you chat with her on the phone.”

Kyle hurried into the bedroom.

“The fook is Meg?” Slide asked.

“Meg Ryan.” Angela posed. “You think we look alike?”

Slide gave her a once-over and said, “You’re fookin’ weird.” Then he said, “Okay, better get to it.” He went to the counter, picked out a knife with a six-inch blade.

“To what?” Angela feared she might have misjudged a boyfriend yet again. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “We agreed we’d hold him for ransom. You’re not going to...hurt him, are you?”

“No, I’ll be sure to give him lots of anesthesia,” Slide muttered, smiling.

“Seriously, Slide.” Angela was panicked. “Remember all the trouble you got into with that Boyo in Ireland. Don’t hurt him.”

“I’m not going to hurt him,” Slide said. “I’m just going to frighten him, that’s all, so Fisher can hear some begging and screaming when we make the ransom call. You want the money for the Sopranos house, don’t you?”

This seemed logical, but somehow Angela didn’t trust him completely.

She said, “Swear to me on the graves of your parents and your sister that you won’t hurt him at all.”

Slide had told Angela the sad story of how his family had been killed in a car accident when he was twelve years old.

“You know, I think you better leg it,” Slide said. “You’re ruining me concentration.”

“Swear—”

“All right!” Slide exploded. Then more quietly, “I swear. Now would you go take a walk while I get him ready for the phone call?”

Angela turned and walked out, still wearing the dark shades. She headed up Sixth Street. She didn’t know how she’d reached yet another new low in her life. For a while things had seemed so hopeful—she’d just wanted to have a happy life in the suburbs, a couple of kids, the swimming pool—and now that poor kid was in that apartment with her latest monster boyfriend, and it was because of her.

Fuck him, she decided. She’d do kidnapping with him, but she wasn’t gonna do murder. That poor kid—he’d really thought she was Meg Ryan’s sister, and maybe that he was gonna get laid. The poor, poor fool.

As she reached the corner of Second Avenue, she told herself enough was enough. She was sick of getting pushed around. As she headed back to the apartment, she decided it was time to do a little pushing back her own self.

Twenty-Three

The fact that I’d mistaken him for anything other than a typical shithead policeman could mean I was disgustingly superficial, capable of allowing my entire perspective on life and law enforcement to be swayed by...what?

A smile? A few kind words?

A
LISON
G
AYLIN,
Hide Your Eyes

Joe Miscali was having a very bad day. After the complete fuck-up with the drug bust, the freaking SWAT team on Staten Island, the wrong location, and, oh Jesus, the
Daily News
, his fellow cops had been breaking his balls all day, going, “Hey, Joe, you got any hot tips, don’t tell us, okay?”

Like that.

And Felicia winding up dead didn’t help. Like he was ever gonna get another source when he let his people get wasted, half-eaten by freaking seagulls?

Joe was biting his nails, one of the reasons his wife had legged it. At the marriage counselor’s she’d screamed at him, “I’m sick of you and your fucking anxiety!” Christ, if she could see him now.

His phone shrilled and he was seriously thinking of not answering it, one more shitheel taking a shot at him. He picked up anyway, fearing the worst.

It was Rodriguez, one of his undercovers, who’d been tailing Max and Kyle. Rodriguez had been stationed outside Fisher’s building for hours. Now he said there was movement. Kyle, the ’Bama boy who palled around with Fisher, had come out of the building and gotten into a cab with some chesty blonde, maybe an UnSub. Miscali started shouting, telling Rodriguez to get his ass in gear and follow them. Rodriguez sounded real hurt, shot back that if Joe thought he wasn’t up to the job, yada yada. So now Joe had to, like, placate the guy for, what, five minutes, telling him what a terrific cop he was, with the rest of the Department lapping it up, until Rodriguez calmed down.

Rodriguez called Miscali back later, said he’d tailed Kyle and the broad to Sixth Street, Little India. He said they went into a building together, then the woman came out alone, and then went back in again a minute later.

Rodriguez went to Miscali, “What am I supposed to do?”

“Do?” Miscali shot back. “Stay the fuck where you are is what you do.”

He put the phone down, tried to figure out what the hell was going on, who the hell the broad was.

Slide went, “Fook,” as he hefted the kid’s weight on his shoulder, tried to get the balance right. He thought, Jaysus, this kidnapping lark is fooking hard work is what it is, how come they never show that in the fookin’ movies?

And here was the bold Angela, back in the apartment going, “Put him down, now.”

Like she was Miss Super Hero, come to save the day.

Raging, Slide dropped the kid onto a chair, going, “I thought I told you to leg it.” The kid had a piece of cloth tied in his mouth as a gag and bruises on the side of his face. He was unconscious.

It was hard to read Angela’s expression behind the dark shades. She said, “You promised you wouldn’t hurt him.”

“Gimme a fookin’ break,” Slide said, “and get me a cold one, the kid is heavier than he looks.” Slide tied the kid’s arms behind the chair with a length of chain, then wrapped the remainder of the chain around Kyle’s chest and legs. Then he got a basin of water and lashed it into the kid’s face, going, “Wakey wakey.”

“Thank God,” Angela said as Kyle’s eyes opened. “Slide, listen to me. I want you to let him go.”

Slide laughed.

“I’m not joking,” Angela said, and she grabbed the butcher knife from where Slide had left it when getting the basin. Pointing the knife at Slide’s throat she went, “Let him go.”

“The fook’re you going to do with that?” he asked.

“I’m not going to get mixed up in another fookin’ murder because of you.”

“So what’re you going to do, kill me? That’s a good way not to get involved in another murder—kill somebody.”

“I will if I have to.”

“Oh, Christ, just put the knife down and give me a hand here. We’re wasting valuable time.”

“I’ll put the knife down when he’s safe.”

Slide laughed, said, “That’s a great plan. You think he’ll go home and decide not to tell anyone he was kidnapped? I guess we’ll just hope he sees the fun in it, eh?”

“He might not tell,” Angela said.

“Oh, stop with that shite talk and give me the knife.”

Slide reached out, but Angela didn’t give it to him.

She said, “I’m not going to let you hurt him.”

“Don’t you get it?” Slide said. “This is the way it has to be. If we hurt him a little he’ll be afraid, then when we release him he’ll keep his mouth shut. Trust me—I’ve studied kidnapping and I know how the gig works. We have to hurt him, but I won’t kill him, I promise you that. Now just give me the fookin’ knife.”

Slide inched closer to Angela then he lunged toward her suddenly and wrested the knife away. They stood looking at each other for a moment, he with the knife, watching his own reflection in the lenses of her glasses. For a moment, they both wondered whether he was going to plunge the knife into her. But he didn’t. He swung his other arm around in a roundhouse instead, clocked her solidly on the temple, and she went down like the proverbial steer.

He dragged her out of the way, then got busy, spreading plastic on the floor, especially under the chair where the kid was sitting.

Slide knew he had to cut something off. A finger, an ear, whatever. That’s the way it was done. It’s how you showed you were serious.

In his chair, the kid was struggling weakly.

“What shall I cut, boy?” Slide grabbed him by the hair, tugged the boy’s right ear away from the side of his head. Just like slicing off a chicken wing.
Ear’s lookin’ at you, kid.
But ears, ears had been done, like, so often, they were fookin’ old. He needed something new, something original. Then, bingo, it came to him. Oh, man.

He unbuckled the kid’s belt and worked the kid’s jeans and Y-fronts down over his hips. The kid was near catatonic with fear.

Slide stepped back to marvel—this kid had a whopper all right.

“Fook, not even the black fellahs could equal that,” he said.

He grabbed the dick, and began to cut.

When she came to, Angela heard Kyle whimpering. Slide was nowhere in sight. She went over to Kyle, saw his pants around his knees, saw the crude pressure bandage Slide had put in place, saw the blood all over, and she ran into the bathroom, barely reaching the sink before violently throwing up.

Twenty-Four

He was as attractive as a barracuda.

D
ESCRIPTION OF
R
OBERT
S
TROUD,
T
HE
B
IRDMAN OF
A
LCATRAZ

Max knew what he was looking at and it didn’t take him long to figure out who it had belonged to. He had once walked in on Kyle taking a leak and had noticed the kid’s huge dong. At first he was surprised and—let’s face it—jealous, but then he realized it made total sense. Little brain, big dick, right?

Speaking of brains, Max racked his, trying to figure out who could’ve done this and why. He’d found another note in the box—in addition to the now who’s a dick? one—warning that if Max didn’t deliver $50,000 in cash to the “phone box” on the corner of Second Avenue and Fourteenth Street by 1:00
PM,
more pieces of Kyle would arrive. Yeah, like Max would ever pay a penny to get Kyle back. Shit, Kyle out of the picture helped Max—if the kid was dead Max wouldn’t have to worry about him flipping on him for the drug shooting.

But Max still wanted to know who was behind this, if only for his own safety. The one explanation that made any sense to him was that it had to have been the fat guy from the drug deal, what the hell did Felicia say his name was? Shoe-Shoe? Yeah, Shoe-Shoe must’ve nabbed Kyle in revenge and cut off his dick, the sick fuck.

Then Max had a thought that horrified him a lot more than the sight of the Ziplocked dick lying on the floor. What if Shoe-Shoe came after Max next? The thought of getting his dick chopped off terrified Max to the point where he was ready to call the cops and get his ass arrested pronto. Spending the rest of his life in jail, or even the death penalty, had to be better than walking around dickless.

But then Max managed to calm himself, his old Zen side taking over. He thought,
Okay, be wise, Maxie, be in the now
. Yeah, Shoe-Shoe was bonkers, but maybe this was it—maybe one dick was enough for him. After all, the note had been,
Now who’s a dick?
Not,
Whose dick is coming off next?
This gave Max some reassurance.

Max stared at the dick, nudged the bag with the tip of his shoe. He was mesmerized by its size. For years Max had been using pumps and taking pills trying to enlarge his dick, but to no avail. Max wondered—couldn’t those things be transplanted nowadays? If they could do hearts and livers they had to be able to do dicks, right? And didn’t that guy down south, Bobbitt, get his reattached after his old lady dumped it on the road? Kyle was from the south—maybe there was something about southern dicks. Maybe Max could go for dick replacement surgery or whatever the hell it was called. Maybe he should, like, save the dick just in case. Hell, what if Shoe-Shoe showed up at the apartment later and chopped off Max’s dick? Wouldn’t it be good to have a spare?

He entertained the idea for a moment, but the moment passed. He picked up the Ziplock with two fingers, went out to the hallway, and dropped it down the garbage chute.

Slide was seriously antsy. He’d been hanging out at the phone box on Fourteenth and Second since dropping off the package. He was waiting for Fisher, but there was no sign of the bastard. What the fook was with that? You get a dick hand-delivered to your building and you don’t even show?

He said aloud, “Bollocks.”

He was drinking Coors Light, yeah,
Light
, not by choice, mind, he’d hit a deli and that’s what they’d had.

He asked himself, What’s with Fisher? Why is he ignoring us? Is he scared to leave his apartment?

And right away, he knew what to do.

He caught a cab, went directly to Fisher’s building, and told the doorman he was a police officer, quickly flipped his wallet open and shut. Nothing in there but a MetroCard, but Slide must have made a convincing-looking cop, or could’ve been the Irish accent, because the guy let him right up.

He took the elevator to the penthouse, rang the buzzer. The door opened slowly and there he was, the man himself, looking a little the worse for wear, like he’d been on a speed jag or some such shite.

Max went, “Yes?”

Slide figured this guy would be a pushover, said, “It’s about your young friend.”

Fisher looked sick, as if he was going to throw up and then said in a weak voice, “Shoe-shoe sent you.”

Slide thought, The fook was Shoe-Shoe? but, going along with it went, “That’s right.”

Max looked disgusted, as if something had stirred some vile memory, and said, “Jesus Christ, you’re not fucking Irish, are you?”

Jaysus, and Slide had thought his American had been coming along so well.

“Actually, I’m of British descent,” he said, trying to sound miffed.

“Eh, Irish, British, same bullshit,” Fisher said and waved him in.

Slide followed, noticing the package on the counter and wondered where the item was. Must be fairly ripe by now.

Slide decided to play it as it laid, went, “My partner, see, he’s a psycho, I tried to stop him from cutting the...you know, but he’s impossible to control. He wanted to kill the kid. If he knew I was here, he’d kill me.”

Fisher’s eyes got a sly sheen and Slide knew the guy was figuring the odds. Fisher said, “You’re not exactly tight with your partner, huh?”

Slide nearly laughed but kept it reined, and said, “I won’t lie to you, Mr. Fisher, I want the cash but some things, they’re just not right and anyway my, um, partner, he’d as soon kill me as share the money.”

Fook, he was losing track of who he was supposed to be, but Fisher helped with, “So, you’d be open to a new deal, one that, let’s say, terminated your agreement with Shoe-Shoe?”

Slide had forgotten the name and was delighted to hear it again. He tried to put on a serious look and said, “What is it you’re proposing, Mr. Fisher?”

Fisher looked wired now, as if he’d won a new lease on life. He headed for the bar, asked, “Get you something?”

Slide, in a real mood for playing, went, “Got any Coors Light?”