Slide, page 6
Desperate for some rock, feeling dizzy, Max went, “I know I’m a thousand bucks short.”
Felicia fired back, “So why you think I took it? Maybe yo’ damn sushi chef stole it.”
Max thought about this. Katsu steal from him? It didn’t add up but, hell, nothing added up right now.
“What the fuck ever,” Max said. “But if I ever find any money missing you better watch your ho ass because next time you won’t be so lucky. Next time I’m gonna slap you silly.”
Later on, when he finally got some good crack into his system, Max wished he could’ve taken that last line back. Slap you silly. That didn’t sound hip and cool at all. What the hell had he been thinking? He worried if this was a side effect of crack. It was supposed to speed you up, but it seemed to be slowing him down. Maybe that explained Kyle.
It had to be the crack because Max used to be the type of guy who could always think of the “big line” at the right time. Like when he was working in sales, going for the bulldog close, his brain never failed him. But now, lately—well, in the last couple minutes anyway—he was losing his edge.
He had to get the crack out of his system, get some food into the mix.
“Katsu, get your nip ass out here!”
Max’s sushi chef came into the living room, bowed. Max liked that—showing his boss respect.
“Make me three spider rolls,” Max said. “Pronto. And skimp on the caviar again, I’ll shoot you. Got that, slant eyes?”
Jeez, did he really say slant eyes? He took a deep breath, thinking, Easy, big guy. Chill.
“Yes, Mr. Fisher,” Katsu said. “I make spider roll for you right now, Mr. Fisher.”
“It’s The M.A.X.,” Max said. “My name’s initials now with ‘The’ in front of it. Got that?”
Katsu bowed and went into the kitchen to make the sushi.
The missing thousand bucks was still eating away at Max. A business was like a ship. When there was a hole you had to plug it up fast or the whole fucking thing would go down.
Max went into the kitchen, said to Katsu, “You didn’t happen to pocket a thousand G’s of my moolah, did you?”
Katsu looked confused. What now? He’s accused of stealing, suddenly the skinny little nip can’t speak English?
Max took out his piece, jammed the muzzle into Katsu’s ear and said, “You best not be lying or I’ll slap you silly. I mean, I’ll slap you really hard. I mean, I’ll...Ah, fuck...”
Marching out of the kitchen, he couldn’t believe he’d blown the big line again. He had to cut down on the crack. There was no doubt about it, it was fucking up his brain big time.
He needed an antidote—a little weed, or throw some Valium into the mix. You can never be too mellow. Mellow yellow Max—that would be his new thing. Fuck, rap, it was horseshit anyway. He’d go acoustic, sing peace songs. C’mon, how hard was it to sound better than Cat Stevens anyway?
Yeah, the Val was kicking in and Max was chilling big time now. Easing on down the road, he cracked open a bottle of Merlot. Wine had become his drink of choice. Had to lay off the hard stuff and after Alabama he didn’t want to see another bottle of Bud for as long as he lived. But you want the class and culture of wine you gotta fucking show it. So he had bought a shitpile of Merlot, had racks of it on display. He knew Merlot was where it was at after he saw that movie, Sideways. What was wrong with that idiot anyway? The divorced blond chick was horny as hell, wanted to fuck him stupid, and he kept blowing her off? And Max was supposed to take wine advice from that loser?
Max poured a large glass, took a lethal wallop. He swirled a little of the stuff in his mouth and didn’t they spit it out then and say, tad fruity?
He spit some out and said, “Tad fruity?”
Then he made mmmph sounds and swirled some more, went “1987, late fall,” then said, “Ah, fuck it,” and drained the glass in one gulp.
He felt the munchies coming on fast and, thank God, Katsu brought out the spider rolls just in time.
“Sorry about before,” Max said, going for a super smooth, jazz musician-type voice, like he was a DJ on fucking Lite FM. “Katsu, I think you’re a really cool cat, man. I didn’t mean to frighten you or anything with that gun. That was just the crack talking, that wasn’t me. But I’m chill now, I’m real chill. So what do you think, man? We chill?”
“Yes, we are chill,” Katsu said, and he bowed and returned to the kitchen.
Max wolfed down the sushi—man, that was good shit, but he was starting to get sick of it. He’d been having sushi three meals a day for, what, two months? It was classy food, but still.
Scarface was playing on the TV. For a little change of pace, Max put in Carlito’s Way. What could he say, he couldn’t get enough of Pacino. And come to think of it, didn’t he and Al look more than a little alike? Yeah, they both had that smoldering gig going on, the half-lidded eyes.
Max whispered, “You wanna piece of me?”
Maybe Pacino would play Max in the movie of his life. And, make no mistake, Max’s life was ripe for the big screen. They loved riches-to-rags-to-riches stories, didn’t they? And, whoa, hold the phones, what about HBO? His life could be a series—God knew there were enough plot twists—and he had a title already, Maxwood. Speaking of which, he was starting to pop a little wood.
“Beeeee-atch!”
Max called for Felicia again and a couple of minutes later she was busy on her knees, chilling. It was great to have things back to normal with his bee-atch and he could tell she was digging the whole mellowed-out Max Fisher deal. Had to be better than having a gun in her face anyway.
Later on, he and Felicia were chilling with Merlot, watching Pacino, when the phone rang.
“Maximilian?”
It was fucking Kyle.
Shit, had the pot and the Val brought him that far down? It even seemed like Kyle was talking fast.
“My name’s not Max, it’s The M.A.X.”
“Oh, sorry ’bout that, sir, I guess I have the wrong number.”
“It’s me, you stupid fucking moron,” Max said, thinking was this a put-on or what? Could a human being be this retarded? “Hey, and I was about to call you. Where is the mule with my candy? We were supposed to do that deal today? Ten grand, remember?”
“That’s why I’m calling,” Kyle said. “I have some bad news for you about that.”
Felicia was eating a spider roll, not paying attention.
“I’m warning you,” Max said. “I’m an emotional guy lately. You don’t want to say anything that might rub me the wrong way.”
“I can’t send you any more candy, sir.”
“Maybe it’s the Southern accent or the insane amount of coke I’ve done today, but I don’t think I understood you. I thought you just said you can’t send me any more candy.”
“I’m sorry,” Kyle said. “It’s out of my hands.”
“Whoa, whoa, what the fuck’re you talking about, ‘any more’? You trying to say you’re cutting me off? No one cuts off The M.A.X.!”
Looked like mellow Max Fisher was a thing of the past. That didn’t last long.
“Please don’t be mad at me, sir,” Kyle said. “It’s not my fault, sir.”
“Who is it then? Is it that nigger, Darnell?”
Felicia gave Max a nasty look. Max mouthed, Sorry. Should’ve added, My bee-atch.
“No it’s not Darnell either, sir. It’s our friends in Colombia. They don’t...maybe we shouldn’t be talking about this on the phone.”
“Paranoia’s no way to live your life, Kyle. What the fuck is the Colombians’ problem?”
“Well, they don’t trust you, sir. They said until they get a chance to meet you we can’t send it up to you in New York.”
“Did you tell them who they’re dealing with?”
Long pause, then Kyle said, “I told them your name.”
“Not my name, you idiot. Did you tell them who I am. Did you tell them I’m a mogul, I’m a kingpin, that I’m a respected businessman, that nobody ever, ever calls the shots with The M.A.X.?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Kyle said. “I’m just reportin’ the facts as the facts were reported to me.”
“Stop the slow talk and just fucking listen to me,” Max said. “I have twenty grand sitting here and I have no candy. Do you understand my predicament? I have customers who have very sweet tooths, or teeth, or whatever the fuck, and I need to get them their goddamn candy.”
“Maybe if we can arrange a meeting—”
“You mean an audition? I don’t audition for nobody.”
Did Pacino ever say that? If not, he should’ve.
“I’m sorry, Max...I mean, The M.A.X. If they can’t meet you, they won’t do the deal.”
Max let out an angry breath, shook his head, said, “If those cocksuckers think I’m going down to Alabama they’re out of their minds.”
Yeah, that was the way—put the peons in their place. Peons—he liked that, but he wasn’t sure what it meant. Did it mean people you pee on? Yeah, probably.
Kyle was saying, “They said they want me to bring them up to New York. Somethin’ about how they want to see you on your own turf or somethin’, see what you’re all about.”
“I hope you realize how insulting this is,” Max said. “But if you think I’m letting them walk into my apartment you’re out of your mind. I’m not letting any scummy Colombians into FisherLand. Dis be my crib, homey. You all wan’ in, you waits like for the in-vite.”
Felicia was still on the couch next to Max. He didn’t want her listening in on his important business and said to Kyle, “Wait a second,” then went to Felicia, “Baby, do me a favor, and chill in the bedroom, okay?”
She got up slowly and Max watched her walk away. There was no question she had all-star knockers, but her ass was on the big side; you might even call it fat. He’d have to have a little talk with her about that at some point. Maybe she’d have to cut down on the desserts, start using Splenda.
When Felicia was gone Max said to Kyle, “Okay, here’s the way we’re gonna work it. They can come to my town. That’s right, New York is my town, I fuckin’ own it. But we do it on my terms. I pick the time and the spot and I’ll let them know what the time and the spot is when I want to tell them what the time and the spot is. You got that?”
Yeah, this was the old wheeler and dealer talking. Nobody could pull a power play on The M.A.X.
“I’ll let them know all that,” Kyle said. “But there’s just one other thing.”
“Yeah, what is it? Come on, talk, I don’t have all day.”
“You think, maybe, when I come up to New York you might have the girls there ready for me?”
Max didn’t know what Kyle was talking about, said, “What the hell’re you talking about?”
“You know,” Kyle said, “the girls from the Internet—the ones on the Porsche and the sister too. Bambi? Cause you said you were gonna bring ’em down here, but you never did and—”
“Have you ever heard the word chill, Kyle?”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“I have the girls all primed up, ready to meet you. Bambi was just saying to me the other day, ‘Why can’t I meet Kyle already? I really want to meet him.’ And I went to her, ‘Easy, baby. Chill.’ And now I’m telling you the same thing.”
Long dead silence then Kyle went, “I don’t get it. So the girls’ll be waitin’ for me up in New York City?”
“Only if you stay chill,” Max said, and clicked off.
Max got up. Whoa, nelly. He felt a little unsteady but, hey, you’re doing major, like, biz with Colombians, you’re gonna be a tad unsteady. Shit, there was that tad again, his inner Brit coming out.
Then it suddenly hit him and he screeched, “Fucking Colombians!”
Was he in the big time now or what? Colombians, fucking drug lords, were coming up to the city to meet with him. This was his moment, his time. Like Pacino, he’d eat the savages for fucking breakfast. Didn’t Pacino take all these dudes mano a mano? Wait, that was Cubans, not Colombians. Eh, same shit.
Yeah, everything was going The M.A.X.’s way now. Keep Kyle happy, get him some sleazy hookers, let them fuck him stupid. Well, could he be more stupid? Now he was sounding like Chandler from Friends. How talented could one man be? Voices, business acumen, well hung, and he was a good man too, promoting diversity in his work force. Christ, he wanted to hug himself.
He shouted, “Yo, bee-atch! Git yo’ sweet ass in here, de man need his pipes blown!”
Maybe he’d let the ho sit on his face, she liked that, and she sure had enough on there to cover his neck as well.
He took off his boxers and settled back on the couch. Shut off Pacino, put on Snoop Dog for some mood.
His stomach rumbled, all that goddamn sushi. Fuck the diet food, an hombre like him needed some goddamn calories. He could see a porterhouse steak, mashed potatoes, mountain of gravy and some heavy wedge of cheesecake to top it off. Needed some meat on his bones to deal with the Cubanos.
Felicia came into the living room. Looked great topless but, man, that ass.
She went, “You ready for me, baby?”
Time for a little Scarface. Max, in his best Tony Montana, went, “Okay, fuck me, how’s ’at?”
Eight
Chico took a bloody baggie out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Bock.
“What’s this?”
Chico laughed. “A bonus. Remember the tall one, I cut that out of his asshole.”
CHARLES WILLEFORD, The Way We Die Now
Slide was waiting at the bottom of Grafton Street. He looked around, making sure no one was in sight, then ducked into the alley that runs alongside the rear entrance to Lily’s Bordello. Lily’s! The hottest venue in Dublin, where Bono held court and any celebrity just had to show up. You did a gig in Dublin, it was de rigeur to hit Lily’s after. Slide had heard that the Stones were in town and he knew those geriatric bastards would have to show up at Lily’s after their gig.
Slide muttered, “You better fooking believe it.”
His plan, half baked as usual, was to nab Keif—Keith Richards. Figured Mick had too big a posse but Keith—yeah, he was getable. This alleyway, with the new smoking ban in force everywhere, was where the celebs nipped down for a hit of the nicotine or weed or what-the-fook-ever they were inhaling. Keith, he’d be first down, grab his own self some major drag of some substance, and Slide would be waiting. He’d grab him fast, get the fook outa Dodge.
Jaysus, how much would the Stones pay to get the Keifer back? Slide’s mind boggled at the prospect of, like, millions! Then fecking Mick Jagger would bankroll his record-breaking killing spree. Satisfaction that.
The side door opened and in the half-light he saw a thin figure, leather jacket, shades, white hair, skinny as a rodent, lined face. Shit, it looked like someone took a cookie cutter and drew deep wedges on his cheeks.
Slide was momentarily taken from left field, thinking, Has to be Keifer.
They say the camera adds twenty pounds, so it figured in person he’d look damn near anorexic. Or damn near dead was more like it. Sure enough, Slide heard a click of a Zippo, that was the clincher. Keith would definitely be a Zippo kind of dude.
Slide pulled the black sack from his jacket, moved like a shark, had the bag over the guy’s head and shoulders and chest in jig time. But was he breathing in too much pot smoke or something, or did the guy go, “The fook you doing?”
Keith with an Irish accent? What the fook? That couldn’t be right. But, yeah, probably being in Dublin, the Keifer figured to go native.
The guy was going, “The fecking cigarette has burned me lip.”
Slide nearly said, You’re half in the bag. Instead, let the crowbar do the talking—walloped the fuck on the head and that’s all she wrote. He bundled the guy over his shoulder—the guy weighed, what, seven stone?—and started away, when the side door opened again.
“Ar, bollix,” Slide muttered as he ducked with Keifer behind some leaking bags of garbage and almost passed out from the stench. Not of the rubbish—of Keifer. How much cologne was the dude wearing? Did all rock stars drench themselves in that shite? Even through the sack the guy reeked to bloody high heaven. No wonder Mick got all the babes.
The door opened and closed—the coast was clear. He didn’t see anyone else till, at the top of the alley, a bouncer looked over.
Slide said, “Garbage run.” To hear the music papers tell it, the Stones had been rubbish for the last decade, right?
Slide thought he was fooked, but the bouncer was distracted by the arrival of a white limo. Slide slipped past him, moving towards his car, parked on Nassau Street.
He threw the guy in the front seat, buckled him in, and burned rubber outa there.
Outside the city limits, he pulled into a lay by. He wanted to see the famous guitarist up close. But then, pulling the sack off the man’s head, he echoed his favorite words of James Joyce, going “Aw shite...shite and onions.”
Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t Keith Richards. He was in his fifties, thick lips, with a scar to the right of his mouth, a button nose and blue eyes. The guy had to be fooking Irish.
The guy came to, seemed completely lost for a while. Then he focused, looked at Slide, and asked, “What the hell is going on?”
Slide nearly whined, “You’re not Keith Richards?”
The guy gave a laugh, no humor in it, a sound that seemed to reflect a life where shite happened often and always.
The guy went, “Don’t you know me?”
Slide didn’t, said, “I don’t.”
The guy sighed, as in Give me patience Lord, then said, “I’m a crime writer.”
“A what?”
“A crime writer. I’ve won the Macavity for—”
Slide shut him off, roared, “Ary Christ, shut the fook up or I’ll remove all your fookin’ cavities and your tonsils too! Are you somebody? Anyone give a damn about you?”
The guy looked crestfallen, stammered, “I-I got starred reviews in Publishers Weekly and Booklist...well, maybe I caught them on an off day b-but—”
Slide gave him a slap in the mouth, said, “I don’t want to hear about your bloody career. I want to hear somebody will pay cash, lots of cash to have you back.”
