Sometimes Max took Felicia out clubbing to all the hip spots. Max felt like he was back in the good ol’ days at Studio 54. So what if he was the oldest guy on the dance floor and the kids called him “Gran’pa”? Max Fisher still knew how to get jiggy wid it and he and Felicia had a fucking blast.
But Max’s favorite place to take her to, to be seen, was the QT hotel on Forty-fifth Street. There was a hip swimming pool bar on ground level in the lobby and it was where all the current happening players hung out with their beautiful young ho’s.
Businessmen on their lunch breaks would stop by, not to swim, but just to leer in through the glass at the spectacular women in bikinis, wishing that some day their wildest dreams would come true and that they could score some of that fine poontang for themselves.
Max knew what it was like because he used to be one of those losers himself. But now he’d turned the tables. Now he was the one in the water with his beautiful smoking hot bee-atch, and the guys in suits were looking in at him. Man, it felt good to be a winner, on the other side of the glass.
The only little issue Max had had with Felicia was one day when he went into his safe in his office to put away some cashish, and noticed the wedge of green was looking a little low. He did a count and sure enough a thousand bucks was missing.
He said, “That fuckin’ puta’s stealing from me?”
Sounding like Pacino without even trying.
He went under his bed, took out his rod. You wanna be a drug lord, you better talk the talk. Max knew shit about guns, had never even fired one, but man, just holding a piece in his hand made him feel like his dick was six inches longer. Which would make it, what, a solid nine-and-a-half inches?
He started toward the bathroom where Felicia was showering, then he decided he needed to get pumped for this. He hadn’t smoked any crack in about an hour-Jesus, it was like he was going cold turkey. He didn’t have time to cook up some shit, so he took out the little silver wrapper, did some fast lines. This was nothing like the rock, barely a notch above a double espresso, but, man, it hit him like a train, fast and hard. He did a little dance, rapping a little of the gangsta stuff he’d been listening to, doing a little 5 °Cent. He sounded great and thought he could release a rap album and it would go fuckin’ platinum. But he’d need a cool name, have to use numbers or initials or something. What about M.A.X.? Yeah, that had a ring to it and man, he could rap. He’d go on stage in a suit-didn’t P. Daddy, or whatever the hell his name was today, do that?
But Max knew if he wanted to go gangsta he’d have to take it all the way. He’d get all the right threads. Shit, when he was The Man, the designers would be giving him clothes for free-they’d want their clothes to be seen on The M.A.X. He liked that, put The in front of his name, to highlight that he was the one and only M.A.X., the official M.A.X., that there was no other. Yeah, and he’d have buy a Jeep, get some customized The M.A.X. plates for it. Man, would that look bitchin’ or what? He laughed, bitchin’. He was getting’ down with the homies all right. The coke loosening him, he was flying, ideas hitting him, like a zillion a second. When he was a big-time rap star he knew all the brothers, all the bee-atches, would look up to him, like he was a mother who’d been around the block a few times and they best be showin him some respect. Yeah, he’d seen that respect, no, fear, from his bee-atch, Felicia. Her eyes fucking dazzled at his genius. They’d be in the hood, hanging with his homies, and he’d be her Mr. Wall Street. Like how many guys could pull off corporate America and be down with the gangstas? Yeah, it was time to pull some attitude on that sista.
Max went into the bathroom, slid open the shower door, and pointed the gun right at her face, holding it sideways, the way the brothers did.
He went, “You wanna get up in my face, bee-atch? Or maybe you wanna suck on some of dis?”
Not this-dis.
Felicia knew she was in some deep shit. She started begging, pleading for him to put the gun down, going “Don’t do nothin’ crazy” and “Don’t shoot me, please don’t shoot me.” It was great watching her squirm, being at his mercy. Now he knew what Pacino was talking about. Guns, drugs, tits and rap-what else did a man need?
Max went, “Where’s my fuckin’ money, bee-atch!”
He was so juiced he nearly squeezed off a round. Saw himself as Pacino, going, Fuck you, how’s at? And blowing the puta away.
She was still begging: “I swear to you, baby. I didn’t take nothing. Why I need yo’ money? You be givin’ me so much already. Think about it. You know that shit’s stupid, right?”
She went on, whining, and Max felt like he was losing his edge. Why did he do that bullshit coke? He couldn’t wait to get his lips around that fucking crack pipe.
He interrupted whatever she was babbling about and screamed at her, “I got ears, ya’ know! I hear things!”
Shit, Pacino again.
“I don’t know what the hell you talkin’ ’bout,” she said. “Just get that gun out my damn face! Get it out my face!”
“What happened to my fuckin’ money?”
“How I know what happen to it? I ain’t seen it. How’d I even get in yo’ damn safe? I don’t know the combination. I don’t know what you even accusin’ me for, pointin’ a gun in my fuckin’ face like a crack-up, dumb ass, street ho motherfucker.”
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…”