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.”
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-”