“How the hell did I get here?”
Long delay then, “Well, according to what it says here on the computer, you checked in yesterday afternoon.”
“But how?” Max said. “I live in fucking Manhattan.”
The kid didn’t have an answer to this, just stared at Max with a stumped expression.
Max said, “So where is…” He squinted at the brochure, holding it arm’s length away because he didn’t have his reading glasses. “…Robertsdale.”
“About forty miles from Mobile, sir.”
Jesus, sounded like the name of a freaking Glen Campbell song. And gee, like that really helped. Like the whole world knew fucking Mobile.
Baffled, Max returned to his room. He sat on the foot of the bed, racking his brain, trying to piece together the last few days of his life. He didn’t make much progress. He remembered seeing that baseball game on TV at a bar in New York. It was definitely in New York, he was sure of that. Wasn’t it that place in Hell’s Kitchen he’d been drinking at? Yeah, he remembered the bartender, the black guy, trying to cut him off, telling him he had a drinking problem. Max, who’d been schmearing the guy for weeks, must’ve given him five hundred bucks in tips, said, “Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” He realized he wasn’t when the bouncer carried him out of the place, dropping him on a pile of garbage.
Max had no idea why the bartender wanted to get rid of him, but the idea that he had a drinking problem was the biggest joke ever. Max Fisher couldn’t handle his liquor-yeah, right, that was a good one. Max knew he’d been drinking a lot lately-well, pretty much all the time-but he knew his limit; he knew when to stop. He was just in an alcohol phase that’s all. He was de-stressing, doing what he had to do to get by till it was time to get back in the game. Look at all the big players in every sport, didn’t they all have a time out for abusing something? Fuck, it was almost mandatory. It was freaking un-American not to have some issues. Dr. Phil built a career on it, for chrissakes. Besides, Max knew he was in total control and could kick the habit whenever he wanted to. That was the key.
All this thinking about drinking was making Max crave one. The few empty bottles of vodka and scotch strewn on the floor whetted his appetite even more. He went around the room, going, “Booze, booze, where the fuck are you? Come out, come out, wherever you are.” He needed the wag of the dog, or whatever the hell it was called. Finally, under the bed, a bottle of Stoli, one quarter full. To hell with the glass, it tasted best straight from the bottle. Mmm, yeah, like that. Yep, it was hitting home big time. Max Fisher was back, all right.
Re-energized, Max formulated a POA-get to Mobile, fly back to the city, figure out some way to straighten out his life once and for all. But, whoa, big problem: his wallet was on the dresser, but there was no cash, no credit cards. For all he knew, somebody had stolen his identity, was going around New York, pretending to be him.
Max tossed the wallet away, grabbed the bottle of Stoli, muttered, “Welcome to fucking Robertsdale,” and went bottoms up. The booze started weaving its dark magic almost instantly-reason you drank the shit, right? — and Max thought, Okay, you need a plan, Maxie, that’s all. One simple plan and get back in that goddamn saddle, let the suckers know Maxie is back. Think, Maxie, think.
At that moment there was a knock on the door-talk about kismet-and a Mexican woman outside went, “Housekeeping.”
Then it came to him out of, like, nowhere. He sat up, energized, muttered, “But have I got the cojones?”
The last gulp of Stoli assured him he had.
Two
A hole is nothing at all, but you can break your neck in it.
He was one dark, dangerous, lethal motherfucker. No one knew the truth of this better than his own self. They called him Slide because he didn’t let anything slide, ever. He’d killed thirteen and counting. Counting like the ritual psycho he was. Counting on there being more-lots more. He was, as they say, only getting warmed up.
The name, trademark, signature if you like-that’s right, he had a signature-came from what he’d whisper to his victim before administering his coup de grace.
“Know what, partner?…I’m gonna let it slide.”
Ah, that sheen of hope, that desperate last dangling moment of reprieve. It got him hot every time.
He had looks to kill, like a wannabe rock star. Long dark hair, falling into his eyes, always the black leather jacket and the shades, knock-off Ray-Bans. He wore a thin band on his left wrist, woven by the tinkers. He didn’t come from the classic horrendous background. He was that new comfortable Irish middle class-lots of attitude, smarts and a mouth on him. Raised in Galway, he’d been to the best schools, never wanted for anything. His passion was all things American.
He’d adopted a quasi-New York tone, learnt from movies and TV. His dream was to live in the Big Apple. Yeah, he actually called it that. His vocabulary was a blend of John Wayne, The Sopranos and De Niro. He was twelve when he discovered his talent for murder.
He had one sister, always in his face, taunting him about his long hair, his huge blue eyes that girls would swoon over. They’d been swimming, his sister and him, and literally, in a second, the voice said, “Drown the bitch.”
He did. Whispered to her, “Was gonna let it slide.”
The rush was near delirious, better than any jerk off to Guns and Ammunition. And fuck, even better, he made it look like he’d tried to save her. Got all the kudos that brought.
His father was into hunting, a successful attorney. Gentry and shooting pheasants, made his dad feel like a player. Slide shot him in the back. Terrible hunting accident, shame these things happen.
Slide was suitably traumatized. Yeah, right. Laughing his arse off as they comforted him. Duped everyone except for his mother. She knew, maybe had always known. The morning of Dad’s funeral, she confronted him, said, “You are the devil.”
He didn’t let that one slide.
Maybe the world didn’t know it yet, but Slide was gonna be one of the greats. Dahmer, Bundy, Ridgway, Berkowitz, Gacy, and Slide. The only problem with this killing gig was it didn’t bring in any dough. He couldn’t sell his memoirs and film rights till he was dead, or at least on death row, right? He also knew if he really wanted to make his mark, he would have to move to America. In the world of killing, the land of opportunity was the big leagues. It was easier to get guns and ammo and there were lots of people who needed killing. Compared to Ireland, America would be a goddamn playground. But he needed cash to finance his dream. Piles of it.
And that was how Slide got into the kidnapping biz.
It hit him one day that he was great at abducting people. He’d done it plenty, leading up to a murder. But wasting a victim right away was a major, well, waste. He thought, Why not hold onto a few, ask the relatives for some cash, and then waste them? Call it his Oprah moment.
To master the art of kidnapping he studied American films like Ransom, Frantic, Hostage, and Don’t Say a Word. He knew the mechanics of abduction, but had trouble on the follow-through. He knew how to do ransom notes and torture his hostages, but having a man or woman bound in his basement was way too tempting, and sometimes instead of collecting ransom, he’d kill them, chop up the bodies in his bathtub then bury them. His backyard was like downtown Baghdad-start digging, you were likely to hit bone somewhere. No one amused him like his own self and once, when his shovel clanked against an old victim, he muttered, Boner.