Angela had some Xanax stashed in her purse and over dinner, with those mini bottles of wine, she knocked those babies back and it knocked her right out. The last thing she heard was Slide asking the stewardess, “You got a carton of, like, Luckies?”
She thought she might seriously hate him.
Entering Kennedy Airport, Slide’s first response was, “Holy fook!”
Angela’s response was slightly different. She felt relief, hearing the accents, seeing the American flag, like, everywhere, and knowing she was, if not home, at least on familiar terrain. New York was her town; she knew how it worked.
Slide’s Irish accent had got him through Immigration and he got the 90-day visa. Angela had her American passport and she got, “Welcome home.”
Outside Kennedy, they had to join a line for a cab and Slide was marveling at everything, going, “Fook, the taxis are yellow.”
He wanted to skip the line, said, “Let’s jump the queue.”
She explained two things, slowly and patiently because her head was, like, fookin opening from a migraine: “One, you want to get killed in New York, try skipping the line. And two, that’s what we call it here, a line.”
Nothing could dampen Slide’s enthusiasm and he said, “Could do me a line of coke right about now.”
Online, she’d found a hotel in the Village, got two weeks at a decent rate, the Euro finally working in her favor.
The driver, a surly black guy, said, “The flat rate is forty-five bucks, plus tolls.”
Slide, into it, went, “Jaysus, I’m being mugged already.”
Either the black guy didn’t understand the accent or he could give a fuck.
When Slide saw the size of the hotel room, he said to the bellboy, “Okay, we’ve seen the closet, now where’s the room?”
Angela shushed him said, “Give him five bucks,” and then tried to explain to Slide about tipping.
He listened with astonishment, then said, “Scam city, what a con.”
Angela said she needed a shower, a big drink, and a lot of sleep.
Slide said, “You grab some z’s, babe. Me, I’m gonna paint the town red.” Angela was going to have to talk to him about his awful idea of what constituted current American speak, but she was exhausted from the flight and decided the slang lesson could, like, wait.
Slide hit the street, figuring he’d off his first American after a cold one or two. He fully intended chasing the serial killer record and he was in the right city to start. As he entered a bar he hummed a few bars of New York, New York.
The place was quiet. A guy at the counter was alternating between sipping a Coors Light and a pint of water. He had on those grey-tinted shades that shouted, Serious intelligent dude. He was reading the sports page.
What the hell, Slide was in the mood to talk, so he grabbed the stool next to the guy and asked, “How you doing?”
The guy shut the paper with a sigh, turned round, gave Slide a serious intensive look, then asked, “Irish?”
Slide was a little put off, thought he’d got the New Yorker thing down, but said, “You got me, pal.”
The guy flicked his hair and said, “I know an Irish guy and, well, what can I say? He sure can talk.”
Slide wasn’t sure if this guy was fooking with him so he shouted to the bar guy.
“Hey, before Tues, right?”
That’s some New York speak for ya.
The guy took his sweet time getting his arse in gear but finally came over and said, “What do you need?”
Slide didn’t like the guy’s tone, thought maybe he’d off both of the fucks, get a jump start on his record. Then he said, “Gimme a Wild Turkey, beer back.”
The guy next to Slide exchanged a look with the bartender and Slide thought, You guys dissing me? Then he asked the guy, “You want to join me in a brew?”
The guy said he’d have another water. The fook was wrong with him?
The drinks came and the bar guy asked, “You running a tab?”
Slide stared at him, wondering what the fook was he on about.
The guy beside him said, “He means would you like to pay now or pay when you’re done? How it works, you put some bills on the counter, and he takes the money as you go along.”
Without thinking, Slide went, “Touch my cash, he’ll be touching his right hand, wondering where his fingers went.”
The guy laughed, as if he thought Slide was joking.
Slide knocked back the Turkey, drained the beer, belched, and put his finger in the air, doing a little dance with it, signaling for more booze. He’d seen that in a movie and always wanted to do it. You tried it in Ireland, you’d be waiting a wet week for service but the Americans, they liked all that signal shite, ever see them play baseball, nothing but fookin signals, anything but actually hit the damn ball.
The second Turkey mellowed Slide a notch and he felt that familiar heat in his gut. He’d had enough of these guys and asked the bartender for directions to the nearest betting parlor. As a child, his old man used to take him to The Curragh, the racetrack in Kildare, and Slide could pick winners simply by looking at the horses in the parade ring. It was a weird and wonderful gift, but erratic, not always dependable. If Slide could have depended on that gift, he wouldn’t have ever got into the kidnap biz.
Slide cabbed it to the Off-Track Betting tele-theater on Second Avenue and Fifty-third Street. It was five bucks to get in and he was going to argue but said, ah fook. Then, as he paid, the woman went to him, “You need a shirt with a collar.”
Said it as an order, like this was the Plaza Hotel and he was, what, some low-life shitehead? He heard the voice, prodding him to lean over and strangle the old wench, but he thought, Whoa, buddy. Easy now, partner. There was probably CCTV everywhere around here and after the whole Keith Richards fuck-up he wanted to be a little more choosy about his next victim. The last thing he needed was the NYPD breathing down his arse.
He cocked his finger and thumb in the gun gesture, said, “I’ll be seeing you in, like, jig time.”
Around the corner on Third Avenue and down a couple blocks, he found a sporting goods shop. Bought a golf shirt with a collar and dashed back to the OTB. He was already twenty-five in the hole and his stake was only a hundred to start. He needed to pick winners, and fast.
Unfortunately the horse-picking talent he’d had as a child in Ireland eluded him in Manhattan. In the race going off at Belmont, Slide loved the look of the seven. He bet half his stake on the horse, only to watch the jockey pull the rat up on the backstretch.
Quickly Slide’s stake eroded. He was down to his last ten bucks. He was waiting by the TV for a glimpse of the next post parade, when he noticed a guy celebrating, high-fiving with other gamblers. The guy had long straight hair, a strong jaw-kind of looked like a poor man’s Fabio.
Slide had heard the guy cheering home the winner of the last the race, the race where the pig Slide had bet finished dead last.
Slide went up to the guy and said, “Had the winner, huh?”
“You kidding?” the guy said. “I hit the Pick Six for the first time in my life. Can you believe it?”
Slide, real happy for him-yeah, right-went, “So how much that get yeh?”
“A lot,” the guy said, smiling widely. Was Slide imagining it or was the smug bastard trying to rub it in?
“What’s a lot?” Slide asked.
“Eh, about five thousand bucks,” the guy said, still with that self-satisfied tone, like one lucky ticket had transformed him from lifelong loser to king handicapper. “For me that’s not a big deal. I’ve been hitting winners left and right for weeks. Who’d you play?”
“The seven.”
“The seven!” The guy said it so loud, people were looking over. “You played that piece of shit? That was the first horse I crossed out in my Form. I can’t believe you played the seven.”
Slide, gritting his teeth, went, “So you some kind of expert on American racing or something?”