The sarcasm couldn’t have been more obvious, but the guy missed it.
“Yeah, you could say that,” the guy said. “I mean, they say only five percent of all gamblers come out on top, and I guess since I’m in that five percent that makes me an expert.”
A few minutes later, Slide watched the guy collect his winnings. He was such a high roller now that, of course, he tipped the teller twenty dollars, went to her, “Thanks, hon,” like he was De Niro in Goodfellas. Then he bought a round of drinks for his gambler friends. Offered to buy Slide one too, but Slide declined, going, “I don’t drink.” He was on a sarcastic roll all right.
Slide stopped betting. What was the point? He had a more surefire way to make his stake.
The smug guy hung around for the evening harness racing programs. He won a few more races, bragging to the teller, “I’m so hot, you’re gonna have to hose me down.”
When the guy finally left, Slide tailed him around the corner. It was getting late-there weren’t many people around. Near a construction site, Slide grabbed the fook by the shirt, pulled him beside a Dumpster.
And get this, the guy goes, “Hey, come on, easy on the shirt, man, you know how much that cost me at Banana Republic?”
Slide needed to get the guy to focus so he broke his nose for openers. The guy, hurting and seriously pissed off, whined, “Whoa, come on, I have to do a big photo shoot tomorrow for Crime Spree!”
“Crime spree this,” Slide said, then he shut the fook up with a few rapid punches, blackened both his eyes. Slide went, “Nothing personal,” and then he kneed him in the balls and took his wallet. His heart sung at the sheer weight of the cash. Meanwhile, the guy was groaning, “Help me, help me,” but it sounded like, Halle, Halle.
Slide bent low, face in the guy’s face, and, almost lovingly, moved the guy’s long hair from his ruined features.
It seemed to finally dawn on the ejit that he was in, like, deep shite and he croaked, “Are you going to kill me?”
Slide went, “Naw, I’m going to let it slide.”
He paused for a second. Then he reached out and crushed the fucker’s windpipe.
The guy had a very flash watch, looked like one of those high tech jobs. Slide helped himself to that, then gave him a kick in the head for luck. He laughed, said, “Lights out.” Then he sauntered off, going, “No hard feelings, all right, buddy?”
Fourteen
All I have in this world is my balls and my word, and I don’t break ’em for no one.
This was going to be the day of The M.A.X., the big enchilada, the coming out party, the date that Max showed Señor Lopez who was el jefe.
The meeting with the Colombians wasn’t till nine PM, but Max had been awake since five in the morning, running the details in his mind, a nagging worry about Los Colombanos refused to go away. The stress was really starting to get to him so he decided, Fuck it, and had a little pick-me-up, nothing too heavy, just a few tokes on the crack pipe to go with his caffeine fix. And he was thinking, I should eat, get something in my stomach, but he couldn’t, so, what the hell, he had another tiny hit.
But the dilemma kept weighing on him-what the hell was he gonna wear? What were folk wearing to dope deals these days anyway? Did you go all biz, the suit, the power tie, handmade shoes? Or dress lethal, like you were casual but, hey, watch your mouth, buddy, cause I might look like Bloomies but I’m carrying, like, major heat so tread real fucking careful, you stupid Lopez fuck.
Yeah, that could work, he liked that touch of swagger, he was preening in front of his full-length mirror. Had his eyes developed that Clint Eastwood hardass glint? He tried narrowing his eyes but he couldn’t see for shit when he did that.
Whoa-kay, chill baby, chill way on down and he would but his goddamn heart was like pumping a mile a second. He needed to look chill, so he put on a Yankees shirt, it was black, had the logo only on the collar, showed he was a sports guy but not, you know, showy with it. Then he put on Tommy Hilfiger black slacks, looking good, all in black, looking…what was that fucking word the French had…nora?…no, noir. Yeah, he looked noir as fuck.
Then the piece de resistance-the Glock he’d found in Kyle’s suitcase. Sure he’d gone through the kid’s stuff-you had to know who you were employing-and underneath the copies of Hustler, Playboy, and Bust he’d found it, loaded, with a spare clip. The kid had an automatic in there too, so he’d left that. The kid was too much in awe of him to ask if he’d taken it-one of the perks of being the boss, the help didn’t get to quiz you.
He pointed the Glock at the mirror and couldn’t get over how fucking cool he was. He let out his breath-shit, he could have made it in the movies-said, “Name it, mister,” and heard, “Who are you talking to?”
For a horrendous moment he thought his reflection had spoken to him-Jesus, he’d have to ease up on the marching powder-then realized Kyle was behind him. How long had he been standing there and what was with that look, the kid’s eyes stuck on the gun?
Max went for aggression-you’re in a bind, go ballistic-and said, “The fuck you doing, sneaking up on a person, get your fool self killed that way, son?” He liked the almost black intonation he’d achieved there and the son, well, that was pure raw talent. Then he noticed Felicia was gone-he hadn’t seen her in at least a couple of hours-and said, “Where the fuck is my bee-atch?”
“She said somethin’ about havin’ to do some shoppin’ or somethin’,” Kyle said.
Max noticed he had his bible with him and said, “You’re not gonna be reading that around the Colombians, are you?”
“What’s wrong with the Bible?”
“Do whatever you want,” Max said, “but I think it’s a big mistake. Religion-shows you’re weak, you’re living in fear of Dios. We want to show these hombres we’re fearless, then they’ll be afraid of us, get it?”
“I need Jesus by my side,” Kyle said.
The dope was definitely cruising in Max’s system and he had a ferocious impulse to cap Kyle, just for the hell of it. Max had been at the center of a whole blitzkrieg of murders but, like, get this, he’d never-what was the term? Oh, yeah, smoked a motherfuckah. Nope, but he sure as hell had thought about it a lot. It was Peckinpah type stuff-a lingering slow-motion shot of Max, cool as the breeze, drawing on a thin cheroot, and then spittin’ some baccy from the side of his mouth. He’d been so loaded one night, he even went and bought some chewing tobacco-that shit was harder to get in New York than heroin. Then back at his apartment, the whole scenario opening up, he’d popped the shit in his mouth and, oh sweet Jesus, the fuck was with that taste? It congealed in his teeth, nearly removing one of his very expensive crowns, and then it nearly choked him. He’d cap some dude sans the chewing tobacco, maybe get some Juicy Fruit, leave a lingering freshness too.
He barked at Kyle, “The only good book you need is right here,” and then he tapped his heart, thinking, Fuck, how deep am I? Maybe he’d go for a doctorate in metaphysics when this gig was wrapped-hell, he already had Buddhism down.
Kyle, the dumb cracker, as usual looked lost, said, “I’m lost.”
Max sighed, decent help was, like, freaking impossible to find, he tried to put some fatherly patience in his tone, and like Pa Walton on crystal meth, said, “Son, what you read in your heart is the only line you ever need to remember.” Max had lost his train of thought halfway through the sentence and in frustration, said, “We’re gonna be dealing with some heavy dudes here, son. They see that book, they’re gonna think you got a concealed gun in there.”