Although Kyle looked nothing like Brad Pitt, she could tell the line worked big time as he blushed some more, then said, “Wow, thanks, ma’am. And you know who you look just like?”
“Lindsay Lohan,” Angela said posing. She’d been to the hairdressers earlier and had asked for the Lindsay Lohan look.
“No, ma’am,” Kyle said. “You look like Meg Ryan.”
This was one Angela had never heard but, hey, maybe it was an Irish thing-seen one mick, seen ’em all.
She silently blessed that hairdresser, screw Lindsay Lohan, and she put her fingers to her lips and whispered, “Actually I’m Meg’s half sister.”
She’d meant it as a joke but he stammered, “N-no way.”
“Way,” Angela said, going along with it, thinking either this kid was putting her on or he was a total moron.
“Man, this is so awesome,” the kid said. “I’ve seen all your sister’s movies, like, a hundred times. Wait till The M.A.X. hears about this.”
The M.A.X.? What the F?
“Have you seen my films?” Angela asked.
“You mean…you mean you’re an actress too?”
“One of the best.” Had this been Angela’s easiest pick-up or what? She moved right in close, his blush getting a notch redder, then she said in what she knew was her huskiest tone, “How would you like a signed picture?”
She could see his boner hit instantly and, she had to admit, that excited the hell out of her.
She added, “I have a small apartment in the city, for when I’m planning a shoot. How would you like to accompany me there? You could help keep the press away.”
He looked like he might pass out. Before he had a chance to even consider the sheer implausibility of any of this, she hailed a cab. Yes, she had to wave, a lot, but finally she got one to stop. She squished up close to Kyle, letting her breasts casually rub against his arm.
When the cab pulled up to the apartment on Sixth Street, the kid had zoned out, was in some kind of trance, and kept muttering stuff about Meg Ryan and Jesus. If they hadn’t needed Kyle as ransom bait she would’ve dumped him somewhere because she was getting seriously weirded out.
She slipped her hand in her bag, took out a pair of shades and said, “So I won’t be recognized.”
She led him down to the apartment. Slide was stretched on the sofa and Angela went, “My agent.”
Slide was impressed, asked, “How the fook did you pull it off?’
Angela turned to Kyle, whispered. “Why don’t you wait for me in the bedroom and I’ll sign the picture for you?” Then added, when he still hadn’t moved, “And if you’re a good boy, maybe I’ll call Meg and let you chat with her on the phone.”
Kyle hurried into the bedroom.
“The fook is Meg?” Slide asked.
“Meg Ryan.” Angela posed. “You think we look alike?”
Slide gave her a once-over and said, “You’re fookin’ weird.” Then he said, “Okay, better get to it.” He went to the counter, picked out a knife with a six-inch blade.
“To what?” Angela feared she might have misjudged a boyfriend yet again. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “We agreed we’d hold him for ransom. You’re not going to…hurt him, are you?”
“No, I’ll be sure to give him lots of anesthesia,” Slide muttered, smiling.
“Seriously, Slide.” Angela was panicked. “Remember all the trouble you got into with that Boyo in Ireland. Don’t hurt him.”
“I’m not going to hurt him,” Slide said. “I’m just going to frighten him, that’s all, so Fisher can hear some begging and screaming when we make the ransom call. You want the money for the Sopranos house, don’t you?”
This seemed logical, but somehow Angela didn’t trust him completely.
She said, “Swear to me on the graves of your parents and your sister that you won’t hurt him at all.”
Slide had told Angela the sad story of how his family had been killed in a car accident when he was twelve years old.
“You know, I think you better leg it,” Slide said. “You’re ruining me concentration.”
“Swear-”
“All right!” Slide exploded. Then more quietly, “I swear. Now would you go take a walk while I get him ready for the phone call?”
Angela turned and walked out, still wearing the dark shades. She headed up Sixth Street. She didn’t know how she’d reached yet another new low in her life. For a while things had seemed so hopeful-she’d just wanted to have a happy life in the suburbs, a couple of kids, the swimming pool-and now that poor kid was in that apartment with her latest monster boyfriend, and it was because of her.
Fuck him, she decided. She’d do kidnapping with him, but she wasn’t gonna do murder. That poor kid-he’d really thought she was Meg Ryan’s sister, and maybe that he was gonna get laid. The poor, poor fool.
As she reached the corner of Second Avenue, she told herself enough was enough. She was sick of getting pushed around. As she headed back to the apartment, she decided it was time to do a little pushing back her own self.
Twenty-Three
The fact that I’d mistaken him for anything other than a typical shithead policeman could mean I was disgustingly superficial, capable of allowing my entire perspective on life and law enforcement to be swayed by…what?
A smile? A few kind words?
Joe Miscali was having a very bad day. After the complete fuck-up with the drug bust, the freaking SWAT team on Staten Island, the wrong location, and, oh Jesus, the Daily News, his fellow cops had been breaking his balls all day, going, “Hey, Joe, you got any hot tips, don’t tell us, okay?”
Like that.
And Felicia winding up dead didn’t help. Like he was ever gonna get another source when he let his people get wasted, half-eaten by freaking seagulls?
Joe was biting his nails, one of the reasons his wife had legged it. At the marriage counselor’s she’d screamed at him, “I’m sick of you and your fucking anxiety!” Christ, if she could see him now.
His phone shrilled and he was seriously thinking of not answering it, one more shitheel taking a shot at him. He picked up anyway, fearing the worst.
It was Rodriguez, one of his undercovers, who’d been tailing Max and Kyle. Rodriguez had been stationed outside Fisher’s building for hours. Now he said there was movement. Kyle, the ’Bama boy who palled around with Fisher, had come out of the building and gotten into a cab with some chesty blonde, maybe an UnSub. Miscali started shouting, telling Rodriguez to get his ass in gear and follow them. Rodriguez sounded real hurt, shot back that if Joe thought he wasn’t up to the job, yada yada. So now Joe had to, like, placate the guy for, what, five minutes, telling him what a terrific cop he was, with the rest of the Department lapping it up, until Rodriguez calmed down.
Rodriguez called Miscali back later, said he’d tailed Kyle and the broad to Sixth Street, Little India. He said they went into a building together, then the woman came out alone, and then went back in again a minute later.
Rodriguez went to Miscali, “What am I supposed to do?”
“Do?” Miscali shot back. “Stay the fuck where you are is what you do.”
He put the phone down, tried to figure out what the hell was going on, who the hell the broad was.
Slide went, “Fook,” as he hefted the kid’s weight on his shoulder, tried to get the balance right. He thought, Jaysus, this kidnapping lark is fooking hard work is what it is, how come they never show that in the fookin’ movies?
And here was the bold Angela, back in the apartment going, “Put him down, now.”
Like she was Miss Super Hero, come to save the day.
Raging, Slide dropped the kid onto a chair, going, “I thought I told you to leg it.” The kid had a piece of cloth tied in his mouth as a gag and bruises on the side of his face. He was unconscious.
It was hard to read Angela’s expression behind the dark shades. She said, “You promised you wouldn’t hurt him.”