Max looked disgusted, as if something had stirred some vile memory, and said, “Jesus Christ, you’re not fucking Irish, are you?”
Jaysus, and Slide had thought his American had been coming along so well.
“Actually, I’m of British descent,” he said, trying to sound miffed.
“Eh, Irish, British, same bullshit,” Fisher said and waved him in.
Slide followed, noticing the package on the counter and wondered where the item was. Must be fairly ripe by now.
Slide decided to play it as it laid, went, “My partner, see, he’s a psycho, I tried to stop him from cutting the…you know, but he’s impossible to control. He wanted to kill the kid. If he knew I was here, he’d kill me.”
Fisher’s eyes got a sly sheen and Slide knew the guy was figuring the odds. Fisher said, “You’re not exactly tight with your partner, huh?”
Slide nearly laughed but kept it reined, and said, “I won’t lie to you, Mr. Fisher, I want the cash but some things, they’re just not right and anyway my, um, partner, he’d as soon kill me as share the money.”
Fook, he was losing track of who he was supposed to be, but Fisher helped with, “So, you’d be open to a new deal, one that, let’s say, terminated your agreement with Shoe-Shoe?”
Slide had forgotten the name and was delighted to hear it again. He tried to put on a serious look and said, “What is it you’re proposing, Mr. Fisher?”
Fisher looked wired now, as if he’d won a new lease on life. He headed for the bar, asked, “Get you something?”
Slide, in a real mood for playing, went, “Got any Coors Light?”
Twenty-Five
Showing a woman your pistol is just like showing her your cock.
Angela, still wearing her shades, took a deep gulp of vodka. She’d discovered a bottle of Stoli in Slide’s stuff-rifling through his gear was habitual now-and, hello, she’d also found a Browning automatic. She didn’t actually know it was a Browning but she sure as shit knew what it felt like-reassurance in her hand. When you had a piece in your hand you knew no one would be fucking with you, least not twice.
Notwithstanding her horrendous year in Dublin, Angela was still prone to all the superstitions that the Irish half of her heritage had bestowed. She checked in her purse and sure enough, there was the gold pin of two hands nearly touching-her lucky charm. The evidence of her life would contradict the notion that the pin had brought her much in the way of luck lately, but hey, the way she was feeling she’d have stuck pins in a friggin doll if it might help. She attached the pin above her bust and the light caught the tiny hint of gold. It gave her a moment if not of peace, then of resolve.
She took a breath and walked out to where Kyle sat. His moans had been ferocious for the hour he’d been conscious.
The gun was in her hand, hanging casually alongside her hip. The kid’s face was contorted. Angela peered over the top of her shades at him. Jesus, what a poor bastard. She felt her heart melt.
His eyes opened and he looked at her.
Jesus, she thought. Sweet bloody Jesus. The things we do.
She touched the gun to his forehead, between his eyes. He closed his eyes. She’d been hoping for a nod, but fuck it, you take the signs you get. She intoned, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, forgive me for I do know what I’m about to do, have to do.
She pulled the trigger. The recoil from the gun knocked her back. A spray of blood spattered against the plastic.
Then she threw up again. She went back for the Stoli and lots of it, the gun still in her hand. She wasn’t letting go of that baby-it was all she had.
She went into the tiny bedroom, threw some things in a suitcase, then came back to the chair. Was it madness or did the dumb-arse kid look…peaceful? She leant over and took the pin from her bust, put it on the kid’s bloodstained shirt. The gold seemed to have dulled, and the hands were further away from touching than ever. Then, without a backward glance, she opened the door, and didn’t bang it, just let it close softly. Joyce would have been proud of her. What he would have made of the Browning in her case is anybody’s guess.
Sha-Sha was in Canarsie, corner of 102nd and L, having his ass a little snack-couple dozen White Castle cheeseburgers. He was eating ’em two at a time, washing them with soda-Diet Coke cause he was trying to lose some weight-when he saw the white man coming toward him. Nigga wasn’t no customer-must be a damn cop. But that disguise, man, it wasn’t working. Mother-fucker tryin’ too hard to look undercover, with them shades and the hair and the beard and shit.
Sha-Sha been through this po-lice bullshit a million times before. He made like he was just minding his own, chompin’ on the White Castles, acting like he didn’t give a shit.
The man went up to him and said, “You’ll be Sha-Sha?”
He had this fucked-up accent, like the nigga was trying to sound like damn U2.
“The fuck wants to know?” Sha-Sha asked. He gulped down some soda, tossed the can on the street, like he was sayin’, You can bust my ass for litterin’ you want, but that’s all you gonna get, nigga.
But then the Bono dude went, “Answer my fookin’ question. Is your name Sha-Sha?”
Sick of playing this bullshit, Sha-Sha went, “Yeah, I’m Sha-Sha, now how ’bout you get the fuck out my face, punk?”
Sha-Sha looked away and spat. When he looked back the dude was holding some big-ass knife, looked like you could carve up a turkey with it. Sha-Sha was thinking, The fuck kind of cop is this?
Slide had partied hard with Max at the penthouse, doing coke, pot, vodka, even shared a few hits on his crack pipe. It was some good shite and Max-sorry, The M.A.X.-was a great guy, first person in eons Slide didn’t want to off. Slide felt like he and Max seriously connected. They both loved American film, especially anything with De Niro or Pacino. And, besides, how could he kill a guy who did a pretty good Brit accent his own self?
Max, high as a kite, had told him about some woman, Felicia, who’d screwed him over by selling him out to her 500-pound cousin Shoe-Shoe who lived in Canarsie. Slide was relieved because he’d had no idea how he’d find this fookin Shoe-Shoe guy, but when Max gave him the bit of info he figured, How many Shoe-Shoes could there be in Canarsie? Wherever fookin Canarsie was.
Max told Slide he would pay him one hundred thousand dollars in cash if Slide took care of Shoe-Shoe for him. Slide couldn’t believe this deal-he was actually going to get paid to kill someone? That was like telling a guy who sat around jerking off all day, watching pornos, that he would now receive hard cash every time he ejaculated. Slide wanted to pinch himself.
An hour later, he left Max’s, found this Canarsie place on a subway map, and headed out to Brooklyn, to Shoe-Shoe’s-what was the term the brothers used? — oh yeah, hood.
Off the L train, he asked the first drug dealer he spotted if he knew where he could find a dealer named Shoe-Shoe who weighed about five hundred pounds. No luck there or with the next couple lowlife-looking types. But then he found a skinny, nervous guy outside a schoolyard who seemed to have the info. The fellah wasn’t exactly forthcoming, but Slide persuaded him to open up by placing his knife to the fook’s throat.
The guy spilled. “His name ain’t Shoe-Shoe, man, it’s Sha-Sha. He’s up on his corner, Hundred and Second an’ L. Please don’t kill me, man. Please don’t-”
Slide stabbed him in the chest. Straight to the heart-in, out, wipe. Would’ve had some more fun with him but Slide was in a hurry and had, like, important business to take care of.
Then Slide found Sha-Sha. How could he miss him? The bollix was the size of a small car. His mouth was stuffed with food-big surprise there-and Slide went to him, “You’ll be Sha-Sha?”