The guy gave him some mouth about who wants to know, and some other shite talk, and then Slide revealed the blade. He didn’t have the reaction Slide expected. Yeah, there was terror in his eyes, but he didn’t start begging and screaming the way most victims did. He’d probably had machetes, hooks, broken bottles, you name it, put up to him and he did the very worst thing he could’ve done-he waved Slide away, like he was some minor irritation.
This pissed Slide off to no end. Didn’t the fat fook know who he was dealing with? For a moment, Slide nearly leaned over and gutted him there and then, but he chilled, as his new buddy, The M.A.X., was fond of saying. Instead, he grabbed one of the burgers, took a healthy bite, chewed down, said, “Needs a little more ketchup, don’t you think?”
Now he had the guy’s attention. Yeah, the guy’s mouth was hanging open, like he couldn’t believe this skinny fellah had taken his food. It was like Sha-Sha had seen all kinds of stuff in his career but the one line you did not cross, ever, was to fuck with his food.
His mouth still full, he’d gurgled something like, “De fu…c…de…ddddoin?”
Slide wondered if the guy was rapping. He knew these dudes rapped on just about everything.
To get him focused, Slide took a nice swipe out of his cheek, just one fast stroke of the blade and there, a nice tribal scar for him. Weren’t these guys into all kinds of colors and markings, or was that Indians? What the fook ever.
Slide gave him his best smile-now the guy was all attention-and said, “I like black dudes, really I do. Phil Lynott, now there was one cool cat, you dig? And for a moment there, I was going to let this slide, just mosey on my way, let you finish this little feast you were at, but you know, you gave me cheek.” Slide laughed. “Cheek, sorry, I’m a mick, punning is our gig.” Then he put the knife in Sha-Sha’s throat with maximum force. The knife was so deeply imbedded that it took Slide a few moments to extract it, and he muttered, “Dunno me own strength.”
Sha-Sha’s knees buckled and he fell onto the sidewalk. He squirmed for a few seconds, belched a few times, then he wasn’t moving no more.
Slide reached down, popped a bite of burger in his mouth, thinking, you could develop a taste for those suckers. He stared at the enormous body on the ground for a moment, thinking, Trophy?
He bent down, pulled off one of Sha-Sha’s sneakers, stared at it, went, “Got your Shoe-Shoe, Sha-Sha.”
He loved that, repeated it to himself all the way back to the city.
About an hour later, back in Manhattan, Slide gave The M.A.X. the sneaker and along with it, the rundown on Sha-Sha’s last meal.
“Son of a bitch,” Max said, “you really did it.” Then he said to the sneaker, in his hip-hop voice, “You be de shoo-in, baby,” and tossed it away over his shoulder.
He and Slide cracked up over this-were these guys on the same page or what?
They had a few brews, just two buddies, sinking a few. From time to time they looked over at the sneaker in the corner and toasted to it.
Finally, Slide, much fun as this was, said, “I gotta, like, get moving, so if you can give me the cash, I’ll be on me way.”
Max suddenly looked pained and Slide hoped he wasn’t going to start fucking around. He would really not want to have to gut the likable bastard.
Max raised his hands, let them fall. “I’m broke. I have, tops, eight or nine grand. I might be able to raise more later but right now, that’s it.”
Whacked out, Max found this amusing, started giggling.
Slide surprised himself, said, “Let’s see it.”
Max led Slide to the bedroom closet. He opened the safe and took out the wads of bills and Slide, an edge in his tone now, said, “Count it.”
Max did. There was nine grand and change.
Slide snatched the cash from Max’s hand, stuffed it in his pocket. Max whined, “C’mon, can’t you leave me a few bucks for, you know, necessities?”
Slide gave him back two singles, said, “Knock yourself out.”
Max didn’t argue.
When Slide reached the door, Max said, “I guess this is adios, muchacho?”
Slide lunged, as if he was going to stab Max in the gut, and Max jerked back. But, alas, Slide wasn’t holding the knife.
“Nope, not adios for you yet,” Slide said, smiling. “Not if you can round up the rest of my money in, say, two days. Nah, let’s make it one.”
“But I can’t-”
“Sh,” Slide said. “Don’t say can’t. Don’t say won’t. Say yes I will.” He patted Max on the side of the face. “I’ll be back.”
Slide cabbed it back to the apartment on Sixth Street. He was tired, in need of a bit of grub, maybe a quick violent shag from Angela, and then he was going to have him some serious z’s.
But the minute he entered the apartment, he knew something was up.
There was no sign of Angela, no screaming and moaning from the kid. Then he saw Kyle’s body, the bullet hole in his forehead. So she’d taken the kid out-fook, Slide was impressed.
This Angela and Max, they were some pair all right. Slide had never come across the likes of them, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to again. They had their good qualities, but they were a little too out there, even for him. They were always doing weird shite. It was kind of spooky actually, gave Slide the creeps. He needed to be among ordinary folk, the type you could kill and they didn’t screw around, didn’t make any big fuss, just took their licks and didn’t do anything.
He went to the dresser, packed a few shirts, noticed Angela had taken his Browning. He said, “Mad fooker.”
Outside, he was leaving the apartment when a guy approached him and Slide thought, Cop.
Sure enough, the guy introduced himself, went, “Rodriguez, NYPD.”
The guy was polite enough, wanted to know if Slide had seen a young kid, blond hair, maybe with a woman-blond, sunglasses, a nice shape.
Slide gave him his best smile and his best New York accent, said, “No, sir, and let me say, I sure admire you for the work you do, can’t be easy.”
Slide started to walk away when the guy said, “Excuse me, sir,” and Slide knew this was trouble.
“Yep,” Slide said calmly.
“I had a talk before with the woman who manages the restaurant above your apartment,” Rodriguez said, “and she said she thought she heard some strange noises coming from there earlier, sounded like someone screaming.”
“How do you know it’s my flat?”
“Because I watched you go in a little while ago.”
Yep, this was trouble, but Slide was looking forward to it. Doing guards always gave him a rush.
“I’m just fookin’ with you,” Slide said. “It’s my flat but there’s no kid and no woman in there. Want to take a look inside?”
“If you don’t mind,” Rodriguez said.
Slide led Rodriguez into the building. In the vestibule, Slide fumbled in his coat pocket, going, “My fookin’ key, where is it?” Meanwhile, he was opening the five-inch switchblade he kept in the inside pocket.
Slide turned, ready to slash the cop’s throat, when the fook fired his gun and Slide felt pain rip though his side. He was coming again with the blade but the Rodriguez bastard fired again and Slide slid down against the door, till he was seated on the floor, his ass soaking in his own blood. Shite, this was no way for a serial killer to go down. He hadn’t even come close to any of the records.
He was looking up at Rodriguez, then everything turned foggy. The cop’s face turned into Angela’s-the mad cow looking down at Slide, and was she fookin laughing?
Slide was trying to mumble something so Rodriguez leant down, trying to catch it.
Slide gasped, “Was…gonna …let…it…slide.”
The cop said, “You lied? You lied about what?”
Slide tried again.
“Yeah, fucking scumbags like you always lie,” the cop said.
A gurgle in Slide’s throat, and he was history.