Self-help books were no help. Richard and Judy-fuck ’em. Even a talk with a shrink didn’t do crap. She didn’t go into formal therapy, but one night she started talking to a woman who was staying in the room next door to her. The woman mentioned she was a counselor and Angela invited her to a pub for a drink. When Angela started to describe some of her experiences with men, the woman started checking her watch, suddenly announced she had “an appointment.” Angela never saw the woman again.
Soon afterward, she hit rock bottom. It was her thirtieth birthday. Her clock was ticking. She didn’t have many eggs and she knew she’d be a great mother, she knew she had so much to give. It was back in the fishnet hose, back to pumps, back to the same old same old.
After a night of fending off the usual losers, she headed back to the hotel. She was wondering if it was all worth it and was considering a life of celibacy. Was it too late to become a nun?
Then she saw him, watching her from across the street. It was Bono. Well, close enough anyway. He had the rock star gig going on full force, with the hair, the sunglasses. Not Bono-style glasses-they looked like knockoff Ray-Bans-but, hey.
She was tired of waiting for guys to come up to her, being so fucking passive. Didn’t the psychology books say she had to assert herself? So when she saw him staring at her, she thought, Who the fook cares anymore, and went up to him, and said, “Hi, I’m Angela, want to buy me a drink?”
The line worked like magic. Better yet, she could tell he had a good soul, that she’d found the real thing. Had it always been this easy?
He offered to skip the drink part and go right back to his place. Angela wasn’t opposed. With a ticking clock, you had to move fast. Hell, if he asked her to marry her in the morning she’d say yes. As long as he was decent in bed, was willing to support her and her children, what did she have to lose?
There were a few things early on that caught her attention. He drove a Toyota. No Merc but, hey, it wasn’t a mini either. She noticed a strange odor in the car, like he’d washed it with ammonia. On the dashboard was a St. Bridget’s Cross, and when she asked him where the name Slide came from, he said, “From the Old Irish.” She wasn’t sure what this meant, but she figured, he was a religious guy-good sign. Then again, the micks, they’d kill you for a five spot and confess in the morning.
They went to a small house-more like a cabin-on the outskirts of the city, some place named Swords.
When they entered, Angela went, “Ted Kaczynski live here?” but for some reason the joke fell flat. Okay, so maybe he didn’t have a sense of humor and he wasn’t much of a talker either, but he was still cute as hell. She was dying to be kissed or-who was she kidding? — humped. If this didn’t lead to a relationship, at least she’d get a good lay. She hadn’t gotten any in over a month and when Angela Petrakos wasn’t getting any, look out world.
His place was, if not dirty, in need of a woman’s touch, that was for sure. There were beer cans on the couch, garbage on the coffee table. Then she saw rope and chains, which got her hopes up-maybe he was into kinky sex? But when she asked him about it, he muttered, “Haulage business,” and changed the subject, going, “Sorry me flat is such a wreck.”
She didn’t want to tell him that she was way into the whole chain thing. At this early stage, she didn’t want to make him think she was that kind of girl or anything. Much later, she’d learn all about restraints, the kidnapping, but not yet.
There was more painful silence as she watched him go around, cleaning the place.
Then she asked, “Do you read Joyce?” figuring she’d get that nonsense out of the way fast.
He gave her the look, the same one he gave her when they met on the street. His eyes had, what? A shine? A light? No, more like a fevered intensity. She liked them…a lot.
He said, “I’ve done Joyce, but I prefer non-fiction, mi amor. You familiar with The Road Less Traveled?”
What was with the Italian and was he trying to talk with a New York accent? He must’ve been trying to impress her, because she’d lived in New York. He was so cute, the pet.
Liking him more and more-which usually meant there was trouble ahead and lots of it-she asked, “You haven’t ever been an accountant, have you?”
After a rich, warm-the-cockles-of-yer-heart laugh, he said, “Baby, the one accounting I do is off the books.”
She laughed her own self. Christ on a bike, how long since she’d done that? A year? Not since New York, and even then there wasn’t exactly a lot to laugh about.
He got a turf fire going, gave the room a nice glow, and then they began to fool around a bit. Nothing heavy, the guy wasn’t all over her. He was tender almost. Then he made some hot toddies, even added cloves, saying, “Cloves, cos, I’m like the devil, baby.”
Things heated up. They got naked and he said, “Turn around for me.” Like an order, but she was into it. Then he took her fiercely and abruptly and she came with a scream.
Lying alongside her afterward, not even breathing heavy, he asked, “You know I was planning to kidnap you, right?”
Angela, playing along, still nearly breathless, gasped, “Kidnap me anytime you want, baby.”
Four
I grabbed her thin wrist, jerking her onto the bed. I was more than brutal, savage really; I didn’t even go through the preliminary of kissing the dumbfounded girl.
Max’s big plan: mug the chambermaid, use her five bucks to ride the Greyhound outa this shithole.
The maid knocked again, went, “Hola,” and Max was ready to rock ’n’ roll. He stuck his hand under his wife-beater like a concealed gun, opened the door, and went, “Hola right back atcha, sweetheart.” Then he took a closer look, saw a young smiling pregnant girl holding a stack of towels, and he couldn’t go through with it. What was he gonna do, roll some knocked-up Spanish broad for her last pesetas? What kind of guy was he? Okay, okay, he was desperate, but come on.
He took the hand out of his shirt, said, “Sorry, señorita, it was just a joke, Avril fools,” and slammed the door in her face.
What the fuck was he gonna do now? He still needed a way out of this mess. If he had to spend any more time in Alabama his brain would start to erode, he’d become as stupid as that kid at the desk. Next thing, he’d be eyeing sheep.
Okay, he thought, Who can I call? Who can bail me out?
He couldn’t think of a single name and, at some point, passed out.
When he woke up, his head was splitting, felt like it was falling off. Then, he realized that was because it was falling off. Well, off the bed anyway. Not really, but he was lying on his back, with his head at the foot of the bed, his mouth sagging, like he was doing a backwards, upside-down blow job scene in a porn movie.
He called his bank in New York. He was surprised to find out he only had $632 to his name. How the hell’d that happen? He thought he’d had two grand last time he checked. He arranged to have money wired but since it was Saturday and because he was no longer a preferred client-what the fuck? — he would have to wait until Monday morning before the money arrived.