Slide (16 page)

Twenty-Five

Showing a woman your pistol is just like showing her your cock.

C
HARLES
W
ILLEFORD
,
New Hope for the Dead

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?”

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.