Authors: Ken Bruen; Jason Starr
Tags: #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction, #General, #Hard-Boiled
Slide (17 page)
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.
Twenty-Six
I am the wickedest man in New York.
T
HEODORE
“T
HE ALIEN
” A
LLEN, GANGSTER
When Joe Miscali broke down the door to Max’s apartment and entered with a whole goddamn SWAT team Max knew this wouldn’t be the usual bust.
Couple of cops pushed Max face-down onto the carpet and cuffed him and Max whined, “Ow, you’re hurting me.”
Max wondered what the hell had happened to his machismo? It abandoned him at a time like this, when he needed it most? Jesus H.
“You cocksucker,” Miscali said. “You thought you could fuck me over, you son of a bitch. You little piece of shit.”
“What are you gonna arrest me for?” Max said. “You can’t prove anything.”
“You think you’re so fuckin’ smart, you’re a fuckin’ brain surgeon now, huh?” Miscali said. “For possession of whatever shit we find in the apartment...and, oh, yeah, and for murder.”
“I didn’t shoot that fuckin’ gang kid,” Max said.
“I’m not talking about that murder,” Miscali said, “though don’t think you’re not gonna go down for that too. I’m talking about the murder of Kyle Jordan.”
“Hey, I had nothing to do with that shit,” Max said. “Honest.”
“If you didn’t kill Jordan,” Miscali said. “How come we just recovered his penis in your garbage room? You wanna tell me that?”
“His penis?” Max said. “I never saw that penis before in my life.”
“And how about the blonde with the big tits?” Miscali said. “You’re gonna tell me you haven’t been in contact with Angela Petrakos?”
Max started to smile, thought,
So it
was
her. Son of a bitch
.
“Answer my goddamn questions,” Miscali said.
“As far as I know, Angela isn’t even in this country,” Max said.
“My guy saw her pick up Kyle Jordan in front of your apartment.”
“How do you know it was her?”
Miscali showed Max a gold pin. Shit, it was the one Angela used to wear, of two hands almost touching.
“My buddy Kenneth Simmons had this pin because his son had Down Syndrome,” Miscali said. “Then after Simmons was killed you somehow got hold of the pin and gave it to Angela Petrakos. That was the theory anyway. Now the same pin winds up on the body of Kyle Jordan. You wanna explain that to me?”
Max, with tears in his eyes—hey, he was a sentimental guy—said, “Wow, the pin. I never thought I’d see that pin again. Can I just, like, touch it?”
Miscali, looking like he was about to lose it big time, roared, “Get this cocksucker out of my sight!”
The cops led Max away in handcuffs. He was still confused about a lot of things, especially why in God’s name Angela had chopped off Kyle’s dick and then killed him, but he focused on the important thing—she was alive; she was out there somewhere.
Leaving the building, Max didn’t know what was going on, said, “Whoa, what’s going on?”
Where were the crowds? Where was the media? Didn’t the whole city want to, like, come out to see The M.A.X. take his fall?
Eh, the President was probably in town, or maybe it was Super Sunday or Christmas Day. Yeah, it had to be something big like that.
As they stuffed Max into the back of the police car, Max smiled in a cocky way, like John Gotti did whenever he got sent away. It was like Max was telling the cops,
Maybe you got me this time, but I’ll live to fight another day
.
Yeah, The M.A.X. knew that, no matter what, he was looking at some time here, but he was getting into the idea. He was a big-time criminal now, a pro, and pros always had to do a stretch or two during the course of their careers. It was part of the biz; it came with the territory. And, hell, it was better than rehab. Yeah, he knew he’d have a blast behind bars. Celebs like him always got protection from the thugs and women went nuts for notorious prisoners. He’d begin a proper study of Zen, become a master, maybe even bop over to India when he got out, to finesse his calling. And did anyone understand the law better than The M.A.X.? He’d be like Jimmy Woods in
The Onion Field
—the elder statesman, still with a fucking dangerous mind but, you know, not showy with it. Oh, and inside you know he was going to be flooded with love letters and marriage proposals from an assortment of babes. Naturally, Angela would write to him. She’d say how lonely she was and how she was counting the days till his release. Maybe she’d even show up to visit, bring him cakes, and then when his parole came through she’d be waiting for him in a red Porsche. Ah, then he’d have the HBO series, the
Wall Street Journal
column, and everything else he’d ever wanted.
The cop car pulled away and The M.A.X., in the back seat, was grinning his fucking ass off.
The driver looked up at Max in the rearview, smiled, and the other cop next to him, chewing on gum, said something and they both laughed together.
The M.A.X. didn’t hear what they were saying but he knew, like all knowledge that had been given to him, that they were trying to decide which of them would ask him for his autograph. He fingered his hair—hell, he was feeling expansive, he might even give them a lock of it, let them sell it on eBay, bring some bucks into their mundane fucking lives.
He thought,
Whoops, I cursed, gonna have to give that up.
He wondered if he should ask them to put on the sirens, let the little people know a player was en route.
But then he decided to ride with the humility gig, no need to be flashy. As the mad Brit had told him while they were freebasing—sometimes you just gotta let it slide.
Don’t Let the Mystery End Here.
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