Slide

Two

He was one dark, dangerous, lethal motherfucker. No one knew the truth of this better than his own self. They called him Slide because he didn’t let anything slide, ever. He’d killed thirteen and counting. Counting like the ritual psycho he was. Counting on there being more-lots more. He was, as they say, only getting warmed up.

The name, trademark, signature if you like-that’s right, he had a signature-came from what he’d whisper to his victim before administering his coup de grace.

“Know what, partner?…I’m gonna let it slide.”

Ah, that sheen of hope, that desperate last dangling moment of reprieve. It got him hot every time.

He had looks to kill, like a wannabe rock star. Long dark hair, falling into his eyes, always the black leather jacket and the shades, knock-off Ray-Bans. He wore a thin band on his left wrist, woven by the tinkers. He didn’t come from the classic horrendous background. He was that new comfortable Irish middle class-lots of attitude, smarts and a mouth on him. Raised in Galway, he’d been to the best schools, never wanted for anything. His passion was all things American.

He’d adopted a quasi-New York tone, learnt from movies and TV. His dream was to live in the Big Apple. Yeah, he actually called it that. His vocabulary was a blend of John Wayne, The Sopranos and De Niro. He was twelve when he discovered his talent for murder.

He had one sister, always in his face, taunting him about his long hair, his huge blue eyes that girls would swoon over. They’d been swimming, his sister and him, and literally, in a second, the voice said, “Drown the bitch.”

He did. Whispered to her, “Was gonna let it slide.”

The rush was near delirious, better than any jerk off to Guns and Ammunition. And fuck, even better, he made it look like he’d tried to save her. Got all the kudos that brought.

His father was into hunting, a successful attorney. Gentry and shooting pheasants, made his dad feel like a player. Slide shot him in the back. Terrible hunting accident, shame these things happen.

Slide was suitably traumatized. Yeah, right. Laughing his arse off as they comforted him. Duped everyone except for his mother. She knew, maybe had always known. The morning of Dad’s funeral, she confronted him, said, “You are the devil.”

He didn’t let that one slide.

Maybe the world didn’t know it yet, but Slide was gonna be one of the greats. Dahmer, Bundy, Ridgway, Berkowitz, Gacy, and Slide. The only problem with this killing gig was it didn’t bring in any dough. He couldn’t sell his memoirs and film rights till he was dead, or at least on death row, right? He also knew if he really wanted to make his mark, he would have to move to America. In the world of killing, the land of opportunity was the big leagues. It was easier to get guns and ammo and there were lots of people who needed killing. Compared to Ireland, America would be a goddamn playground. But he needed cash to finance his dream. Piles of it.

And that was how Slide got into the kidnapping biz.

It hit him one day that he was great at abducting people. He’d done it plenty, leading up to a murder. But wasting a victim right away was a major, well, waste. He thought, Why not hold onto a few, ask the relatives for some cash, and then waste them? Call it his Oprah moment.

To master the art of kidnapping he studied American films like Ransom, Frantic, Hostage, and Don’t Say a Word. He knew the mechanics of abduction, but had trouble on the follow-through. He knew how to do ransom notes and torture his hostages, but having a man or woman bound in his basement was way too tempting, and sometimes instead of collecting ransom, he’d kill them, chop up the bodies in his bathtub then bury them. His backyard was like downtown Baghdad-start digging, you were likely to hit bone somewhere. No one amused him like his own self and once, when his shovel clanked against an old victim, he muttered, Boner.

Late one evening he was out in Dublin, searching for a victim, when he saw a woman walking alone along Dawson Street, near the Mystery Inc bookstore. Now come on, was that an omen right there or what? She had acid blond hair, a full figure, kind of reminded him of a few hookers he’d offed. But she was classier than a hooker; you could see that from across the street. A woman like her, some guy would pay a fortune to get back.

The pick-up was usually the tricky part. If you’re going to stuff a girl in a car, you had to move fast before she screamed her arse off. Or if you were going to lure her, you had to be clever, pour on the charm. But this woman turned the tables-she came up to him. Rushed up, more like it. Slide was baffled. This had never happened before. All his victims in the past had sensed the danger, the looming moment of truth. But this woman was fearless. Even ol’ Ted Bundy would have been confused.

She sized him up, smiled, went, “Hey, I’m Angela, wanna buy me a drink?”

The rest, as they say, was history.