Slide

Twenty-Two

Angela had been casing Max’s apartment and, Jesus, she’d nearly blown it. The other day he’d come out the front entrance, right on to Second Avenue, and nearly seen her. His face had taken on a stricken look, but then a cab had pulled up and distracted him, giving Angela a chance to duck out of sight.

She hated to admit it, but the bastard looked pretty good. He’d lost weight and was wearing a classy suit-shame about the beige, but it looked like Hugo Boss. He still made her stomach turn, and yet he had a certain air about him now, like he’d finally gotten it together. She liked that he was clean-shaven as Slide’s bearded Arab look was starting to bring her down big time, not to mention scare the living crap out of her. She was impressed with how Max had hailed the cab-no frantic arm waving, just a hand barely raised and then the cabbie had screeched to a halt, knowing a player when he saw one.

The next morning Angela was back in front of Max’s building when she saw Kyle, the young kid from the newspaper article, coming out the front door. He walked to the corner, waited for the light to change.

He had a forlorn country boy look about him, as if he’d hiked over here from the Ozarks or some place like that. He had a kind of cute face-in a lost, helpless sort of way. Best of all, as she walked up to him, swinging her hips slowly back and forth, she saw he was blushing. Every woman knows that when a guy starts blushing you’re going to be adding notches to the bedpost.

Angela said, “Hey, handsome, anybody ever tell you you look like Brad Pitt?”

Angela had used lots of pick-up lines over the years but her “Pitt-Depp technique” had been her most effective by far. It went like this-if the guy had blond hair she told him he looked like Brad Pitt; if he had brown hair she told him he looked like Johnny Depp. Guys soaked that shit up every time.

Although Kyle looked nothing like Brad Pitt, she could tell the line worked big time as he blushed some more, then said, “Wow, thanks, ma’am. And you know who you look just like?”

“Lindsay Lohan,” Angela said posing. She’d been to the hairdressers earlier and had asked for the Lindsay Lohan look.

“No, ma’am,” Kyle said. “You look like Meg Ryan.”

This was one Angela had never heard but, hey, maybe it was an Irish thing-seen one mick, seen ’em all.

She silently blessed that hairdresser, screw Lindsay Lohan, and she put her fingers to her lips and whispered, “Actually I’m Meg’s half sister.”

She’d meant it as a joke but he stammered, “N-no way.”

“Way,” Angela said, going along with it, thinking either this kid was putting her on or he was a total moron.

“Man, this is so awesome,” the kid said. “I’ve seen all your sister’s movies, like, a hundred times. Wait till The M.A.X. hears about this.”

The M.A.X.? What the F?

“Have you seen my films?” Angela asked.

“You mean…you mean you’re an actress too?”

“One of the best.” Had this been Angela’s easiest pick-up or what? She moved right in close, his blush getting a notch redder, then she said in what she knew was her huskiest tone, “How would you like a signed picture?”

She could see his boner hit instantly and, she had to admit, that excited the hell out of her.

She added, “I have a small apartment in the city, for when I’m planning a shoot. How would you like to accompany me there? You could help keep the press away.”

He looked like he might pass out. Before he had a chance to even consider the sheer implausibility of any of this, she hailed a cab. Yes, she had to wave, a lot, but finally she got one to stop. She squished up close to Kyle, letting her breasts casually rub against his arm.

When the cab pulled up to the apartment on Sixth Street, the kid had zoned out, was in some kind of trance, and kept muttering stuff about Meg Ryan and Jesus. If they hadn’t needed Kyle as ransom bait she would’ve dumped him somewhere because she was getting seriously weirded out.

She slipped her hand in her bag, took out a pair of shades and said, “So I won’t be recognized.”

She led him down to the apartment. Slide was stretched on the sofa and Angela went, “My agent.”

Slide was impressed, asked, “How the fook did you pull it off?’

Angela turned to Kyle, whispered. “Why don’t you wait for me in the bedroom and I’ll sign the picture for you?” Then added, when he still hadn’t moved, “And if you’re a good boy, maybe I’ll call Meg and let you chat with her on the phone.”

Kyle hurried into the bedroom.

“The fook is Meg?” Slide asked.

“Meg Ryan.” Angela posed. “You think we look alike?”

Slide gave her a once-over and said, “You’re fookin’ weird.” Then he said, “Okay, better get to it.” He went to the counter, picked out a knife with a six-inch blade.

“To what?” Angela feared she might have misjudged a boyfriend yet again. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “We agreed we’d hold him for ransom. You’re not going to…hurt him, are you?”

“No, I’ll be sure to give him lots of anesthesia,” Slide muttered, smiling.

“Seriously, Slide.” Angela was panicked. “Remember all the trouble you got into with that Boyo in Ireland. Don’t hurt him.”

“I’m not going to hurt him,” Slide said. “I’m just going to frighten him, that’s all, so Fisher can hear some begging and screaming when we make the ransom call. You want the money for the Sopranos house, don’t you?”

This seemed logical, but somehow Angela didn’t trust him completely.

She said, “Swear to me on the graves of your parents and your sister that you won’t hurt him at all.”

Slide had told Angela the sad story of how his family had been killed in a car accident when he was twelve years old.

“You know, I think you better leg it,” Slide said. “You’re ruining me concentration.”

“Swear-”

“All right!” Slide exploded. Then more quietly, “I swear. Now would you go take a walk while I get him ready for the phone call?”

Angela turned and walked out, still wearing the dark shades. She headed up Sixth Street. She didn’t know how she’d reached yet another new low in her life. For a while things had seemed so hopeful-she’d just wanted to have a happy life in the suburbs, a couple of kids, the swimming pool-and now that poor kid was in that apartment with her latest monster boyfriend, and it was because of her.

Fuck him, she decided. She’d do kidnapping with him, but she wasn’t gonna do murder. That poor kid-he’d really thought she was Meg Ryan’s sister, and maybe that he was gonna get laid. The poor, poor fool.

As she reached the corner of Second Avenue, she told herself enough was enough. She was sick of getting pushed around. As she headed back to the apartment, she decided it was time to do a little pushing back her own self.