Slide

Twenty-Four

Max knew what he was looking at and it didn’t take him long to figure out who it had belonged to. He had once walked in on Kyle taking a leak and had noticed the kid’s huge dong. At first he was surprised and-let’s face it-jealous, but then he realized it made total sense. Little brain, big dick, right?

Speaking of brains, Max racked his, trying to figure out who could’ve done this and why. He’d found another note in the box-in addition to the now who’s a dick? one-warning that if Max didn’t deliver $50,000 in cash to the “phone box” on the corner of Second Avenue and Fourteenth Street by 1:00 PM, more pieces of Kyle would arrive. Yeah, like Max would ever pay a penny to get Kyle back. Shit, Kyle out of the picture helped Max-if the kid was dead Max wouldn’t have to worry about him flipping on him for the drug shooting.

But Max still wanted to know who was behind this, if only for his own safety. The one explanation that made any sense to him was that it had to have been the fat guy from the drug deal, what the hell did Felicia say his name was? Shoe-Shoe? Yeah, Shoe-Shoe must’ve nabbed Kyle in revenge and cut off his dick, the sick fuck.

Then Max had a thought that horrified him a lot more than the sight of the Ziplocked dick lying on the floor. What if Shoe-Shoe came after Max next? The thought of getting his dick chopped off terrified Max to the point where he was ready to call the cops and get his ass arrested pronto. Spending the rest of his life in jail, or even the death penalty, had to be better than walking around dickless.

But then Max managed to calm himself, his old Zen side taking over. He thought, Okay, be wise, Maxie, be in the now. Yeah, Shoe-Shoe was bonkers, but maybe this was it-maybe one dick was enough for him. After all, the note had been, Now who’s a dick? Not, Whose dick is coming off next? This gave Max some reassurance.

Max stared at the dick, nudged the bag with the tip of his shoe. He was mesmerized by its size. For years Max had been using pumps and taking pills trying to enlarge his dick, but to no avail. Max wondered-couldn’t those things be transplanted nowadays? If they could do hearts and livers they had to be able to do dicks, right? And didn’t that guy down south, Bobbitt, get his reattached after his old lady dumped it on the road? Kyle was from the south-maybe there was something about southern dicks. Maybe Max could go for dick replacement surgery or whatever the hell it was called. Maybe he should, like, save the dick just in case. Hell, what if Shoe-Shoe showed up at the apartment later and chopped off Max’s dick? Wouldn’t it be good to have a spare?

He entertained the idea for a moment, but the moment passed. He picked up the Ziplock with two fingers, went out to the hallway, and dropped it down the garbage chute.

Slide was seriously antsy. He’d been hanging out at the phone box on Fourteenth and Second since dropping off the package. He was waiting for Fisher, but there was no sign of the bastard. What the fook was with that? You get a dick hand-delivered to your building and you don’t even show?

He said aloud, “Bollocks.”

He was drinking Coors Light, yeah, Light, not by choice, mind, he’d hit a deli and that’s what they’d had.

He asked himself, What’s with Fisher? Why is he ignoring us? Is he scared to leave his apartment?

And right away, he knew what to do.

He caught a cab, went directly to Fisher’s building, and told the doorman he was a police officer, quickly flipped his wallet open and shut. Nothing in there but a MetroCard, but Slide must have made a convincing-looking cop, or could’ve been the Irish accent, because the guy let him right up.

He took the elevator to the penthouse, rang the buzzer. The door opened slowly and there he was, the man himself, looking a little the worse for wear, like he’d been on a speed jag or some such shite.

Max went, “Yes?”

Slide figured this guy would be a pushover, said, “It’s about your young friend.”

Fisher looked sick, as if he was going to throw up and then said in a weak voice, “Shoe-shoe sent you.”

Slide thought, The fook was Shoe-Shoe? but, going along with it went, “That’s right.”

Max looked disgusted, as if something had stirred some vile memory, and said, “Jesus Christ, you’re not fucking Irish, are you?”

Jaysus, and Slide had thought his American had been coming along so well.

“Actually, I’m of British descent,” he said, trying to sound miffed.

“Eh, Irish, British, same bullshit,” Fisher said and waved him in.

Slide followed, noticing the package on the counter and wondered where the item was. Must be fairly ripe by now.

Slide decided to play it as it laid, went, “My partner, see, he’s a psycho, I tried to stop him from cutting the…you know, but he’s impossible to control. He wanted to kill the kid. If he knew I was here, he’d kill me.”

Fisher’s eyes got a sly sheen and Slide knew the guy was figuring the odds. Fisher said, “You’re not exactly tight with your partner, huh?”

Slide nearly laughed but kept it reined, and said, “I won’t lie to you, Mr. Fisher, I want the cash but some things, they’re just not right and anyway my, um, partner, he’d as soon kill me as share the money.”

Fook, he was losing track of who he was supposed to be, but Fisher helped with, “So, you’d be open to a new deal, one that, let’s say, terminated your agreement with Shoe-Shoe?”

Slide had forgotten the name and was delighted to hear it again. He tried to put on a serious look and said, “What is it you’re proposing, Mr. Fisher?”

Fisher looked wired now, as if he’d won a new lease on life. He headed for the bar, asked, “Get you something?”

Slide, in a real mood for playing, went, “Got any Coors Light?”