Slide

Six

It started as kind of a joke, and then it wasn’t funny anymore because money became involved. Deep down, nothing about money is funny.

CHARLES WILLEFORD, The Shark-Infested Custard

Angela tried to open her eyes, couldn’t see, and thought, Jaysus, have I gone blind? Or, wait, it was the mascara glued solid. She knew she always overdid the goo, an echo back to her brief stint as a goth chick. But no, this was, like, what, her eyes were covered?

And what the hell was up with her right hand, like it was suspended, and when she pulled, she felt metal grate on her wrist. She managed to sit up and, with her left hand, tore off the covering on her eyes. A blindfold? What the fuck? Then it came flooding back.

Slide, the demented bastard, telling her blindfolds were a huge kick and pouring vast amounts of Jameson down her throat, not like she was fighting it. A year of near poverty in Dublin, was she going to turn down some decent hooch? Yeah, right.

But, Jesus, she needed to pee and now.

Then she saw that the handcuff on her right wrist was attached to the bar above the bed. She yanked at it and it chaffed her wrist, probably tore off some skin. She didn’t remember agreeing to that kink.

Or had she?

She did remember, after the first time, when he took her fast, doggy-style-that was nice-they did shots of Jameson. Then he suggested another go and, Jaysus, it was even better the second time-hot, heavy, fevered and wild. It had been a while since she’d lost control like that-not since her old boyfriend, Dillon. Dillon had turned out to be a raging psycho but, boy, he knew how to screw.

Slide, it seemed, had a little Dillon in him. She vaguely recall him shouting, “Ride me yah bitch, go on yah wild thing!”

The Irish male-they might not be subtle but, Christ, they sure were vocal. When he came, she felt a delicious frisson, and then he roared, as if he was dying, “Ah sweet mother ah fook me!…Yah hoor’s ghost!…Aw bollix, I love yah!…Yah filthy cunt!” Celtic terms of endearment, right?

And the other thing, every one of them, when they had an orgasm, screamed not blue murder but green mothers. Angela shuddered, realizing that the Irish matriarch wasn’t exactly what she wanted to think about in the throes of a ferocious hangover.

She roared, “Slide, I want to be released now! Joke’s over and goddamn it, I need to pee. You hear me?”

She listened but, nope, no sign of the Irish fucker.

Then she had an epiphany-she no longer thought of her own self as Irish. How did that happen? She’d been raised in New York, in a Greek-Irish home where the Irish influence was the dominant theme. She knew more about the Boyos than the Yankees, and had bodhrans, spoons, accordions, all around the house. Oh, there’d been plenty of melancholy. Everything, we’re talking every single thing, was a tragedy. Her dad had always said, Give a mick lots of grief, pain, sorrow and he was as happy as a pig in shite. Maybe all that rain had something to do with it. They had to occupy themselves somehow so they spent their time pissing and moaning. And Jesus, could they moan.

“Slide, you fookin cunt bastard, I’ll have your eyes out, ye demented fool!”

Yep, her year in Dublin had literally robbed her of her Irish-ness all right. And she wasn’t the only one losing it-the whole fookin country wasn’t Irish anymore. Everybody spoke in bad American accents, wore Harvard or Knicks sweatshirts and watched The OC, The Sopranos, Deadwood, and The Simpsons. And, get this, on Sundays, Sky TV showed baseball! Irish guys who wouldn’t know their Mantle from their Aaron were talking about stepping up to the base, second innings, pitchers, catchers and the World Series. How fucked is that?

At a pub one night, Angela asked a baseball fan, “What happened to hurling and shillelaghs?” and the guy went, “Shut yer mouth, woman. Jeter’s batting.”

And, sin of sins, the guy was drinking Coors Light, for God’s sake, with a glass of water as a chaser, as if the shite wasn’t watered down enough already.

Truth was, Angela missed America. She wanted a real goddamn sandwich. In Ireland, they gave you slices of thin white bread. No rye, no whole wheat, no fookin pumpernickel. Then they added a shaving of something called ham and some sort of dead leaf they claimed was lettuce. Lettuce pray for fucking patience! She wanted to go home, get some meatballs and mashed potatoes, where you didn’t have to pay for a second shot of coffee, where a hero was a real sandwich and where people spoke real English.

“Slide, you cunt bastard!”

She’d had enough of the game, if that was what this was. She had to pee like hell, and Christ, she needed a hit of nicotine. Yeah, yeah, she’d started smoking again. How could she help it? Despite the ban in Ireland, it seemed the whole country huddled outside pubs, smoking their fool heads off. Then, one night, she’d learned the reason why. Some girl told her it was the new way to hook up-flirting with a smoke. Slirting or some shite they called it. Well, she’d been slirting her ass off and what good did it do her? She was half-drunk, chained naked to a bed in some cabin on the outskirts of Dublin, waiting for a man who was possibly deranged to come free her.

The cigs were on the table, tantalizingly out of reach. If Slide had done that deliberately, she’d cut his balls off. See if she wouldn’t.

She roared, “C’mon yah bollix, enough with the screwing around, like hello, game over?” And she figured she must still be a bit drunk as she added in a screech, “What’s a gal gotta do to get a drink around here?”

Then she heard a car pulling into the drive. A few moments later, there he was, and she launched, “Yah prick, yah storming major asshole, yah…”

From the tent in his pants, her tirade was turning him on and, guess what, she was a little heated her own self.

Then he was on her and they were at it like mad things-sweaty, perverted, debauched, and delighted.

Jesus, she was on fire, hollered, “Kiss me yah bollix!” and Slide slipped his hand into his pocket and then seemed to rub something onto his lips. She thought, Chapstick now?

Then he was kissing her. Felt weird, kinda cold-was it some new kind of oral condom or something? And, fuck, she still had to mention the little item of her having, um, you know, herpes.

Before she could say anything, he whispered, “Lips to die for,”and he was between her legs again, giving it, as the Brits say, large.

God, she roared like a hyena. And, Jesus, those lips-it was like Angelina Jolie was going down on her.

When he’d finally surfaced, he tossed something into the litter bin, said, “Loose lips sink ships.”

The fuck was he on about? He got out of bed and she admired his bod. Then he was uncuffing her and she finally got to have that pee. When she returned, he had two cigs lighted and there was a glint in his eye. If she didn’t know better, she’d have suspected he wanted to burn her. Yeah, like she was going to let that happen. In New York, she’d dated a married Puerto Rican guy for a while. Not one of her better choices in men but, hey, he looked kind of like Ricky Martin. Okay, in the right light, from the right angle, with beer goggles, but she’d been in a slump with the guys. One night he whispered to her in a sexy Latino tone, “You wanna golden shower, baby.” Not as a question, but as if saying, You’re getting a golden shower and now. Christ, she was so innocent then. She thought they’d cover themselves in gold leaf or something, hop in the shower and, like, well, maybe lick it off each other. You know, something romantic. So imagine her shock when he’d started pissing on her. She went along with it-what the hell? — but when he broke the news about his family in San Juan she kicked him right in the nuts, shouted, “You won’t be pissing, golden or otherwise, for a Spanish month, yeh bastard!”

If Slide tried to burn her, God help him.

But, no, he let her take one of the cigs. As she took a long drag of it, he said, “Let’s go out, have a jar, I want to run something by you.”

She thought, The romantic fool, is it marriage? She knew she’d been good in bed, but was she that good? She’d only known him what, a few hours, but, hell, she wasn’t about to let an opportunity like this slip away. She didn’t want to be one of those single women in their forties who look back at their lives, regretting the one that got away. Though she had some, well, concerns about Slide, she had a gut feeling that he was a good man, and would make a wonderful father. Her gut feelings had rarely been right, but she figured, bad luck didn’t last forever, right?

The place was called the Touchdown Bar and Grill. As they got out of the car, Angela went, “Jeez, how Irish is that?”

A huge sign inside proclaimed, KARAOKE TONIGHT, and she wondered, Were they, like, trying to scare business away?

The place was hopping-three deep at the bar and all shouting for Bud Light, Corona, and Miller.

On the stage, a middle aged woman, looking like a very poor man’s Desperate Housewife, was massacring “I Will Survive.”

Angela shouted at the stage, “Not if you don’t stop that singing, you won’t!”

When the woman got to the part about how she was going to walk out the door, Angela said, “You and me both, lady,” and then she said to Slide, “I need some air. There’s a pub down the road, how about we go there instead?”

Slide wasn’t keen but she rubbed his crotch, purred, “If staying here is what you want, then, okay.”

She was wondering, Does he have a ring? If he did, it better be a fookin’ diamond-a big one. And if he was the typical Irishman and tried to propose to her with a Claddagh ring, Lord help him.

Slide led her through the crowd, going, “Lady coming through.”

They found a space at the bar, ordered large Bushmills with Guinness chasers.

She whined, “Don’t I get to choose my own drink?”

He shoved her glasses at her, said, “You have what I have.”

Mr. Taking Command, but she liked it.

A huge painting of-what else? — a baseball player hung on the wall and Slide sneered, “I see your point about this baseball shite, babe. What do we know about American sport?”

Without thinking, Angela corrected, “Sports. We say American sports.”

Slide gave her a look that shouted, Never correct my American again, ever.

Then he toasted, “Here’s looking at you, kiddo.”

She was going to correct him, go, It’s kid, but had a feeling she’d better keep her mouth shut.

They did a few more of The Bush and that sucker slid on down so easy, packed its own potent wallop. Next thing, Slide was on stage, doing “My Way,” the anthem of macho losers the world over. He wasn’t awful but, then again, anything was a relief after having to listen to that dame sing disco.

Angela felt eyes on hers and saw a well-dressed guy smiling at her. She noticed the gold Rolex and the deep tan. Yeah, he was a player. And he had great teeth. In Ireland, that translated as, Cash and lots of it.

In the back of her mind, she was already thinking, Slide? Slide who?

Then Slide was back, asking, “Did you like my singing?”

She gushed, “God, it was beautiful, you could make a career of it.”

Dumb fuck believed her too. Was there one man on the goddamn planet who if you told him he was the greatest, didn’t buy it?

He gave a Gee shucks almost shy grin, said, “Remind me to do ‘Stairway to Heaven’ for you, I improvise all the instruments too.”

She suppressed a shudder, went, “I can hardly wait.”

Slide got a six-pack to go and they were in the parking lot, his hands all over her.

Then they heard, “Hey, wait up,” and saw the Rolex guy swaggering over.

“Hey, where you dudes headed?”

Dudes, with a thick Irish accent.

Slide thumbed a bottle from the six, asked, “Like a brew, dude?” Then he smashed the bottle on the car, put the jagged shards into the guy’s face.

Grinding the bottle in, he went, “There you go, dude, it’s Miller time.”

Then he took the guy’s wallet and Rolex and shouted to Angela, “Get in the car, we’re so outa here. You drive, baby.”

Looking at the wailing guy trying to pull the bottle out of his face, she said, “But, Slide, why did you have to-”

“I said get in the fookin’ car and drive, woman.”

Angela got in. It took her a moment to figure out the gears, as she was accustomed to automatic. But by luck more than skill she got the thing in gear and got out of there, fast.

Slide was going through the guy’s wallet, shouting, “Jesus wept, there is a god, there’s a shitpile of cash in here, this bastard was seriously carrying, you know what this means, babe?”

She knew what it meant-her new boyfriend was seriously deranged. The casual violence, the way he’d chopped down the poor guy. There was something romantic about it, but still.

She said, “Did you have to, you know, go so far?”

Slide gave her a mega smile, crooned, “I did it my way.”

Slide was modeling the Rolex, turning it on his wrist, letting the light bounce off of it. Angela was thinking, So, how come you get the watch? You wanna tell me that?

But Slide was high all right-wired on the blood and the violence, pacing the room, his eyes neon lit with frenzy. Once again, he was seriously reminding Angela of Dillon, that psycho poet nut job, but it was possible that Slide was even more out there, really way perched on the precipice.

Now he was speaking, the words spilling over themselves, tumbling out like floods of rap dementia, going, “Babe, we’re a team, we’re on a hot streak and we should keep the level up and I have just the plan to get us some serious wedge, how do you feel about kidnapping?”

And she thought, Kidnapping, another term for marriage without the rings.

She said, “Wait, you mean how do I feel about you kidnapping me?”

“No,” he snapped as if she’d asked a stupid question. “How do you feel about joining up with me in the kidnapping biz?”

So, what, now she was going to be the Irish version of Patty Hearst? Least she’d remember to wash her hair. What was that girl thinking, letting CCTV pick her up on a bad hair day. Christ, you rob a bank, at least make the effort, put a little blusher on, a hint of eyeliner.

She went, “Kidnapping biz?”

He slowed a tad, said, “You’ll have noticed the chains and shite around the house, right?”

Like you could miss them?

Before she could say, You mean it wasn’t a kink? he went, “I’m in the kidnapping biz, a pro, been doing it for a while.”

And fuck, he looked so proud, like he was really doing something important, his bit for the new prosperity. Meanwhile, she was thinking, And how successful have you been? You live in a shithole, can barely buy the drinks, drive a freaking banger, and have to roll some poor schmuck in a car park.

Here he was again, now looking like he was about to bestow some great honor, going, “I’ve decided to let you be my partner.”

She loved decided. Like he’d been deliberating over it and wasn’t she lucky she’d been picked.

Then she thought, A kidnapper, an Irish well-groomed version of Patty Hearst. She had to admit, there was something glamorous about it. And if you did it right, shite, there could be a real payoff. Christ, wouldn’t she just kill to be rich?

She asked, “But nobody gets hurt, right?”

He gave her a bashful smile, said, “See, that’s my motto right there, no pain, lotsa gain.”

This from a guy who put broken bottles in strangers’ faces.

She went, “You’re a caring man.”

He literally hung his head, whispered, “I put the C in care. Sometimes, I think I care too much.”

She nodded, thinking the C applied if you meant cunt, then asked, “Have you someone in mind?”

He sang, “You can always get what you want.”

Real pleased he was using can, not can’t.

Then, scaring the shite out of her, he did a hip swivel that was supposedly Jagger, but came off like Jim Carrey in The Mask.

“Go on,” she said. “Who?”

“Who?” he said. “Jagger or Richards, one of those fookers. The Stones are in town, and someone’d pay plenty to get those lads back alive.”

“The Rolling Stones,” she said.

He looked at her, nodded.

She said, “You want to kidnap the Rolling Stones? That’s your plan?”

“The fook’s wrong with it?” he said.

The idea started to grow on her. The Stones weren’t so young anymore, probably couldn’t run like they’d’ve been able to back when.

But would there be room here for the lads? And of course she’d need a whole new wardrobe. Mick liked his women in the newest gear. God, she was already seeing Mick’s lips on her neck. So, okay, he had a few wrinkles but fuck, he still had those buns and, come on, if you haven’t sucked a Stone, have you really lived? Have you?

She could see herself on Oprah, Oprah’s fattish face, full of curiosity, asking, And when did Mick give you the diamond ring? Then Angela would modestly flash the huge stone on her engagement finger. She’d make a joke about it, go, “I’ve got my Stone all right.” She pictured her and Mick spending winters in the south of France, and lots of little Stones with Angela’s eyes.

“So what do you say?” Slide said. “You in or out?”

Imagining herself and Mick getting married on an exclusive island off the coast of Who The Fook Cares, Angela sang in a voice much worse than Slide’s: “Wild horses…won’t keep me away…”