Slide

Seven

Max Fisher was the shit all right. He was living it up-the kingpin of New York, another goddamn Scarface. His crib-he called it FisherLand-was a penthouse sublet on East Sixty-sixth Street and Second Avenue. He’d always liked the building because it was made of dark black glass, like the windows of a limo, and to Max, it oozed class, was a place The Donald would’ve loved before he started naming buildings after himself.

Yeah, everything was going Max’s way, all right. He was making five grand a week in profit as what he liked to call himself, “a high-end crack dealer.” He had the freshest clothes, a live-in sushi chef named Katsu, and best of all he was getting some of the finest poontang in the city from his steady ho, Felicia, a former stripper he’d known from Legz Diamond.

Yeah, it was hard to believe how far Max’s life had come since that weekend from hell in Alabama.

How many other slick brothers like himself could’ve got out of that hole? No cash, a chink in your ass, literally, and not only had he kissed that shithole goodbye, but he’d set up a mini-empire in Manhattan. And we’re not talking years here, buddy. He’d put this shit together in-what was it that Irish cunt used to say? — oh, yeah, jig time.

Where was that Irish bitch now? he wondered. If the curse he’d paid to have put on her worked, she was probably in an Irish prison, sucking some prison guard’s meat in the hope of a free lunch. Yeah, Angela had fucked Max over but good, but who was laughing now, bitch? Who was the player in the toughest game in town and who was on her knees, taking it large in some skank Irish prison? Huh? Huh?

Man, if Max had known the crack business would be such a gold mine, he wouldn’t have wasted years of his life selling goddamn computer networks.

The thing was, unlike a lot of businesses, it was so easy to get the ball rolling as a crack dealer. The startup costs were miniscule, and the obstacles to entry were virtually non-existent. All he needed was product and steady customers. And the great thing about the business was you didn’t have to worry about shit like “competing technology.” Once you hooked a customer, he was yours for life.

The way Max got the action started: a week after he’d hightailed it out of Alabama, Kyle had sent a mule, some high school kid, up to the city with Max’s first supply of rock. He had the merchandise; all he needed was the customers. In his days as head honcho, Max had had to do with whatever was necessary to close sales, including, for many important clients, scoring coke. Max figured that all had to do was “transition” the fucks from coke to crack and he’d make a mint. Easy, right? And of course Kyle had been all for the idea, even though the putz was only getting twenty percent, and it was twenty percent of the profits, and Max had no intention of paying it to him anyway. Poor fuckin’ Kyle. The kid was so in love with the idea of having a foursome with the blond bimbos that if Max had told him to go up to Harlem and stand in front of the Magic Johnson movie theater wearing a FUCK YOU, NIGGERS T-shirt, the stupid moron would’ve done it.

But, yeah, Max’s drug dealing business was a huge hit. He started small, with addicts he knew. Like one of his oldest steadies, Jack Haywood. Jack was the VP of Information Technology at a major midtown investment banking firm. He was a closet cokehead and Max had been taking advantage of this for years, plying the asshole with coke and table dances in exchange for inking six- and seven-figure IT deals.

So when Max had received his first shipment of rock, he’d called Jack at work and gone, “Don’t hang up on me. I’ve got something good for you-”

“I can’t do business with you any more,” Jack said nervously.

“It’s not about business,” Max said. “It’s-”

“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “It’s not you. I think you’re a decent guy, but my bosses-they don’t want me, well, associating with you anymore.”

Max had expected this attitude from Jack. When NetWorld had gone under, Max had gotten into a little trouble with the police. Something about a bunch of murders he didn’t commit. None if it had been any fault of his-blame it on booze and that ditzy bitch, Angela. Call it “the dark period” in his life. But that was all in the past. He was a new Max Fisher now, a Max Fisher who had discovered the wonderful world of crack cocaine.

“It’s not what you think,” Max said. “I just want to get together, for old time’s sake.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t-”

“I have some new candy for you,” Max said.

Candy was the old code word that Max and Jack used to have for coke.

There was silence on the line, then Jack said, “I don’t like candy any more,” but Max could tell the idea was very appealing to him.

“This is really sweet, really delicious candy,” Max said. “I tried some myself the other day.”

A longer silence, then Jack asked, “How sweet and how delicious?”

Max punched the air, thinking, Gotcha, sucker. What was that line from House of Games, and two to take ’em? No, that wasn’t it. What-the-fuck-ever.

Max took Jack out, got him hooked. Before long, Jack was spending a thou a week on Max’s shit, and that was only one customer. Soon Max had twelve other Jack Haywoods and his profits started to explode. Hell, Jack had even hooked his wife on crack. That was the beauty of the business-you could gain new customers so effortlessly. It was all word of mouth. You didn’t need to advertise, you didn’t need to invest a lot of money in having a pretty office. There was no one to impress. All you had to do was get people addicted and you were golden. They would get others hooked, and so on and so on. This was better than TiVo and the George Foreman Grill.

Max had been smoking crack himself-but he was taking it easy, kept it to two pipes a day. Well, maybe more than that sometimes, but he didn’t go crazy or anything. He found that crack actually kept him balanced. If he was having too much booze, he would smoke a crack pipe to pull himself back up, and vice versa. It kept him levelheaded, in control. And, just like he was avoiding mixing alcohol, he stuck to crack and crack only. The stupid fuckers who got addicted to the rock-like Jack Haywood and his wife-were the ones who cut it with brown. Yeah, that was right, Max called heroin brown. He was up on all the current, hip drug lingo all right. He listened to Naz, Ja Rule, Busta Rhymes, and 5 °Cent. He even knew how many times 50 had been shot-nine. See how hip he was?

To keep the hip vibes flowing, he had gangsta movies playing on his massive Sony 64-inch LCD TV, twenty-four-seven. Classics like Boyz n the Hood, Menace II Society, Gang Related, and, of course, the granddaddy of ’em all, Scarface. One of Max’s favorite ways to pass the time was to smoke some good rock while watching Scarface and trying to keep track of how many putas Pacino blows away. When he got into the twenties he always lost count.

Max learned lots of hip lingo, but chill-ah, chill was by far his favorite new word. Man, he loved saying chill. And it was such a useful word; it had so many meanings. Chill could mean to relax, as in, “Chill out, my man” or “I’m just sitting in here in FisherLand, chillin’ with my bee-atch.” But it also meant to be cool, like, “I’m chill, baby, I’m chill.” And it meant, “Hang out,” like when you say to somebody, “Wanna chill?” But the best way to use chill was in place of fuck. Like sometimes Max would go to Felicia, “Yo wassup, my bee-atch? You wanna get in bed and chill, baby?” Or sometimes, while she was going down on him, Max, high on crack, would go, “Yeah, chill on my rod for a while, baby. Yeah, like that, my bee-atch.”

Was hiring Felicia as his round-the-clock ho the best move he’d ever made or what?

When the money started rolling in, one of the first things Max had done was go to Legz Diamond in midtown, where he used to entertain his networking clients back in the day. He bought a lap dance from Felicia, and as she was squatting over him, those great fake tits-had to be quadruple Ds-inches away from his face, he whispered to her, “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“They ain’t real,” she said.

“I know that,” Max said. “I was curious about something else. How much’re you making?”

She thought about it, went, “You mean dancin’?”

“No, I mean the whole enchilada. Dancing plus whatever else you do on weekends. How much you make in a week?”

After a long pause, she went, “On a good week? Two thousand.”

Max went, “Say hello to your new boss-I’m paying you four.”

And that was it, done deal. Talk about closing a sale.

Felicia moved into the penthouse with him and Max only had one rule: she had to walk around topless at all times. He didn’t care what she wore on the bottom, but he needed to see those tits constantly. Her knockers were like his goddamn inspiration. He could be feeling down about something, self-doubt creeping in, and he’d go, “Yo, Felicia, come here bee-atch and chill on my lap,” and life would have meaning again.

The most chill thing about Felicia was how she knew her place in the world, and how she accepted it. She knew she was a ho, a bee-atch, and she didn’t give Max “no talkin’ back to.” Most of the other women in his life had been a lot more sensitive. Angela, forget about it. If he called her a bee-atch, she’d would’ve bashed his face in. And his ex-wife Deirdre, God rest her soul, hadn’t exactly rolled with the punches either. If Max had let one slip, called her a cunt or something, she would’ve had a big fit, going on about how he was “verbally abusive” and “a misogynist” and a “womanizer.” Yadda, yadda, yadda. Thank God he was through with all of that shit, right?

But, yeah, Max was in heaven with Felicia. If there was such a thing as an ideal woman she was it. At home, it was like she was his beck-and-call girl, his Pretty Black Woman, but nothing had ever made him feel more like a player than the times he took her out on the town. He’d be in one of his new mustard-colored suits, and she’d be wearing something really skimpy, showing as much of her boobs as was legally allowed, and just to see the looks on people’s faces was priceless. Everybody was so fucking jealous, especially the guys. They’d look at him, their mouths sagging open, and he could read their minds. All the jealous fucks were wishing that they could be Max Fisher, just for one day, just to see what it was like.

Sometimes Max took Felicia out clubbing to all the hip spots. Max felt like he was back in the good ol’ days at Studio 54. So what if he was the oldest guy on the dance floor and the kids called him “Gran’pa”? Max Fisher still knew how to get jiggy wid it and he and Felicia had a fucking blast.

But Max’s favorite place to take her to, to be seen, was the QT hotel on Forty-fifth Street. There was a hip swimming pool bar on ground level in the lobby and it was where all the current happening players hung out with their beautiful young ho’s.

Businessmen on their lunch breaks would stop by, not to swim, but just to leer in through the glass at the spectacular women in bikinis, wishing that some day their wildest dreams would come true and that they could score some of that fine poontang for themselves.

Max knew what it was like because he used to be one of those losers himself. But now he’d turned the tables. Now he was the one in the water with his beautiful smoking hot bee-atch, and the guys in suits were looking in at him. Man, it felt good to be a winner, on the other side of the glass.

The only little issue Max had had with Felicia was one day when he went into his safe in his office to put away some cashish, and noticed the wedge of green was looking a little low. He did a count and sure enough a thousand bucks was missing.

He said, “That fuckin’ puta’s stealing from me?”

Sounding like Pacino without even trying.

He went under his bed, took out his rod. You wanna be a drug lord, you better talk the talk. Max knew shit about guns, had never even fired one, but man, just holding a piece in his hand made him feel like his dick was six inches longer. Which would make it, what, a solid nine-and-a-half inches?

He started toward the bathroom where Felicia was showering, then he decided he needed to get pumped for this. He hadn’t smoked any crack in about an hour-Jesus, it was like he was going cold turkey. He didn’t have time to cook up some shit, so he took out the little silver wrapper, did some fast lines. This was nothing like the rock, barely a notch above a double espresso, but, man, it hit him like a train, fast and hard. He did a little dance, rapping a little of the gangsta stuff he’d been listening to, doing a little 5 °Cent. He sounded great and thought he could release a rap album and it would go fuckin’ platinum. But he’d need a cool name, have to use numbers or initials or something. What about M.A.X.? Yeah, that had a ring to it and man, he could rap. He’d go on stage in a suit-didn’t P. Daddy, or whatever the hell his name was today, do that?

But Max knew if he wanted to go gangsta he’d have to take it all the way. He’d get all the right threads. Shit, when he was The Man, the designers would be giving him clothes for free-they’d want their clothes to be seen on The M.A.X. He liked that, put The in front of his name, to highlight that he was the one and only M.A.X., the official M.A.X., that there was no other. Yeah, and he’d have buy a Jeep, get some customized The M.A.X. plates for it. Man, would that look bitchin’ or what? He laughed, bitchin’. He was getting’ down with the homies all right. The coke loosening him, he was flying, ideas hitting him, like a zillion a second. When he was a big-time rap star he knew all the brothers, all the bee-atches, would look up to him, like he was a mother who’d been around the block a few times and they best be showin him some respect. Yeah, he’d seen that respect, no, fear, from his bee-atch, Felicia. Her eyes fucking dazzled at his genius. They’d be in the hood, hanging with his homies, and he’d be her Mr. Wall Street. Like how many guys could pull off corporate America and be down with the gangstas? Yeah, it was time to pull some attitude on that sista.

Max went into the bathroom, slid open the shower door, and pointed the gun right at her face, holding it sideways, the way the brothers did.

He went, “You wanna get up in my face, bee-atch? Or maybe you wanna suck on some of dis?”

Not this-dis.

Felicia knew she was in some deep shit. She started begging, pleading for him to put the gun down, going “Don’t do nothin’ crazy” and “Don’t shoot me, please don’t shoot me.” It was great watching her squirm, being at his mercy. Now he knew what Pacino was talking about. Guns, drugs, tits and rap-what else did a man need?

Max went, “Where’s my fuckin’ money, bee-atch!”

He was so juiced he nearly squeezed off a round. Saw himself as Pacino, going, Fuck you, how’s at? And blowing the puta away.

She was still begging: “I swear to you, baby. I didn’t take nothing. Why I need yo’ money? You be givin’ me so much already. Think about it. You know that shit’s stupid, right?”

She went on, whining, and Max felt like he was losing his edge. Why did he do that bullshit coke? He couldn’t wait to get his lips around that fucking crack pipe.

He interrupted whatever she was babbling about and screamed at her, “I got ears, ya’ know! I hear things!”

Shit, Pacino again.

“I don’t know what the hell you talkin’ ’bout,” she said. “Just get that gun out my damn face! Get it out my face!”

“What happened to my fuckin’ money?”

“How I know what happen to it? I ain’t seen it. How’d I even get in yo’ damn safe? I don’t know the combination. I don’t know what you even accusin’ me for, pointin’ a gun in my fuckin’ face like a crack-up, dumb ass, street ho motherfucker.”

Desperate for some rock, feeling dizzy, Max went, “I know I’m a thousand bucks short.”

Felicia fired back, “So why you think I took it? Maybe yo’ damn sushi chef stole it.”

Max thought about this. Katsu steal from him? It didn’t add up but, hell, nothing added up right now.

“What the fuck ever,” Max said. “But if I ever find any money missing you better watch your ho ass because next time you won’t be so lucky. Next time I’m gonna slap you silly.”

Later on, when he finally got some good crack into his system, Max wished he could’ve taken that last line back. Slap you silly. That didn’t sound hip and cool at all. What the hell had he been thinking? He worried if this was a side effect of crack. It was supposed to speed you up, but it seemed to be slowing him down. Maybe that explained Kyle.

It had to be the crack because Max used to be the type of guy who could always think of the “big line” at the right time. Like when he was working in sales, going for the bulldog close, his brain never failed him. But now, lately-well, in the last couple minutes anyway-he was losing his edge.

He had to get the crack out of his system, get some food into the mix.

“Katsu, get your nip ass out here!”

Max’s sushi chef came into the living room, bowed. Max liked that-showing his boss respect.

“Make me three spider rolls,” Max said. “Pronto. And skimp on the caviar again, I’ll shoot you. Got that, slant eyes?”

Jeez, did he really say slant eyes? He took a deep breath, thinking, Easy, big guy. Chill.

“Yes, Mr. Fisher,” Katsu said. “I make spider roll for you right now, Mr. Fisher.”

“It’s The M.A.X.,” Max said. “My name’s initials now with ‘The’ in front of it. Got that?”

Katsu bowed and went into the kitchen to make the sushi.

The missing thousand bucks was still eating away at Max. A business was like a ship. When there was a hole you had to plug it up fast or the whole fucking thing would go down.

Max went into the kitchen, said to Katsu, “You didn’t happen to pocket a thousand G’s of my moolah, did you?”

Katsu looked confused. What now? He’s accused of stealing, suddenly the skinny little nip can’t speak English?

Max took out his piece, jammed the muzzle into Katsu’s ear and said, “You best not be lying or I’ll slap you silly. I mean, I’ll slap you really hard. I mean, I’ll…Ah, fuck…”

Marching out of the kitchen, he couldn’t believe he’d blown the big line again. He had to cut down on the crack. There was no doubt about it, it was fucking up his brain big time.

He needed an antidote-a little weed, or throw some Valium into the mix. You can never be too mellow. Mellow yellow Max-that would be his new thing. Fuck, rap, it was horseshit anyway. He’d go acoustic, sing peace songs. C’mon, how hard was it to sound better than Cat Stevens anyway?

Yeah, the Val was kicking in and Max was chilling big time now. Easing on down the road, he cracked open a bottle of Merlot. Wine had become his drink of choice. Had to lay off the hard stuff and after Alabama he didn’t want to see another bottle of Bud for as long as he lived. But you want the class and culture of wine you gotta fucking show it. So he had bought a shitpile of Merlot, had racks of it on display. He knew Merlot was where it was at after he saw that movie, Sideways. What was wrong with that idiot anyway? The divorced blond chick was horny as hell, wanted to fuck him stupid, and he kept blowing her off? And Max was supposed to take wine advice from that loser?

Max poured a large glass, took a lethal wallop. He swirled a little of the stuff in his mouth and didn’t they spit it out then and say, tad fruity?

He spit some out and said, “Tad fruity?”

Then he made mmmph sounds and swirled some more, went “1987, late fall,” then said, “Ah, fuck it,” and drained the glass in one gulp.

He felt the munchies coming on fast and, thank God, Katsu brought out the spider rolls just in time.

“Sorry about before,” Max said, going for a super smooth, jazz musician-type voice, like he was a DJ on fucking Lite FM. “Katsu, I think you’re a really cool cat, man. I didn’t mean to frighten you or anything with that gun. That was just the crack talking, that wasn’t me. But I’m chill now, I’m real chill. So what do you think, man? We chill?”

“Yes, we are chill,” Katsu said, and he bowed and returned to the kitchen.

Max wolfed down the sushi-man, that was good shit, but he was starting to get sick of it. He’d been having sushi three meals a day for, what, two months? It was classy food, but still.

Scarface was playing on the TV. For a little change of pace, Max put in Carlito’s Way. What could he say, he couldn’t get enough of Pacino. And come to think of it, didn’t he and Al look more than a little alike? Yeah, they both had that smoldering gig going on, the half-lidded eyes.

Max whispered, “You wanna piece of me?”

Maybe Pacino would play Max in the movie of his life. And, make no mistake, Max’s life was ripe for the big screen. They loved riches-to-rags-to-riches stories, didn’t they? And, whoa, hold the phones, what about HBO? His life could be a series-God knew there were enough plot twists-and he had a title already, Maxwood. Speaking of which, he was starting to pop a little wood.

“Beeeee-atch!”

Max called for Felicia again and a couple of minutes later she was busy on her knees, chilling. It was great to have things back to normal with his bee-atch and he could tell she was digging the whole mellowed-out Max Fisher deal. Had to be better than having a gun in her face anyway.

Later on, he and Felicia were chilling with Merlot, watching Pacino, when the phone rang.

“Maximilian?”

It was fucking Kyle.

Shit, had the pot and the Val brought him that far down? It even seemed like Kyle was talking fast.

“My name’s not Max, it’s The M.A.X.”

“Oh, sorry ’bout that, sir, I guess I have the wrong number.”

“It’s me, you stupid fucking moron,” Max said, thinking was this a put-on or what? Could a human being be this retarded? “Hey, and I was about to call you. Where is the mule with my candy? We were supposed to do that deal today? Ten grand, remember?”

“That’s why I’m calling,” Kyle said. “I have some bad news for you about that.”

Felicia was eating a spider roll, not paying attention.

“I’m warning you,” Max said. “I’m an emotional guy lately. You don’t want to say anything that might rub me the wrong way.”

“I can’t send you any more candy, sir.”

“Maybe it’s the Southern accent or the insane amount of coke I’ve done today, but I don’t think I understood you. I thought you just said you can’t send me any more candy.”

“I’m sorry,” Kyle said. “It’s out of my hands.”

“Whoa, whoa, what the fuck’re you talking about, ‘any more’? You trying to say you’re cutting me off? No one cuts off The M.A.X.!”

Looked like mellow Max Fisher was a thing of the past. That didn’t last long.

“Please don’t be mad at me, sir,” Kyle said. “It’s not my fault, sir.”

“Who is it then? Is it that nigger, Darnell?”

Felicia gave Max a nasty look. Max mouthed, Sorry. Should’ve added, My bee-atch.

“No it’s not Darnell either, sir. It’s our friends in Colombia. They don’t…maybe we shouldn’t be talking about this on the phone.”

“Paranoia’s no way to live your life, Kyle. What the fuck is the Colombians’ problem?”

“Well, they don’t trust you, sir. They said until they get a chance to meet you we can’t send it up to you in New York.”

“Did you tell them who they’re dealing with?”

Long pause, then Kyle said, “I told them your name.”

“Not my name, you idiot. Did you tell them who I am. Did you tell them I’m a mogul, I’m a kingpin, that I’m a respected businessman, that nobody ever, ever calls the shots with The M.A.X.?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Kyle said. “I’m just reportin’ the facts as the facts were reported to me.”

“Stop the slow talk and just fucking listen to me,” Max said. “I have twenty grand sitting here and I have no candy. Do you understand my predicament? I have customers who have very sweet tooths, or teeth, or whatever the fuck, and I need to get them their goddamn candy.”

“Maybe if we can arrange a meeting-”

“You mean an audition? I don’t audition for nobody.”

Did Pacino ever say that? If not, he should’ve.

“I’m sorry, Max…I mean, The M.A.X. If they can’t meet you, they won’t do the deal.”

Max let out an angry breath, shook his head, said, “If those cocksuckers think I’m going down to Alabama they’re out of their minds.”

Yeah, that was the way-put the peons in their place. Peons-he liked that, but he wasn’t sure what it meant. Did it mean people you pee on? Yeah, probably.

Kyle was saying, “They said they want me to bring them up to New York. Somethin’ about how they want to see you on your own turf or somethin’, see what you’re all about.”

“I hope you realize how insulting this is,” Max said. “But if you think I’m letting them walk into my apartment you’re out of your mind. I’m not letting any scummy Colombians into FisherLand. Dis be my crib, homey. You all wan’ in, you waits like for the in-vite.”

Felicia was still on the couch next to Max. He didn’t want her listening in on his important business and said to Kyle, “Wait a second,” then went to Felicia, “Baby, do me a favor, and chill in the bedroom, okay?”

She got up slowly and Max watched her walk away. There was no question she had all-star knockers, but her ass was on the big side; you might even call it fat. He’d have to have a little talk with her about that at some point. Maybe she’d have to cut down on the desserts, start using Splenda.

When Felicia was gone Max said to Kyle, “Okay, here’s the way we’re gonna work it. They can come to my town. That’s right, New York is my town, I fuckin’ own it. But we do it on my terms. I pick the time and the spot and I’ll let them know what the time and the spot is when I want to tell them what the time and the spot is. You got that?”

Yeah, this was the old wheeler and dealer talking. Nobody could pull a power play on The M.A.X.

“I’ll let them know all that,” Kyle said. “But there’s just one other thing.”

“Yeah, what is it? Come on, talk, I don’t have all day.”

“You think, maybe, when I come up to New York you might have the girls there ready for me?”

Max didn’t know what Kyle was talking about, said, “What the hell’re you talking about?”

“You know,” Kyle said, “the girls from the Internet-the ones on the Porsche and the sister too. Bambi? Cause you said you were gonna bring ’em down here, but you never did and-”

“Have you ever heard the word chill, Kyle?”

“Yes, sir, but-”

“I have the girls all primed up, ready to meet you. Bambi was just saying to me the other day, ‘Why can’t I meet Kyle already? I really want to meet him.’ And I went to her, ‘Easy, baby. Chill.’ And now I’m telling you the same thing.”

Long dead silence then Kyle went, “I don’t get it. So the girls’ll be waitin’ for me up in New York City?”

“Only if you stay chill,” Max said, and clicked off.

Max got up. Whoa, nelly. He felt a little unsteady but, hey, you’re doing major, like, biz with Colombians, you’re gonna be a tad unsteady. Shit, there was that tad again, his inner Brit coming out.

Then it suddenly hit him and he screeched, “Fucking Colombians!”

Was he in the big time now or what? Colombians, fucking drug lords, were coming up to the city to meet with him. This was his moment, his time. Like Pacino, he’d eat the savages for fucking breakfast. Didn’t Pacino take all these dudes mano a mano? Wait, that was Cubans, not Colombians. Eh, same shit.

Yeah, everything was going The M.A.X.’s way now. Keep Kyle happy, get him some sleazy hookers, let them fuck him stupid. Well, could he be more stupid? Now he was sounding like Chandler from Friends. How talented could one man be? Voices, business acumen, well hung, and he was a good man too, promoting diversity in his work force. Christ, he wanted to hug himself.

He shouted, “Yo, bee-atch! Git yo’ sweet ass in here, de man need his pipes blown!”

Maybe he’d let the ho sit on his face, she liked that, and she sure had enough on there to cover his neck as well.

He took off his boxers and settled back on the couch. Shut off Pacino, put on Snoop Dog for some mood.

His stomach rumbled, all that goddamn sushi. Fuck the diet food, an hombre like him needed some goddamn calories. He could see a porterhouse steak, mashed potatoes, mountain of gravy and some heavy wedge of cheesecake to top it off. Needed some meat on his bones to deal with the Cubanos.

Felicia came into the living room. Looked great topless but, man, that ass.

She went, “You ready for me, baby?”

Time for a little Scarface. Max, in his best Tony Montana, went, “Okay, fuck me, how’s ’at?”