Slide

Eight

Slide was waiting at the bottom of Grafton Street. He looked around, making sure no one was in sight, then ducked into the alley that runs alongside the rear entrance to Lily’s Bordello. Lily’s! The hottest venue in Dublin, where Bono held court and any celebrity just had to show up. You did a gig in Dublin, it was de rigeur to hit Lily’s after. Slide had heard that the Stones were in town and he knew those geriatric bastards would have to show up at Lily’s after their gig.

Slide muttered, “You better fooking believe it.”

His plan, half baked as usual, was to nab Keif-Keith Richards. Figured Mick had too big a posse but Keith-yeah, he was getable. This alleyway, with the new smoking ban in force everywhere, was where the celebs nipped down for a hit of the nicotine or weed or what-the-fook-ever they were inhaling. Keith, he’d be first down, grab his own self some major drag of some substance, and Slide would be waiting. He’d grab him fast, get the fook outa Dodge.

Jaysus, how much would the Stones pay to get the Keifer back? Slide’s mind boggled at the prospect of, like, millions! Then fecking Mick Jagger would bankroll his record-breaking killing spree. Satisfaction that.

The side door opened and in the half-light he saw a thin figure, leather jacket, shades, white hair, skinny as a rodent, lined face. Shit, it looked like someone took a cookie cutter and drew deep wedges on his cheeks.

Slide was momentarily taken from left field, thinking, Has to be Keifer.

They say the camera adds twenty pounds, so it figured in person he’d look damn near anorexic. Or damn near dead was more like it. Sure enough, Slide heard a click of a Zippo, that was the clincher. Keith would definitely be a Zippo kind of dude.

Slide pulled the black sack from his jacket, moved like a shark, had the bag over the guy’s head and shoulders and chest in jig time. But was he breathing in too much pot smoke or something, or did the guy go, “The fook you doing?”

Keith with an Irish accent? What the fook? That couldn’t be right. But, yeah, probably being in Dublin, the Keifer figured to go native.

The guy was going, “The fecking cigarette has burned me lip.”

Slide nearly said, You’re half in the bag. Instead, let the crowbar do the talking-walloped the fuck on the head and that’s all she wrote. He bundled the guy over his shoulder-the guy weighed, what, seven stone? — and started away, when the side door opened again.

“Ar, bollix,” Slide muttered as he ducked with Keifer behind some leaking bags of garbage and almost passed out from the stench. Not of the rubbish-of Keifer. How much cologne was the dude wearing? Did all rock stars drench themselves in that shite? Even through the sack the guy reeked to bloody high heaven. No wonder Mick got all the babes.

The door opened and closed-the coast was clear. He didn’t see anyone else till, at the top of the alley, a bouncer looked over.

Slide said, “Garbage run.” To hear the music papers tell it, the Stones had been rubbish for the last decade, right?

Slide thought he was fooked, but the bouncer was distracted by the arrival of a white limo. Slide slipped past him, moving towards his car, parked on Nassau Street.

He threw the guy in the front seat, buckled him in, and burned rubber outa there.

Outside the city limits, he pulled into a lay by. He wanted to see the famous guitarist up close. But then, pulling the sack off the man’s head, he echoed his favorite words of James Joyce, going “Aw shite…shite and onions.”

Whoever this guy was, he wasn’t Keith Richards. He was in his fifties, thick lips, with a scar to the right of his mouth, a button nose and blue eyes. The guy had to be fooking Irish.

The guy came to, seemed completely lost for a while. Then he focused, looked at Slide, and asked, “What the hell is going on?”

Slide nearly whined, “You’re not Keith Richards?”

The guy gave a laugh, no humor in it, a sound that seemed to reflect a life where shite happened often and always.

The guy went, “Don’t you know me?”

Slide didn’t, said, “I don’t.”

The guy sighed, as in Give me patience Lord, then said, “I’m a crime writer.”

“A what?”

“A crime writer. I’ve won the Macavity for-”

Slide shut him off, roared, “Ary Christ, shut the fook up or I’ll remove all your fookin’ cavities and your tonsils too! Are you somebody? Anyone give a damn about you?”

The guy looked crestfallen, stammered, “I–I got starred reviews in Publishers Weekly and Booklist…well, maybe I caught them on an off day b-but-”

Slide gave him a slap in the mouth, said, “I don’t want to hear about your bloody career. I want to hear somebody will pay cash, lots of cash to have you back.”

The guy rubbed his face-poor fuck looked like he’d been beaten and hard, many times-and went, “Maybe my agent….” The bastard paused, reached in his jacket and took out a pack of Major and the Zippo. He lit up and asked, “Got any Jameson?”

Slide was suddenly thrown into that total rage that sometimes just snuck up on him. He said, “Shut the fuck up. I need to think and I need you to shut the hell up, can you do that?”

The writer couldn’t. Began to list the titles of his books and how he’d once been nominated for an Oscar, or Edgar, or some other odd name, and how the U.K. had a hard-on for him.

Slide said, “I’m gonna let it slide, hear?”

But a moment later he had the crowbar in his hand and was beating the bejaysus outa him.

The thin fook was going, “I wrote a book with another guy. Maybe he can-”

But he never got to finish as Slide lashed the crowbar into his teeth, then took out the bastard’s left eye with an almighty swing. “Keep yer eye on the main chance,” he muttered.

Then Slide looked up to see a family in a nearby car, looking on in horror.

Slide panicked. He opened the door, kicked the body out, and went, “That should sell some books.” Then he drove off like your proverbial bat out of hell.

Looking in the rearview, with the pedal to the floor, Slide knew one thing-the kidnapping biz in Ireland had gone bust. He and Angela were going to have to get the fook out of the country, and fast.