Read Online Slide by Jason Starr Ken Bruen - Free Book Online

hard. He did a little dance, rapping a little of the gangsta stuff he’d been listening to, doing a little 50 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