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Authors: Jason Starr Ken Bruen
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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
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
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