Slide by Jason Starr Ken Bruen Read Free Book Online Page A

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