On Sunday night, Max ran out of munchies. He went down to the office, saw the kid at the desk with some black guy. He looked like a gangbanger, with the dreadlocks or whatever, wearing a Denver Nuggets jersey with SPREWELL 8 on the back, and a black stocking on his head. What was up with that anyway? Next thing, they’d be walking around with garters around their necks.
Kyle and the black guy were having a hushed conversation but stopped talking when Max came in. The black guy glared at Max, looking like he wanted to pull out his piece and blow him away. Kyle looked like he was shitting bricks.
“I’ll check you later,” Kyle said to the black guy, and the guy said, “Yeah, whatever,” and walked by Max, bumping into him hard with his shoulder, going, “ ’Scuse me,” but not like he meant it.
When the black guy was gone, Kyle said to Max, “If you want more Budweiser you can go ’head and take it.”
Max, toasted but still plenty with it, went, “What’re you doing, making drug deals down here?” He asked it as a joke, but going by the kid’s reaction he realized he’d hit the nail on the head. Fuck, Kyle the slow-talking church boy was a dealer. Who would’ve thought?
“N-n-no, sir,” he said, shitting some more bricks. “He’s just an, um, old friend’a mine from, uh, high school.”
“Don’t worry,” Max said, “I’m not a fucking narc. C’mon, gimme a break, kid-wise up. If I was a fuckin’ cop would I really be hanging out here, OD’ing on Bud and Cheez Whiz? I mean, going undercover is one thing, but would I torture myself to make a bust? So what kind of shit you dealing? Weed, sense, bud, blow?”
Yeah, that was the way-use all the hip lingo to show the kid he was streetwise, a player.
Kyle smiled, said, “Naw, it’s not like that, Mr. Maximilian. That there was just my friend, Darnell, and me and Darnell, we was just-”
“Look, you don’t gotta bullshit me, all right?” Max said. “Truth is, I’ve got some dealing experience myself. In seventh grade, I dealt weed, shrooms, and speed. How do you think I got to be such a respected businessman? The drug business is just like any other business. You have a product, you have a customer, and you have margins. I was growing the shit in my closet. Had a tree up to the ceiling, and got some serious bud off it. So you don’t have to beat around the bush with me, kid-no pun intended.”
Max laughed. Man, he was on fire tonight. Fuckin’ smoking. That old Bud, maybe it cleaned out the debris, let his razor-sharp mind get cooking.
Kyle stared at Max for a while, then said, “Can I pat you down?”
“Ah, Jesus Christ,” Max said. Then, realizing the kid wasn’t joking, went, “Go ’head, go ’head.”
Kyle frisked Max, doing it so slow Max started to wonder, Is this kid from Brokeback Mountain or what?
Finally, satisfied Max wasn’t a narc, Kyle said, “It was crack, sir.”
Max went, “Crack? You’re shitting me. Didn’t that go out in the nineties?”
“You’d be surprised,” the kid said. “There’s still a good market for it. A niche market, but still.”
Listen to this kid, niche market. Like he was on goddamn CNBC.
“You using or selling?” Max asked.
Kyle hesitated, as if wondering, Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to divulge he was involved in crack deals to a total stranger, even if that total stranger wasn’t a narc. Then, looking like he was thinking Well, told him this much-mise well tell him the rest, Kyle said, “Selling.”
Kyle a crack dealer! Max was beside himself, almost started laughing. He remembered Angela had had a whole other spin on crack-freaking mick-speak. Over there, they spelled it craic, which meant “party on” or some shit. But why was he thinking about that bitch now?
The kid was asking, “You want to check some out?”
Max had done coke mucho times before. Fuck, he’d spent half the eighties at Studio 54 and the Palladium, snorting mountains of blow. But he had enough trouble in his life. He didn’t need a goddamn crack habit.
“What do I look like, some low-rent nigger?”
God, had he said that out loud? Hello, filter, where are you? Thank God Darnell wasn’t around to hear that one.
“I mean negro,” Max said. “I mean person of colored. What-the-fuck-ever.”
“Actually,” Kyle said, “That attitude is a misperception.”
“What is?” Max asked, surprised Kyle knew such a big word. Four syllables-Jesus.
“That African-Americans make up the majority of crack users,” Kyle said. “My clientele is all races. Heck, I’m white and I smoke it.”
Kyle on crack. This Max had to see.
Max said, “This I have to see.”
“You’re already seein’ it,” Kyle said. “I was basin’ with Darnell about ten minutes ago.”
Max knew Kyle wasn’t fucking with him, but he didn’t get it. Weren’t crackheads supposed to talk fast? This kid sounded like Gomer Fucking Pyle. If this was the way he spoke on crack, Max couldn’t imagine how slow his brain worked normally.
Maybe this crack wasn’t as powerful as they said it was. Maybe it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
“Cook me up some of your shit,” Max said.
Keeping his tone casual, like he was one cool dude. Like whatever you had, bring it on.
Kyle hung the BE BACK IN FIVE MINUTES sign on the door and took Max to the back room. As Kyle prepared “the rock,” he was telling Max all about his dealing business, how he was taking in a grand a weekend and he only worked at the motel so his parents-“I was raised by good ol’ God-fearin’ Christians”-would think he was holding down a decent job. Max was feeling something he thought he’d forgotten, that elusive goddess-hope. If Kyle could pull down a grand a week as a crack dealer, imagine what a savvy city slicker like Max Fisher could rake in. Was the sky the limit or what?
The pipe was ready. Max took it, then hesitated, wondering if this was such a great idea. After all, he had an addictive personality. Then he thought, C’mon, how was he gonna endorse the product if he couldn’t road test it? You gotta try it before you recommend it. That was the first law of the American corporate bible, right?
Max inhaled. A few seconds later he was fucking flying, like he was fucking God. Even better-like he could kick God’s ass.
“This shit is good,” Max said.
Man, it was great to finally crawl out of the hole, to have that old Max Fisher energy back. Yeah, get all that Bud outa there and put the rock in its place. Talk about wake-up calls. This was the mother of all wake-up calls. Fuck the ashrams and Om sessions-the secret to true enlightenment was a crack pipe. Man, Max’s brain was working as fast as it could. Yeah, he could probably go on the wagon for three weeks and he would’ve still failed a sobriety, but he was thinking one thing-he could make a fortune with this shit.
Max said frantically, “Can Darnell mule this shit up to me in the city? Well, can he or can’t he? Answer the goddamn question.”
Kyle started to answer, but Max couldn’t wait all day for the slow fuck.
Max went, “Say hello to your new business partner,” then brought the pipe back up to his lips and took another hit of enlightenment.
Five
He decided to let it slide, let the shades do the talking, like rock stars did.
Slide was getting his shit together. He had his kidnap victim, Angela, tied up in bed, and now he needed some-what did the brothers call it? Oh, yeah, mo…ti…vation. Get that Harlem laid-back emphasis going on.
Angela had told him about the guy in the River Inn, calling her a hooker, dissing her. Thing was, Slide hadn’t offed anyone for, like, eons. What had it been, a week? And he especially hadn’t done somebody for, you know, fun. He’d done the last schmucks for cash, but when had he done one for the sheer heat, the rush, that fucking adrenaline gig? That was what he was talking about, brother.