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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.
    K EN B RUEN AND J ASON S TARR , Bust
    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.
    He got his carpet cutter out, honed the edge. The Guards stopped you, you went, “Hey man, I’m a carpet layer, tools of the trade.” That he’d never laid anything but broads was beside the point.
    He left a note for Angie, after handcuffing her to the bed. Went:
    Babe
         T.C.B.
              El.
    In the car, the thought struck him, Would she know that El was the King and that T.C.B. was, like, his mantra?
    Sure, for fook’s sake. She was a Yank, had to know all that shit.
    He got to the River Inn and sure enough, a punk at the counter, sneer in place.
    Slide asked, “Got a room, mate?” Using his English accent.
    Slide knew if you wanted to make them record books, you better have a shiteload of talents, mimicry for one. The Brit was simple, just act like you had a lump of coal in yer mouth and act like a complete prick. Piece of cake, or rather, piece of crumpet. Jolly fooking hockey sticks.
    That Slide was shite at accents never occurred to him.
    The counter guy stared at him, as if thinking, What’s with this wanker? Asked with a smirk, “You got twenty Euro?”
    Slide was delighted. The guy was even better than he hoped—he was giving mouth.
    Deciding to fuck with him, Slide adopted a timid voice, went, “Why?”
    The guy, not hiding his disdain at all now, said, “You got twenty Euro, I might have a room.”
    Slide took a quick look around. Coast was clear and, best, no CTTV. What’d you expect, the place was a kip.
    He plopped a wad of crumpled notes onto the counter, mumbled, “Is that enough for ya?”
    The guy sighed—he could have sighed for Ireland—and leaned down to sort the notes.
    Slide grabbed the mother by his lanky hair, going, “Jeez, you ever hear of shampoo?” and then slit his throat from