slick brothers like himself could’ve got out of that hole? No cash, a chink in your ass, literally, and not only had he kissed that shithole goodbye, but he’d set up a mini-empire in Manhattan. And we’re not talking years here, buddy. He’d put this shit together in—what was it that Irish cunt used to say?—oh, yeah, jig time.
Where was that Irish bitch now? he wondered. If the curse he’d paid to have put on her worked, she was probably in an Irish prison, sucking some prison guard’s meat in the hope of a free lunch. Yeah, Angela had fucked Max over but good, but who was laughing now, bitch? Who was the player in the toughest game in town and who was on her knees, taking it large in some skank Irish prison? Huh? Huh?
Man, if Max had known the crack business would be such a gold mine, he wouldn’t have wasted years of his life selling goddamn computer networks.
The thing was, unlike a lot of businesses, it was so easy to get the ball rolling as a crack dealer. The startup costs were miniscule, and the obstacles to entry were virtually non-existent. All he needed was product and steady customers. And the great thing about the business was you didn’t have to worry about shit like “competing technology.” Once you hooked a customer, he was yours for life.
The way Max got the action started: a week after he’d hightailed it out of Alabama, Kyle had sent a mule, some high school kid, up to the city with Max’s first supply of rock. He had the merchandise; all he needed was the customers. In his days as head honcho, Max had had to do with whatever was necessary to close sales, including, for many important clients, scoring coke. Max figured that all had to do was “transition” the fucks from coke to crack and he’d make a mint. Easy, right? And of course Kyle had been all for the idea, even though the putz was only getting twenty percent, and it was twenty percent of the profits , and Max had no intention of paying it to him anyway. Poor fuckin’ Kyle. The kid was so in love with the idea of having a foursome with the blond bimbos that if Max had told him to go up to Harlem and stand in front of the Magic Johnson movie theater wearing a FUCK YOU, NIGGERS T-shirt, the stupid moron would’ve done it.
But, yeah, Max’s drug dealing business was a huge hit. He started small, with addicts he knew. Like one of his oldest steadies, Jack Haywood. Jack was the VP of Information Technology at a major midtown investment banking firm. He was a closet cokehead and Max had been taking advantage of this for years, plying the asshole with coke and table dances in exchange for inking six- and seven-figure IT deals.
So when Max had received his first shipment of rock, he’d called Jack at work and gone, “Don’t hang up on me. I’ve got something good for you—”
“I can’t do business with you any more,” Jack said nervously.
“It’s not about business,” Max said. “It’s—”
“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “It’s not you. I think you’re a decent guy, but my bosses—they don’t want me, well, associating with you anymore.”
Max had expected this attitude from Jack. When NetWorld had gone under, Max had gotten into a little trouble with the police. Something about a bunch of murders he didn’t commit. None if it had been any fault of his—blame it on booze and that ditzy bitch, Angela. Call it “the dark period” in his life. But that was all in the past. He was a new Max Fisher now, a Max Fisher who had discovered the wonderful world of crack cocaine.
“It’s not what you think,” Max said. “I just want to get together, for old time’s sake.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t—”
“I have some new candy for you,” Max said.
Candy was the old code word that Max and Jack used to have for coke.
There was silence on the line, then Jack said, “I don’t like candy any more,” but Max could tell the idea was very appealing to him.
“This is really sweet, really delicious
Where was that Irish bitch now? he wondered. If the curse he’d paid to have put on her worked, she was probably in an Irish prison, sucking some prison guard’s meat in the hope of a free lunch. Yeah, Angela had fucked Max over but good, but who was laughing now, bitch? Who was the player in the toughest game in town and who was on her knees, taking it large in some skank Irish prison? Huh? Huh?
Man, if Max had known the crack business would be such a gold mine, he wouldn’t have wasted years of his life selling goddamn computer networks.
The thing was, unlike a lot of businesses, it was so easy to get the ball rolling as a crack dealer. The startup costs were miniscule, and the obstacles to entry were virtually non-existent. All he needed was product and steady customers. And the great thing about the business was you didn’t have to worry about shit like “competing technology.” Once you hooked a customer, he was yours for life.
The way Max got the action started: a week after he’d hightailed it out of Alabama, Kyle had sent a mule, some high school kid, up to the city with Max’s first supply of rock. He had the merchandise; all he needed was the customers. In his days as head honcho, Max had had to do with whatever was necessary to close sales, including, for many important clients, scoring coke. Max figured that all had to do was “transition” the fucks from coke to crack and he’d make a mint. Easy, right? And of course Kyle had been all for the idea, even though the putz was only getting twenty percent, and it was twenty percent of the profits , and Max had no intention of paying it to him anyway. Poor fuckin’ Kyle. The kid was so in love with the idea of having a foursome with the blond bimbos that if Max had told him to go up to Harlem and stand in front of the Magic Johnson movie theater wearing a FUCK YOU, NIGGERS T-shirt, the stupid moron would’ve done it.
But, yeah, Max’s drug dealing business was a huge hit. He started small, with addicts he knew. Like one of his oldest steadies, Jack Haywood. Jack was the VP of Information Technology at a major midtown investment banking firm. He was a closet cokehead and Max had been taking advantage of this for years, plying the asshole with coke and table dances in exchange for inking six- and seven-figure IT deals.
So when Max had received his first shipment of rock, he’d called Jack at work and gone, “Don’t hang up on me. I’ve got something good for you—”
“I can’t do business with you any more,” Jack said nervously.
“It’s not about business,” Max said. “It’s—”
“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “It’s not you. I think you’re a decent guy, but my bosses—they don’t want me, well, associating with you anymore.”
Max had expected this attitude from Jack. When NetWorld had gone under, Max had gotten into a little trouble with the police. Something about a bunch of murders he didn’t commit. None if it had been any fault of his—blame it on booze and that ditzy bitch, Angela. Call it “the dark period” in his life. But that was all in the past. He was a new Max Fisher now, a Max Fisher who had discovered the wonderful world of crack cocaine.
“It’s not what you think,” Max said. “I just want to get together, for old time’s sake.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t—”
“I have some new candy for you,” Max said.
Candy was the old code word that Max and Jack used to have for coke.
There was silence on the line, then Jack said, “I don’t like candy any more,” but Max could tell the idea was very appealing to him.
“This is really sweet, really delicious
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