No Dominion

Digga is staring at the corpse of his own dog.

– Damn. Damn, that was a fine bitch. Damn.

He looks and sees what’s going on with the rot.

– Mothafuckas. Hey! Hey!

Papa’s men look up.

– Hey! That ain’t how you put down the champeen.

He leaps, grabs the top of the fence, vaults up and balances there. He strips off his tie, his jacket, his shirt, dropping them all to Timberlands. His torso is knotted muscle.

– Get back from that dog, mothafuckas.

He jumps down into the pool, easily keeping his feet on the blood-slick, and approaches the wounded dog. The men in wraparounds look up at Papa and he signals them back. The dancing couples have returned to line the fence.

Digga walks at the dog, talking to it softly. The dog’s hackles stick straight up. Digga keeps coming. The dog goes for him, jumping at his face. Digga catches the dog in the air. They go down, Digga on his back, the dog clutched between his hands. The dog’s lower jaw flaps as he tries to bark. Digga flips over, gets the dog under him, opens his mouth wide and digs his teeth into the back of the dog’s neck. It goes limp, recognizing a superior hound, and he twists its head, breaking its neck.

Digga’s people go crazy. Papa climbs down from his perch. Digga stands, coated in dog blood.

– Papa! Don’t you worry. I send the white boy’s money to you first thing.

Papa turns away, strolls to the exit, followed by his men.

I’m led around the pool to the steps at the shallow end. Digga has stripped to his Calvin Kleins and is accepting several towels, mopping the blood from his skin and from around his mouth.

– See that? See that, Pitt?

I nod.

– That some shit, right?

I look at the dog corpses being hauled from the pool.

– I’ve killed a wounded dog before. It’s nothing to be proud of.

The music keeps playing. People keep dancing. The guys in the pool keep cleaning. But the folks around us get very quiet.

Digga slips on a clean pair of trousers.

– That so? You killed a dog? Killed a muthafuckin’ monster dog on dope like that sad beast down there? Like that champeen hound I just put down?

I don’t say anything.

Timberlands holds out Digga’s shirt and he slides his arms into it.

– Well, let me tell ya. These soirées here like this one? This ain’t everyday shit. More a special occasion kind of thing. ’Specially some shit like that enforcer. Man on our turf, clearly in violation of the treaty? Man like that, we can use how we please. Don’t always have that on the menu. But I tell you what, maybe we have another party tomorrow. Yeah, another get-together. Maybe have some barbeque this time. Yeah, that’s the shit. After all, muthafucka, tonight we had him to sport with.

He points at the enforcer’s mangled corpse.

– An that was a’ight.

He throws his tie around his neck and lets Timberlands drape his jacket over his shoulders.

– So maybe tomorrow night we go it again. And then we can see how you do ’gainst a champeen dog.

He points at me.

– Stick this muthafucka in a box.

Two rhinos grab me.

– See you on the morrow, Pitt. Give you a chance to go double or nothin’ on that G you owe Papa.

They don’t really stick me in a box; which is kind of a nice surprise. Instead, they stick me in an old shower room. I take a walk around, but there’s not much to see. No windows at all. I find a vent under one of the sinks and fish the switchblade out of my boot, the fine art of the pat-down seeming to have been lost, and pry it loose. If I lost about a hundred pounds I might be able to worm in there and get trapped at the first bend. I flip through the lockers but don’t find anything useful. There is a tiny panel of glass in the door they pushed me through; I take a peek and see my two rhinos in the hall smoking and trading rhymes back and forth to the beats that echo down the hall from the party in the baths. I tap on the glass and one of them looks at me. I point at the cigarette in his hand and then at myself. But he just flips me off instead of opening the door so I can stick the knife in his neck. I go to one of the sinks and twist the taps and a little cold water dribbles out.

My cigarettes are in the jacket Timberlands took off me. Sure like to get that jacket back. I bend my face to the sink and wash up, rinsing away some blood on my upper lip from when the rhinos bounced me around. I think about the enforcer. I think about being eaten alive by dogs. I think about the way he freaked when that blood hit his vein. The way he was jumping, I wonder if the dogs were a mercy. I dry my face and hands on the tail of my shirt. I look at the lockers. I could go through them again, see if someone maybe forgot their assault rifle down here sometime, but I take a pass.

I sit on the floor with my back to the wall and watch the door. I pass the time waiting, waiting for someone to come through the door and do something just the least bit stupid so I can kill them and give myself something resembling a fighting chance. I’m not holding my breath.

Figure coming up here was a mistake. Figure it was a big one. I try to figure how long I should wait before I tell Digga I’m doing a job for Terry. Figure I wait too long and I’ll have a skin full of that junk and be down in the pool with the dogs. Give it up now and he’ll have plenty of time to check it out. But Terry might not like that. Figure I know for a fact Terry won’t like that. Easiest course of action for him? Pitt? That asshole? I don’t know why he’s up there. I mean, I never want to endorse execution, but that’s your prerogative, Digga. You’ll have to do whatever, you know, gives you peace of mind.

Yeah, I’m fucked.

I just wish I had my cigarettes. And that jacket. I do love that jacket.

The music finally stops. I look out the window again; the rhinos are still there. Someone has brought them coffee and more cigarettes. I go back to my spot against the wall.

I close my eyes. But I don’t sleep. I do that for a long time.

The door opens. I keep my eyes closed. Someone walks across the room toward me. My thumb is over the silver button on the side of the switchblade. Whoever it is stops at my feet. I smell baby powder and Bay Rum.

– We kin fix that right up.

I open my eyes.

– No trouble a’tall. Fix it right up.

The one-armed barber is standing over me.

– Fix what up?

– That nasty-ass haircut I wuz givin’ ya. Make ya look proper.

I touch my hair.

– It’s fine.

– No, no it ain’t. Looks like shee-it. Fix it up right.

Across the shower room, the door to the hall is open. No sign of rhinos. The switchblade is cupped in my palm, unopened.

I watch the barber’s eyes.

– Digga want you to clean me up for my big match?

– What? No. Shit no. He don’t care none what yo ass look like. I care. Got me some pro-fessional pride.

– Gonna do it now?

– What? You stupid in the head? Got no time ta do it now. Got ta get yo ass out of here.

– What?

– What? What? Man, Digga right, you one stupid-ass white boy. Get up, we got ta get gone.

I get up. He walks over to the open door.

– Come on.

The rhinos are on the floor in the hall. I look at the barber.

– You do that?

– No one else here, is they?

There isn’t.

– They dead?

He scratches his head.

– Well, that the million-dollar question, ain’t it?

– Sure is.

He points at one of the rhinos.

– They just out. Now get that coat off him. An’ that sweatshirt underneath.

I tug off the rhino’s jacket and the hooded sweatshirt beneath, seeing the huge knot on the back of his head.

– Put that shit on. An walk while you doin’ it.

I walk, following the barber away from the shower room, wrapping myself in the rhino’s clothes and noticing the massive build of the barber’s left arm and shoulder. I think about putting the knife in his ear. I should wait ’til he leads me out.

We climb some stairs; different from the ones that had been guarded by Papa’s man. These are narrower; the back way in. The barber looks me over.

– Put up the hood. Yeah, that right. An keep yo head down. An yo hands in yo pockets. Yeah. OK. An keep yo mouth shut.

He opens a door and we walk onto the blacktop playground behind the Jack. I keep my head down, my hands in my pockets and my mouth shut. We walk past the basketball courts. I can hear the jingle of chain nets in the breeze. The barber tugs my sleeve.

– This way. Keep yo head down. Just follow me. Doan look up none. Things quiet, but still they got a watch on. Gonna climb some steps now.

We climb some steps. A lot of steps. We’re climbing the concrete stairs that cut up the side of that cliff I saw earlier. The barber pauses at the top.

– OK. I think we cool. You kin look up, but keep that damn hood on.

I look up. We go down Edgecombe for a couple blocks. At the corner of 150th, he stops. There’s a house with a spiked iron fence around it. He unlocks a gate and lets us in. The house is huge. It’s red brick with black shingles and shutters, looks like a haunted house straight out of an old Universal horror flick.

The barber walks around a cracked stone path that takes us to the rear. We go down a couple steps to a basement door.

He looks at me.

– Place got atmosphere, doan it?

– Yes, it does.

He unlocks the door, steps in and switches on a light. I follow him in, expecting Digga and his crew to jump out and yell surprise and beat the hell out of me. It doesn’t happen that way. Instead, the barber takes me through a small parlor, neat but dusty, and into a kitchen where most of the living is clearly done. I take my hands out of my pockets, without the switchblade.

He points at a chair. I sit. He takes off his coat and hangs it on a hook on the back of the kitchen door. He looks at me. I look at him.

He rolls his eyes.

– Well?

– Well, what?

– Ain’t you got no questions?

– Sure. What do you want?

He shakes his head.

– Stupid white boy. Ain’t figured it out?

I shake my head.

– I’m Percy, asshole.

He bugs his eyes and wiggles his fingers at me.

– The craaaaazy one-ahmed neegro in the bazemint is yo contact.

He unbugs his eyes.

– Now you got any questions?

– You got a smoke?

– Funny thing ’bout cigarettes.

Percy sticks a Pall Mall between his lips. He fishes a book of matches from his breast pocket, folds a match around ’til the head rests against the strip of rough paper on the back, and flicks it with his thumb. The match ignites and he offers me the flame. I lean forward and light my Pall Mall. Percy lights his, waves the match out, pinches it from the pack and drops it in the red-and-white tin ashtray between us.

I take a drag and exhale.

– What’s that?

He smokes some.

– Funny thing ’bout cigarettes and the Vyrus. Vyrus attacks anythin’ bad yo ass could care to stick in yo body. Booze, junk, rat poison, whatever it is, it can’t hurt you none. Got no stayin’ power whatsoever. No boozehound Vamps. Can’t get hooked on shit. But cigarettes.

He blows a ring of smoke.

– They always good. Just as good as if I was still jonesed on the nicotine. Which I know I ain’t. Still I crave ’em. And still they always good.

I take a drag.

– Never thought about it.

– Uh-huh?

I take another drag.

– But you’re right.

– Yep. Funny, ain’t it?

– Yeah, it is.

We smoke.

– So what you need up here?

I’ve smoked my cigarette down until the cherry burns my lips. I stub it out.

– That shit they stuck in the dogs and that enforcer.

– Yea-huh?

– What the fuck is up with that?

He puts out his own cigarette.

– That a good question.

The ceiling of the kitchen has a big, brown water stain above the sink. He stares at it.

– A good question. Lemme ask you somethin’.

– OK.

– See that man at the pool? Papa Doc?

– Yeah.

– What you make of him?

– Looked like the competition.

He gets up and walks to the refrigerator.

– Competition.

He opens the fridge, pulls out two cans of Schaefer and takes them to the sink.

– Let me tell you somethin’ ’bout competition.

He takes a couple glasses from a cupboard.

– Digga, he Luther X’s warlord. When the X got taken out, Digga, he step in, declare martial law, move his rhinos out on the street. Say, We in a state of siege. Coalition agents done assassinated our fearless leader. That two years back.

He snaps one of the cans of beer open and empties it into a glass.

– An’ he prove it. Brings us the heads a two enforcer types he say was the ones stabbed Luther in the eyes. Good enough. All the peoples think it a good idea: Close the border and tighten the belt. Digga, he gets support from all over the Hood. Harlem, Washington Heights, Spanish Harlem, shit, even the Dominicans up Inwood come to the meetin’ and stand with Digga. But, like the man say, that two years ago.

He pours the other beer.

– Time pass, people want to know, When martial law gonna end? When we have elections? When we get a new elected president? People agitatin’. Now these people agitatin’, they mostly come in one flavor, they Papa’s ton tons macoute. Them boys in the shades.

He brings the glasses to the table and sets one in front of me.

– So for ’bout a year now, they do this little dance, pokin’ and proddin’, seein’ how far they push things, see if they break. Digga, he nobody’s fool nohow. He see the pressure risin’, he look for ways to let it off. So sometimes he think it a good idea ta get the dogs in the ring. Let the dogs bleed so the people ain’t got to.

He sips his beer.

– But lately, that pressure keeps climbing. Heat stay on. Know why?

– Nope.

He wipes some foam from his lips, lights a fresh smoke and drops the pack on the table.

– On account that shit you askin’ ’bout. On account that shit comin’ in up here an fuckin’ up some our young people. On account Digga say it comin’ from across the border, from the Coalition as part a they plan to poison us and take the Hood back. He talkin’ war. Papa, he preachin’ we don’t need no war. Everythin’ cool, need diplomacy. Need elections and diplomacy. Need some normalized relations with the Coalition and everythin’ be cool.

I drink some beer. He watches me.

– Well, boy, what you think ’bout that? What that all sound like to you?

I pick up the pack of Pall Malls and shake one out.

– Sounds like Digga killed Luther X himself and he’s thrashing around trying to keep his office. Sounds like maybe he’s the one behind that shit.

He lights another match and holds it out to me.

– Yeah, it do sound like that, don’t it?

I light up.

He blows out the match.

– Let’s fix up that haircut.

– See that picture up on the wall next to the phone?

I sit in a chair in the middle of the kitchen, a tablecloth draped over me, newspapers spread under the chair.

– I see it.

– What you see?

What I see is a black and white photo of a group of people at some kind of meeting in a school gym or someplace.

– Looks like Luther X and some other folks back in the day.

– That right.

He runs a wet comb through my hair.

– That man off to Luther’s right, that his original warlord. Man gonna come to be known as Papa Doc. Gonna form his ton tons macoute an challenge Luther’s leadership one day.

He starts to clip my hair.

– Holdin’ Luther’s hand, that his wife. Good woman. Long gone.

He pushes my head to the side and snips at my sideburns.

– That big nasty negro to the side, the badass with the shotgun? That me.

I look again. The man in the picture has two arms.

– Back before shit happened. Move yo head back.

I move my head back.

– An’ that weedy thing with the glasses? That Craig Jefferson Wallace. Soon to be known as DJ Grave Digga.

I look again. He was a weedy kid.

– That boy born in Scarsdale. Come down here to do community work. A more Oreo negro you never met in yo life. Got hisself infected first month he here. Luther brought him in. Saw somethin’, made him over. Spread stories how he a hardass De-troit niggah. Groomed him for warlord when he saw Papa sneakin’ round tryin’ to make some moves. Not many left know that story now. Just us old folk. You say natural in the back?

– Yeah.

He pushes my head forward.

– Yep, far as the man in the street know, Digga just what he seem: ex-gang-bangin’ roughneck that muscled hisself into the throne. A wartime ruler. An’ lots them folk like that just fine. Got a focus, got a reason to be. Got a cold war with the Coalition. Got a enemy. Life always easier with a enemy. But behind all that?

He walks around in front of me and tilts my head this way and that, inspecting the cut.

– Behind all that, he one sneaky mutha.

He snaps the tablecloth off of me.

– You done.

I stand up and move the chair back to the table.

Percy gathers up the newspaper, careful not to drop hair clippings on the linoleum.

– Yeah, he sneaky.

He stuffs the paper in a garbage pail under the sink.

– But he sure as shit did not kill Luther.

He comes back to the table and lights up.

– Luther done that to his own damn self.

He looks at the clock above the stove.

– Let’s go see ’bout makin’ you a place to sleep.

We’re in the parlor. I help Percy tuck a sheet into place on the couch.

– Why?

He pins one end of a pillow under his chin and works a pillowcase around it.

– Why what?

– Why’d Luther kill himself?

– Don’t know.

He drops the pillow on the couch.

– Tired of livin’, I guess.

He goes to the closet and pulls down two musty afghans.

– Know how that is, don’t ya?

I take the blankets and spread them on the couch.

– Not yet.

– That so? Don’t get tired of life yo ownself?

He sits on the old recliner that faces the TV. I accept the cigarette he holds out to me.

– Yeah, I guess sometimes I do.

– Sure you do. Me, I feel that way most all the time now.

We light up.

Percy touches the remote. The TV blips on. He flips a couple channels, then turns it off. I lean over and knock some ash into the tray resting on the arm of his chair.

– How’d he do it?

– Like they say, stabbed hisself in the eyes.

– How’d he manage that?

He looks at me.

– Ever meet the X?

– Nope.

– Man had willpower.

– Why you think he did it that way?

He pulls the lever on the side of his chair and it tilts back until he’s looking at the ceiling, blowing smoke at the fixture above his head.

– Didn’t like what he saw no more. Didn’t like what he saw comin’.

He talks to the ceiling.

– See, back when that picture was taken, we had us a time. Had us a fight. All this up here was Coalition. Till the X. He made it happen. Revelation. Revolution. Once that was done, once we was our own masters, things still wasn’t easy. No more of that Coalition welfare blood comin’ in. Had to work, find new ways to keep people fed. Had to integrate the brothas and sistas with the Latinos. Havin’ the revolution, that was just the start. But we got there, the X made damn sure we got there. An’ for awhile then, things was easy. People start forgettin’, don’t remember what the cost was. Got people like Papa sayin’ it time for a change. Sayin’ Luther had his time, now we stable, now we at peace, now we start communicatin’ with the Coalition again. Time to let bygones be bygones. War was war, but now we got prosperity. Hook up with the Coalition and it be even more prosperous. Bull. Shit. They just comfortable. Want to be more comfortable. Ask me, Papa’s on the Coalition tip. Ask me, that spook Dexter Predo whisperin’ in his ear.

Saying Predo’s name, he turns his head and spits at the floor.

– So maybe Luther looked at all this. Saw his people getting fat, saw his old friend gunnin’ for him, saw another fight on the way, maybe he saw all that, and he decided he didn’t want to see no more. Maybe he said to hisself, Time to go out. Go out on my terms. Go out and maybe leave a little gift behind, something my boy Digga, my smart boy Digga, can turn to his hand. So maybe that why he did it that way, the hard way. Man’s got daggers in his eyes, ain’t no way no one gonna say he did it hisself. Somethin’ like that, it like to cause an outrage when Digga stand up an’ say, Coalition did it! White devils assassinated our king! That a rivetin’ image: a king with knives in his eyes. That rallied the troops alright.

He picks up the ashtray and hands it to me.

– Put that on that table there.

I put it on the table.

– Yeah, Digga got us back on that war-foot. Galvanized the people. Got they’s heads right again. But that talk comin’ back now. That appeasement talk. Digga can throw as many dogs as he wants in that pool. Bite as many as he want. Keep puttin’ on a show. Sooner or later, boy gonna have to show the people the devil’s face. Prove to them they got enemies outside they borders. That enforcer comin’ up here was a help, but he need more than that. Need to show that poison comin’ in for real. An’ it comin’ from Predo. He show that, no one gonna take his crown nohow. He show that, Papa gonna have to mind his P’s and his Q’s.

I start another smoke.

– How you know all that about Luther?

He sighs.

– I cut the man’s hair din’t I? Now switch off that lamp.

I switch it off and we sit in the darkness. Just some light coming from the luminous dial of an old clock on top of the TV and from the tip of my cigarette.

– You stay up an’ smoke you want to. Gonna get me some sleep.

He settles deeper into the easy chair.

– Percy?

– Huh?

– What’s your end in this?

He turns his head to face me.

– Shit, boy, I’m Enclave. Just doin’ a solid for Daniel.

I study his black skin by the glow of my cigarette.

– You don’t look it.

– Well, theys Enclave and theys Enclave. Man can be a Baptist without he got to be no holy roller.

He closes his eyes and turns his face away.

– The can is down the hall you got to take a piss.

– Pitt.

– Hmmn?

– Wake it and shake it. It time.

– Hn?

I feel like I just closed my eyes. I open them.

Percy is sitting on the edge of the couch. I boost myself up.

– What?

– It time. Here.

He hands me an unopened pack of Pall Malls and a book of matches.

– Now doan forget what we talk about.

– OK.

– Things ain’t always what they look like they is.

– I know.

– When the man give you a proposition, you take it. Right?

– What?

– Take the proposition.

– What?

He glances at the door.

I hear them.

I’m off the couch and down the hall. Behind me the door is kicked in. I’m past a bedroom, past the bathroom. Ahead, there’s one more door. I open it and a vacuum cleaner falls out. Footsteps are behind me. I turn around.

Timberlands is coming down the hall followed by the two rhinos from last night. I reach for the switchblade in my pocket.

Percy yells from the parlor.

– Careful, he got a knife.

Timberlands pauses as I pull the switchblade and pop it open. He puts his hand in the pocket of my own fucking jacket and pulls out my own fucking.32 and points it at me.

– Gonna put a hole in yo ass, you doan drop it.

I drop the knife.

He steps to the side to make room for the rhinos. I try to fight them, but they make me stop. They drag me back down the hall and through the parlor.

Percy is talking.

– Take you long enough. How long a man supposed ta entertain the white boy?

Digga is standing in the open doorway.

– Just as long as it take, Percy.

– They not happy with you, Pitt.

I’m sitting in the backseat squeezed between the two rhinos. Timberlands drives. Digga sits in the front passenger seat.

– Why’s that?

– Could be cuz they had ta go down like that. Had ta take a rap on the back of the skull from the one-armed man. Not the kind of thing a man likes gettin’ ’round. Course, it ain’t gettin’ ’round.

– No?

– Shit no. What gettin’ ’round is how you fooled they asses into openin’ the door and then took ’em both. That the story gettin’ ’round. An that the real reason they not happy with you.

– Too bad.

– Too bad for you, they get a chance to dance on you.

I look from one rhino to the other.

– I like dancing.

Digga turns himself around and looks at my face. He points at it.

– Not done yet. Mark him up a little more.

The rhinos toss a couple quick elbows at my face. My lips split open. A knot starts to grow over my right eye. My nose breaks for about the twentieth time in my life. It’s OK. Pain is relative. You never stop feeling it, but have enough of it inflicted on you and you get kind of accustomed to it. It’ll all heal. If they don’t kill me.

– Enough.

They stop.

– See what I mean, Pitt. They just not happy with you.

My right eye is swelling, closing up. I squint at Digga.

– What about you, you happy with me?

– Me? Well, I say this, you playin’ yo role.

I spit blood onto his upholstery.

– Still happy with me?

Digga snaps his fingers at Timberlands.

– Pull over.

– Know what that is?

– A park.

The Hummer is pulled over on Morningside Avenue at 123rd.

– Look like a park, don’t it?

– Yeah.

– But it ain’t. That a outpost. That a Coalition outpost.

The park is overgrown and abused. Dirty snow from our last big storm is dotted with unclaimed dog crap.

Digga points.

– Look.

I look. He’s pointing at the paths that climb up the park, climb up a cliff face like the one that backs Jackie Robinson. But it’s different here. At The Jack, the cliff is native stone, raw and worn from when it was first cut. Here, the heights of the park are defined by a massive barrier. Huge blocks of dark stone are masoned into a wall topped by an iron fence. Two paths cut back and forth across the park, climbing to two great staircases, one at either end of the park.

– See what they got up there?

Morningside Drive runs atop the wall, lined with luxury apartment buildings and a tower of Columbia student housing.

– That was part of the treaty Luther made when we got independence. Had to leave them this turf. They settlement. They Gaza Strip. They presence up here so no one forget this was all theirs once. All those sweet blocks around Columbia, that still Coalition turf. That where it comin’ from.

– What’s that?

– That shit. That poison they pumpin’ into our blood. That shit you say croppin’ up downtown, too. You think that a coincidence? Some dangerous-ass new drug, only drug can get a Vampyre hooked, just happenin’ to drop on Society an’ Hood turf? That sound likely to you, Pitt? Or it sound like a conspiracy?

I look behind us to the east, where the sun will soon be rising.

Digga grabs my face and turns it back toward the park.

– Don’t you be worryin’ ’bout that sun. It rise all on its own. This what you came up here for, ain’t it? This what Bird sent you to look into?

– Nobody sent me. I’m here on my own.

– Uh-huh. Up here investigatin’ this shit cuz you got a social conscience.

– I care about the little people.

– Uh-huh. A’ight. That good to know. Mean you won’t mind doing a little service for yo black bruthas and sistas. Let’s stretch our legs.

Timberlands and the rhinos stay by the Hummer while Digga leads me to a bench.

– Percy talk to you?

– He said some things.

– He one alchemical niggah.

– If you say so.

– Trust me on that, he is. So, you got a little picture ’bout the political climate up here?

– Volatile.

– Volatile. You got some words on you, son. Yeah, volatile. Right now, it more volatile than usual. That because of you. Word out you on the loose. I put that word out. While you rappin’ with Percy, I been talkin’ with Papa Doc, tellin’ him how you busted out. Now he say you a Society agent. Cross Coalition territory without no passage, come up here with an enforcer on yo ass; do all that to create friction when he be wantin’ ta make peace with our neighbors to the south. Wants to call Dexter Predo, tell him we got nothin’ to do with somethin’ nasty happened to his man. Wants to call Terry Bird, tell him we want compensation for the trouble you cause us. Whatever you up here for, Predo and Bird? Neither them muthafuckas gonna be happy with you. But don’t worry, I talk Papa down. Told him. First things first: got to find the muthafucka. Then we can worry ’bout who first in line to fuck yo ass. Now, ton tons macoute out looking for you. Ton tons macoute. Named for the secret police down in Haiti. Bad news. Man ’tween a rock an’ a hard place, he be glad he not you right now.

He looks at the sky.

– ’Course, soon enough they gonna stop lookin’. Everybody gonna sit out the day. Start it up again come sundown. Think I can keep them from callin’ on Predo or Bird ’til then. Give you maybe enough time ta do somethin’ ’bout your situation.

– Any ideas?

He turns his face to the heights above us.

– Go up there.

I look up at the old, well maintained buildings illuminated by ornamental street lamps and security lights.

– You go on up there where the white folk live.

– And when I’m up there?

– See if you can’t get taken in. Them settlers got people watch that border all the time. They spot you, probably got yo picture in a face-book. Gonna want to talk to you. I be surprised they don’t grab you up an’ get you inside before you can burn.

– Then what?

He faces me, lays his arm along the bench behind my shoulders.

– Get me some fuckin’ proof they sendin’ that shit down here. Find it. Bring it out. Do that? I fix all this other shit. Get me proof and I put Papa where he belongs. And I put you on yo way back home. Don’t say boo to Predo or Bird ’bout shit.

– Or?

He takes his arm away.

– You goin’ up that hill, Pitt. We gonna sit down here in the Hummer behind all that UV tintin’ an watch. You try to come back down, we gonna have yo ass. Once you up there, only so many things can happen. Sun gonna kill you, or maybe they gonna kill you. Nothin’ lost on my end either way. They take you in, you either gonna do my job or you ain’t. You shine it on, manage to get back home on yo own or work out some deal they send you home, we gonna know sooner or later. An’ we gonna make them calls to Predo an Bird ’bout how you makin’ troubles up here. Stir shit up, make life uncomfortable. Bird gonna want nothin’ ta do with you on his turf no more. Once you off Society land, we gonna come for you. Makin’ you a proposition, Pitt. Oughta take it.

I take a look at Timberlands and the rhinos. They’re not far enough away for me to kill Digga before they can get to me. I think about what Percy said about propositions. Guess this is what he meant. Nice of him to give me a heads up. Sort of.

– Being awfully generous with me, Digga. Why’s that?

He shrugs.

– Different reasons. Mostly, you white. Need a white boy ta go up there. Other than that, Chubby Freeze vouch for you.

– Yeah, imagine my situation if he hadn’t.

Digga laughs.

– That no lie, muthafucka. That no lie.

He stops laughing.

– So what it gonna be?

I look at the sky again. Getting lighter with every minute.

– Well, like you say, I’m going up that hill. Once I’m up there, we’ll just have to see what happens.

– That right, we will see what happen.

He stands up and heads for the Hummer. I follow him.

– Say. One thing.

He has the door open.

– What that?

I point at Timberlands.

– Suppose I could get my jacket back?

Digga creases his forehead.

– Doan ask me, it his jacket now.

I look at Timberlands.

He looks at me.

– Fuck off, it my jacket now.

– Uh-huh.

I look at Digga.

– How ’bout my gun and my knife?

Digga looks at me, looks up the hill, looks at Timberlands.

– Man should not go unstrapped.

Timberlands shrugs. He hands me my switchblade and I slip it in my back pocket.

– My piece?

He takes the.32 out of my jacket’s pocket. He weighs it in his hand.

– Gat a piece a shit anyways.

He hands it to me. I take it from him and stick the barrel in his mouth.

– Suppose I could have my jacket back?

The rhinos take a step. Timberlands stays where he is, but his eyes go to Digga.

Digga shakes his head.

– Me, I’d give him the jacket, niggah.

Timberlands takes off my jacket, carefully. He holds it out. I take it, remove the barrel of the.32 from his mouth and wipe it on the front of his shirt. He and the rhinos close in.

Digga holds up his hand.

– Uh-uh, no time now. Sun gonna be up. Man’s got walkin’ to do.

The rhinos get in the Hummer. Timberlands walks around to the driver’s side.

– Gonna settle with you later, muthafucka.

– Yeah, yeah. Wait your turn.

Digga gets in the Hummer and sits there with the door open.

– Someone special musta give you that jacket.

I put it on, take my Zippo from the pocket and use it to light one of Percy’s Pall Malls.

– Yeah, pretty special.

The asphalt path climbs through pools of lamp light. Down here, just off the street, they’re cast by ugly gray industrial lamps. Up higher, around the wall, they have the same ornamental lamps you’d find in Central Park.

The sky is low and sickly. I walk beneath it, the wall looming closer. Plastic bags are snagged in the bare branches of the trees. They look like scraps of dead skin. The park lights go out, letting me know daylight is on the way. The hovering storm clouds will give me a little time, blocking out the worst of the sun. But I need shelter, I need it fast. I look down at the street. Digga’s Hummer cruises slowly, keeping pace with me, making sure I don’t make a break. Making sure I don’t run for God knows what.

Figure Digga’s right about the border patrol up there. Probably spotters in that big dorm. Get someone installed up there near the top floors and they can spot for miles. And I will be in their face-book. If they’re up there, and figure they must be, they have my face. Digga’s probably right about what that means, too. Means they’ll try to snag me off the street and bring me in. Only question left for me is how to play it at the top. The paths bends again, cuts, and I’m looking up the southern staircase. Wide, the wall on one side, a view of the Hood on the other, a gate at the top.

I climb.

Figure I let myself get hauled in, at least I don’t have to worry about the sun. For the moment. Soon after that, I’ll probably be hearing from Predo. That’s what Digga doesn’t really know about; that damn hard-on Predo has for me. Figure that’s gonna make it pretty difficult for me to fish for any information on the shit. Difficult as in impossible. I make a break for it, I might make it to that 1 stop. And if I make it to the train, get my ass back downtown in one piece? Figure Digga’s right on that count, too: gonna be hell to pay. A Rogue at odds with both the Coalition and the Hood? Count my remaining days on one hand and you’ll have some fingers left over when you’re done. I come to a landing halfway up the staircase. I stop and look at the view. I light up.

Yeah, this one’s a bitch alright.

I turn around and look at the wall. It’s right in my face now. I have to crane my neck to look up to the top. Big stones with deep cracks at the joints. Yeah, I would have held on to this turf, too. If hell ever does break out between the Coalition and the Hood, this will be the turf to have. I smell something on the wind. I look up at the gate at the top of the stairs. They’re up there, two of them, waiting.

I look back down through the park. The Hummer is still down there. I think again about the enforcer: a skin full of that shit and being eaten by frenzied dogs. I touch my left shoulder where a dog once bit me. I didn’t like it. I look back up at the guys above: silhouettes against the blank sky. I drop my smoke, grind it out under my boot, and climb.

They’re young as hell and armed to the teeth. The ones at the top of the stairs flash me the tiny black machine pistols that dangle from their shoulders. One of them latches onto my arm and jams his weapon into my back. If he pulls the trigger the bullets will spew out and slice me in half. He pushes me away from the wall as the other one stays at the top of the steps making sure no Hoodies are following me. Once he’s sure his rear is safe, he follows us to the curb and raises his fist in the air. A black SUV pulls out from between two parked cars, zips up and stops on a dime. The back door opens and another young guy with a machine pistol grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me inside. The door slams, a bag is dropped over my head, my hands are yanked behind my back and bound with wire, and I’m finally given a proper pat-down that finds both my revolver and my switchblade. The only real pisser is that they take my smokes and my Zippo as well.

They don’t talk. The SUV jerks around a corner, taking a left. Another quick left, and another. And one more for good measure. Then some more of the same. Jesus, they got most of the snatch right, but this is just embarrassing.

– I can tell you’re driving in circles.

Another left.

– I mean, if you’re trying to disorient me, you might want to throw in a right turn every now and then.

Another left.

– See, like right now, we’re on the south side of that same block you grabbed me off of.

Another left.

– East side.

Another left.

– If you don’t want to change it up, you can also try giving a guy a whack over the head or something so it’s harder for him to know his left from his right.

WHACK!

I shut up and let them do it their way.

The boys are young. The woman is old.

– What did he have?

One of the black leather jacketed muscle boys hands her a Ziploc bag full of my stuff. She unzips it. She opens the cylinder on the revolver, ejects the shells, sees the one spent round and sniffs the barrel. She empties the smokes into a bowl and hands it to one of the boys, who grinds them up and sifts the tobacco and paper through his fingers. She pulls the inner workings of the Zippo out of the scratched chrome sleeve. She undoes the little screw at the bottom and shakes the lighter ’til the flint drops out. She uses her fingernails to pinch out the piece of cotton at the bottom and unravels the long, Ronsonol-soaked wick inside. She places the gutted lighter beside the gun. She gives my keys and the change that was in my pocket a quick glance. She pops the switchblade open and squints into the slot the blade folds into. She taps the handle against the table and hears that it’s hollow. She hands it to the boy who ruined all my smokes. He sets it on the floor and stomps on it and the plastic grips shatter. She bends and looks through the pieces. She looks at me.

– His clothes?

One of the boys who grabbed me shakes his head.

She frowns.

– Do it now.

One of them pulls wire-cutters from his pocket and snips my hands free and they strip me to my skivvies. They run their fingers over seams and inside pockets. They tap the heels of my boots. She passes my jacket through her hands, finding flakes of tobacco in the pockets along with a couple movie ticket stubs and a poker chip I got at a bar as the marker for my second drink during a two-for-one happy hour. She flexes the chip between her thumbs and forefingers, it snaps in half.

I scratch my balls.

– That was good for a drink at HiFi.

She doesn’t look up, her fingers probing at an irregularity in the collar of my jacket. She picks up the switchblade with the broken handle.

– There’s nothing in the jacket.

She presses the tip of the blade against the collar.

– Ma’am, I’d really prefer if you didn’t do anything to that jacket.

She shoves the point through the leather and jerks it to the side, tearing a small hole in the collar. She puts the knife down, works her fingers into the hole, gets a grip, and rips the collar wide open. She looks at the filleted leather. She throws the jacket on top of the rest of my clothes.

– He can dress.

I dress. I look at the ruined collar. I remember the day Evie gave me the jacket. It was my birthday. The day she thinks is my birthday, anyway. I look at the old lady and put the jacket back on.

– Can I have my poker chip back? They might still accept it.

She picks up the two halves of the poker chip and hands them to one of the boys.

– Make him eat it.

They don’t really make me eat it. What they do is, they get me on my knees and stick the barrel of one of those guns in my neck and I open my mouth and they shove the jagged edged pieces of plastic inside and force it closed and punch my face a few times and the broken chip cuts up my tongue and gums and the soft insides of my cheeks. But, no, I don’t actually eat the chip. When they’re done I look at the old woman, still seated on her couch, wearing that very practical sweater and slacks combo and equally practical walking shoes, gray hair back in a bun, reading glasses dangling from a neck strap, machine pistol-armed boys arrayed around her. I open my mouth and the broken chip and some bits of skin and a large quantity of blood falls onto the parquet floor.

– I don’t suppose your last name is Predo, by any chance?

She brings the glasses to her eyes and looks me over. Inspects me. Takes my measure. I don’t like it.

She lowers the glasses.

– If Dexter Predo were my child, I’d cut out my womb and throw it on the fire.

I wipe blood from my lips.

– Well, we have that it common. Minus the womb.

– One lump or two.

I scratch my cheek.

– If I say three, are you gonna whip out a mallet and hit me over the head with it?

She wrinkles her forehead at me, tiny silver tongs still poised over the sugar bowl.

– Excuse me?

– Nothing. Sorry. No sugar.

– Milk?

– Black is fine.

She lifts the delicate cup and offers it to me. I take it and give it a good sniff. Nothing but the strong scent of Earl Grey.

She watches me through the steam drifting off the top of her own cup of sugary, milky tea.

– Tell me, Mr. Pitt.

– Yeah?

– What is it about the manner in which you’ve been treated here that makes you think we’d resort to anything so subtle as drugging your tea?

I take a sip.

– Nothing. Habit.

She nods.

– One may assume then that you do not often take tea with friends.

– If one wanted to, sure.

I look over my shoulder at the window.

– It makes you nervous?

I look back at her.

– A big, east-facing picture window with nothing covering it but a drape? Yeah, I’m a little itchy about it.

– It’s a very heavy drape.

– Imagine my relief.

– And we certainly wouldn’t consider throwing it open on you while we are all here together enjoying our tea.

I look at the four boys standing about the room. They’re taking their tea in shifts; two of them sipping while the others keep their guns on me.

– Sure. But you never know when someone on the street might shoot out that window and tear that rag to shreds. You should nail up some plywood at least.

The corners of her mouth drop.

– Plywood. It would ruin the room.

She stands and walks toward the window.

– And I would lose my view.

She fingers a fold in the burgundy drapes.

– True, I cannot enjoy it during the day. But at night it is still quite spectacular.

She stares at the curtain, looking beyond it to the sprawl of the Hood below Morningside Park.

– Even if it does remind one of what is out there.

She turns back to me.

– Of what is living in homes that were once ours. On land that we rightfully own.

She spreads her arms wide.

– No, Mr. Pitt, I keep this window so thinly covered for a reason. So that I might open it that much more quickly when the time comes to watch the things down there being burned out of their nests.

She returns to the couch.

– That day will come soon enough. I can bear waiting for it a little longer. Just now, we should talk about you. And what is going to be done with you.

I swirl the last of my tea around the bottom of the cup.

She points at the cup.

– Anything of use to you in there?

I look at the tea leaves. They don’t tell me the future. They don’t tell me anything at all. But I don’t really need them, I already have a pretty good idea of what’s going to be done with me.

– Nothing I can see.

She holds out her hand.

– May I?

I hand her the cup.

She gazes into it.

– Hmm.

– ’M I gonna hit the lotto?

She sets the cup on the tea tray.

– No, just as you said, nothing. But I can tell you your future nonetheless.

– That would be a relief about now.

She arches an eyebrow.

– A relief? Well then, allow me to relieve you. I will soon call Dexter Predo and inform him that we have you in our custody. He will immediately make arrangements for your rendition, which will most likely take place as soon as the sun has gone down. You will be transferred to Coalition territory proper, and Predo will begin a lengthy interrogation. When he has extracted every last scrap of useful information you possess, you will be executed. In the traditional fashion. Having not seen the sun in…many years, I could almost envy you the view you will have.

I cross my legs.

– But not really.

She shakes her head.

– No, not really.

I play with the frayed hem of my jeans.

– So what’s holding up you making this call?

She slips her glasses on and studies me again.

– Dexter Predo will do what is best for the Coalition at large. Or rather, what is best for the Secretariat and for his chances of advancing to that body. I, on the other hand, will do what is best for our settlement here. This final scrap of our great northern territory, which is all Predo retained for us when he negotiated that abominable treaty with the animals on those streets.

She gives it a rest for a second.

I have nothing to say. So I don’t.

She picks it back up.

– Seeing as you have just come from our occupied territories, I am very curious to hear about what you have seen there.

Another rest.

Me, I still got nothing to interject.

– Predo will offer as little of this information to me as possible, keeping the most useful details for himself.

I look at the mixing bowl at the edge of the table, the one still filled with the remains of those cigarettes.

– And I intend to extract as many of those details as possible before I must call him and report your capture. Using the same tactics he will use.

I cough.

– Lady, if you’re offering me a chance to avoid being tortured twice, just say so. Tell me what you want to know and I’ll spill it. Just maybe one of these guys could get me some rolling papers so I can put my cigarettes back together and have a smoke while I’m talking.

She looks at one of the boys. He comes over and puts a box of Marlboro Lights and a yellow Bic on the table.

I light up.

She takes my empty cup off its saucer.

– You may call me Mrs. Vandewater. I prefer it to lady.

I blow smoke.

She slides the saucer in front of me.

– I’m afraid I don’t have a proper ashtray.

More smoke.

– And now that you have your cigarette, I would like to know what you saw while you were below. How many soldiers, what arms, defenses along the border, these are the details I am most interested in.

I heave out another lungful of smoke and knock ash onto the very-expensive-looking Persian rug that her tea table rests on.

– Fuck off. Mrs. Vandewater.

I expect to be given a few good raps on the back of the skull and hauled away to a basement or some other place where the floors aren’t as nice and the bloodstains won’t matter so much. But all that happens is the Vandewater lady gives a little sniff, lets her glasses drop to the end of their neck chain, gets up and walks out, two of her boys trailing her. The others don’t even slap me around. They just stand there and keep me covered, both of them staying on the same side of the room so there’s no chance they might shoot each other if they have to open fire.

I make the most of it, smoking the rest of the Marlboros and grinding the butts into the rug. It passes the time.

An hour goes by. I run out of cigarettes. I stand up and the boys don’t shoot me. I stretch. Still no bullets. I take a step in their direction. They both take their fingers from the safe position alongside the trigger guard and wrap them around their triggers. I take a step back. They unwrap. So I guess this is my side of the room. I take a look.

I had the bag over my head when they brought me in, but I’m pretty sure we stayed on that same block they were driving around. There or very nearby. They drove us down a ramp into an underground garage. The elevator went up express, opening right into the apartment. The way Vandewater talked about the view, figure we’re anywhere from the sixth to the tenth floor. I can’t hear anything from the other rooms of the apartment or the apartment above. Probably prewar, brick walls. The wainscoting and the molding around the ceiling have never been painted over white like in most old Manhattan buildings. Yeah, this is one of those places on Morningside Drive, one of those castles right at the top of the park.

I take a look at the walls: a couple nice prints, some of van Gogh’s sunflowers, a Remington. Nice stuff, but not my style. There are a few plaques, dark wood with brass, the Vandewater name engraved prominently. Awards. Acknowledgments for efforts. Thanks for donations. That kind of thing. Some sheepskins, too. A yellowed diploma from Columbia when it was still King’s College. Several more, also from Columbia. Men and women, all Vandewaters. Most very old, some that are new.

I look at the new ones. All the degrees taken in the sciences. Biology mostly. I think about that. I think about that school right around the block. I think about the kind of people who go there. And I file those thoughts away. I get lucky, I can maybe follow up on them someday. Think I have an idea who one of those thoughts might lead me to.

I look some more.

There are some photos. Silver-framed, sitting on a table at the end of the couch, a shaded lamp illuminating them.

I look. Blink Look again. I pick one up.

Vandewater. Predo. Terry Bird.

The door opens. Vandewater comes in. Her boys come after, a sagging, head-bagged body between them.

She takes the photo from my hand.

– I have no idea why I keep this.

She lifts her glasses to her eyes and peers at the photo.

– To remind me of happier times, I suppose. Although I hate to think of myself as being nostalgic. Nostalgia rivets you in the past. It keeps you from looking forward. It is good, I think, to be proud of your history, to honor it, but one should never wallow in it.

She taps a very short nail against the glass covering the picture.

– That is what I tried to teach those boys.

She has smudged the glass with her finger. She pulls the cuff of her sleeve down and uses it to wipe the smudge away.

– I’m not certain Bird ever quite got it.

She sets the photo back in its place.

– While Predo, I fear, has taken it much too far.

– Have you ever wondered about the name Coalition?

– Not really.

– It never occurred to you that it was an odd name for an organization that shows such unanimity?

– Like I said, never thought about it.

– Yes. You strike me as one who does that frequently. Someone who fails to think about things. Some history then, while they prepare.

Two of the boys are moving furniture from the middle of the room. The guy with the bagged head is slumped in a corner.

– The Coalition was once just that: a Coalition of smaller groups. Over the years those groups coalesced; they became a single, unified entity. For the most part.

The furniture out of harm’s way, the boys begin spreading a sheet of plastic over the floor.

– This is what I mean when I accuse Terry Bird of nostalgia.

She points at the photo.

– He was apt at recruiting. And so there he is, Downtown, trying to repeat the lessons of the past. Assembling a coalition of disparate groups, with the goal of creating a single, unified whole. He will fail. The historical moment is different, time has marched, while he remains in the past. What worked once, will not work again.

They begin taping down the edges of the plastic.

– Predo, it is true, looks forward. But to what end? He sacrifices territory, maneuvers behind the scenes, probes for weaknesses in the uninfected world that he might manipulate, looks always to the future. To adapting to the future. But only for himself. Only out of a desire for power. He is craven. And he disguises this, hides it from himself, by cocooning himself with influence. But I have seen him cower. From the back of my hand.

They pick up the guy by the wall and carry him to the middle of the plastic.

– Bird, at least, went off on his own, attempted to forge his own kingdom. It will crash down around him, but he has a sense of vision beyond himself. Predo is narrow.

One of the boys has a briefcase. He opens it. Inside there are works: needles, syringes, plastic bags, loops of rubber hose.

– Predo is selfish.

She walks over to her window. Daylight glows at the edges of the drapes. It hurts my eyes to look at it.

– That is why we are caged up here, surrounded by filth. Robbed of our heritage. Unable to exert our influence as we should. Unable to shape the future.

The boy pulls the bag from the guy’s head. It’s a young guy. Hispanic. Close-cropped hair, a hoop piercing his left eyebrow.

– Except by using the tools of the past.

One of the boys on the plastic sheet draws a scalpel from the briefcase.

Vandewater moves to the edge of the plastic, standing over the boys who kneel on either side of the Hispanic kid.

She looks at me, sitting over here on her couch, arms once again wired behind my back.

– Have you ever infected anyone, Mr. Pitt?

– No.

– Then this will be an education for you.

One boy opens his mouth. He sticks out his tongue. The other, the one with the scalpel, places the tip of the blade against his partner’s tongue and cuts. He pushes the scalpel until the blade has disappeared inside the healthy pink flesh, then he draws it downward, slicing it open to the tip. Blood begins to gush. The boy with the butterflied tongue bends forward, he opens the Hispanic kid’s mouth, and covers it with his own. Blood seeps out around the seal created by their lips.

Vandewater looks at me.

– There are other ways to do it, of course.

The Hispanic kid starts to jerk.

– But this is one of the surest.

His heels kick the floor.

– Ultimately, it all depends on the subject.

His palms slap the plastic and his fingers clench and unclench.

– You see, not everyone can accept the Vyrus.

The boy lifts his mouth away, blood still leaking from his tongue. He looks at Vandewater. She watches the Hispanic kid for another moment as greenish yellow foam begins to erupt from his mouth and nose. She shakes her head.

The boy with the scalpel places it against the Hispanic kid’s neck and shoves it deep into his carotid, cupping his hand around the entrance wound to keep the blood from spraying the room. The Hispanic kid’s tremors subside. In less than a minute he is still.

The boy with the sliced tongue wipes at it with a cotton pad. The wound has stopped bleeding and a scab is forming. The other boy puts his tools aside and the two of them begin to roll the plastic sheet with the Hispanic kid inside.

Vandewater steps out of their way.

– And so we will have to try again.

The door opens. Another head-bagged kid is brought in.

– A student body is an invaluable resource.

The new kid is laid out on a fresh sheet of plastic. The bag comes off. This one might be twenty. Middle Eastern. Khakis and a button-down.

– Away from home for the first time, they become depressed, alienated. Their behavior may be uncharacteristic. They get involved with drugs. Run away from school. Walk into dangerous parks after midnight. Commit suicide.

The two boys prepare to repeat their procedure, switching roles so that the one who last wielded the scalpel will now be cut.

– This is especially true of freshmen. They drop like flies.

More tongue slicing occurs.

– And even more true of the racial minorities. So driven. I’m speaking particularly of Asians, East Asians, and Middle Easterners now. The internal and external pressures to succeed, it can be unbearable for a youngster.

This one tremors and shakes, but no foam spews. Instead, his throat works as he sucks the infected blood out of the boy’s split tongue.

Vandewater bends to observe.

– There, we have a match.

After several seconds the boy pulls his mouth free. The Middle Eastern kid’s mouth opens and closes and his own tongue runs around his lips cleaning them of blood. His eyes are open, but they stare unfocused and sightless at the ceiling.

Vandewater moves closer, stands over the kid, looking at his face.

– Now he has great potential. He could accomplish remarkable feats.

The boys have begun assembling the works from the briefcase.

– With nurturing and care, with a firm hand to steer him, he might become something worthwhile. A scholar of our kind, one who might someday unlock all the secrets of the Vyrus. A statesman, to unite the Clans. A poet, to write verses of our plight. An able soldier, to take arms in the coming battles.

One of the boys takes the kid’s arm and inserts an IV needle into a vein.

– But it is not to be. I will not have him.

The blood cup is fitted to the hose and the blood begins to fill one of the pint bags they have at hand.

– I will not have the brown, black, and yellow in my land. Once, yes, they had a place. But they proved treacherous. And they will not be given a second chance.

The bag is full. One of the boys closes the valve at the end of the hose, slips the full bag free, and connects a fresh one. Blood flows.

– Do you know what you are looking at?

I shake my head.

– There is no reason you should. You are looking at a weapon. A very old weapon.

Another bag full, another attached.

– Although it has never been used as such before. In the past it has always been simply a vice. Albeit a very dangerous one. And very exclusive.

Another bag.

– One wonders where the original inspiration came from, who it was that stuck their finger in the air and declared, eureka!

She picks up one of the full bags.

– I suspect it was an accident.

She walks toward me.

– I suspect it was a Vampyre, crazed with hunger, attempting to feed on someone who had been very, very recently infected. Through some odd set of circumstances, this Vampyre fed only for a moment. And made a discovery.

Behind her, another bag is filled.

– That, when consumed, the blood of one freshly infected will induce the most remarkable sensations. Remarkable, and addictive.

She raises an index finger.

– An unbelievably expensive addiction, mind you. For who can afford to be addicted to blood twice over? Who can bear the risks of hunting not just for sustenance, but for pleasure? Thus the exclusivity.

They’re massaging the kid now, rubbing their hands over his legs and arms, as if squeezing dry a tube of toothpaste.

– That expense lies also at the heart of the secret as to why something like this has laid buried for so very long. Of course, I say something like this, knowing that nothing else like this exists. The point being, our lives are difficult to say the least. And they can be very long. And, if one does not have resources, very boring. An effective distraction from the basic needs for survival would be compelling in and of itself. Even if it were not addictive.

Another bag.

– It was decided some time ago, some very great time ago, that this was an indulgence that could not be afforded. It was declared anathema by the body that governed the Clans. When there was such a thing. In fact, that was the name it was given.

She shows me the bag in her hands, holds it in front of my face so that my nostrils are full of the stink of it.

– Anathema: the name for both the substance itself, and the habit of indulging in it. It was forbidden. The addicts were hunted and slaughtered. It became a crime so heinous, no one even knew of its existence. And so you see my personal values employed.

She turns to face the kid being wrung dry on the floor.

– Employing something of the past in a new manner, in order to shape the future. It flows out of these sacrifices.

She points at the window.

– And we send it onto the streets below. To wear holes in their unity. To create dissent and expose weaknesses. To drive their children to hunt to excess and endanger themselves. Thus, it is a weapon.

One of the boys has hoisted the kid by his ankles. A bag fills in fits and spurts.

Vandewater turns back to me.

– A weapon that, given time, will spur a war.

The kid is dry. They begin to bundle him in the plastic sheet.

– It will drive the Hood to threaten war on the Coalition. Predo, clinging to the status quo as he does, will attempt to avoid this. But he will have no choice. The chaos reigning in the Hood will force him to take action. Especially once I have assured him that I will be taking action whether he does or not. He will not risk losing this settlement. Particularly not when he sees how vulnerable to attack I have made the Hood.

She points at the two plastic wrapped bodies.

– Put them in the kitchen for now.

Two of the boys haul them out of the room.

She shows me the bag of blood again, holds it balanced on the open palm of her large hand.

– And that is what you are looking at.

I look at her.

– Me, I thought I was looking at a lady who’s crazy as a shit-house rat.

She nods.

– Vulgarity. Of course. The refuge of the weak-minded. Scoff if you like. But there is more.

The boys come back and begin replacing the furniture they had moved. She raises a hand and one of them brings a chair. She sits.

– Once the Hood has fallen. Once we have reclaimed our territory and these boys and their brothers and sisters know the security they have never known. The security that would have been theirs if the Secretariat had never bowed to those animals. Once that is secure, my attention will turn south, to our lands below 14th Street.

The room has been put back together. Two of the boys continue to stand watch over me while the others gather together the anathema and pack it in the briefcase.

– In fact, that project has already begun. Gradually, much as we did here, the anathema is being introduced. Which, I would imagine, is the reason you have come so far away from home in the first place.

She looks at me through her glasses again.

– Another thing.

The boys come over to the couch, one of them carrying the briefcase full of anathema.

– While in modest amounts anathema’s effects are essentially euphoric, larger amounts are quite agonizing, if not lethal.

She hands one of the boys the pint she’s been holding.

– It takes an experienced and steady hand to administer the perfect dosage to inflict that agony without inducing an undesired fatality.

The boy unwraps a clean syringe.

– But if done properly, such a dose is every bit as effective as the most savage torture.

He begins to draw anathema into the syringe.

– Minus the mess and inconvenience.

She holds up a finger. The boy stops filling the syringe.

She points at it.

– This, I believe, would be your ideal dosage. If I were to inject you with this, every muscle in your body would warm and relax. A slight sweat might break out over your face. The worries of your everyday life would cease to have weight. Music would fill your ears such as you have never heard before. Images would light the undersides of your eyelids. Shapes, colors. Fantasies, but also more concrete hallucinations. Communal visions that are shared by all who have experienced anathema. Visions that some would say prove conclusively the spiritual nature of the Vyrus. Though I am not among them. But perhaps you are, Mr. Pitt?

Again she lifts the glasses to her eyes.

– I have heard that you sometimes associate with Daniel and his followers. Are you one of them? I’ve long suspected that Daniel’s interests are not so ephemeral as he claims. It would not surprise me to discover that you are in fact his agent. Predo and Bird running you for their ends, but all the while, secretly, you are an instrument of Enclave concerns. It might be so. It might be so and you might not even be aware of it, Daniel being so subtle as he is. Would you care to have such visions? Unlock a deeper level of meaning within the Vyrus? You’ve been infected long enough to ask questions, haven’t you? The first years of infection being filled as they are with simply learning to cope, deciding if you want to live this life at all. The next several with learning the tools of survival. The next several with learning to fit in, to adapt to being infected in an uninfected world over the long term. And finally, if you have the endurance, the cleverness, some set of tools to keep you alive, you begin to ask questions. What is the Vyrus? What are the Vampyre? How long have we been here? Where did the Clans come from? Are there more of us out there in the world? How many? Do they all live as we do? And, of course: What am I?

She lowers her glasses and waves them at the syringe in the boy’s hand.

– This might hold answers for you. They would come with a price, naturally. You would arise from my couch with a new hunger, a second need. You would find yourself distracted from the hunt, contemplating how best to use your victim’s blood. Consume it? Or have another Vampyre infect it for you? You can’t use as anathema blood you’ve infected yourself, it will only make you ill. Nor can you use blood infected by the same Vampyre, not more than once or twice. You see how the complexities of this addiction multiply.

She points at the boy again. He pulls smoothly on the plunger.

She tilts her finger upward. He stops.

– With this amount, you will still be granted visions, likewise universal in their nature, but far more unpleasant. And accompanied not with warmth and relaxation, but muscles contracted so tightly they sometimes tear from the strain. Fever. Pain. In your bones. Particularly in the sternum, the spine, the hips, and the femurs. Odd, yes? And when it is over, you will be left not with the same addiction, but with one that demands these higher doses. An addiction that can only be sated through misery.

She moves her finger. More blood enters the syringe. Stops.

– With this amount, things become simpler. Agony. Harrowing phantasms. Blood at war with itself. And a lengthy, wracking, death.

The boy pulls the syringe free, wipes the needle. Offers it to Vandewater.

She takes it.

– Predo wants you. Knowing that, and knowing that I cannot afford to thoroughly alienate him, we can dispense with this dosage as an empty threat.

She presses the plunger, squirting a thread of the blood onto my chest. The smell burns my nostrils.

– Having done so, it only remains to decide.

She holds up the syringe.

– Will it be this? In which case I will save my questions until after you have recovered and are begging for further torture.

She holds her fingernail against the side of the syringe, indicating a smaller amount.

– Will it be this? In which case I will still hold my interrogation, waiting until you have suffered sweetly, and crave yet more sweetness.

She lowers the syringe.

– Or may I begin my questions now? Secure in the knowledge that you are aware I will not brook the barest shadow of a falsehood in your answers. Knowing you understand the price that will be paid.

And she shows me the needle again.

I rub my chin against my shoulder.

– Well, Mrs. Vandewater, it took you awhile to get there, but you finally managed to say, tell me what I want to know or I’ll fuck you up forever.

She waits.

I roll my eyes.

– I don’t know what you’re waiting for, I already told you once to fuck off.

There’s a knock at the door. One of the machine pistol boys answers it. He nods at Vandewater.

She sets the syringe on the tea table. The boy assisting her closes the briefcase full of anathema.

She stands.

– Of course, one of the components of anathema’s effectiveness as a weapon is its brief shelf life. It must be distributed immediately after it is harvested. This batch is meant for the Hood. And the courier is waiting.

She walks to the door.

– But not to worry, the dose in that syringe will last more than long enough to serve its purpose. In fact, a few minutes’ aging will make it much more effective.

She leaves, escorted by Briefcase Boy and one of the machine pistols.

I look at the syringe sitting on the table and then over at the machine pistol boy and the tongue slicer that remained behind. I look again at the syringe, secure in the knowledge that when the time comes, I will beg like a child to keep her from sticking it in my arm.

I’m a dead man. And not just in the way that I’m always sort of a dead man. Once I’m in Predo’s hands there will be considerably less talking and much more thrashing and questioning. And after that, I’ll get to see my first sunrise in a quarter century. That should be worth something, but I expect I’ll be distracted by the sensation of my eyelids melting. Being addicted to this shit will be the least of my concerns. Hell, the smart play here is to volunteer for the light dose. Lady wants to offer up a last gasp of nirvana, who am I to say no? That or just answer her damn questions outright. Figure I got no one to protect. Not like I owe anything to Digga. Not like I can tell her a hell of a lot about his setup anyway. Figure she won’t stop with questions about the Hood. That’s her obsession, but she’ll get around to asking about the Society, too. Figure I don’t much care about that either. Why should I? Only reason I ever stuck on that turf is because I like the neighborhood. Sell Terry out? Yep, no problem. The thing to do here is let her shoot a little of that shit into me and go out with something soft on my mind. And who knows, maybe there are some answers in that needle. I don’t really believe that, but a lie can be just as sweet as the truth. Sweeter, nine times out of ten. Yeah, all in all, I got no good reason to be hardass here. I’m a dead man and the lady is just giving me a chance to decide how hard I want to go out. Most guys, they’ll never be so lucky. No reason to be a hardass at all. No secrets worth keeping. No one worth protecting. Just me. Figure a better deal ain’t gonna come around for a long while.

Vandewater comes back in alone.

She takes her seat. Lays a hand over the syringe.

– You’ve had ample time for thought?

I shrug, feeling something that resembles freedom.

Her fingers curl around the syringe.

– If, by any chance, you should need any additional incentive to make this easy and less time consuming, I could point out to you that our distributor in the Society tells me you have a girl whom you are-

She doesn’t get to finish. It’s hard to finish what you’re saying when a guy lunges at you and bites one of your eyes out.

The boy who wired my hands together in the car knew what he was doing. He looped it around each wrist several times, then crisscrossed it back and forth between both wrists, drawing them tightly together, knotting the loose end and mashing that knot with a pair of pliers. The boy who rewired them after they had clipped me free for tea time? He didn’t take the same class. Probably the one who drove around the block over and over. He should have started with fresh wire. But he didn’t. He should have made sure my wrists weren’t flexed when he bound me. But he didn’t. No, he used the same wire that had already been stressed by all my wiggling and twisting when I was figuring out how good a job the first guy did. He wrapped it around my flexed wrists so that when he was done I could relax those muscles and have a little slack so the wire didn’t bite so deeply into my skin. And he took those loose ends and twisted them together like the bit of wire used to close a bag of sliced bread.

If I ever find out which of them it was, I’d like to give him my thanks. Because it’s his shitty job that makes it possible to wrench my hands free and keep this crazy witch from clawing my ears off when I spit her eye in her face.

I’ll give it to her, she doesn’t scream, much.

The one by the window is circling, looking for an open shot, a shot that won’t have to go through Vandewater. The tongue slicer is closer, his hand is inside his jacket, going for a weapon that is less indiscriminate than the machine pistol the other boy has. Vandewater is blind, one eye somewhere on the floor, the other covered in blood, she’s still raking her nails at my face. I throw her at the tongue slicer. He has his hand out of his jacket, holding a tiny automatic that looks like a mechanical wasp. The old lady is coming his way. He lets the gun fall from his hand and holds out his arms to catch her. I don’t watch what happens next, I’m busy picking up the tea table and throwing it at the boy with the machine pistol.

He’s young and he’s well trained, but he hasn’t had too many opportunities to put that training to use, so he’s worried about getting hurt. Dumbshit little boy, he hasn’t been around long enough to develop new reflexes, his brain is still living in a world where large objects fly at you and you flinch; doesn’t get it that pain doesn’t matter. Something hits you, it’s either gonna kill you or it ain’t. The table doesn’t kill him. I do.

He puts his arm up, easily knocking the table out of the air, but I’m right behind it. He wastes time trying to bring his gun back down, centering his aim on my torso instead of simply pulling the trigger and waving it around. I’m on top of him before it can matter. The gun is out of his hand. He’s on his back. My knee is slamming into his crotch. He’s strong, keeps going for my face. One of those other boys is gonna come in here any second. I put my hands in the boy’s armpits and heave, sliding him on the wood floor, and his face disappears under the hem of the burgundy drapes.

The room instantly reeks of rotted meat being scorched by a blowtorch. I hold him there for a couple seconds while he shrieks and tries to pry my hands loose. When he stops struggling I’m off him and turning to see what’s become of Vandewater and the tongue slicer. He sits up. The drapes tent around him for a moment, flashing sunlight over his body, before they swish back into place. Then he sits there, the hole that used to be his mouth oozing cancer, his hands clutching at his peeling scalp, pushing at the tumors that have erupted across it, trying to force them back inside.

The tongue slicer is on his back, trying to restrain Vandewater, trying to keep her from mauling him while not hurting her. That pain thing again. If he’d been around a bit longer he would have pounded her unconscious by now.

The door is opening.

I look at the floor, see the syringe, pick it up. The door swings wide, two of the boys coming through it, weapons up. I bend over and loop my left arm around Vandewater’s neck and bring her up. She’s still blind, still trying to hurt someone. The boys are in. The tongue slicer is picking up his automatic. I’ve got the old lady in front of me; windpipe caught in the crook of my elbow, toes just grazing the floor. Her remaining eye is open, blinking the blood away. She sees her boys.

– Shoot him!

Yeah, she knows about pain, she knows what it takes. She’s ready for a few bullets.

I bring up the syringe and show it to her.

Her remaining eye rolls around and fixes on the syringe. The boys are circling, looking for the shot that will harm her the least.

I stick the needle in her empty eye socket, my thumb on the plunger.

And apparently some things are worse than pain.

– Don’t! Don’t shoot!

They don’t.

The room is quiet. We can all hear each other breathing too hard. Some of Vandewater’s blood drips off her face and hits the floor. The guy by the window hisses and gurgles like a pot of something viscous boiling over. The room stinks of his cancer and the lingering tang of the anathema.

I put my mouth close to her ear.

– Tell them to drop their guns and fuck off out of my way.

– Allow him to-

I clamp my arm tight.

– That’s not what I said.

She gets it right this time.

– Drop your guns and fuck off out of his way.

They drop their guns and fuck off out of my way.

I glance at my possessions scattered on the floor. The.32, the broken switchblade, the gutted Zippo, the broken poker chip, and the spilled bowl of tobacco and shredded cigarette paper. I’ll miss that Zippo, but more than anything, I wish I could have those cigarettes back.

The service elevator’s just off the kitchen. There are also a couple plastic wrapped corpses and more of the boys. The boys drop their guns and fuck off just as well as the others.

I frog-walk Vandewater to the elevator, watched by the boys.

There’s a keyhole just above the call button.

– You got the key?

She nods.

– Use it.

She takes a key ring from her pocket, sorts the proper one, twists it in the keyhole and pushes the button. We all wait a moment. The blood in her eye socket congeals a little more. The boys have brief wet dreams about what they’ll do to me when they get the chance. The elevator creaks in the shaft. If we weren’t all otherwise occupied, we’d be staring at the numbers above the door, watching them light up one by one.

– How long this thing take?

She twists her neck a little, getting some air. Her voice rasps.

– It’s old.

– No shit.

More creaking.

I remember something important.

– Who’s your dealer downtown?

The muscles of her neck tighten slightly. She’s smiling.

I give her throat a squeeze.

– Something funny?

She coughs.

– I thought you’d forgotten.

– Yeah. Well.

I uncurl my index finger from the syringe and point at the boys.

– All this ruckus, it slipped my mind for the nonce.

The elevator creaks closer.

She smiles again. But keeps her mouth shut.

I push the needle a little deeper into her eye socket.

– Who?

Knowing the name, wanting to hear it.

She’s still smiling.

– You won’t believe me.

– Try me.

Smiling. Croaking.

– Tom Nolan.

OK. Not the name I was expecting.

I squeeze her tighter.

– Bullshit.

The elevator clanks into place.

– Tell me the truth.

The words rasp out of her mouth.

– That is the truth.

The door clicks. The boys aren’t looking at me anymore.

Fuck.

I step to the side as the door slides open and the boy inside sprays his buddies instead of me, some of them hitting the deck, some of them riddled before they can react. I slam Vandewater against the wall, forearm across her throat, syringe in front of her face.

– Who?

She laughs.

– Tom Nolan! Tom Nolan!

The boy in the elevator stops shooting. I shove the plunger down, spurting the anathema into the old lady’s dead eyehole.

She screams and I shove her in front of the elevator. Bullets tear up her belly and she’s blown back into the uninjured boys who are getting up from the floor. The boy in the box stops shooting. I reach in and get a fistful of his jacket and drag him out.

Vandewater is freaking out like the enforcer did in the pool. The boys forget about me, trying to get a handle on her, trying to keep her from killing herself as she trashes the room. I throw the boy from the elevator at her and she latches on to him. I grab the key from its slot, step inside and hit the button for the garage.

As the door slides closed I see Mrs. Vandewater with the boy from the elevator in her clutches, dealing with him as the enforcer dealt with the dogs, the rest of the boys trying to bring her down.

I have the key stuck in the elevator control panel, turned to express. The boy’s machine pistol is on the floor. I pick it up. The elevator hits bottom and the door opens. No one is waiting. I flip the key over to hold, leave it there and get out. The garage is small, a dozen very expensive cars for the very expensive tenants of this building. The entrance is gated, a dull gray glow filtering through it. I turn away. There’s no attendant. I look at the cars. Really, it’s no contest, the Range Rover with the all-around tint job wins hands down.

I walk over and press my face against the glass to get a look inside at how serious the alarm is. I get my look. I jump back and bring up the machine pistol. Nothing happens. I take another look.

Mother fucker. You can’t be serious.

I try the door. It’s unlocked. I open it. His head is hanging to one side, mouth slack, one sleeve rolled up, syringe still in his hand. Couldn’t wait to fix, could you? I shove him to the passenger’s seat, climb in and check the back. The briefcase of anathema is right there. I look at his sorry ass.

– Dealers should never use, asshole.

But Shades doesn’t say anything, not nearly as talkative as he was when he was working the door at the Jack. He just stays right there in dreamland.

I put the machine pistol on the floor, close the door and give Shades a pat down. I find his gun and phone, gloves, and a ski mask. I put on his gear, turn the key and the engine rumbles up. I pull the Rover over to the gate. As the light gets brighter, the tinting gets darker. Still, my eyes water and burn. An electric eye triggers the gate and it slides open. I scoot as low as possible in the seat, sun visor dropped, and drive like hell.

There’s a reason they call it Morningside Park. That cliff is actually a part of the Manhattan schist, a long rift that runs along the upper end of the island. West is high ground, east is low. And the park? That’s facing east. I come out of the garage headed into the sun. But the tinting was worth every dime Shades paid for it. I know this because my eyes don’t turn to steam. I head north on Morningside Avenue, the sun on my right, hidden by the clouds. I follow the avenue around the block and it drops down a slope to Amsterdam. Another right, and the slope grows steeper as the buildings grow taller. I’m driving in shade. A right on MLK Boulevard and I’m dropping down to the Harlem Plain. Back in the Hood.

Frying pan?

Fire?

Who’s keeping track anymore? They both burn. And tinting or no, I’m gonna do the same if I stay out here. A blast down the West Side Highway is tempting, but it’ll most likely be gridlocked this time of morning. Traffic jam? With the sun climbing? No thanks. Across Hancock Square I see the big mall they built a few years back, part of the economic recovery in Harlem. It already looks shabby, but it has a public garage. I swing in, roll the window down, stick out my gloved hand, snatch a ticket from the dispenser and pull into the deep darkness. It takes a few minutes to find a space big enough for the Rover, but I don’t mind.

The backs of my hands are blistered. They caught a few rays when I had that boy under the drapes. The burn runs up my forearms. I’ll live. For the moment. Getting to the moments after this one, that’s the trick now.

I look at Shades. A muscle in his cheek twitches. If he’s dosed like the girls at The Count’s place, he should be rousing pretty soon. I give him another pat to make sure he’s not packing any other weapons. I give the interior of the car a once over. Just me, Shades, and the briefcase full of anathema.

I wonder what the expiration date is on that shit. If this stooge was taking a break to fix, it must be at least several hours. He probably wasn’t gonna be driving all over the Hood making drops in the sun. It might be as many as twelve hours. I take one of the bags and slip it inside my jacket.

Time to call Digga.

The anathema, that’s the evidence he wants. Shades alive and available for questioning, that’s a bonus. Play it cool, there should be something in it for me. Blood or money. Skin in the game.

I flip open Shades’ phone and make a call.

– Chubby.

– Grand to hear from you, Joe.

– Good to hear your voice, too, Chubs.

– Something I can do for you?

– Well, kind of embarrassing, seeing as you already did me a solid recently.

He grunts.

– Vouching for you, Joe? That’s wasn’t a solid, that was merely good business. Someone calls asking me for a reference, it’s only good business that I tell them the truth. That is all I did. Happy to do it. Happy to. But there’s something more?

– I need a number.

– Mmhmm?

– On account.

– Mnn.

– But I’ll cover it when I get back.

– Get back? Still in the northern latitudes, my friend?

– For the time being.

– Well then, if I can be of assistance in bringing you homeward, I must do so.

He gives me the number.

– Thanks, Chubs.

– A pleasure. As always.

– By the way.

– Yes?

– Never knew you were quite so connected.

– Caution, Joe, use it in liberal amounts.

He hangs up.

I dial.

– What up?

– The sun.

He’s thrown.

– Get it, Digga? What up? The sun.

He gets it.

I tell him where. I tell him to come alone. He’s says it’ll take him a couple hours. I tell him he has fifteen minutes before I risk the commute. And I hang up.

I set the phone on the dash just as Shades moans. I look at him. He brings a hand to his face and rubs it around. Moans again. Shit, that stuff must be good. He opens his eyes. Blinks. Sees me.

I wave.

– Peek-a-boo.

He makes a move for his piece. It’s not there. I show him the machine pistol in my hand.

– Best thing for both of us, you should maybe just fix again and take another nap.

Seeing how thoroughly fucked he is, he seems pretty happy to oblige.

– Muthafucka!

– It’s a bitch, ain’t it?

– Mutha!

– Got to hate finding a Judas in the house.

– Fucka!

– Makes you want to lash out at people who got nothing to do with the problem.

– Muthafuckingfucka!

– Otherwise I wouldn’t be pointing this thing at you.

– Shit.

He looks from Shades slouched in the passenger seat and across the Rover’s cab to me. He sees the gun in my hand. Shakes his head.

– Shit. Put that thing away. Like I give a fuck.

I keep it where it is.

– You cool?

He points at Shades.

– Cool? You think I’m cool with this shit? Muthafucka, nothin’ ever gonna be cool again. This some serious shit. I knew Papa was playin’ games. But this? This gonna have repercussions.

– Yep.

– Wave the fuckin’ gat ’round all you like. I got bigger fuckin’ problems.

I put the gun down.

He slams the passenger door. Opens the rear and climbs in.

He looks at the briefcase.

– This the shit?

– That’s it.

– Tell me.

So I tell him.

– That some crazy shit.

– Uh-huh.

– Old crazy lady on the hill goin’ off Predo’s talkin’ points. That is some crazy shit.

– Uh-huh.

– Uh-huh. Pitt, anyone ever tell you you got this gift for some fuckin’ understatement?

– Uh-huh.

– Sheeit.

We sit there. Digga still in the back, me in the front. He’s gone casual today: beige boots, baggie camos, silver Ecko parka. Once he pulls on his ski mask, gloves and sunglasses, he can go for a little walk.

He points at Shades.

– How long he gonna be on the nod?

– Don’t know for sure. Been down for about fifteen. Maybe fifteen more. Maybe less. What the lady says, the more you hit from one batch, the less you get from it.

He grunts.

– A’ight. You see my ride?

He points at a silver Lexus parked a few slots away.

– We gonna get this punk-ass mutha sequestered. Take him up to Percy’s shack and let the barber put the razor to him. Percy starts quizzin’ muthafucka’s ass, ain’t no stone gonna be unturned. Once we have all the details, we’ll go to work on Papa. Sort out his ass good.

He puts his hand on the door.

– Follow the Lex. Stay close. We gonna be at Percy’s lickity-split.

– Uh-uh.

– What?

– Uh-uh.

He leans forward.

– That don’t sound right. Before, you was all, uh-huh, like in the affirmative. That there, that sounded like, uh-uh, like in the negative. That what I heard?

– Uh-huh.

A sharp line draws itself between his eyebrows.

– You best start findin’ some extra fuckin’ syllables to ’splain yo-self, muthafucka.

– No.

He makes a move.

I bring up the machine pistol.

– Digga, we’re not in your barbershop. We’re not in The Jake. We’re not at Percy’s. You don’t have a gun in your hand. And I do. Sit back and relax.

He sits back, but he doesn’t relax.

– You wanted proof. You got it. In abundance. You want to take jerkoff here and cut him to ribbons, be my guest. You’re planning a big unveiling, gonna show up Papa Doc in public, put him in his place? My blessings. Me, I’m going home. All I need from you is you call off the dogs and get me my passage.

He looks out the window, shakes his head.

– Call off the dogs. Get me my passage. You take a look outside? You see the time of day? Call off the dogs? Muthafucka, they ain’t my dogs. Peeps out there spottin’ for you, sittin’ behind shaded glass with an eye on the street, they all Papa’s. A passage? Where to? Gonna go home now? Want me to arrange a passage for yo ass ’cross Coalition turf? That what you want? Shit. That takes time. ’Specially seein’ how Predo all on the warpath for yo ass. What you think been happenin’ all night an’ all that time you been up on that hill. Phone been ringin’ off the damn hook. Check this shit out.

He pulls out his phone, flips it open and scrolls to the incoming calls screen.

– Look at this shit.

I look.

PREDO

PREDO

PREDO

– The fat is in the fire. The man knows you crossed his yard. Says you went runnin’ through his flower bed, trampled some prize shit. Says one of his gardeners went MIA, last seen heading in this direction. Has an APB out. Here. There. Everywhere. An’ now you tell me you just laid a smackdown on that crazy witch up on the hill? You know who that grandma is? That is one of the truly last of the old-old skool. She an original piece of work. Word from the X, she the one used ta wipe Predo’s ass when he was little. Now, things X told me, things you just shared, sounds like they had something of a fallin’ out, but that doan mean he gonna be pleased ’bout you makin’ a mess up there. You want to go home? Muthafucka, there ain’t no home for you. Not now. Terry Bird gonna want nothin’ to do with yo ass down there. Not till this shit gets sorted fully out.

He leans back, runs a finger over his moustache.

– You come with me. Kick it up at Percy’s place. Nobody gonna mess in Percy’s shit. Not Papa. All the shit in the world can rain from the sky, not a drop gonna land on Percy’s roof. That’s truth. Kick up there for a few days. I need it, maybe you bear a little witness to some of the shit been going on. Predo gonna kick and scream, but when I drop the knowledge on him, he’s gonna have to back down. Gonna give up some shit. An’ I tell him so, he gonna lay off yo ass. Once that happen, yo boy Bird gonna welcome you back with open arms. Hail the conquering hero an’ all that shit. All you gotta do? Sit tight. Give this shit some air to breathe. It all gonna sort out just fine. Cool?

He puts out his hand.

I don’t take it.

– Yeah. Trouble is. I got a date tonight.

He raises his eyebrows.

– Got a date.

I shrug.

He keeps his hand out.

– Know, Pitt, that shit ain’t funny. Man’s here in front of you offerin’ his hand, offerin’ a way out of some shit you in, offerin’ to pull you up out of it, an’ you makin’ jokes. Best thing you can do here, stop bein’ a fuckin’ comedian an’ take what’s bein’ put yo way. Kiss this shit off twice, it doan come back around.

I look at his hand. I think about the sun and all the hours of daylight between right now and sunset. I think about those couple pints I drank before I came up here and the one left at home and the punishment I’ve been taking. I run my tongue around the inside of my mouth, feel the last traces of the cuts Vandewater’s boys put in there when they tried to make me eat that poker chip. I look at the man who sent me up that hill, the hand he’s holding out to me. I think about pulling the trigger on the machine pistol in my hand and watching the bullets disintegrate his face.

He sees my eyes.

Not a stupid man, he sees I don’t like him. He takes his hand back.

– Have it yo own damn way, Pitt.

I put the gun down.

– That’s kind of the point.

I pull Shades’ ski mask over my face. I slip on his gloves and his shades.

– That the A stop across the street?

Digga watches me.

– Yeah. Got the train fare?

– Got that grand you bet for me on your weak-ass dog?

He fishes his hand in his pocket and comes out with a roll.

– Here’s the G.

I take the money.

He thinks about something, licks his thumb and peels off another thin sheaf of bills.

– Here’s another G. For yo trouble.

I take it.

He puts his roll away.

– Kind of throwin’ good money after bad on my part. Seein’ as how you ain’t gonna live ta see nightfall. But you did yo part. Guess you deserve to least hold it for awhile, ’til whoever takes you down pulls it off yo corpse. That train takin’ yo ass nowhere, Pitt. Only place they can watch with the sun up is the hole. ’Tween here an 14th, gonna be nothin’ but hell to pay.

I open the door.

– Got no choice. My girl, she hates to be stood up.

I get out of the car and walk into the daylight.

It’s the direct UVs that get you. Uncovered skin gets hit by the direct rays of the sun, you cook like that boy got cooked in Vandewater’s apartment. Keep covered, stay in the shade, get lucky, and you can get by. You’ll burn alright; you’ll burn, and the more you burn the more you’ll push the limits of the Vyrus. But stay covered and you can get by. I am far too well protected by my covering for the sun to do any permanent damage here. I would have to walk in the direct rays, unshaded, for blocks before the UVs could do serious damage through all these layers.

And yet.

One step out of the garage, walking in the sun-protected lee of the mall, I feel it. Its pressure and heat. Like a Russian bath, a Russian bath that causes cancer. I feel the heat straight through the mask and gloves and every other stitch of clothing on my body. Sweat erupts across my scalp and rolls down my sides. My mouth goes dry and I feel a hot flash that ripples out from my gut, rolling through my organs and my blood. The Vyrus writhes inside me, confused, threatened, ready to kill me, kill itself, rather than endure the sun.

Crossing the street, trotting between the cars so I don’t have to stand on the corner and wait for the light to change, I remember something. I remember being a sixteen-year-old runaway, how I spent that summer, every day in Tompkins Square. I remember sprawling drunk and shirtless on the brown grass and waking, my skin so deeply burned it radiated heat. The girl I was with that night, holding her hand an inch from my stomach, warming her fingers. I poured ice-cold beer over my chest. For days the skin flaked and peeled. I picked at it, teasing off leafs of it and burning holes in them with the tip of my cigarette to gross out my friends with the smell. When the burned skin was dead and gone, I was browner than the grass in the park. That winter I was infected.

I look at the subway entrance just ahead. All things being equal, I’m going to die down there, somewhere between here and home. I stop at the top of the stairs.

I look up at the blue sky.

And pay for it with boiling tears and blurred vision.

Half blind, I stumble down the stairs into the hole in the ground, cursing myself.

The platform is crowded. My vision is still clouded, but I run my eyes around, looking for any of Papa’s ton tons macoute. Nothing.

I pull up the ski mask. Doesn’t matter who sees my face. The ones I’m most concerned about will smell me anyway.

I stand on the platform, shifting from foot to foot and rubbing the tears from my eyes, blinking away the blur. The platform grows more crowded. I put my back against one of the green girders that lines the platform. I breathe deep, smell the rats on the track along with all the other stinks of the station. I watch the faces, not caring if I catch anyone’s eye. Never certain if I have because of my fogged vision.

I squint at a map of the system. It’s a jumble of wavy lines: blue, orange, yellow, red, and green. Meaningless. That’s OK, I know the tunnels, I know the lines. I can picture the A in my head. The express down to 59th, to 42nd, to 34th, to 14th. I sniff again. Still smells clean, clean of what I’m looking for anyway. If the ton tons macoute want me, they’ll have to do it here, make their move in this station. Then again, they could try it on the line, move close to me on the packed train and…and what? What are they going to do on a packed train? Nothing. Nothing that won’t cause a scene. No, it has to be here.

Or.

Or Papa could have a deal with Predo. Percy said Papa might be dealing with him, might be on Predo’s tip. Figure it could be that bad. Figure ton tons could ride with me right onto Coalition turf. They could hang back, wait till we’re below 110th and show me their colors; do it just to drive me, herd me off the train, right into Predo’s enforcers.

The air moves in the station; a stale breeze blowing in from the tunnel, pushed ahead by the train. This is a bad play. I should be aboveground. Duck into a bar and call a car service. Get a limo with tinted windows. Yeah, sit in a bar on Hood turf and wait for a car. Bad call. A cab? Traffic, clear windows. Excuse me, cabbie, but would you mind driving exclusively in the shade? I’ll make it worth your while. No. A bus? Jesus fuck, what am I thinking, a bus? This is the way to go. It’s this way or it’s Digga’s way, on his tip. And enough guys got a handle on me, I don’t need anyone else thinking he can give me a ring whenever things go shitty on him.

The train squeals into the station. People cram themselves up close to the doors, staring at the folks on the inside, also packed at the doors. All of them sizing each other up, challenging one another for space. The doors slide open, the speakers crackle, there’s a brief free-for-all as the people on the train and the people on the platform trade places. I wait for the last possible second, looking for some danger more obvious than what I know is already out there, and push my way aboard.

The doors snap shut and the train jerks and rolls. I scent the air in the car and find it safe. My eyes are clearing quickly now, my vision all but normal. I look around and catch sight of a service advisory, a sign telling me at once why the platform had been so crowded. Telling me the C and B trains are out of service and that all express trains are running local. Local, as in hitting every stop between here and home. Slow and steady all the way.

A long slow train through the gauntlet. And me, no cigarettes at all even if they would let you smoke down here.

Stopping, starting, pausing in the middle of the tunnel for a red signal, rolling. The train takes its own goddamn sweet time. 116th, a college kid with a sketchbook in his lap, drawing the passengers seated across from him, just their feet. 110th, last stop in the Hood, people cramming on and off. No ton tons macoute. 96th, back on Coalition ground, a guy walking the center aisle, a display of Duracells in his hand, incanting, Battery one dolla, battery one dolla, battery one dolla. No enforcers. 81st, a DJ and his crew, still coming down from last night’s gig, shoving each other back and forth, showing off for a cute girl in their midst. 72nd, the speaker squawking, endlessly repeating its message that this train is running local. 59th, a homeless guy that reminds me of the Renfield that fingered me on the way up, but it’s not him. 42nd, man with a baby carrier on his chest, the baby’s eyes returning again and again to my face. 34th, a woman overloaded with Macy’s bags. My eyesight clear by 23rd, I see a subway card above the seats; a stanza of Dylan Thomas:

Dead men naked they shall be one

With the man in the wind and the west moon;

When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,

They shall have stars at elbow and foot;

Though they go mad they shall be sane,

Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;

Though lovers be lost love shall not;

And death shall have no dominion.

And I ride the rails, straight down to 14th Street. Straight down and free and clear. And I just know that it’s gotta be bad news.

At 14th, my nerves shot to hell, I get off. I transfer to the L line, cross over to First, and walk out of the station and back into the day.

The sun presses on me just the same as it did Uptown, but here it is almost a relief. As if it were a different, more familiar sun. I walk quickly to 10th, stopping in at my deli. I grab a six-pack and a carton of Luckys. The guy gives me a book of matches and I light up. I walk the last half block to my front door. I step into the vestibule and check my mail. Just a couple things for occupant, same as always. I go down the hall to my apartment, unlock the three deadbolts, go inside, turn off the alarm, close the door, snap the locks, rearm, and lean my forehead against the wall. I stay like that ’til I know I have to move.

I walk past the couch, wanting nothing half so much as to sink down onto it, drink my way through the six and smoke Luckys one after another. Instead, I go down the stairs into the basement apartment and get my other gun.

There’s nothing wrong with the 9mm I took off Shades, it’s just that I know this gun, I trust it as much as a gun can be trusted. Being a gun, it’s more than likely gonna end up in someone else’s hand being pointed at me someday, so I don’t trust it too much. But it’s mine and I’ve used it to kill people before, so I know it works. I leave Shades’ piece in the gun safe and pocket my own. Then I crack the fridge.

The bag of anathema is still in my jacket. I take it out and give it a sniff. I have no way of knowing for certain if it’s still potent, but it sure as shit smells like it is. I stick it in the fridge. I don’t want anyone smelling that stink when I come through the door. I look at my own last pint. The blisters on the backs of my hands throb. My whole body feels baked and dry, skin bright pink. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. Fuck it.

I pop the pint open and suck it down. Once it’s in me, I wonder what the hell I was debating about. Of course I’m drinking it now, you should always drink it now. Drink all of it you can whenever you can. Anything that makes you feel like this, you should drink it. I drain it, slice it, lick it clean. It’s good. The blisters don’t go away, but they feel a fuck of a lot better. Everything feels better. We’ll see how good it feels in a couple days, if I’m still alive and haven’t scored. I toss the empty into the biohazard bag and close up.

In the can I give my face a good splash, wash away the last bits of scab clinging to the inside of my mouth. Some of Vandewater’s blood is on my shoulder. I towel it off. I see the hole she ripped in the collar of my jacket. I stick my finger in it. Gonna take a pro to make that look OK again. I put the jacket back on. I toss all of Shades’ sun-gear in the trash and dig out my own, tired of the stink of someone else’s sweat in my pores.

I slam one of the beers and put the rest in my normal fridge, the one with actual food in it, or stuff with mold growing on it, anyway. I grab my picks and I stick a couple extra packs of smokes in my pockets. Wishful thinking on my part, hoping I might actually get to smoke all of them. I leave.

The Count’s place is where I left it. I could lurk outside, wait ’til someone goes in and slip in behind them. But lurking and the sun don’t go together. Instead, I go next door to the El Iglesia de Dios.

Churches don’t bother me. Some guys, they do. Some make a big show of it, avoiding places like this, part of the scene they think. Some are genuinely freaked out. Those are the ones that are sure we’re all cursed. They may not say it out loud, but they think it. Most of those kind, they don’t last. Who can last walking around thinking their immortal soul has been consecrated to damnation? Except the folks who think that way and really dig it. Those ones are out there, too. They bug me. Who’m I fooling? They give me the willies. But churches don’t bother me one way or another. Just four walls and a roof. And maybe a big wooden cross with a guy nailed to it. Nothing I haven’t seen before.

I go into the church. There’s a couple old ladies in there, kneeling, heads bowed on folded hands. Could be praying. Could be junkies on the nod. Churches are good for that also. I walk past them, right up the aisle and through the door behind the altar. There’s a corridor. At one end an office door, at the other a stairwell. I take the stairs.

I run into a guy in a coverall. He’s carrying a toolbox. He gives me and my ski mask and sunglasses a look.

I point up the stairs.

– All done?

He looks blank for a second then nods, hooks his thumb back up the way he came.

– Yeah, yeah, all set. Where’s the?

– In his office. He’ll have your check.

– Oh. Really? OK. Thanks.

We edge around each other and I keep climbing, going past a couple landings and whatever he may have been repairing in here. The door at the top is padlocked. I don’t bother with the picks here, just grab the lock and give it a good yank and the screws holding the hasp fast to the door frame tear loose. I push the door open. Jesus, it’s bright out there. I go out on the roof and close the door behind me.

There’s a gap of about six feet between me and the fire escape next door. I jump it. I don’t need a running start. I come down on the escape, making a lot of noise, and have clambered up the iron ladder to the roof before anyone can peek out their windows.

No shade at all. I scoot around on the verdigrised copper sheeting. I find a window that looks in on darkness. I break it and go in. It’s some kind of hut, a storage and service unit of some kind. Cobwebs and boxes and gardening tools, of all things. But no door into the building.

I sit in the darkness and smoke. I drop the spent butt and stomp on it. My foot lands on a trapdoor. Fuck, Joe, take a better look around next time. It’s one of those spring-loaded jobs. I give it a push. No luck. It’s locked on the other side. I stomp on it. Something gives. I stomp again. Something rips loose and the trap swings down and a ladder unfolds and bangs into the floor. Subtle. I go down. Just a tiny landing at the top of the stairs. One door. No one looks out of it to see what the noise is about. Lucky them. I fold the ladder and close the trap and go down a couple floors.

The Count’s door is locked. Well, no shit. I take out the picks. They’re good locks. It’s an expensive building, they should be good locks. But I’m up for the game. Fresh pint just down the hatch, I can feel and hear every pin as I tease them into alignment. I pop the first. I pop the second. I draw my gun and go inside.

They’re all on the nod, heaped half naked or more in Poncho’s door-walled room. If they hadn’t been high when they crashed, they would have woken up the second I came through the door. Or maybe that’s just me. Maybe when you live like this, with people, lovers, maybe when you have a Clan to watch over you, you sleep easier. Maybe I’m the only one whose eyes snap open five or six times a day, when a car with an odd sounding engine drives past or a rat rustles the garbage out front or a kid laughs on the sidewalk. Maybe that’s it. Maybe my life sucks just a little more than everybody else’s. But I doubt it. I think all our lives suck about the same amount. Just in different ways. I look at The Count, Poncho’s legs wrapped around his, Pigtails and PJs jumbled next to them.

This guy, I’m about to make his life suck in all kinds of brand new ways.

I nudge the sole of his foot with the toe of my boot. He stirs, they all stir, but only his eyes open.

– Wha? Hunh?

– Morning.

– Whan? Joe?

– Yep.

– Hey. What’s up, man?

– You.

He cracks a tired smile.

– Not really, man.

I show him the gun.

– Count. Get up or I’m gonna start shooting your girls.

Poncho’s eyes fly open at that.

I level the piece at her face.

– Stay there.

She stays there. The Count gets up. He’s wearing blue and white briefs and a girl’s T-shirt that rides too high on his skinny belly, Buffy silkscreened on the front.

I point at the girls, all of them stirring now.

– Tell them to stay put.

He runs a hand through his tangled hair.

– Yeah, no problem.

He looks at them.

– Chill, ladies. This is cool. Just a misunderstanding. Nobody lose it. Me and Joe are gonna figure this out.

He looks at me.

– Right, man?

– Sure.

I let him lead the way over to the kitchen. Behind us, the girls press their eyes against the cracks between the doors that screen Poncho’s room.

The Count points at a coffeemaker.

– You want some?

– No.

– Cool if I make some?

– No.

– OK. OK. So what’s the deal?

He leans his skinny butt against the counter, arms folded, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

– This a jack? You after my stash?

I point at his shirt.

– That supposed to be funny?

He looks down at the picture of the vampire slayer on his chest, shrugs.

– I don’t know. I guess so, maybe.

– I hate that shit. That self-aware, ironic, pop culture Vampyre shit. I hate it.

– I.

– Like it’s a game.

– It’s not supposed to mean anything. Just a shirt.

I bang the barrel of my gun across the bridge of his nose. The nose breaks and bloods runs out. He barks, goes to his knees, hands over his face. Another of those kids who hasn’t figured out the pain thing.

– Fuck! Oh fuck!

– That funny, Count? That fit in with your hipster Vampyre lifestyle?

I kick him in the gut. He rolls onto his side, curled in a ball.

One of the girls hisses. I don’t bother to look. I put the gun to The Count’s head.

– Stay in that fucking room or the gravy train goes off its rails right here.

The hissing continues, but quieter.

I grab some of his hair and pull his face out of his hands.

– Those supposed to be your brides, those girls? They complete the scene for you? Help to polish your image, Count?

I knock out a couple of his teeth with the pistol butt, knowing they won’t grow back. Happy about it.

More hissing.

– Fuck you. Fuck your stupid games. Come down here. Like the vibe, do ya? Uptown not your style? Columbia not for you? I get it. Me, I was just Uptown myself. I see why you wouldn’t be into that. All those boys the old lady keeps around, I can see where you wouldn’t want to join that scene. So, pre-med wasn’t what you wanted. Tell me. Tell me about Columbia. Was she saving a spot for you on her wall? Old lady Vandewater, she got a place all picked out to hang your sheepskin next to the others?

– Don’t.

I put the barrel in his mouth, make it harder for him to talk.

– Come down here where people live their lives. People try to get by. Try to make this fucked up shit work. Come down here playing games and drawing attention and making life harder than it already is. You fucker.

He dribbles some blood from his mouth.

– Dunht!

I take the barrel out.

– What?

– Don’t. Oh fuck. Don’t fucking. Don’t kill me, man. Don’t.

I drop him.

– You stupid fuck. You’d be lucky if I was the one to kill you.

– Just. Please. Don’t.

– And besides, nobody tell you yet? You already died.

He coughs blood.

I drop a dish towel on him.

– Get your shit together. I want to hear about Tom. Tell me again how he was the one sponsored you. I want to hear about you and Tom.

The door busts in.

I hesitate for less than a second. That finishes me. I had time to get one round off. Trying to decide whether to use it to kill The Count or slow down Hurley finishes me. I do manage to get one in on him, one punch in the gut. It doesn’t do anything. You can’t fight Hurley. He puts me down, Tom right behind him.

They’re pretty surgical about it, almost as clean as Vandewater’s boys. They chill the girls, get me and The Count wrapped tight, and have us out and into a van before anyone in the building can take an interest.

Figure we’ll end up at one of Tom’s personal safe houses. Someplace private where he can ice The Count until they have their story straight. Me, I’m way past icing in Tom’s book. I’ll be lucky if this hood ever comes off my head. Actually, I’ll be luckier if it never does and they just put a couple in me and sink me in the river. Figure there’s a chance of it. Tom may have enough heat on him that he won’t take any chances, just waste me and get rid of me. Figure that’s wishful thinking. He’s had a hard-on for me for too long. He wants to get his licks in before the story’s over. He’s such an incredible dick he won’t be able to resist torturing me one last time. Figure that’s about the way things work out. I ain’t got any better coming to me anyway. I’ve done my share of this shit. What goes around, it comes around. Figure it’s my turn.

And figure I’m pretty fucking surprised when the hood comes off and the first face I see is Terry’s.

He’s not alone. Far from it.

They get me strapped to my seat. When the bag comes off my head, I’m expecting to see Tom’s fist coming at my face. Wrong. There’s Terry, sitting at the kitchen table in the Society headquarters, sitting there with some notes and shit in front of him, looking at the papers. There’s Tom, pacing back and forth behind him, a few of his partisans standing around the room. There’s The Count, taped up to a chair right next to mine. Looks like Hurley must have given him a good one ’cause he’s out. Dry blood covering his lips and cheeks and chin, snuffling through the scabs clogging his nose. He’s better off. There’s Hurley, right off my shoulder, making sure I don’t try to do fuck knows what. And there’s Lydia, sitting next to Terry, not looking happy to see me at all. Terry, Tom and Lydia in the same room. Me on the other end of their hard looks. Not the first time I’ve been here. But it’s never a good thing, having the senior council of the Society all in one place looking at you like your head coming off is a foregone conclusion and they’re just deciding who gets to swing the ax.

– Hey, guys. What’s up?

Terry takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes, making a big show of how run down he is.

– I need your help, Joe.

Tom starts waving his arms around.

– Fuck that, his help. We don’t need his help, he’s already helped plenty, already fucked himself. It’s time for sentencing. I move waiving the inquiry and going straight to the sentencing.

– Yeah, Tom, once we’re officially convened and the whole council is here, that’ll be cool. But for now, I’m just kind of passing the time with an old friend here.

– Bullshit! That’s favoritism, Terry! That kind of crap, that shit is over! You can’t get away with, with protecting him anymore. He’s done. And, man, your time, your time is coming to a close. As soon as we’re convened, as soon as this spy has been executed, I’m calling for a referendum on your chairmanship. You harbored his ass, you kept this serpent in the garden, man. This shit is down to you as much as it is to him.

Terry starts to open his mouth. I get ready to enjoy seeing Tom put in his place, but it doesn’t happen. Terry just shakes his head and holds up one hand.

– Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. That’s right. And I, man, I thoroughly expect something like this, my chairmanship has to come into question. That’s, you know, that’s just the price. But I am going to invoke some privileges, I am going to serve as Joe’s defense in the inquiry.

Tom shakes his head, arms folded over his chest.

– Not gonna be an inquiry.

Terry nods.

– Yeah, OK, if you have your way, in the sentencing phase I’m still gonna serve as his defense. And, you know, as such, I have a right to talk to the man. Right here, in front of everybody.

Tom taps his index finger on the table right in front of Terry.

– No. Fucking. Way. No way does this guy get any more special treatment.

Lydia leans forward, putting her elbows on the table, her biceps stretching the fabric of her black sweater.

– You’re wrong, Tom.

He moves his eyes from Terry to her.

– What?

– It’s due process. He may be a shit, and Terry may be on his way out, but due process is due process. He can talk to him if he wants.

There’s a little stare-off. Lydia could tear Tom a few new assholes at will. If he didn’t have his partisans here. But it hasn’t come to that yet, it hasn’t come to an open coup of Society leadership. Yet.

He nods, throws up his hands.

– OK, OK, due process it is. But if Terry can ask questions, we all can.

Terry shrugs.

– Sure, sure, if that’s what it takes. Sure.

He looks back at me.

– So, like I was saying, Joe, I can use your help. As I guess you can kind of see, the shit’s been hitting the fan.

– No kidding?

– Sure has.

– How hard?

Tom sits on the edge of the table.

– Not as hard as I’m gonna kick your balls into your throat if you don’t stop being a smartass.

I look at him.

– How’s the leg, Tom? Get that bullet out?

He laughs.

– Yeah, be funny. Take it all the way. Sure, I got the bullet out. Got it in a plastic bag. Gonna be exhibit A when we sentence your ass. That alone, fucker, that alone is gonna get you executed. Before we do it, I’m gonna take that bullet and shove it through your ear.

I look at Terry.

– You gonna let him talk to me like that?

Terry fingers his papers, gives them a flip.

– Well, right now, like you kind of been hearing, there’s not much I can do. I mean, you ask how hard the shit’s hit the fan, let me tell you, hard enough to stick on everything.

– That’s pretty hard.

– Yeah, yeah it is. Hell, Joe, once we got tipped off you were on your way back down, the shit would have to be pretty hard to get Predo and us to agree to let you pass all the way without no one getting in your way. ’Cause, you know, no one wanted a big scene with you getting dragged off a train or anything. And still, getting Predo to agree to let us take you into custody, that took some doing. Wouldn’t you say that’s some shit hitting hard?

I don’t say anything. I don’t really have to. Because he’s right, that’s some shit hitting the fan pretty damn hard.

– You got to admit, whatever it was made you go wandering around the Hood, trailing one of Predo’s enforcers, whatever that was, it’d have to be pretty damn important to get you off the hook at this point. And, well, that’s even assuming the enforcer hadn’t gone missing. Then we got.

He looks at his papers.

– We got one of Digga’s people, Papa Doc, sending word through Predo that you escaped custody and beat on some guards. All and all…

He looks at the papers again.

– Looks like you’ve been making some noise all over. And, you know, shooting Tom, well, that was a bad call, too. So.

He drops the papers and looks up.

– So, I don’t know. You got anything to say about all this?

Anything to say? Anything to say about Terry being the one who set me off poking in the first place? No. Not yet.

And Tom’s just playing his angle. Hand it to the shit, it’s a bold play. We’ll see how far it gets him.

– I got nothing to say.

Tom hops off the table and goes to the fridge.

– And how ’bout this, asshole, got anything to say about this?

He drops a bag of anathema on the table.

– Got anything to say about this being in your apartment? You fucking poisoner. You motherfucking dealer piece of shit.

Terry gives me a look.

The look goes from the anathema to me and back again. A shake of the head goes with it.

– Of all things, Joe. This stuff? I never thought I’d see it again. Been so long, I had to explain it to Tom and Lydia. You know it’s killing kids out there? You know what it’s doing right now to our kids? Let alone the Society cause, man. Stuff is trouble. Got to say, Tom’s right on this one, it’s poison.

Lydia points at the bag.

– That shit. That shit. That kid you took care of at Doc’s? That fish you put down? That fish was one of mine. He was in the Alliance. You. You fucking. You what? You hooked him and what? He was gonna talk to someone? Tell someone where he got it? Was that it? Did you give him the hotshot that sent him over? You. Jesus. You fucking.

She looks elsewhere, happy not to have my face in her field of vision.

Terry picks up the papers.

– All this stuff, I don’t know, man, this stuff. Maybe, maybe we could have worked some of this out. But that.

He waves the papers at the anathema.

– That is…I don’t know, Joe.

He drops the papers.

– Help me here, man. Tell me something that will help.

Tom sticks his face in mine.

– No. He’s got nothing to say this time. He’s in it now and he knows it. Don’t you, asshole? You are in the shit. Know better than to open your mouth this time, don’t you? Know if you open your mouth this time it’ll fill right up with shit.

– It’s Tom! He’s the one!

It’s funny. Sometimes, you’ll be thinking something, thinking it over and over and over again. You’ll be thinking it and just waiting for the absolutely perfect moment to say it when you know it will have the most impact and really fuck somebody’s shit up. And then, right when you’re all set to say it, someone beats you to the punch.

We all look at The Count.

He says it again.

– It’s Tom! He’s the one! He’s the dealer. Not Joe. It’s Tom.

Tears are running down his face, cutting tracks in the dry blood.

– It’s Tom. He. Oh, God. Don’t let him hurt me. Don’t let him hurt me anymore. It’s Tom.

Not surprisingly, Tom does try to hurt him.

– You shit! You little fuck!

Terry doesn’t need to move.

– Hurley.

Hurley scoops Tom up before he can touch The Count. He puts him on the floor and puts his foot in his chest as he pulls out his twin.45s and points them at Tom’s partisans. They stop thinking about whatever moves they were thinking about and get busy thinking about staying very still.

Hurley looks down.

– Sorry ’bout dat, Tom. You OK?

– Get off me, you fucking moron!

– Sorry, Tom. Not till Terry says so.

The Count, his legs strapped to the legs of the chair, is rocking and lunging against his bindings, trying to get farther away from Tom.

– No! No! Don’t let him up! No! He’ll kill me! No!

Terry stands, arms held out.

– Cool it! Everybody just needs to cool it. Kid! Kid! Count! Dude, cool it. No one is gonna hurt you. Just cool it.

The Count freezes, eyes big in his head. He’s stopped screaming. Mumbling now, whispering.

– Oh, shit, oh shit. I’m gonna die. I don’t wanna die. Oh shit.

– Cool it. Calm down, man.

The Count goes silent except for the crying.

Tom is another matter.

– Get your fucking foot off me, you fucking stupidass retard.

Hurley looks at Terry.

Terry walks over and looks down at Tom.

– Be cool, Tom. This is a tense situation, I know, but we’re gonna sort it. Don’t take it out on Hurley.

– Fuck you, Terry. Get him the fuck off of me.

– You gonna be cool?

Tom opens and closes his mouth a few times, takes some deep breaths.

– Yeah. I’m gonna be cool. Now. Get. Him. Off. Me.

Terry nods.

– OK, cool. Let him up, Hurley. And those guys are OK, you don’t have to cover them.

Hurley takes his foot off Tom’s chest and lowers his guns. But he doesn’t put them away, just moves to the door so no one can get out without going through him.

Tom jumps up and takes a step toward The Count.

– You fucker.

Terry comes between them.

– Cool. Remember?

Tom turns and walks to the other side of the room, closer to his partisans.

– Yeah. Cool. Fine. Long as I don’t have to hear more of that shit.

Terry nods.

– Sure, sure. But, you know, let’s just look into this. See where The Count is coming from.

He faces The Count.

– What’s it about? An accusation like that, that’s a pretty big deal, you know? Could get you in a lot of trouble.

The Count rolls his eyes.

– Trouble? I’m in trouble, man. What do you think? Man, that’s why. Don’t you know what?

– Cooool. Easy. Breathe a little.

– Little lying fucker.

– Tom! Cool it.

The Count breathes.

Terry puts a hand on his shoulder.

– So what’s up here? What’s got you spooked enough to try a story like that?

– Story? Man. Story? You want a story? OK, try this. Tom is the fucking dealer. Tom is the hookup for all of downtown.

– This is such fucking!

– Hurley.

Hurley holds up one of his pistols and presses it to his lips.

– Tom, shhhh.

Tom shuts up.

Terry pats The Count.

– And?

– And. And. Oh shit. You guys. You’re gonna. Just. Look. All I want is. I’ll tell you everything, man. It’s gonna come out. All I want is, keep him away from me. And. And when you do me. Don’t let me burn. Just. Not the sun. Something. But not the sun.

– Hey, hey. We’ll talk about executions, all that, you know, later. But, we’re not gonna burn anyone.

– OK. OK. I’m. OK. So. I, you know, I have some money, I like a good time. The other fish, they know that. So I have a lot of friends. Tom, he, you know, he’s the guy who gets the shit. Me, I’m the guy helps to hook him up with other fish, other kids.

Tom’s not even trying to talk now, just staring, jaw hanging, face going from red to white and back again.

– Tom brings it in, and I help to hook up the customers.

– OK. So Tom brought it in. You helped. Why? You don’t need money.

– No. It’s. Oh shit. It’s for the Coalition. Tom’s a fucking mole for the Coalition.

Tom coughs. Laughs. Laughs some more. He shakes his head. Starts to breathe normally again. It’s too outrageous. Hearing it, it’s too much to believe.

The look The Count is getting from Terry is the look you give someone when the lie they’re telling is so over the top you have to listen out of sheer awe.

– Wow. OK. That’s, wow, that’s pretty big. That would be a pretty big deal. So he, what? He told you? He told you he was a Coalition mole and he was, I don’t know, bringing this shit in to undermine the Society. Is that how this stuff works?

– No. I. No.

– No. OK. OK. You, like, you found out. You found out and you were outraged and now you’re telling us, that it?

– No.

– OK. Well, I don’t know, man, you tell me what the story is. How’d you find this out?

The Count starts to cry again.

– Because I’m a spy, man. I’m a fucking Coalition agent. Don’t you. Maaaan. You’re being sold out. There’s a deal. Tom helps to bring you down, man, he does that, sets up an alliance with the Coalition and they let him run the turf. I know. I made the contact, man. I’m a spy. I’m a spy. Just don’t. God, please. Don’t burn me, man. Don’t burn me.

Terry straightens up. He looks at Tom.

– Wow. How about that?

Tom is shaking his head.

– Fucking spies, man. What a load. That, see, that’s how the Coalition works. That’s how they fucking plan to undermine us. By attacking our unity. That kind of creepy bullshit.

The Count isn’t done.

– He told me. He said I was supposed to tell a story about Joe. Say Joe was the dealer, say he was the spy. I was supposed to do it here. In front of the council. He told me to act like I was unconscious until the council was in session. Then tell this story. Tell it in front of everybody, that it was Joe, and that you knew. Tell ’em that you knew. So he could, he could have you removed. Have you executed and take the chair, man. He. He would have killed me after. He would have. He’s a fucking.

He turns his eyes on Tom.

– You fucking sadist! You sick son of a bitch! That shit you did to me! You fucking! You die! I don’t care anymore! Burn me! Burn me! Just burn him next to me so I can watch!

It’s more than a guy like Tom can take.

Terry takes care of him this time, has him on the ground almost as quickly as Hurley did. The partisans want to help their leader, but what are you supposed to do with Hurley and Lydia in your face?

The Count sobs.

– I’ll burn. Ungh, God. I’ll, Jesus, I’ll, hngh, hngh, hngh, I’ll burn just to watch.

Tom raves.

– Off me! That fucking spy. Both of them. Don’t think this is gonna get you off the hook. You know it’s bullshit. Everyone in here can smell it.

I clear my throat.

– Um, I don’t want to stick my nose in family business, but that is pretty much what the old lady told me.

Terry swings around.

– Old lady?

– Vandewater. She said her name was Vandewater. Lives Uptown. Ever hear of her?

First, things come to a halt as Terry tries to get Digga on the phone. That takes awhile. Seems he’s been pretty busy smacking some ass up there. But once he does, once Digga confirms that I did some muthafuckin’ fine recognizance for him up on Morningside Heights, once it is confirmed that I was up there and met the old lady and came down with the anathema and a witness, once that all gets said? The shoe gets on the other foot in a hurry. Figure some of that speed has to do with a sense of justice needing to be done in a hurry. Figure some of it’s because Terry doesn’t want me talking too much about some of the things Vandewater had to say. Figure six of one, a half dozen of the other. But mostly, figure it’s the other: Terry being the private sort and all.

The partisans get to stay. Once they see the new wind that’s blown through the room, they opt for roles as official witnesses to a hastily called tribunal. Terry and Lydia sit. Under normal circumstances Tom would have sat next to them as head of security, loving a good tribunal as he does, but things being a bit out of joint, Hurley sits in for him.

It’s an intimate affair. The Count gives testimony. I give testimony. The partisans give testimony as to what they just heard in this room. Tom tries to give testimony, but the tape Hurley wrapped around his face keeps it to a minimum.

The verdict comes in fast.

Terry, Lydia and Hurley each write a word on a scrap of paper and show them to each other.

Terry does the honors.

– Tom Nolan, on charges of treason, espionage, distribution of poisons, murder, corruption of the principles of the Society, abuse of office, and any and all additional charges that might accrue to you posthumously, you are found guilty and will be executed.

He shuffles the scraps of paper.

– Further.

He takes off his glasses, blinks.

– Further, due to the nature and, well, the extent of your crimes. We’ve decided. Hell. You’re going out in the sun. You have to burn.

He puts his glasses back on.

– You sorry son of a bitch.

– There’s gonna be some fallout.

Terry comes back from the fridge and hands me a beer.

I take it, set it down.

– Figures.

He offers one to Lydia.

She shakes her head.

– Beer companies peddle male domination fantasies to twelve-year-old boys.

Terry sets the beer on the table.

– My bad.

He sits next to me.

– Some of Tom’s people won’t accept it. You know. So. We’re gonna have to work fast. Make sure things don’t get out of hand. Get our ducks in a row.

Lydia grabs the beer.

– Fuck it.

She opens the can and takes a long drink.

– We’re going to have to kill some people, Terry.

He shrugs.

– Yeah. Yeah. I guess, I guess that’s what I’m getting at. And we’re gonna have to kill them now. Today. Before, you know, before word gets out.

He looks at me.

– Before word gets out about what was said and, you know, by who.

I look at my own unopened beer.

It’s not like it’s a shock. Situation like this, guy like Tom with all those fanatics behind him? Execute a guy like that after a kangaroo court, some people will get up in arms.

Terry drinks.

– I’m not big on covert operations, but we gotta be quick, I think. And quiet. On this one? The less people know, the better. Not gonna increase anyone’s confidence in the Society knowing the head of security was a spy.

Lydia frowns at her own beer.

– I’m more worried if the other Clans find out. Some of the smaller Clans, some of those guys below Houston could take it as a sign, start picking at our turf. The Bulls and the Bears, those money grubbing pigs, they’d love to move their turf closer to the Coalition, get hooked back up. We need to keep it in-house. Make sure everybody knows we can clean our own mess. And we need to send a message Uptown. Let Predo and that Vandewater woman know they can’t get away with this shit.

Terry nods.

– Yeah. Yeah.

He looks at me.

– That’s why, what we’re doing with Tom, that’s why we felt we needed to do that. Make sure people know we’re serious.

I take out a smoke.

– I know you’re serious, Terry.

He takes a drink of his beer.

– Well, OK, if you say so.

I go to light my smoke.

Lydia puts a hand on my arm.

– No smoking in Society buildings, Joe.

I look at her, look at Terry, one on either side of me.

Figure it was gonna come to this. Figure I don’t like it. Figure it’s this or the other. Figure it’s take care of the list, or end up on it.

I move Lydia’s hand and light my smoke.

– Guys, stop fucking around and tell me who you want me to kill.

They start me with Tom.

– A case like dis? Da hardest part is just knowin’ da poor fooker. Ever seen it bifore, Joe?

– Nope.

– Ain’t fookin’ pretty. It’s not dat hard, mind. It’s easier if ya start at night. Stake ’em out an’ let da sun rise and take care of ’em. Dis way is harder. But it’s still not dat hard.

I drive Tom’s van while Hurley lectures me on the logistics of burning someone.

– What we’ll do, when we get ta da spot, we’ll unwrap him here in da van. In da back der. One ah us, you or me, don’t matter none to me, one of us will open dat back door, da udder’ll shove da fooker out. After dat it don’t take too fookin’ long. Once he’s done, I got a snow shovel.

Way at the end of 14th, past the power station there, away from the projects and the playing field of the park, we find a square of asphalt littered with broken bottles, tiny, empty glassine envelopes, and used condoms.

We climb into the windowless back of the Econoline. My hands have been getting too much sun, wrapped around the wheel, exposed to the rays. The blisters that had been soothed by the pint I drank are starting to bubble back up under my gloves. We take off our shades and look at the writhing log of black Hefty bags.

Hurley grunts.

– T’aint no use puttin’ it off. Got lots more ta do after dis.

He grabs the plastic and heaves, ripping it open, revealing Tom, bound and gagged in rolls of duct tape and spools of wire.

– Futchkthers!

Somehow he’s managed to bite through most of the tape over his mouth.

– Futchking futchkthers!

Hurley shakes his head.

– Jaysuz yer a sad fook, Tom. Look at ya. Ta tink I called ya a friend. Ya sad, sorry fook. Well, ya got no one ta blame but yerself. Fer da sake a our histry, I’d put ya out before tossin’ ya, but Terry said ya need ta be awake. An I got ta say, I’m not feelin’ dat charitable just now after da way ya called me a retard an’ all. Just cuz a fella’s not da brightest in da bunch, dat don’t mean ya gotta…Well, fook me anyway, ya don’t wanna hear dis shite.

He looks at me.

– Ya want da doors or da shove?

I look at Tom, he’s chewing at that gag, clearly hoping to get in a last word before it’s over. I think about all the grief he’s caused me. That time he had me in chains.

– I’ll do the shove if it’s all the same to you, Hurley.

– Taught ya might. Taught ya might.

He moves over by the doors.

We put our shades back on.

– Fuchkers!

He’s almost through the tape.

– Futchking! Pitt! Pitt!

Hurley puts his hand on the door.

– Ready, Joe?

– You’re an asshole, Pitt!

I take a seat on the floor, just above Tom’s head.

– Just a sec, Hurl.

– But you’re not a complete fucking idiot!

I plant my feet on his shoulders.

– Hurley’s an idiot! But not you.

I look at Hurley.

– Think about it! Fucking me a spy?

I nod.

– You’re a tool, Pitt!

He pushes the doors open.

– You’re being used!

Sunlight claws at us.

– He’s using you!

I shove, putting everything I have into it, my legs pistoning and sending him sliding across the floor of the van and out into the day.

– You’re Terry’s fucking tool!

Hurley grabs the lengths of rope he’s tied to the door handles and gives them a yank.

– You fucking asshole!

The door slams shut. The screams quickly cut off as tumors fill Tom’s throat.

There’s a hole drilled in the door, a circle of steel the size of a quarter hangs from a single rivet above it. Hurley swings it aside and looks out.

– Jaysus.

He lets the cover swing back into place and looks at me.

– Ya want ta see dis?

I crawl over and take a look. One is more than enough.

I smoke while we wait.

I think while I smoke. I think about how I got here, how I got to be in this van with Hurley, doing exactly the kind of job for Terry that I told myself I’d never do again. I think about how this got started.

I think about The Spaz at Doc Holiday’s, one of my regular hangouts. That kid spazzing on Evie’s night off, a night I could be expected to be there. I think about hotshots and how easy it is to slip one to a junkie. About how the jobs had all dried up, how I couldn’t score a gig to save my life, how the only place to go looking for a job was Terry. And that little confrontation between Tom and Terry the day Terry gave me the gig. The hostility in the air. The smell of the young wolf circling the old. The threat to Terry sprayed in the air. I think about the job Terry offered me, looking into the shit that was going around. A job like that, sooner or later I’m going to be squeezing Phil for scraps. And everyone knows Phil is my snitch. And Phil, I think about how he knew The Count, already. How that slimy Renfield had been let inside the biggest secret on the street. Like maybe someone wanted him to see it.

I think.

I think about how I ended up with Tom’s name. Tom the zealot. Tom the patriot. Tom the Coalition-hating fanatic. I try to square that up with Tom the spy. I think about setups and betrayals and backstabbing and power plays, and being a tool.

I think, and the back of the van fills with smoke.

And then Hurley flips a coin to see who has to use the shovel. I lose.

The sun is bad. I’ve gotten far too much of it today. It’s gonna age me. Getting sun, it always sticks another year or two on your face. But that’s not the bad part. The bad part is what I shovel off the ground and dump in a pile on top of the shredded Hefty bags.

What I would have done to die without seeing that, it’s a long list.

Hurley has another list.

Seven names. It could have been worse. It could have been longer. Or some of them could have been friends. That’s happened. Back in the day, working for Terry, I’ve had a piece of paper in my hands with friends’ names on it. But not this time. Could have something to do with my not keeping friends anymore. Whatever. We still have to go to work.

None of them are expecting anything. Middle of the day. Sun in the sky. They’re all fully pledged members of the Clan and they’re in tight with the head of security. What do folks like these got to worry about? Except folks like me and Hurley. And really, nobody’s expecting folks like me and Hurley.

It’s all pretty easy and clean. As these things go. Double park the van a few times, run across the sidewalk, get into whatever squat or tenement these guys are jungled up in. The ones who even have their eyes open, the ones who see us coming, they wish they hadn’t. No one wants to take the last trip seeing the two of us coming for them. But we don’t make it any worse than it has to be. Say that for Hurley, he’s a professional. And me, I just don’t see any sense in making a mess that you’re gonna have to clean up yourself.

When it’s over, we make one last stop. We wheel over to Tom’s favorite safe house, the old Society headquarters on C, the basement he still used for meetings of his Anarchists.

And we leave him there. In the middle of the floor. For them to find. For them to see should any of them meet down here to talk about options and retaliations. A look at that, they’ll be lining up to stop by Terry’s one by one and pay their respects. One look at that, they’ll be A-OK with anything Terry Bird has to say.

How nice for Terry, the way things turned out.

It’s well after sundown by the time we’ve finished the last of it. Every name is checked off the list, Hurley licking the tip of a pencil as he draws a line through each one, one by one. They’ve all been gotten rid of, mortal, or not so mortal, remains tucked away.

Hurley’s behind the wheel now. He bums one of my smokes and takes a huge drag.

– Keerist, but dat is lovely.

I nod, smoke my own.

– Got some place you want ta be, Joe?

– Just drop me back at headquarters. I should have a quick word with Terry.

– Sure, sure.

He drives me over.

– Say, Joe.

– Un-huh?

– A little like old times, eh? Me an you deliverin’ da mail, like.

– Uh-huh.

– Fer da record.

– Yeah?

– It ain’t true what some people say.

– What’s that?

– Ya ain’t gone soft. Shite, ya ain’t no softer dan a fookin’ stone.

– Thanks.

– Cheers.

And off he drives.

Me, I go up the steps and hit the buzzer.

Terry answers the door himself.

– Hey, Joe. Everything go alright?

He’s not surprised at all when I punch him in the mouth. Just gets off the floor and wipes the blood from his lips and walks down the hall away from me.

– Come on in, Joe. If we’re going to talk personal, we should do it inside.

– Everybody needs something at some time or another. That’s just the way it is. And, you know, sometimes, you can’t always get what you want, but you can get what you need. So we may work at cross-purposes, some of the Clans. You know, especially when it comes to the majors, the Society, the Hood, the Coalition. We all have different mission statements, opposing philosophies. So there’s conflict. But, you know, everybody knows it’s no good for anybody if the balance is agitated. What I’m trying to do down here, what we’re trying to achieve, that’s very long term, man. It requires some finesse. I truly believe in radicalism, we wouldn’t have broken free of the Coalition without it, but it has its place and time. A guy like Tom, an avowed Anarchist, he doesn’t necessarily have the right attitude for the times. That was my bad, I thought he did. I thought he was a natural for security. I was wrong. Hey, power corrupts. The guy didn’t take to it. He started seeing some things he didn’t like, started thinking he could do better. Next thing you know, he’s got all these new faces turning up under his wing. New fish. Too many of them. I mean, can you imagine, Joe, the guy was infecting them on his own? When I realized what he was doing, I was, man, I was blown away. Unthinkable. To hell with the threat it posed, you know, to me. Predo or Digga or any of the Clans finds out about that, we would have all been in the shit. That could have started an all out arms race. Clans infecting left and right to keep the balance of power. Man, something had to be done. But it had to be done, you know…with finesse. So. I started putting out feelers. Just kind of looking to see if I could catch the vibe. There are, I don’t know, back channels for this kind of thing. Ways for Clans to communicate without it being a big deal. Just rapping, kind of. Seeing how things are, checking the weather. And the vibe I was getting? It was unhealthy, man. Things were agitated all over. And, you know, like I say, sometimes, everybody needs something.

He takes off his glasses, sets them aside.

– Safety. Stability. Security. That’s what was needed. I, we, the Society, needed Tom discredited. And, when you get down to it, killed. And we needed it to happen before he could start making trouble with all his new fish. Digga, as Luther X’s handpicked successor and the voice of the Hood, needed Papa Doc off his ass so he could continue to consolidate his position. Dexter Predo, acting for the Secretariat of the Coalition, needed Mrs. Vandewater’s secret campaign to destabilize and invade the Hood crushed. All the major Clans needed to remove a threat to their integrity and the integrity of their members. Not to mention the infected population at large. Any one of those threats could have started open hostilities like we haven’t seen since the sixties and seventies. Back then, we had protests and riots and high crime rates to kind of disguise what was going on. If it happened again? We would all be at risk. The climate out there in the world today? The distrust and hostility between peoples? Imagine if they found out there were people they might be able to claim weren’t really people at all. People who feed on other people. That ground needs to be seeded with great care, man. I mean, that’s what I’m all about. War between the Clans is unthinkable today. Revolutions like the one we had, never gonna happen again. So once we had a chance to talk, once we got it out there in front, we all put something in to make it happen. We needed a, I don’t know, man, we needed a catalyst. All these people, Tom, Papa, Mrs. Vandewater, they all have followers. That’s why they’re a threat in the first place. So it has to look like the weather, like something that just happened. And, this time out, you were the weather, man.

He picks up his glasses, starts to give them a wipe.

– What really got the ball rolling was when Predo got hip to Vandewater’s plans. Once he was on to that? Once he knew about The Count being down here? Once that happened, there were some pieces to start moving around. Like, Predo tells me about The Count, about him being a plant down here, Vandewater’s pet project. Predo sacrifices that pawn, and I flip him. I act like I just ESPed him out, and put him in a corner. I give him a little clarity about where he is and how he can save himself. I use him to point you uptown. All that took, once he knew what to do himself, all that took was making sure Philip Sax knew him a little. Something goes down, Joe, you always start shoving Phil around. That kind of, I don’t know, street corner imperialism, it never works to the oppressor’s advantage, you know.

I stare at him.

He shrugs.

– Anyways, once you were headed up, there were only so many ways for you to go. And we were watching, covering the routes. And Digga was waiting. Except.

He pinches his lower lip.

– What went down with you and Daniel. I didn’t call that one, you going to him. I thought, you know, you’d come to me for the passage. What was that about? Daniel give you a name or something?

I watch him, his line in the water, fishing.

He raises his hand, glasses dangling from his fingers.

– Cool. Cool. You got business with Daniel, that’s not the kind of thing to go public with. No problem.

He puts the glasses back on.

– It all worked out anyway. Predo had all the lines covered. And, hey, I don’t, you know, saying I don’t like the man is an understatement, but Predo, he kicked in. Sacrificing that enforcer, just to, you know, help set the scene and give Digga some leverage, that was commitment to the good of the whole.

– If you say so.

– Well, just one man’s, you know, opinion. So then Digga. Digga catches you up there. Plays some scenes, works a little on your head. Makes an impression. Once that impression is made, he makes sure you know what you’re after, points you at Vandewater. And, well, the details are complicated, but you got worked into her plan.

– Say what?

– Her plan. She’s, you know, doing her own thing completely separate from our gig. Mind you, man, there was a time, not too long ago, there was a time she would have been onto us from the start. But she’s gotten too narrow-minded, too focused on that whole racism thing. How’s that supposed to work? How’s that not like willfully blinding yourself to the big picture? She just doesn’t see the whole anymore. Anyway, what she thinks is, she thinks she’s letting you go to come down here to rock my boat.

– Letting me go? Lady got a stomach full of bullets.

– Uh-huh, I hear you.

– I pumped her full of anathema.

– Yeah.

– Terry, I bit her fucking eye out.

– Sure, sure, I know.

– She did not let me go.

– Well, you know, like I said, it’s complicated. And you shouldn’t feel bad about the way you handled yourself, but, yeah, she let you go.

– Bull.

– Let’s just agree on that one for now, man. The real point is that she’s so blinded by her narrow mindedness, she can’t see that letting you go is not gonna rock my boat, it’s gonna rock her whole world. ’Cause she just handed you the evidence Digga’ll use to take care of Papa. Now, did she know Papa’s man would be lame enough to shoot and nod off in her basement? No. But that’s just a bonus to the fact that you have witnessed the whole scene up there. Digga is all set up now to confront Predo about the anathema in a public forum. And once public pressure is on Predo to deal with this, with the reemergence of anathema on his watch, he can publicly reprimand Vandewater and strip her of some of her powers. Curb her independence and install some of his own people up in the Morningside Settlement. And that leaves the Society’s needs. Digga puts you on a train. Truth is, he wanted you up there a little longer to corroborate some of the details of what was going down. You wanting to roll so soon threw things a little, but we got it back on track. Predo cleared the rails. I held Tom off until you could confront The Count. The Count played his scene for you. And I sent Hurley along with Tom to make sure you both ended up back here in one piece. After that, it’s just a matter of The Count doing his thing and waiting for you to chime in with the truth. Or, you know, the truth as you know it to be. Which is kinda, when you get right down to it, all the truth ever is anyway.

He lifts his hands from the table and drops them back down.

– And that’s how things work sometimes. Not always. Just sometimes. Believe me, you don’t want to be trying to keep all those balls in the air too often. But sometimes the stars align. And sometimes, this picture we’re trying to put together, this image of the infected in the world, sometimes it takes a different kind of cooperation than most people want to know about. It’s not that people don’t believe in what they say they believe in, it’s just that sometimes you need to bend so you don’t break. The weather isn’t always what you want it to be, Joe. Sometimes, got to make it yourself. Got to make the rain to get the crops to grow. That’s just pragmatic.

I think about Tom, the true believer, his final legacy being that he was a spy.

– That it is.

I look around the room.

– And Lydia?

He shakes his head.

– No way, man. Lydia is pure. She, you just know she could never take this kind of scene. Moral absolutes, that’s her thing. It’s right or it’s wrong. No, Lydia played her part, but she didn’t know she was.

– Where is she now?

– She’s out rallying her people. They’re, you know, pretty neutral as far as intra-Clan issues go. We thought it’d be a good idea if they kind of helped get the word out. Make sure, I don’t know, that the message being heard is the right one. That kind of thing.

– And what’s the message?

He raises his shoulders, lets them drop.

– Well, you know, man, you were here. We’re not really trying to hide anything.

– What’s the message, Terry?

– The message is, Everything’s cool. There was some trouble, but now it’s all cool.

– What kind of trouble?

– Well, we thought it best to leave out all the Coalition stuff. That kind of thing’s just gonna stir up bad feelings. So, you know, attempted coup. Not pretty, but an internal matter. No hard feelings to anyone or anything. Something that happens in any revolutionary movement.

– Sure, sure, just the price of doing business.

– The price of politics, anyway.

I fit a cigarette to the corner of my mouth.

– Yeah, politics. Politically speaking, you came out of this in pretty good shape.

– Well, I don’t know if I’d say that. Narrowly averting a coup. Discovering a Coalition plot at the heart of our Clan. Losing one of our highest placed members. I don’t know that that adds up to a good day for the Society and all.

I light up.

– Yeah, taken that way, I guess maybe not. However.

I look for a place to drop the spent match, settle on the floor.

– Taken the other way, it worked out pretty well.

Terry bends and picks up the match.

– What way is that, Joe?

– The way where the truth is involved.

He walks to the sink and drops the match.

– Well, it’s a realpolitik world. The truth doesn’t always will out, you know.

He goes to the fridge.

– Tell me, Terry.

He opens the fridge, back to me, lips zipped.

– Was this the way you had it figured from the top? I mean, when I came wandering in here looking for a gig and you sent me looking for the anathema, was this the way you had it in mind?

He looks at me over his shoulder.

– You need some?

I flex my hands, the dry white skin over my knuckles cracks.

– I’m not thirsty right now.

He sighs.

– You’re a better man than I.

He comes back to the table, a pint of blood in his hand.

– Me, I need a drink.

He takes a penknife from his pocket and pokes a hole in the bag.

– I need it something fierce.

He takes a drink.

I blow smoke.

He points at it.

– That’s not a habit you should be getting into, smoking in here. It’s special circumstances tonight, but in general, not the way we do it.

I keep smoking.

He nods.

– Joe, it did get a little more complicated than I thought it might. I mean, you heard the story. I’m, you know, still waiting for a loose end to come around and get me.

He drinks. A little shudder runs down his body.

– Never get used to it, you know? Never. No matter how long it’s been, no matter how many times I’ve felt it, I’ve never gotten used to how good it goes down. How many other things are like that? How many things in life that you just don’t get tired of?

– You tell me.

He takes another drink.

– Not too many, man, not too many at all.

He drains the rest of the bag, folds it neatly, sets it on the table in front of him.

– So. How I had it figured, what I knew I could count on?

He looks at me.

– How I had it figured was you’d dig around. Being you, you’d, you know, keep digging. Dig and dig and dig until you hit something that stopped you, and then you’d try to dig through it. Knowing that, well, I, you know, guessed it’d be just a matter of time before you dug up Tom.

I smoke.

– Yeah, I get that. A matter of time seeing the way you guys had things all set up, anyway. Pretty fucked up, Terry. All the way around.

– You know what, Joe? You got that right.

He scratches the side of his nose.

– Know what else is fucked up?

– What’s that?

– Think about it.

– About?

He taps his forehead.

– Think for a second. It won’t take long.

I think. I think about the story he just told me. And I get it.

I have my gun. Terry gave it back before I went out with Hurley. I’ve used it since then. I reach for it.

I hear a noise. Terry shakes his head. His hand under the table, holding the sawed-off double-barrel that’s taped there. The one I’ve just heard him cock.

– Easy, Joe.

I take my hand off my gun.

He nods.

– Cool, man. That’s it. Let me show you something.

He brings up his hands. Brings them up empty.

– Nobody here, man. Just me and you. You want to hold your piece on me while we talk, go ahead.

I do want to hold my piece on him. So I pull it and point it.

He smiles.

– Well, shit, what did I expect, right? Offer a guy like you a chance to invest in some mutual trust, I get what I deserve, right?

– What the fuck, Terry? What the fuck with telling me that story? That’s like a goddamn death sentence.

He runs a hand over the top of his head.

– Just trying to get your attention, Joe.

– Trying to get my? Fuck that. You’re trying to. I don’t know what you’re trying to do, but it’s fucked up whatever it is.

– Well, that is one possible interpretation of events.

– Fuck you. I’m a Rogue. I can’t get away with knowing that shit.

– Yes, you are. You are a Rogue.

He puts his glasses back on.

– Then again, what if things were, you know, different?

I start to smell it now. He sees me smelling it.

– No.

– Just hear me out. Just, you know, give this a listen.

– No.

– Joe.

He leans forward.

– You have the gun, but you’re in my place. Hear me out.

Shit.

I put the gun away. For as much good as it will do me now.

He rubs his hands together.

– OK. OK. That’s cool. Now we can really rap, really get into it. OK. So, you’ve been asking some interesting questions here. Some deep stuff. Stuff that gets right down there in the roots, down where you don’t go swinging away, hacking things to bits. Cut the wrong bit, the whole tree dies. Thing is, being around as long as you have, you’ve ended up mixed up in some pretty serious stuff the last couple years. Gotten some pretty deep knowledge on your own. That’s what happens. You last long enough, you’re going to get sucked into some stuff. Period. Can’t get around that. There are only so many of us. Only so many who have some staying power. Sooner or later, you’re going to get involved. Just, for just a second, just think about who you met the last couple days. Think about the people you met last year. Think about the kind of juice those people squeeze. Think about, about the things you know now, about how stuff works, the things you didn’t know last year. Seriously, think.

He shuts up and watches me.

And I think.

I think about it. And it scares me.

He nods.

– Right? Got it? See what I mean? Hey, man, not everybody spends their time rapping with DJ Grave Digga and Dexter Predo and me and old lady Vandewater. And let’s not even talk about how you have something going with Daniel. Any idea how many people get a repeat audience with him? How many survive the first one? That is, you know, a very short list. You’re, whether you like it or not, and for lack of a better word, you’re becoming a player.

He raises a finger.

– And check this out. For every little detail you’ve picked up, there’s a whole mosaic attached to it. You just can’t see it yet. Keep going, you’re gonna see more. But, you being a Rogue and all, not everyone is going to be happy about your growing understanding of, you know, how we do things. A Rogue has no loyalty. You don’t know where he’s going to go, which way he’ll jump. That puts people, I don’t know, on edge. Joe, I’m not gonna lie, it harshes my mellow, too. A good mellow is hard to come by. Security, can’t pay enough to have it. And, well, that’s kind of it. If your knowing things, combined with your being a Rogue, if that unsettles people? Sooner or later someone’s going to deal with that. Screw the metaphors, someone’s going to put you in the sun. Like Tom. And for the same reason: because he was harshing everybody’s mellow.

He leans back.

– Which is why I can sit here and offer you a job I know you don’t want.

– I said, no.

– Joe, man, it doesn’t have to be like the old days. I mean, today, yeah, man, that was bad karma all the way around. But it’s not really like it used to be. Mostly, it’s just showing yourself in the neighborhood. Keeping an eye on things. Pretty much the kind of stuff you do on your own. And, you know, if someone does get out of line, sure, that would be down to you. But you make the call. With this job, you have the license to, well let’s just say it like it is, you have a license to fuck people up. You employ it as you see fit. Straight up. Tom sucked at the job. You, you’re a natural. We both know that.

I pick up my gun. Put it back in my belt.

– No.

I stand up.

He stands up.

– Joe, come on, I know you, man. You like to know what’s up. You got to pick a scab, man. Well this job puts you on the inside, where things happen.

I turn to the door.

– No.

Like that, he’s in front of me.

– Please, man. I’m telling you, it’s not, like, a threat or anything, but I’m telling you, it can’t go on like it has. Not now. Me, I can play it as loose as you. I dig that. But Digga? Predo? They won’t have it. Not like this. You have to come back inside, Joe. It’s down to that. In or out.

I think about trying to go through him. I think about going out like that, taking the head of a Clan with me. My old buddy.

I pull another smoke from my pack and light it with a match.

I think about the gutted lighter I abandoned at Vandewater’s. Have to get a new one. They take weeks to break in, to get the action on the hinge loosened up so it will pop open with a snap of your fingers. The old one was just right.

I smoke.

Terry stands there, watches me. I watch him back. He’s in no hurry. There’s a clock built into the face of the stove. I look at it. It’s getting late.

I think about last year. How close I came to dying. Dying ugly. I think about the last forty-eight hours. How close. I think about how it’s hard enough day by day without this kind of crazy shit blowing up in your face. I think about that lousy fucking job. Security. What that job was like when I had it before.

The whip in my hand.

I think about the part of me that likes the way it feels. The part my father and mother cut into me.

Terry, waiting.

Shit.

– No.

He sags, nods his head.

– I did my best.

He steps aside.

I go for the door.

– Joe.

I stop.

– You want to buy a little extra goodwill down here, you can do me a favor.

I turn my head.

– What’s that?

He goes to the fridge, comes out with the bag of anathema.

– Drop something off for me.

It’s not an errand I’m looking forward to. But I’ll be needing every last scrap of goodwill Terry’s willing to dole out. Every scrap while I figure where to run to.

Also, I have a couple questions left. Terry left some gaps around this part. The part where everything connects.

And he was right, I do like to pick a scab.

One of the girls answers my buzz. She doesn’t want to let me in, but he tells her to do it. I take the stairs. Poncho is there at the door, holding it open. She stands aside to let me in, giving me a nasty look as I go by.

He’s on the couch, Pigtails on one side, PJs on the other, taking turns bathing his face with a damp cloth. Ignoring the fact that everything that’s gonna heal has healed.

Poncho walks past me. She goes around the couch and stands behind him, hands on his shoulders.

He gives me a little finger wave.

– Hey.

I nod.

– Hey.

He tilts his head.

– So we cool?

– Yeah. We’re cool.

– Cool. Cool. Have a seat, man. Ladies, don’t be rude. Offer the man something.

Pigtails sniffs.

– I offered last time. He didn’t want it. And then he was mean to you.

She hops off the couch and flounces over to me, bends low from the waist.

– But that doesn’t mean I won’t offer again.

I hold up my hand.

– Maybe just a beer for now.

She straightens up, puts one hand on her hip and points a finger at me.

– You are no fun.

She turns her back, looks at me over her shoulder.

– But I’ll get you a beer anyway.

She skips to the fridge.

PJs has put her head in The Count’s lap. He strokes her hair.

– Sure you don’t want something stronger, man?

He points to the fridge. Pigtails is standing in the kitchen, fanning her hand in front of the open fridge, displaying the contents like a model on a game show. Blood. Lots of it.

– Just the beer for now.

He shrugs.

– Whatever you want, man.

Pigtails skips back over with the beer and an opener. She pops the top, takes a sip, and hands me the bottle.

– Yum.

She points at my lap.

– Mind if I sit?

The Count snaps his fingers.

– Come here, love. That man isn’t playful.

She giggles and goes to him.

– I knoooow. I’m just teasing. I like to tease.

She takes her place next to him and puts her head next to PJs’.

– And be teased.

He pats her cheek.

– Naughty.

I point at his nose.

– You might want to straighten that out before the cartilage knits. It’ll stay crooked if you don’t.

He touches it with his index finger.

– I thought I’d leave it as is. The girls like it.

– Sorry about the teeth. Those won’t grow back.

He smiles, shows me the gaps.

– Well, it wasn’t fun getting this way, but I’m gonna make the most of it. Thought I’d get some gold caps. Do the gangsta thing. Work on my street cred.

He flexes his shoulders, arms akimbo, hands flashing in front of his chest hip hop style. He laughs.

– Anyway, it’s no big. I had a role to play. I played it. Gotta admit, I played it all the way.

I nod.

– Yep.

– Terry fill you in on the whole thing?

– Most of it. He said there were some details I could get from you.

– Cool. That’s cool. So, where do you want to?

– Vandewater?

– OK. So, this is pretty fucked-up shit, funny fucked up. You’re gonna love some of this. OK.

Poncho has been rolling him a smoke, she puts it between her lips, lights it, moves it to his. He takes a drag and she removes it, his hands occupied with petting the girls’ heads in his lap.

– So, do you know what she does up there?

– Besides make anathema and spin fucked-up plots to stir up shit that will get us all killed? No.

– She makes enforcers. Really, man. That’s what she’s there for. Predo sends them to her. Sends her the raw recruits, and she sends back little order-following assassin robots. She’s the chief programmer. She’s been doing it forever.

– You mean that literally?

He shakes his head.

– Well, no, man. But a long damn time.

– Uh-huh. And you?

He grins.

– Me. Well, that was me. Funny as it sounds, man, I’m an enforcer. Anyway, I was supposed to be. She, like, handpicked me. I mean, I was really up there, pre-med and all, and she has these scouts, kids on campus, recruiters like? Mostly they’re looking for kids they can snatch, for the, you know, for the stuff?

– The anathema.

– Yeah, man. Like, raw material for the anathema. But sometimes, if they spot someone promising, they may try to recruit them. Nothing too obvious, right? No, Hey, man, what do you think of vampires? But she’s got a profile she looks for, something she’s put together. Traits she thinks you need to have. If you have them, and if you’re vulnerable to a snatch, she has you snatched. Has you infected. Or, tries to anyway. Sometimes it just don’t take. You know.

– But it took with you.

– Oh, man, did it ever. All of it. I don’t know what it is she looks for, but I have it. I took to this shit. The life. I know that bugs you, like the way you went all Raging Bull on my head, I know you don’t want to hear that kind of thing, but it’s the truth. I just plain took to it. And, I got to admit, I like it. I like the way it makes me feel. And, sure, I got it easier than most. The money, that makes a difference. And that shit I told you about mom and dad cutting me off? That was bull. Mom and dad divorced years ago. From each other and from me. All they want is not to know I exist. It might remind them of how old they really are. My trust fund ain’t going anywhere anytime, not unless people stop buying gas. I’m set. So, yeah, I’m spoiled fucking rotten. And I love it, by the way.

Poncho feeds him another drag.

– So I had whatever kind of crazy she was looking for. Not for, like, the standard enforcer thing, but for this special gig she had cooked up. This infiltration.

He moves his hands like cat’s paws.

– A lone agento secreto in the heart of the Society, carrying out a plot to subvert the youth of the Clan. Cool, huh? I mean, who wouldn’t love a gig like that?

I light a cigarette of my own.

– So what went wrong?

He takes a drag, blows a ring.

– What went wrong is I likes to party! I likes to have a good time. And one thing the enforcers do not get to do is have a good time. Also, according to Vandewater, I happen to be the most amoral kid you’re likely to ever run across. Besides being, you know, a spoiled little shit. When I was down here, it was, like, the bomb. Secret agent on his own.

He raises his arms, indicating the room.

– Sweet pad, nice threads, piles of money.

He looks up at Poncho. She bends and kisses him. He looks at me.

– Beautiful ladies. Like James Bond, man. But cooler.

He frowns.

– But then I’d have to go see M. Go Uptown like I was going to class, stop by her place. Have tea for fuck sake. Give my report. Man! That is not the kind of Vampyre action I was looking for. Then this thing came up.

I finish my beer.

– Tell me about that.

– Man, talk about your blessings in disguise. OK, so I’m down here. I mean, she’s had me down here, but laying veeeeery low. Don’t want to get scented. Once I’ve kind of established residency, I open a vein one night. Actually, one of her boys opened it for me, but that’s just details. The good part is when I stumble into a place we knew Tom liked to hang at. This agro-vegan joint on C. I come in bleeding, the staff, it was like raw meat to them, they freak out. Tom is all over me, saying he’ll get me an ambulance and shit. I’m pretty sure he thought a free meal had just landed in his lap. Then he got a good smell. Once he realized I was infected, I moved up from meal to recruit. Not his fault he didn’t know I’d been infected for years. I did the whole act.

He puts his hands to the sides of his head.

– Vyrus? What Vyrus? Vampyre? You’re crazy! Crazy! It can’t be! It just can’t be! Well, you saw my act a couple times today. What can I say? I got talent! So I played it freaked out, but not for too long. Then I played quick study, but not too quick. Then I played true believer. I played that all the way. Tom loved it. I was his star pupil. All the Anarchist meetings, calling on me to answer questions about doctrine and shit? A total drag. But I’ll give the guy this: He was sincere. For whatever that got him.

I take a drag, having witnessed what being sincere got Tom.

– What about Terry?

– Terry! Now that man, he is the mac. Me, I think he had me pegged the first time Tom brought me in for vetting. He sat back, let Lydia and Tom and some of the other council members drill me on my story and my compatibility with the goals of the Society.

He makes his hand into a puppet and flaps its mouth open and shut.

– All that crap. He barely asked shit. But I think he knew then. Not that I had a clue. I thought I was smooth. But, man, well, you know, Terry is the smoothest. I had no idea he was on to me until he showed up here with Hurley and gave me the score.

– What was the score?

He shakes his head.

– What do you think it was? Man, the score was tell him every fucking thing he wanted to know or Hurley would start chopping stuff off of me until I was a biscuit. No problem, man, I squawked. And I got to say, greatest piece of luck I ever had. I spilled it all. Spilled who I was, where I came from, where the anathema was coming from, all of it. And Terry? He watched me, just like he watched during my vetting, and when I was done spilling, he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Man, an offer I would never refuse.

I hold up my empty, start to stand.

– Mind if I get another?

Poncho waves me back down and gets it for me.

I take it from her hand.

She gives me a hard look, still pissed at the way I beat on her squeeze.

I drink the beer.

– So, Terry’s offer?

The Count takes Poncho’s hand as she circles back around him.

– Well, here I am, right? I play my part in this show, and I get to stay down here. No more Mrs. Vandewater. No more sieg heil. No worrying about when I’m gonna get called back and told to put on a suit and act like all the other little robots. Freedom, man. That was the deal.

– So you told Vandewater Terry’s position was unstable.

– Yeah. Told her he was having trouble with Tom. Told her we could rock things down here, maybe start an outright revolution if we could make it look like Tom was behind the anathema. But I told her it couldn’t come from me, Terry wouldn’t buy it from me. It had to come from someone he had a history with.

– Me.

He points at his nose.

– Bingo. Terry was looking to ditch Tom. He said he needed a witness for a trial. He said he needed two. He said I was good because I was one of Tom’s guys. But he said the other one needed to be old school. He said it needed to be someone Lydia would accept. He mentioned you.

– It worked.

– Hell yeah! I sent you Uptown. Terry said not to be too specific. Said it would look weird if I knew exactly where the shit was coming from. Said to point you to the Hood and that would be close enough. Fuck it, it turned out OK. Terry said it would. You wound up in Vandewater’s clutches, she messed with your head a little, you made a move, she let you escape and told you Tom was her courier as you were on your way out.

– And all she had to do was lose an eyeball and take a bellyful of bullets.

He waves his hand back and forth.

– Trust me, for her cause, losing an eyeball, taking some lead? That is nothing. If she thought it was gonna bring down the Society, she’d cut off her tits. If she thought it’d bring down the Hood, she’d cut off her tits and fuck Dexter Predo. And she hates his ass. Lady is a stone zealot. Cra-zy. Period. Funny, though, she thinks you’re coming down here, gonna blow shit sky-high, gonna rock the boat. Had no idea she was helping to set Tom up for the fall. Helping to, like, entrench Terry’s chairmanship. Crazy, right? All the reversals, the double-agenting, I loved it. Like Deep Cover and I’m all Laurence Fishburne. In too deep for my own good, flippin’ and trippin’. But I had it under control. It’s easy if you’re not worried about right and wrong. You know, if you’re just worried about yourself. Priorities, man, I have ’em.

– And the rest?

– Easy-peasy, man. Hey, I don’t want you bouncing me around every day, but you made it easy to play the role. That shit was scary. And then in the trial? That worked out perfect. The way you were playing it all stoic set me up just right when I cracked. I mean, the plan was, you’d be telling your story and I’d hop in with mine. But the way it played was better yet. And my cherry, just when everyone is sure I’m full of it, just when they know I’m lying through my teeth, when I pop out with, I’m a spy! Did you see the look on Tom’s face? He shit his pants. He must have shit his pants. You though, you were stone cold. That’s what old lady Vandewater told me. Snap! That was it for Tom. Game ovaah!

– Yeah. Terry said something about Lydia?

– Oh, damn, Lydia. She really a lesbo? Cuz I’m just saying, some of that? I could do some of that.

Poncho slaps the top of his head.

He looks up at her.

– There’s plenty to go around, baby. No worries.

I grind some sleep from my eyes.

– How’d she go for you getting cut loose?

– Terry Bird to the rescue. After you took off to deal with Tom, Terry did some additional interrogation. He convinced Lydia, in a way where she was kind of thinking it was her own idea, that keeping me around was best. Double agent they could use to send false information back to the Coalition. She went for it. Plus, you know, the money. The Society is always hurting for money. Long as I’m here, I can help with that. So she agreed. House arrest. Gonna put a watch on me until I prove my loyalty. But that’ll come soon enough. And, hey!

He shows off his apartment and his girls again.

– Not like it’s a hard life up in here.

I look around.

– No, I can see that. Amongst all the other luxury, you got a phone?

– Sure, sure, landline’s right here.

He grabs a cordless handset from the coffee table and tosses it to me.

I point at Poncho’s room.

– OK if I use it in there?

– Sure, man.

I get up. So does The Count.

– Hey, Joe. We are cool, right? I mean, I am. I’m totally cool. I think you handled this shit straight up. Not easy getting played like that. You got nothing but respect from me.

I shrug.

– Yeah, we’re cool. All in the way of business. And hey.

I reach in my jacket and pull out the anathema.

– Got something for you.

I toss it to him.

– From the old lady’s. Fresh this morning. Terry sent it over.

He catches it.

– Oh yeah! Knew he’d come through.

He gives me a grin.

– Thought I smelled a little somethin’ somethin’ on you.

He gives it a sniff.

– It’s a little tired, but it’s good.

He turns to the girls.

– See, ladies, told you Joe is our man. Told you he knows business from personal.

Pigtails is on all fours, arching her back cat-style.

– When we gonna get personal, Joe Pitt?

She winks and hops up to help PJs get their works together.

The Count hands the bag to Poncho.

– Sure you don’t want to hang, Joe? I know you don’t indulge, but the fridge is stocked with regular, man. Have yourself a pint. Drink some booze. Get an old school buzz going.

He comes closer, puts an arm over my shoulder, points at Pigtails, kneeling on the floor with the other girls, getting the anathema ready.

– She really has taken a shine to you. And trust me, it’s freaky good. Especially after she has a skinful. She’s in another world, man.

I look at her. She catches me, blows a kiss, goes back to work.

– Maybe after my call.

He slaps my shoulder.

– That’s my man!

He joins the girls. I walk into the room made of doors.

Most of it’s taken up by a big mattress on the floor. Funky designer clothes from Lower East Side boutiques spill out of a chest of drawers. Three mobiles made of tin and colored glass dangle from the ceiling. I duck to go under one and graze it with my shoulder. It tinkles. One of the doors is paned with frosted glass. Through it I can see the ghosts of The Count and his ladies, in a circle on the floor.

I dial the phone.

He answers.

– Hello?

– It’s me.

– Hey, Joe. What’s up?

– I’ll take the job.

– Wow. Well. Good for you, man. About time you stopped being just a piece of the mosaic and started to help make it. Help make, I know how this is going to sound, but help make the world a better place.

I think about the world. I think about all the room there is for making it better than what it is. I think about the likelihood that I’m a guy who can do that.

– Yeah, let’s do that, Terry. Let’s clean it up.

– That’s the spirit. You come by tomorrow night. We’ll start talking. In earnest, I mean.

– Yeah. Sure. Tomorrow. I gotta go now. Got something to take care of.

I hang up.

I walk out through the space between two of the doors, hitting the mobile again. Hearing it chime.

Poncho and PJs are already out. Wrapped in their little coma of dreams. Seeing whatever visions it is they see. Pigtails is waiting for hers.

The Count points at the fridge.

– Sure you don’t?

I touch the blisters on my hands.

– A pint wouldn’t hurt. Or a drink.

He gets up.

– That’s the shit.

He grabs me a pint, brings it back along with a half-full bottle of Jack.

I retake my seat, open the pint, hit it.

The Count looks at me as he sets Pigtails up. He holds up the syringe.

– Want to do the honors?

Pigtails writhes on the floor.

– C’mon, Joe. Do it for me.

I finish the blood. Set the empty bag aside.

– Sure.

The Count hands me the syringe. I look at the careful measure of anathema inside. Pigtails is watching me, panting.

– C’mon, Joe.

I slip the needle into her arm. Push the plunger. She sighs, shivers, goes under. I go back to my seat, open the Jack, pour a shot down my throat. It mixes sweet with the blood.

The Count starts to fill the last syringe.

– You won’t regret staying, Joe. She is wicked crazy. Start in on her when she’s still half on the nod, she’ll do things no girl would ever think of doing.

I take another drink.

– Where’d you get them, anyway?

He looks up.

– The girls?

– Yeah.

He looks back down, focused on filling the syringe with the proper measure.

– Hell, man, I infected them. Wasn’t easy. Had to take a couple shots at it. But I followed the old lady’s plan. Made a profile. You know, looked for chicks like me. Couple of them couldn’t take the Vyrus at all, rejected it outright. Couple others just freaked out. But I had to have me the three brides. You were right about that, man. Totally cliché, but I had to have it. Like the ultimate Vampyre status symbol and all. I know it’s weak, but, like I said, spoiled rotten. That’s me.

I point at his syringe.

– Why don’t you put a little more in there?

He looks at it.

– Oh no, man. You don’t mess with this shit. Too much and you are fucked for life in the worst way.

– Yeah, that’s what Vandewater said.

He grins.

– Hey, is it true what Terry told me?

– What’s that?

– Said you dosed her. Gave her a hot shot. Said she’s hooked on the bad dose now.

– Got me. I didn’t even know she lived through it.

– That’s what he said.

– Must be true.

– Oh, man, that is the worst. She is so messed up! Bitch’s gonna be jonesin’ for the bad dose the rest of her life. That’s sooo F-ed in the A.

– That Spaz at Doc Holiday’s. That was you hooked him up, right?

He’s swabbing his arm.

– Yeah. Had to get the ball rolling. He was just a fish lost in the woods. Needed friends. Gave him a little of the needle and he was gone. I’d been haunting your background a little, looking for a good spot to open your eyes. Terry said he needed an inciting, like, agent. Whatever. I met The Spaz out back, by that take-out window they got. Gave him the needle good to go. Not a heavy dose, just enough to push him over the side. Told him to hit it in the can. Pow! That was that. I watched some of that through the window. Man, he was all over the place. Thought for a second I overdid it. But you, man, you handled that shit.

He has the tube around his arm.

I point at the syringe again.

– Yeah, so, like I said, why don’t you put a little more in there.

He’s focused on slapping a vein up.

– No joke, man, can’t mess with that. Take no chances on getting a hot shot.

I take out my piece, cock it. He looks up.

– Count, why don’t you put a little more in there.

He looks at the gun.

– Maaaan. Man, I thought you were taking all this a little too cool. I knew you were playing possum on me.

I point the gun at him.

– Yeah, surprise.

He smiles.

– Joe. I know you’re pissed right now, but what are you gonna do? Really. I’m Terry’s. I’m his guy now. You can’t fuck with me. You think you can intimidate me into taking a hot shot? How? You can’t lay a hand on me. Terry will freak. Kill me, you kill the golden goose. I mean, fuck all that spy shit, kill me, I won’t be opening my bank account to the Society. Period.

– Uh-huh. Thing is, I just bought myself a license to fuck people up. It’s gonna cost me plenty. So I need to start getting my money’s worth.

He squints.

– I don’t follow.

I shoot him in the foot. Blood sprays.

He stares at it, stares at the place his toes used to be.

– What the fuck?

I stand up.

– Amazing, isn’t it, that moment when you don’t feel any pain?

He drops the syringe, howls.

– And then it hits.

He grabs a pillow from the couch, crams it over the end of his foot.

I pick up the syringe.

– Jesus, Count, how long you been around? Give it a minute, that thing’ll stop bleeding on its own. And the pain?

I slip the needle into the bag of anathema.

– That goes away, too. Stick around long enough, you’re gonna have to live through no end of pain.

I draw some more of the shit into the syringe, remembering Vandewater’s lesson on how much does what.

– What you should be doing is ignoring the blood and the pain. You should be trying to get away from me.

I pull the syringe free.

– That or trying to kill me.

I hold the syringe like a dagger.

– But then again, you’re spoiled rotten.

I stab him in the neck.

– And you wouldn’t know where to start.

For a few minutes, it’s like with The Spaz at Doc Holiday’s. He spins and shakes and foams a little. Finally he falls on the floor, jerking and twitching in time to the spasms in his muscles and the visions flashing through his brain. Addicted at a deeper level now. Addicted to this experience. Helpless in it. The bad dose, he said.

I hope it sucks as bad as the old lady said it does.

I find a little picnic cooler under the sink and fill it with the blood from the fridge. I close the valve on the bag of anathema and toss that in. In a shoe box in the bathroom, just sitting there on the back of the toilet, I find over ten grand in rubber-banded rolls. Cash from the anathema he’s been dealing.

On my way to the door, I stop, look down at the girls. Generally, you don’t want to fuck a guy up like this and leave him with a devoted harem that might come looking for you. Hell, this isn’t their fault. None of it is their fault. But there’s smart, and then there’s dumb.

I put a bullet in each one, up close, in the heart.

I go out the door, a cooler of blood in my hand, a box of money under my arm. I leave The Count behind me, plagued with nightmares, surrounded by his dead brides.

Having done the job. Having started to make the world a better place.

He knew. Fucking Terry knew.

And he was right about knowing me. I don’t like it at all, but he was right. Knowing me well enough to send me over there. Knowing I’d ask a few questions. Knowing what I’d do when I heard some answers. And knowing damn well I’d be ready to take his goddamn job if it meant getting away with it. And, fuck all, knowing it had to be done. The brat needed to be taught a lesson.