Half the Blood of Brooklyn.

by Charlie Huston.

To Mr. Stoker and Mr. Chandler.With my greatest thanks.And apologies for the liberties taken.I DON'T LIKE HIM.I don't like the way he smells. I don't like the way he looks. I don't like his shoes. If I stuck a blade in him and drank the blood that shot out of the open wound, I wouldn't like the way he tastes.But Terry told me to be cool.So I don't kill the guy.--You can't get somethin' for nothin', is all I'm sayin'.Terry nods, waves some of the thick cigar smoke away from his face.--No doubt, no doubt.The guy I don't like blows another cloud off his stogie.--If I bring the Docks into your thing, I got to know what's in it for my members. Not like I'm here for my own self. I'm an elected representative, it's the members decide these things, and they decide nothin' they don't know what they got comin' on their end of the deal.Terry coughs into his hand.--Well, like I say, the way we work here, the way we, you know, like to go about this kind of thing, is with the understanding that we're all working toward a greater good. The Society, it's not just, you know, a Clan in the traditional sense. We're not just trying to get along and go along. We've got goals. We're all about, and I'm not telling you anything you don't already know, but we're all about empowerment for anyone and everyone infected with the Vyrus. And does that mean folks that aren't even in the Society? You bet it does. But does that also mean achieving our goal will be easier with as united a front as possible? Absolutely. What I'm, you know, getting at is, whether you bring the Docks into the Society or not, you'll still reap the rewards when we break through one day, but, man, we could sure use as much help as possible right now.The Docks Boss nods, ponders, chews the frayed end of his hand-rolled Dominican, and glances at the goon he brought with him.--I think he's tellin' me there ain't s.h.i.t in it for us.The goon shifts the baseball bat perched on his shoulder.--Sounds like it.--Sounds like he's tellin' me he wants somethin' for nothin'.The goon nods.--Sounds like it.The Docks Boss takes the cigar from his mouth, points it at Terry.--That what you're tellin' me, Bird?Terry presses the palms of his hands together and puts the tips of his fingers at his chin, a prayerful moment.--What I'm trying to get across is that there's something in it for all of us. Me, you, your man there, Joe here, your members, the Society, all the Clans and Rogues and even the folks out there that never heard of the Vyrus. I'm talking about how we're gonna make the world a bigger and more wondrous place when the day comes we go public and let them know we're here. I'm saying that there's something in it for everyone. Every person on Mother Earth, man.The goon raises a finger, a point's been proved.--Yeah, he's saying there ain't nothin' in it for us.The Docks Boss pushes his chair back, stands, drops the smoldering stub on the floor and stomps on it.--C'mon, Gooch, let's get the boys and get the f.u.c.k out of here.Terry shrugs, rises.--Well, I can't say I'm not disappointed, but it's not the first time we've been turned down.He puts out his hand.--And I just want you to know, we're still fighting for you, man. Anytime you want to join the struggle, we'll be happy to have you by our side.The Docks Boss looks Terry up and down, from his Birkenstocks, past his hemp jeans and his FUR IS MURDER t-shirt, up to his graying ponytail.--You're a freak, Bird. We ain't never gonna have nothin' to do with you and your hippies and your college kids and your queers and the rest.He pulls out one of the cigars that stick up from the breast pocket of his cheap suit, bites the end off and spits it at Terry's feet.--And I'm gonna tell Predo as much when I go see him.He sc.r.a.pes a match alight on the surface of the kitchen table and puffs the cigar to life.--The Docks are a serious Clan. We make the move over the bridge here and swing our weight behind someone, they're gonna know their backs are covered. You don't want to give somethin' back for that security, to h.e.l.l with you. Predo knows value. And he'll pay for it.He drops the match.--h.e.l.l, I only came to see you out of curiosity. Had to see for myself it was true what they say. How one of the top Clans over here is run by a pansy.Terry tugs at the soul patch below his lower lip.--Well, if that's how you see things, that's how you see things. Probably all for the best that you set up housekeeping with the Coalition. And still, still, I wish you nothing but health and happiness, man.The Docks Boss rolls his eyes and heads for the door.--f.u.c.k you, Bird.Terry looks at me.--You mind showing them out, Joe?I open the door.--Sure, no problem.I close the door behind us and lead the Boss and Gooch down the hall toward the front room where his other two boys are cooling their heels.The Boss steps alongside me.--A guy like you, a regular-lookin' fella, what the f.u.c.k are you doin' with that clown?I crack a knuckle.--It's a job.Gooch laughs.--A job? Hope you get paid through the nose, havin' to live in the middle of this freak show.I stop at the front-room door, rest my hand on the k.n.o.b.--What you gonna do, it's all I know.--Too bad for you.--If you say so.I open the door and stand aside to let the Docks Boss step into the room ahead of me.Stupid f.u.c.k that he is, he goes right in and only stops when he sees the headless bodies of his boys on the floor, and Hurley swinging a fire axe at his face. I got to give it to him, he does manage to get his arm in front of his head before the blade comes down.As his arm is. .h.i.tting the floor and Hurley is going into his backswing, the Boss has got his remaining hand in his jacket, going for the iron bulging at his side. Hurley takes his hack Lou Gehrig style and the other arm comes off and slaps into the wall, the gun dropping.The Boss stomps, splinters the floorboards beneath the sheets of plastic Hurley spread before he went to work. He kicks the body of one of his headless bodyguards.--f.u.c.ker! Useless f.a.ggot!He stands in the middle of the room, the spray from his stumps slowing to a steady trickle as the Vyrus clots the blood, scabs visibly forming over the wounds.He looks at Hurley, spits blood at him.--That all you good for, p.u.s.s.y, a f.u.c.kin' ambush? Come on! I can take it.He sets his feet, turns his face upward, eyes wide open.--Come on, p.u.s.s.y!Hurley hefts the axe over his head.--Just as ya say, den.The Docks Boss screams as the blade drops. He stops when it splits his head down the middle.Stupid f.u.c.ker.All those cigars, they kept him from smelling anything else. Otherwise he'd have whiffed the reek of blood the second I opened the kitchen door; he would have known there was a problem. In that tight hallway, he could have taken me apart. Another reason to like smoking.Gooch leans into the room and looks at his boss flopping on the floor. He ducks back as a last jet of arterial blood sprays the ceiling and the dead thing goes still.--Jesus, that's gonna be h.e.l.l to clean up.Hurley gives the axe a jerk and pulls it from the Docks Boss' face.--Ayuh.Gooch points at the mess.--I ain't helpin' ta clean this. That wasn't part of the deal.Hurley wipes the blade of the axe on the Boss' shirtfront, sees the cigars and pulls one from the dead man's pocket.--No one said ya gotta clean nuttin'.--Just so it's clear.Hurley finds a match, thumbs a flame from it and puts it to the cigar.--It's plenty clear, boyo.Gooch points his baseball bat at the corpses.--So you guys clean up your mess and I'll round up the rest of the Docks and let them know we're joinin' with ya.Hurley looks at the cigar, wrinkles his nose, and drops it to hiss in the Boss' blood.--Boyo, the way ya fellas sell one 'nother out, we would nae have ya ta clean our privies.Gooch is about as quick as Boss was. He gets the bat up in a hurry to block Hurley's axe. But the axe never leaves Hurley's shoulder.I tickle Gooch's earlobe with the barrel of his dead boss' revolver.--Hey, Gooch.He doesn't move.--Yeah?--I like this freak show.I put a bullet in his ear. And when he's on the floor, I put a couple more in.Hurley shakes his head.--What's da point a dat, Joe?--No point. Just that he was an a.s.shole.Terry comes down the hall and looks at the mess.He takes off his gla.s.ses and bows his head.--What a waste.I put a Lucky in my mouth.--If you say so.--Labor should be our natural ally. They could have been a big help.--A big help f.u.c.king things up. If this is the best Brooklyn has to offer, we don't have much to worry about.Terry slips the gla.s.ses up his nose and gives me a look.--The best isn't the problem, Joe.He heads back down the hall toward the kitchen.--The worst is what we have to worry about. The worst is still over the bridge.He turns in the doorway.--But they'll be coming.I don't got enough problems.I don't got enough problems dealing with the day-to-day s.h.i.t that rains from the sky in Manhattan, now I got to start worrying about it being shipped in from Brooklyn. That's what happens when you get a regular job, other people's s.h.i.t becomes your problem. 'Course, by the time you got that figured, it's up around your ears and you're just trying to keep your f.u.c.king mouth shut.--Cat got your tongue?I look up from the square of linoleum between my shoes and try a smile. It doesn't work.--No, babe, just tired.--You didn't have to come by.--Sure I did. What else am I gonna do?--You know how to flatter a girl, Joe.--Not what I meant.--I know. Just kidding.Evie reaches out and takes my hand. The IV hose hooks around her pinkie and I pull it free so it won't get tangled.--The one on your cheek looks better.She pokes the tip of her tongue into the pocket of her cheek, pushing out the spot where the first of her Kaposi lesions appeared.--Yeah. Pretty cool. Now if I can just get rid of the other thirty-six I'll be in business.A nurse comes in, looks at the IV, checks the cunna in Evie's arm, fakes something that might have looked like a smile when she started this job and walks back out.Evie shows me her teeth.--I love that one, she's so sweet. Not a b.i.t.c.h like the others.--A real Florence Nightingale.--Yep, she's the one told me how to use the diuretic suppositories, used visual aids and everything.She makes a fist with one hand and forces the index finger of her other hand into its grip.--Very helpful.She runs a hand through what's left of her red hair, dozens of strands coming loose, clinging to her fingers.--f.u.c.k. f.u.c.king h.e.l.l.I look at the old lady on the other side of the tiny room, reading her Women's Wear Daily, sucking down her own chemo, head rolled up in a turban, trying to ignore Evie's curses, wondering how much longer she's going to have to stay in this room before they find her another. Just like the two others before her.--f.u.c.king, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k. Hair. My G.o.dd.a.m.n hair.--Babe.--My hair, Joe.--I know.--Do I got to lose my hair?--They said it'll grow back.She shakes her hand over the edge of the bed, the strands of bright red floating free.--f.u.c.k them. They said the vinblastine would help. They said the mouth ulcers would stop after the first couple treatments. They said fewer than one in ten had constipation. They said my white count was plenty high to start the chemo. They said not to worry about the anemia, we'd just do more transfusions. They said I was a healthy girl and properly treated HIV didn't have to become AIDS at all. f.u.c.k them and what they say. They know s.h.i.t.She waves at the old lady.--Hey, I look like I got no AIDS to you, lady? What'd they tell you? What line of s.h.i.t they feed you before they started in?The old lady has the magazine out of her lap and in front of her face, blocking Evie out; blocking out the bright purple tumors, the patchy hair, the graying teeth.--Babe.--What? Am I making a scene? Am I embarra.s.sing you, Joe? Don't want to be seen with me? All you gotta do is go.I stand, bend and put my mouth against hers.She kisses back for a moment, then moves away.--Don't.I lay a fingertip on one of the sores that rim her mouth.--Hurts?--No. It's just. It's so gross. I'm so gross. I'm a f.u.c.king monster.--Baby, you're not even close.And I kiss her again.She coughs and I taste the bile from her empty stomach and the blood from the ulcers inside her lungs.She pulls back again.--Bowl. Bowl.I get the plastic bowl and hold it in front of her and she heaves a couple times and nothing comes out.--f.u.c.k. G.o.dd.a.m.n f.u.c.k.I put the bowl aside.--It's cool, baby.She turns from me.--Bulls.h.i.t. It's not. It's not cool. I'm sick. I'm so sick of this.--You can take it, baby.--Are you? I can take it? You have no f.u.c.king.She rolls on her back, talks to the ceiling.--Go away, Joe.I don't go away.She looks at me.--G.o.dd.a.m.n it, if you can't do something to help me, go away! You think this helps? Standing there, looking at me like that? You think I feel better about what's happening, having your sorry a.s.s here moping over me? Do something! f.u.c.king do something!I reach out to touch her.She slaps my hand.--Don't touch me. You said you wanted to take care of me. Then f.u.c.king take care of me. f.u.c.ker! f.u.c.ker! What use are you? I'm sick. I'm f.u.c.king dying and you're standing there. You, you. Always doing things. Your f.u.c.king job. Your job, and you can't help me. All you can do is put more blood in me for this f.u.c.king disease to live in. You don't help. You.She's sitting up now, her pajama top slipping off her boney shoulder, showing the pale skin and freckles.I stand there.She yanks on the hose in her arm.--f.u.c.k this. This can't make me better. Nothing can make me better. You can't. You can't.She throws the dripping needle at me.--Go do something! Save me, G.o.dd.a.m.n it! f.u.c.king save me!The nurse comes in, sees the mess, shakes her head, gets to work.Evie flops back into the pillows.--See, this b.i.t.c.h, at least she can do something. She cleans up after me. She brings me c.r.a.p food I can't eat. If I could take a s.h.i.t, she'd wipe my a.s.s for me.The nurse glances my way, shoots her eyes toward the door.I look at Evie's feet, sticking from beneath the sheet.--I'll come by tomorrow.She has her hands over her face.--G.o.d, I want to be alone. Please let me be alone. Leave me alone. Don't ask me for anything. I don't want to do it anymore. I don't want to think about anyone else anymore. I'm no good at it. Leave me alone, Joe. Let me die alone. Go away. Go away.The nurse faces me, places a hand on my arm, points at the door.I think about taking her head between my hands and twisting her neck and spitting in her face as I kill her.The old lady peeks from behind her magazine as I leave, shaking her head.On the street I fire up a Lucky and look at the people walking around: on their way home after a late workday, on their way back out because it's Friday night, whatever. Normal stuff. Stuff Evie can't do these days.I think about killing them all.It wouldn't change things, not for my girl up there on the HIV ward of Beth Israel. But it would make me feel better. A dead body for every blood-corrupting cell invader in her would just about even things out with the world as far as I'm concerned.A sense of proportion not being something I have much of a grip on.A Harley grumbles up to the curb and the leather-coated rider touches the brim of his top hat.--Joe.I watch a guy walk past with his girl on his arm, both of them giggling at some stupid s.h.i.t they think is cute. I skip asking what's so f.u.c.king funny and go talk to Christian instead.--What's up?He pulls the aviator goggles from his eyes and lets them hang from his neck.--Something needs looking at below Houston.--Off my beat.Christian takes one of the smokes I offer him. I pop open my Zippo and hold out the flame.--Not for long, I hear.--What's that mean?--Means everyone knows Terry is talking to faces from over the bridge. Those bridge-and-tunnel types start coming into the Society, Bird's gonna have to find turf for them somewhere.--Where you hear that?He grins.--Seriously, man, you think Bird could move his action that close to Pike Street, and me and the boys wouldn't know what's what?--Even if it's so, I only look after Society business.He takes a drag.--Joe, we go back?It's a stupid question.We go back to the night I peeled him off the sidewalk after the Chinatown Wall had shredded his gang and left him broken. Some a.s.shole cut his vein and bled him and then bled into him. Thought it'd be cute to leave him breathing. See if the Vyrus would take root and keep him alive. Alive or the next best thing, anyway. Lamea.s.s probably figured if Christian died it'd be no harm, no foul. If he lived he'd freak out, be torn up over what happened to his boys and do himself. Go out colorful. Didn't figure I'd make the scene, do the right thing and clean up the mess before any cops or civilians got involved and found Christian still kicking.I could have bled him out. Could have tumbled him into the East River, just another floater for the patrol boats to fish out. But there was a time someone could have made the same call on me, so I figured I was due to pay that one off. Figured I'd get him on his feet, give him the score on the Vyrus and let him make his own call.Well I gave him the score. Filled him in on how the Vyrus was cultivating him. How it'd keep him sharp and strong and fast and pretty G.o.dd.a.m.n youthful for that matter, as long as he kept it fed.He asked the obvious questions.I gave the only answers.Blood. Human. As much as possible.Then I gave him some. And he liked it. h.e.l.l, we all like it. Just some can't stand the thought that we like it. And what we have to do to get it.Tap as many veins as you like. Draw off just enough and leave behind a confused mugging victim or a zonked-out junkie. Hustle the blood banks, buy some green scrubs and lurk around the hospitals. Find a sweet Lucy who'll open a vein for you as often as she can just because she loves to be used that way. Try lapping at your own slit wrists or sucking on a decapitated rat and get sick as a man guzzling seawater. Try it all to put off the one thing you don't want to do, but sooner or later you'll do it.And once you do, once you pop a blade through warm, healthy skin and feel the hot gush of living blood hit the back of your tongue, you'll wonder why you waited so long.And then you'll curse at how long you're gonna have to wait till the next time. As few of us as there are running around, it's still too many. We all start picking off civilians whenever we feel hard up, this island's gonna be an abattoir. That happens, the lid blows off.We let them know we're here, we let the real people know what's lurking just underneath their lives, and we won't last another night.We'll all be in the sun.And what the Vyrus does to its host when it gets. .h.i.t by the sun, it makes what my girl's going through look easy.And it ain't. That s.h.i.t ain't easy at all.I smoke and look at Christian and remember how he handled it when he was back on his feet. Way he handled it is, he found what was left of his gang, the Dusters. He managed to infect a couple. And they infected a couple more. After some months, when they had their s.h.i.t together, they got on their hogs and hit the Wall. Ma.s.sacre ain't the word. I don't know the word for what they did down in Chinatown. But the Dusters own Pike Street now.They haven't been acknowledged as a Clan, but they could give f.u.c.kall as long as no one messes in their s.h.i.t. And no one does.I flick a b.u.t.t into traffic.--Yeah, sure, we go back.He fits his goggles over his eyes.--Then believe me when I say, What I got to show you, this kind of thing is everybody's business.I get on the back of the bike.--Where we going?--Rivington off Ess.e.x.I put my feet on the b.i.t.c.h pegs.--Not the f.u.c.king Candy Man?He taps his toe on the shifter.--Yeah, the f.u.c.king Candy Man.And he takes me for a ride below Houston.The bas.e.m.e.nt reeks of blood and ammonia and candy.--What do you think, Joe?--What do I think?I take another look at the poor slob spread all over the floor: arms and legs and hands and feet and head and bisected torso and ripped-out heart all laid pretty much where they should be, but with about a foot or so between various parts that should be connected.--I think we got a f.u.c.king Van Helsing on our hands.Christian claps his hands to his cheeks and bugs his eyes.--A Van Helsing? Ya think?I look at the big white Maytag refrigerator in the corner of the bas.e.m.e.nt. Blood is smeared around the handle and drips from the seal at the bottom of the door, pooling on the floor.--Don't be a smarta.s.s, Christian. n.o.body likes a smarta.s.s.--You would know.I go to the fridge and tug on the silver handle. The blood around the seal makes a noise: two pieces of overused flypaper being peeled from each other.Two dozen slashed blood bags drip the last of their contents over the stainless steel shelves. A small flood of it washes out onto the floor.Christian walks over.--Any of it still good?I pick up one of the bags and hand it to him.He smells the ammonia it was laced with, the same ammonia that's been splashed around the bas.e.m.e.nt.He drops the bag.--That's f.u.c.ked up. What's he think, the ammonia's gonna hurt us?I dab my index finger in some of the blood.--Make for one h.e.l.l of a stomachache. If he hadn't poisoned it, I'd be licking the fridge clean right now.He pushes his top hat to the back of his head.--Well, sure, me too, man.He considers.--And still, might be worth the sick to have a drink.I smell the blood on my fingertip.--Won't do you any good, ammonia killed it. Vyrus won't want it.He kicks the fridge door closed.--f.u.c.k.I wipe my finger on a piece of old newspaper I peel from a stack under the stairs.--Can you get a scent?He flares his nostrils, inhales, grimaces.--Ammonia's overpowering most of it. You?I shake my head. I've been sniffing around like a hound and can't get one good trace of whoever did it. The mess spilling from what used to be Solomon's belly, the ammonia and the bas.e.m.e.nt overstock are killing the subtler human traces of sweat and skin. If I'd had some blood today the Vyrus might be running strong enough to peak my senses, but I didn't. And Sol's is making me d.a.m.n hungry.I toe the head on the floor and watch it rock back and forth.--When'd you find him?Christian is skirting a spill of intestine.--Swineheart and Tenderhooks rolled over here right after sundown looking to score. They didn't know the shop closed for Sabbath and rattled the gates for a while before they went round to the alley side and banged on the trap. Smelled the blood. Twisted the lock off the trap and came down here. Saw this s.h.i.t and freaked out. Came and got me.I poke around some boxes, shifting them, looking for G.o.d knows what. Moving the boxes releases sugary pink smells.--Swineheart and Tenderhooks got freaked?Christian points at the corpse.--This s.h.i.t? You bet they did. Who wants to f.u.c.k with a Van Helsing?The answer is no one.f.u.c.k with some kid who stumbled onto the wrong scene at the wrong time and managed to get out alive and declares a war on the undead and comes after you armed with holy water, garlic, and a crucifix? Sure, no problem. Holy water's just gonna get you wet, garlic's just gonna make your breath rank, and a crucifix is just a stick with a guy nailed to it. Nothing special. A Van Helsing like that comes after you, all you got to do is get him someplace dark and give his head a twist. After that, it's all a matter of how much of his blood do you drink right away and how much do you drain off and mix with an anticlotting agent so you can drink it later.But a real Van Helsing? That's a different matter. A real Van Helsing knows that you bring a Vampyre down the same way you bring anyone down; only more so. A well-fed Vampyre won't like taking a bullet in the leg, but it won't stop him, not unless it hits the femoral artery and he bleeds out before he can stick a finger in there to plug the hole while it heals. And it'll heal. Fast. A Van Helsing that knows that? Knows to put some large-caliber rounds into a Vampyre's face, neck, chest? Or maybe to cut his or her head off? Or strangle him long enough to starve the brain of oxygen? Or has a handy tub of cement around to plant their feet in before dumping them off a bridge? Or has a big truck to run into them and roll back and forth over the broken body before the bleeding wounds can close and the bones knit? A Van Helsing who knows how weak we can become when unfed? Or how vulnerable to the sun? One who knows to look for the signs of feeding, the high mugging rates, the mysterious disappearances, the rumors among the squatters and the winos? A Van Helsing who really deserves the name? No one wants to f.u.c.k with that.I put a couple boxes of Sugar Daddies back in place.--Yeah, no one wants to mess with that. Funny, though.Christian is looking in the hole in the guy's chest.--How's that?I start up the stairs to the shop above.--Funny a Van Helsing gets all old school with the evisceration and the beheading, and the guy he's carving up ain't even infected.He follows me.--Yeah.

Thought about that myself.He jerks a thumb back at the corpse.--Old Solomon never was a lucky one.I reach the top of the stairs and push the door open and the smells of roasted nuts and dried fruits and caramel and chocolate and high-fructose corn syrup and red dye number 5 and pure cacao and refined sugar and gelatin and all the other stuff that goes into the stock of the Economy Candy Store hits me in the nose.--Yeah, but he ran a great f.u.c.king candy shop.Christian walks past a counter, reaches into a gla.s.s jar, grabs a jawbreaker and tosses it into his mouth.--No lie there.Bottle Caps, Big League Chew, Pop Rocks, Almond Joy, Gold Mine bubble gum, candy cigarettes, Pixy Stix, 100 Grand bars, Chunkys and a couple hundred other varieties of packaged candies. And in barrels: roasted and raw cashews, peanuts, almonds, brazils, hazelnuts, pistachios and filberts. And in plastic buckets: dried cherries, apricots, apple rings, peaches and pineapple. And laid out on wax paper inside the gla.s.s cases at the front of the crowded shop: bricks of dark Belgian chocolate, turtles, white truffles, chocolate-covered pretzels and strawberries and orange slices.He bites down on the jawbreaker; his perfect teeth, polished and hardened by the Vyrus, crush it like an eggsh.e.l.l.--Before I got infected, 'bout half the teeth in my head were ready to fall out because of this place. Growing up off Water Street, my mom used to bring me and my sister up here after church on Sundays. Give us a buck to split between us.He rips open a Fun Dip packet, licks the white candy wand, dips it into the sugar powder inside and pops it in his mouth and sucks on it.--Still got that sweet tooth, man. When I first found out the business old man Solomon ran in the bas.e.m.e.nt, the real moneymaker, I was a little disillusioned. Got to say. Kiddies upstairs getting fixed on sugar, Vampyres in the bas.e.m.e.nt scoring. That's kind of jacked up. Even in my book.I pick up a necklace, beads of pastel candies strung on a choker of elastic.--You got over it.He takes the candy wand out of his mouth.--Hey, get hard up enough, who isn't gonna come see the Candy Man? Telling me you never darkened his doorway?I drop the necklace in the side pocket of my leather coat.--I was a Rogue. I didn't have a Clan or a gang backing me up if I went off my home turf. Coming down here before I hooked back up with Terry, that wasn't an option.He waves the wand.--s.h.i.t, Joe, we would have had your back.I go behind the counter and poke around in the drawers and the register.--Yeah, and that would have cost me something.He dips up more of the purple powder.--Never said nothing in life wasn't free.I find the hogleg back of the counter and put it next to the register.--Never said you did.He points at the sawed-off double barrel.--Loaded?I pick up the gun and crack the breech and show him the two 12-gauge sh.e.l.ls inside.He shakes his head.--Imagine keeping something like that around in a shop fulla kids.I snap it closed and tuck it into my belt at the small of my back, letting the coat fall over it.He takes a look.--Pretty good conceal. Long as you don't start doing jumping jacks it won't show too bad.I find a half-full box of sh.e.l.ls and put it in the pocket with the necklace.Christian drops the remains of the Fun Dip in a wastebasket and wipes the back of his hand over his purple-stained lips.--Makes you wonder, though.--Huh?--Why he kept the gauge up here with the kiddies instead of downstairs where the real dangerous types were coming in.I walk to the stairs.--Solomon wasn't stupid. Some junkie walked in here looking to clear out the register, he could handle that just by showing him the gun. Downstairs? Any infected stupid enough to try and knock out the only dependable dealer south of Houston would have to be stone strung out. Shotgun wouldn't have been worth a s.h.i.t. Hit a burner with both barrels, take his head off, his f.u.c.king body will walk across the room and rip you in half.--Know that for a fact, Joe?I'm half down the stairs. I stop and look back up at his silhouette at the top.--I know it.He starts down.--Still and all.--Yeah?--Shame he didn't have it down here today.We hit the bottom and look at the corpse of the Candy Man.--s.h.i.t, Christian, he wasn't one of us. f.u.c.k did he think he had to worry about from real people?--Got a point.There's a box of garbage bags in the corner with the cleaning supplies.I pick up a mop.--Ready to get started?--Sure.He tears a bag out of the box.--Why you think they done it?I stick the mop bucket under the tap in a big slop sink.--Could be the Van Helsing is only half smart. Killed him before he realized he wasn't infected. More like, he knew Solomon was the Candy Man. Knew it would cause a s.h.i.tload of trouble cutting off the supply down here. Did it Stoker style to make a point. Something like that. Fits with poisoning the blood in the fridge.He squats and starts picking up the smaller pieces.--Sounds about right.He drops a hand in the bag.--Sorry, Sol, you were a h.e.l.l of a confectioner.Evie won't talk to me.When I call, the night nurse says she's fine, watching TV, but doesn't want to talk to anyone.That could mean anything from she really is watching TV to she's bent over her plastic bowl with chemo-heaves. I know which is more likely, but I try to pretend it's the other.Not that she wants my sympathy. Not that she wants me lying in bed staring at the ceiling, chaining Luckys and thinking about the virus that's eating her alive. Far as she's concerned, I can f.u.c.k off whenever I want and just stop hovering around asking how she's feeling.Or I can do something to save her.Not that I take it seriously, all that s.h.i.t. That's just the chemo talking. The misery and the pain and the acid they're pouring into her. She doesn't really think I can do anything. She's just f.u.c.king desperate.She's just sick.Girl was sick the night I met her. I knew the score then and I got in the game anyway. Nothing's changed between us. She's still sick. We still don't sleep together. I still eat my heart out every time I look at her.The pity party's in the other room if you feel like joining it.I won't be in.Only thing that's changed is she's dying faster. Faster than she was before. And faster than me. She's dying really f.u.c.king fast.'Course, she doesn't know I'm dying. She doesn't know s.h.i.t about me. The nighttime schedule she chalks up to a sun allergy, solar urticaria. The guns and the rough and tumble and the padlocked fridge in my apartment and the donor blood I get deposited on her behalf so she always has enough for the transfusions she needs because of the anemia caused by the chemo? That's all because of my job.Organ courier.Transporter of healthy tissues between those with perfect kidneys, healthy corneas, melanoma-free skin, pink lungs, unperforated intestines; and the miserable disease-wracked b.a.s.t.a.r.ds with nothing but money. Nice work if you can get it.Except that it's a lie.Yeah, I told my girl a lie. Just one on a long list. Once you skip over telling someone the part about needing to consume blood in order to feed the Vyrus that's keeping you alive, there isn't much room for truth in a relationship.So it's built on lies. So if she knew what I am, what I do, she'd slap her hands to her face, scream NOOOOOOOOO and run from the room crying for help. Or not. Being Evie, she might just kick me in the b.a.l.l.s for lying to her. Then she might ask a lot of questions. Then she might ask me if having the Vyrus in her would kill the virus in her.And I'd have to tell her the truth for a change.It would. The Vyrus will kill what's in her. It will kill anything that invades and attacks its host.It will save her.No more puking. No more hair loss. No more oral ulcers. No more loose teeth. No more chemo. No more Kaposi. No more AIDS.No more cold showers. No more hand jobs. No more dry humping like the high school kid I never was.Just me and her and all the time you could want, as healthy as a human being can be. Healthier. As healthy as something not quite human and not quite alive can be. For just as long as we can keep it together. For just as long as we can score and lay low and live with the constant scrabble to find the next hit. For as long as we can stay out of the sun.It's a life.And who am I to b.i.t.c.h. I may not have asked to be infected, but I haven't hurried to get out of the deal. Been over thirty years now, and I can bow out anytime. A bullet is still a bullet, whether it goes through your brainpan or mine. And dead is still dead. Or so I'm told. I'll know for sure soon enough. Just like everyone else.We're all going the same place.I'm just taking a different road.If the scenery sucks, I can drive into a ditch whenever I want.And I can take Evie with me. All I got to do is one simple thing. I just got to do what she's begging me for. I just got to save her.I get off the bed, stub my smoke out in the tray on the nightstand and throw down the last swallow of Old Grand-Dad in the water gla.s.s there. I take Solomon's hogleg from my dresser and put it and the sh.e.l.ls in my gun safe with a couple other pieces I've acquired in the last year. Used to be I had a pair of handguns that suited me more or less to a tee. The work I've been doing lately, I've found I go through them in a hurry. It pays to collect an extra or two when you get the chance.The phone rings and I answer it and talk to someone and hang up.I head for the door, in a hurry to be somewhere else, to be doing something else. To be thinking about anything else. I go fast and I leave the guns behind.I won't need one where I'm headed.Unless I plan on shooting my boss.G.o.d knows I've had worse ideas.Organ courier.I wish.Freelance. My own boss. The way I used to have it.That was cherry.It was a scrabble being a Rogue, not having a Clan to look out for you and keep you in the drink, but no one looks over your shoulder and tells you what to do. You f.u.c.k up, someone's gonna put you down. Nothing but blood, sweat and tears. And d.a.m.n little blood.h.e.l.l, I pine for it.--The Candy Man? That's a real b.u.mmer.I get out of my own head and look at Terry, the man whose dime I've been on for the last year. Not that he'd put it that way. He'd say I'm simply a pledged member of the Society, serving the greater good. But I know better. After all, it may be a dog's life, and I may be the dog, but I know whose hand is holding the leash.--Yeah, whole bunch of SoHo ragtags are gonna have to find a new hookup.He holds his index finger and thumb an inch apart.--You're still taking the short view.He spreads his arms wide.--What I'm trying to get you to see is the big picture. Expand your vision, get into your peripherals, man. See the vistas. The trees, they're beautiful. But the forest, when you see the whole thing? That's a mindblower.He shades his eyes with a flat hand, gazing into the distances beyond the walls of this tenement kitchen.--When you really open your perceptions and take it all in, the view is breathtaking.I look at Lydia. She's got her eyes squeezed shut, fingers rubbing her temples.I tilt my chin at her.--Got a headache?She peels her eyes open and flips her hand in Terry's direction.--You don't?I check out Terry, his eyes still shaded, smiling at us.--I've been listening to it for a long time. Guess I'm building an immunity.Terry drops his hand.--An immunity to truth, Joe? I hope not, man. I hope not.I fiddle with the unlit smoke in my hand. Terry and Lydia don't like me to smoke in Society headquarters. Like secondhand smoke is gonna kill them. The principle of the thing, they'd say. Like there's any principle involved in breathing smoke other than it tastes good.--The big picture, Ter, I'm missing it, so fill me in.He lowers himself to the floor, slowly bending his legs till he's folded into a full lotus.--The Candy Man is dead.--Got that.--Sure, sure you do, that's basic. The Candy Man is dead. Which, you know, he was a guy in a high-risk market. The blood, I mean, not the candy. So getting murdered isn't like a statistical improbability or anything. But, and this is the down the rabbit hole part, he's killed in a fashion that suggests a pretty well-versed Van Helsing was involved. A Van Helsing with enough, I don't know, foresight, savvy, whatever, to poison the Candy Man's stock so no one could scavenge it. And then the final tree in this, well, not really forest, but grove, maybe, or copse is a better word. The final tree in this copse is the really relevant fact that Solomon wasn't what a Van Helsing would call a, you know, a vampire. So that's our copse, our thicket of trees within the forest. The question is, What's out of place here? What tree, or shrub even, doesn't belong in the thicket?I light my cigarette.--You lost me at copse.Lydia points at the NO SMOKING sign above the door.--You mind?I take another drag.--Sister, if you can get through this without a smoke or a drink, more power to you. Me, I'm made of weaker stuff.She crosses to a black-painted window over the sink, pinches the heads of the thirty penny nails driven through the frame into the sill, draws them out with a squeak, the upside-down pink triangle tattooed on her shoulder jumping as her muscles flex, and shoves the window open.--I'm not your sister. My sisters share my values and concerns. They don't put money into the pockets of death merchants.She drops the nails on the sill.--And, Terry, a little support on the no-smoking policy would be appreciated.He rests his hands palms up on the points of his knees.--Trees, guys. Forest. Copse.Lydia folds her arms.--The Candy Man wasn't infected. The Van Helsing killed him like he was infected. He or she knew all this other stuff, but didn't know Solomon was a civilian. That's your odd tree.He snaps his fingers.--That's it, that's what I'm talking about. That particular piece of foliage seen on its own is just another fragment of the ecosystem, just another link in the chain of life. But in context of our forest? It stands out like a sequoia in the Amazon. An uninfected dealer in the forest of the Vyrus. Solomon has always been an exotic, yeah? So now, now something happens, someone yanks that tree, uproots it and salts the earth. But the way they go about it, it looks like they got a handle on the terrain, like they should maybe know better. So why kill that tree like it's a, and I don't like this a.n.a.logy any better than you will, Lydia, but I'm talking here from this gardener's point of view, why kill this tree like it's a weed? Seeing as you know the difference. The Van Helsing I'm talking here.I flick my b.u.t.t and it arcs out the open window and between the bars of the security gate.--Because he's an idiot, Terry. Because he's the kind of a.s.shole goes around hacking people's heads off when he could just shoot them. Because he's a f.u.c.ked-up nut job who knows just enough about us to be dangerous, but not enough to know Solomon was clean.Lydia is pointing at the window.--You planning to go out there and pick that up? Litter doesn't throw itself in the garbage, you know.I pull out a fresh smoke.--It bothers you, go toss it in a can.--I swear, Joe, sometimes I think Tom was right about you, sometimes I think you're working for the Coalition, trying to subvert everything we do down here.--And we all know where thinking like that got Tom.She comes away from the window.--That a threat?That a threat? Am I threatening the head of the Lesbian Gay and Other Gendered Alliance? Am I throwing down on a woman I might not be able to take one on one, let alone if she comes at me with a couple of her bulls behind her?f.u.c.king no, I am not.But I have s.h.i.t manners.--f.u.c.k you, Lydia.--f.u.c.k you twice, Joe. f.u.c.k you all over if you ever come close to threatening me. Tom was a spy. A sc.u.mbag subverter and a counterrevolutionary and a real a.s.shole. He got what he asked for. But you ever come close to threatening me with the sun again, I'll bring fury down on you.--You'll bring fury down on me? What the h.e.l.l is that supposed to-Terry looks at the ceiling.--Forest! Forest! Forest!I crush the cigarette in my hand.--Brooklyn. OK? I get it. Lydia gets it. Brooklyn is what's going on. Brooklyn is the big picture. So what the f.u.c.k? What's that got to do with the Candy Man?Terry smiles.--See, you do have wider vision, man. That's great.Knowing it's the kingdom of the blind around here, what's that say about me and my vision?I open my hand and spill tobacco and shredded bits of white paper on the tabletop.--Great, now we got that sorted out, can I blow?Terry untangles his legs, straightening them, rising erect.--Joe. Lydia. Just as we are negotiating possible alliances with these, I guess they have to be called pseudo Clans at this point, just as we're initiating talks, a Van Helsing appears. On our back porch. An apparently seasoned and knowledgeable Van Helsing who kills in a, you know, potent style. But he does this-Lydia coughs.--We don't know it's a man. Can we please not a.s.sume the male p.r.o.noun for a change?--Right. So the Van Helsing, he or she, kills an uninfected guy like the guy was infected. If he or she does it out of ignorance, it's kind of, well, incongruous, to use a five-dollar word. So maybe it's an accident. Or maybe it's a message that even an uninfected isn't safe if he's trucking with the likes of us. Or maybe, maybe, it's done just to stir up some s.h.i.t.The phone rings.--I mean, these are delicate times. New faces coming over the bridge. Elements no one has had contact with in, like, decades, man. Talking complex ramifications here. Talking old growth forests getting new seedlings. Talking shifts in the balance of power.The phone rings.--And the Candy Man, for all his, no pun here, all his sweetness, he was a hard-core businessman. He was a stone reliable dealer below Houston. The only one down there all those Rogues and odd bits of Clans could rely on in a pinch.The phone rings.--Think that's not gonna stir concern down there? I mean, Christian finds out about this, what's he do? He doesn't burn the store like would have maybe been the easy thing, he comes and gets Joe. He looks north. He sees a potentially troubling situation near his club's turf and reaches out for some Clan involvement.The phone rings.--He looks for some people who can stabilize a situation and bring a little balance before things can get knocked off kilter. He knows. His riders relied on the Candy Man. So he knows what this could mean.The phone rings.--And, yeah, maybe it's all as simple and screwed up as a Van Helsing. Maybe we can get him, or her, before a little panic takes place. And then, well, market forces will take over and someone will fill Solomon's void and it'll all be cool.The phone rings.--But maybe, and I'm not talking from any secret well of knowledge here, I'm just saying, maybe.The phone rings.--Maybe it's someone f.u.c.king with us.The phone rings again and Terry grabs it from its cradle on the wall.--h.e.l.lo? Hey. h.e.l.lo. Yeah. How 'bout that? Been a while. OK, OK, the usual. Yeah? Wow. That was fast. Sure. Hey, we all got our ways. Who? No. Not them. Sure the Freaks did. No surprise, but not them. Uh-huh. I know. Old times, kind of. Well, sure, you know, that was different. Yeah. Uh-huh. Hang on.He holds the phone out to me.--It's for you.I take the phone and put it to my ear.--Yeah.--Pitt, it's Predo. I understand there is a Van Helsing in your midst. We will need to address this. Come see me.f.u.c.ker.Little f.u.c.king f.u.c.ker Predo is, he keeps me waiting in the lobby with nothing but back issues of The New Yorker and Town & Country to read.I fiddle a Lucky out of the pack and stick it in my mouth.--Uh-uh.I look at the giant behind the reception desk.-- Uh-uh what?He waves his pen back and forth.--Not in here.I take out my Zippo.--What's with everybody? It's smoke. It doesn't hurt us. It's like the best part about the Vyrus. Look, Ma, no cancer.I snap the lighter open.He places the pen on his desk, aligning it perfectly with the vertical edge of his blotter.--Don't even think about it.I tap the tip of the unlit cigarette.--Buddy, it's too f.u.c.king late for that, I'm thinking about it.He smiles, no doubt dying for me to light up so he can stop d.i.c.king around with the boss' PowerPoint presentation and go to work on me instead.--Then you best find something new to think about.I size him up. It doesn't take long. A guy built like that, you'd have to be blind not to be able to size him up from about half a mile out. I'm a big guy, but one of his suits, the jacket would make a nice overcoat for me. Still, I long to try it, see if I could put a couple in his face before he tears the desk in two, jumps across the room, digs his finger into my sternum and pulls my rib cage out.Not that I got anything to prove, but the f.u.c.ker p.i.s.ses me off. Way he backed up Predo that time they broke into my place and tossed me around, that made me not like him. Not that I ever did in the first place. Piece of Coalition enforcer s.h.i.t that he is.But I didn't bring a gun. And I don't have the stones to try it even if I was packing.I drop the Zippo back in my pocket, take a big drag off the unlit cigarette, pull it from my mouth, blow a huge cloud of no smoke in his direction.--Gotta rule against this?He slits his eyes.--Sooner or later.--What? Sooner or later you're gonna sprout something from the brain stem that keeps your lungs pumping?He rises. If we were outside, if it was daytime, he'd blot out the sun.--Sooner or later you are going to f.u.c.k up and be back on the street again. Sooner or later you won't have Clan protection anymore. Sooner or later you're going to be a Rogue again. And n.o.body will care what happens to you. n.o.body will care when I pick you up by the ankles and wishbone you.What's a guy gonna say to that? Especially seeing as it's likely true.Wish I had that gun.The phone on his desk buzzes. He presses a b.u.t.ton on it and picks up the handset.--Yes. I'll send him up. Yes, Mr. Predo.He closes his eyes, frowns.--Yes, I will, sir. Unforgivable. It won't happen again.He puts the phone down, opens his eyes, keeps the frown.--Mr. Predo will see you now.I get up.--And we were just getting to know each other so well.He looks me in the eye.--And I am to offer my apologies for my threats. I went far beyond the limits of my duties. A simple request not to smoke would have been more than enough.

He sits, picks up his pen and starts pretending to do something in an appointment book.I walk to his desk and stand there.He looks up.--Yes?--I never heard the actual words I'm sorry.His fingers tense, the stainless steel barrel of his pen flattens between them.--I'm sorry.I tap invisible ash onto his desktop and make for the doorway that leads to the stairs.--Keep your f.u.c.king apology. First time I get the chance, I'm gonna see how many bullets I can fit in that empty head of yours.He presses the buzzer that lets me pull the door open, masking whatever it is he's muttering about my mother.Like I ever gave a s.h.i.t about her.--I'm wondering, Pitt.I'm remembering what it was like when I was a kid, the handful of times I attended school, the way those days inevitably ended in the princ.i.p.al's office or a police station. The lectures. The rhetorical questions. The, What were you thinking? The, How do you expect to get anywhere doing things like that? The, Is this how you act at home? The, Do you think you're scoring any points with that att.i.tude?--I'm wondering, is there anything you care about at all?Nights like this, it's easy to remember those days.I stop picking at the knot tangling my bootlace.--I care about getting out of here as soon as possible.Predo places the pen on his desk, aligning it perfectly with the vertical edge of his blotter.--If that is your goal, you might try paying attention for a few moments.I point at the pen.--You know your receptionist did that the exact same way. What do you think that's about?--I wouldn't know.--Hunh.He watches me, the bright blue eyes in his smooth boyish face looking at me, slouched in the uncomfortable small wood chair across from him.--Any other random thoughts, Pitt?I give up on the knot and uncross my legs.--Nothing just now. Why don't we get to your thing.-- Thing. My thing. That is what I am talking about. A Van Helsing, well versed from what I hear, at large, and you evaluate it as a thing. An object or idea of no value relative to any other thing. No better. No worse. Of no greater concern than a rock or a tree, perhaps.--What is it with people and trees tonight?--Excuse me?--Nothing.He brushes the flop of dark bangs from his forehead.--Someone was talking about trees?I shrug.The corner of his mouth twitches upward.--Was Bird speaking on the subjects of forests and trees?--What's it to you?The corner of his mouth straightens.--Nothing. I have heard similar lectures in the past.I look back at the knot, give it a tug, pulling the wrong end and drawing it tighter.--Pitt?I keep my eyes down. Thinking about Terry and Predo. Hippie Terry. Head of the Society. Revolutionary who organized all the downtown riffraff and Rogues almost forty years back, got them on the same page and broke off a piece of Coalition turf to make their own. And old man Predo. G.o.d knows how old, but so well fed, so blooded up he still looks twenty-five. Coalition whip and public face of their Secretariat. The one who straightens the rank and file. Head of the enforcers. The man who counters the Society's drive to unite all the infecteds and take us public with the Coalition's doctrine to unite in utter secrecy. A couple of true believers in separate corners. Guys taking potshots at each other every chance they get.They go back.Back to a time when Terry was up here. A time when they worked the same side. A time maybe only they and a couple other people know about. Like me.A time I figure they'd kill to keep hidden.I put the thoughts away. Blink. And look up into the spymaster's eyes.--I'm Society, Predo. I was out, now I'm back in. You want to fish for what goes on behind closed doors, find another place to drop your line. I don't run your errands anymore and I don't give up skinny on my people. You want to know do I care about anything, now you know.His eyes widen.--Heaven's, Mr. Pitt, have you seen the light? Are you a believer again? Forgive my surprise. I was under the impression that you had taken over Society security because it was the only way Terry would tolerate you on their turf anymore. My apologies if I've been mistaken. I never meant to impugn your devotion to your cause.--Impugn my a.s.s and tell me what the h.e.l.l you want.--There, that is the Pitt I am most familiar with, the one I have come to know and manipulate with such ease in the past.I think about throwing my chair through the covered window behind him and pushing him after it. But it's probably safety gla.s.s and I doubt the chair would break it. And we're only on the second floor of the Coalition's Upper East Side brownstone anyway. So what the h.e.l.l good would it do? Not like the sun's shining out there or anything.--Thinking about hurting me, Pitt?I nod.--Most of the time.--Naturally. It is your nature to think ill of your betters. As to what I want, well, simple professionalism. You handle security for your Clan, I oversee somewhat larger and more complex operations of a similar nature for mine. In an era of dtente such as we now enjoy, I merely wish to keep open the lines of communication between our offices when threats emerge that might endanger the well being of all. Something like a Van Helsing, I would have hoped to receive a direct call rather than having to find out about it through sources of my own.--While we're on the subject.--Yes?--What sources of your own are spilling news about what happens below Fourteenth?--Below Houston is open territory. We have alliances just as you do.--Still dancing with the Bulls and Bears?He blanks his eyes.--Anything you want to know, Pitt, ask it directly. Attempt to winnow information from me and you will only become frustrated and waste your limited resources.--Seemed that was a direct question.He ignores it anyway.--What can you tell me about the Van Helsing?I hold up my hand, tick a finger off.--He killed the Candy Man.I tick another finger.--He did it old school.Another finger.--He tainted a load of blood.And my last point I tick off on my thumb.--And he dumped ammonia around to get rid of his scent.Leaving me showing him one finger.--And that's it.He nods, looks at a couple papers on his pin-neat desk, ignores the finger, and makes a couple notes.--Well, then. Dismembered corpse. Two dozen tainted pints. And you are on the job. Very well.He places a paper in his out-box.--Good luck finding him.I lower my finger.--That it?He glances up.--Of course. As I said, a consultation was all I wanted. I have no interest in prying into a matter that lies so close to Society turf.I get up.--Yeah, sure, because that would be out of character for you.He looks back at his papers.--Have it as you wish. My wish is simply to facilitate the secrecy the Coalition believes is in all of our best interests. I have no desire to advance the goals of the Society, but interfering in a matter like this can only lead to unwanted publicity. That said, should you require any a.s.sistance in your investigation, you have only to call.The fingers of one hand waft in the direction of the office door.--Until next time.I look at him, illuminated by the green shade lamp on his desk, surrounded by hardwood filing cabinets, the walls decorated by black-and-white photos of former holders of this office. All of it as it has been for more years than I learned to count in school. And I make for the door.--Yeah, sure, next time.--Pitt.I stop with the door half open.--Yeah?--How did things go with the Docks?I hesitate. It's a heartbeat. Less than a heartbeat. But I hesitate.--Docks?--The Brooklyn Clan that's looking for a Manhattan ally.--Sure, I know who they are, just haven't seen them myself.--Odd.--How's that?He taps a finger against his chin.--We had scheduled a meeting with them. Understanding that they were to meet with the Society first.--News to me. How'd that go?--They never arrived.--Hunh.He watches me.I shrug.--Bridge-and-tunnelers, guess they got bad manners.He lifts an eyebrow.--I suppose so.I start to go out the door, turn back again.--Hey, that thing.He looks up again. -- Thing?I point at his desk.--The thing with the pen, the way you put it there, all perfect. The way your boy downstairs does it the same exact way. I got a theory about that.--Yes?I purse my lips.--He's studying you. Marking your moves, the way you go about it.--About?--Your business.I pistol my fingers at him.--He's trying it on, Predo, seeing how the job would fit him. Yours, that is.And I'm out the door and down the stairs and through the lobby past the giant who's gonna have Predo's eyes in the back of his head from here on out, and on the street where I can breathe.I light a smoke.Did it tell him anything? That hesitation, did it spill what went down with the Docks? I don't know. But he's better at this than I am. He's better at everything than I am. It probably told him every f.u.c.king thing he wanted to know. Every G.o.dd.a.m.n thing he got me up here to find out from me.I'm getting screwed.Figure I know that much. G.o.d knows I should recognize the feeling when Predo slips it in. Sc.u.mbag's had his action in my a.s.s often enough.Manipulate, he said.Guess that's the way the polite folks are saying f.u.c.ked over these days.Like to say he's got it all wrong. Like to say he's never had my number. Never pulled it over on me. Never made me dance on his strings. But I'd be lying. And lying to yourself pays out nothing. Not that it's ever stopped me before.Terry and his d.a.m.n forest. Well, he was right about that. Way Predo snagged me at the end there, asking about the Docks, figure he's seeing the same landscape as Terry. Both of them looking across the Brooklyn Bridge at all that territory, the couple thousand infecteds that have been living in the bush out there, and how they've suddenly started crossing the bridge looking to come back into civilization.A Van Helsing?Like Predo could give a f.u.c.k.Pull my a.s.s up here, drag me across 14th Street for a consultation he knows Terry won't let me bow out of. Do that for a lone whackjob? Bulls.h.i.t.Do that to fish for what Terry's up to with Brooklyn? Yeah, figure that's how Predo plays his games. And figure Terry's got that figured just as well.Now I'm supposed to go home, turn in my report, tell him how it went down so he can take a read on Predo's hand.Both of them trying to get an idea of the other guy's cards by looking at my face.f.u.c.king job!Oh. f.u.c.k me.Two dozen pints. He said, Two dozen pints. f.u.c.ker knew what Solomon had in stock. Predo. Van Helsing. Would he do that? Send one of his enforcers down to do a job that looks like a Van Helsing? Do that to get me in his office where he can look me over? h.e.l.l yes, he would.Or.s.h.i.t.Or it could have been Terry. Could have been he had Solomon done, knowing Predo would try to play me. Terry could have done it to get me in Predo's office so he couldeWhat?f.u.c.kers!Try to think like them, try to make your thoughts slither and creep like theirs, all you get is tangled and lost. Screw it. Keep it simple.The Van Helsing is just a Van Helsing, till further notice.Predo is just an a.s.shole, till further notice.Terry is just my boss and my oldest friend and a man who I don't trust for s.h.i.t, till further notice.I can't afford to figure it any other way. I can't afford to try and play it any other way. Start playing someone else's game, you've already lost. Besides, I got more important things to worry about.I got a sick girl.--Joe.I stop kicking the can I've been chasing down the dark Central Park footpath. I look at the woman blocking my way.She's black and she's beautiful and she's built like a brick s.h.i.t house.--Sela.She toes the can with the point of her glossy black knee-high boots, the slit in her skirt falling open over a bare, muscle-rippled thigh.--Got a minute you can spare?I look at my watch.--Not really.A long red nail scratches the back of her neck just below the line of cropped, tight black curls.--Too bad.I make to go around her.--Yeah, too bad. See ya around.She nudges the can in front of me and steps into my path.--Not what I meant.I look down at the can, back up at her.--How did you mean?Her big shoulders roll under the designer leather of her tailored jacket.--I meant too bad in the sense that it doesn't matter if you've got a minute to spare or not. I need it anyway.I take her in: the new uptown threads, the salon cut, the makeup so flawlessly applied that you only know it's there because you can't see it. I think about the last time I laid eyes on her: in an Alphabet City tenement, the ripped jeans she'd had on, the Patti Smith T, the mohawk she'd sported then. I don't have to inhale to smell the money all over her, or the hand it came from. I got no interest in seeing that hand again.Christ, why didn't I bring a gun?--Sela, long time no see, you were a champ that time I needed a hand, but I could give a f.u.c.k what you want my minutes for. They're mine. Top of that, I'm up here on business. Got a transit from Predo. You want to f.u.c.k with me, that's who you'll have to deal with.Her tongue wets her lips.--Look at you. Look at you. Joe Pitt, hiding behind Dexter Predo's skirt. How's a thing like that happen? How's a man like you get that low? Lose himself that deep? Got to be a story there.I flip my Zippo open and closed a few times.--Last time I checked, I'm not the one disavowed the Society. I'm not the one came up here and pledged Coalition.--I didn't come up here for politics.I kick the can from between our feet and go around her.--Like I give a s.h.i.t.She doesn't move.--I came up for the girl.I keep walking, kicking the can.She stays where she is.--She wants to see you, Joe.I kick the can, follow it down the path.--I don't want to see her.--She knows, Joe. She knows it all.I freeze, my leg c.o.c.ked.--How's she know?Sela pulls the ends of the belt on her coat, drawing it tighter over her waist.--I told her.I kick the can and watch it sail into the darkness away from the path.--Why the f.u.c.k did you do a thing like that?She walks past me toward a limo that has pulled to the curb where the path is cut by the 65th Street Transverse.--Because she asked.I watch her back.--You could have lied.She stops at the limo, turns to me.--You don't lie to people you love, Joe. It doesn't work.She opens the door.--Now get in the f.u.c.king car so I don't have to drag you in.I get in the car.--You shouldn't be mad at Sela.--Who says I'm mad at Sela?--No one.--Right. Know why? Because I'm not mad at Sela, that's why.The girl flicks her fingertips at the jagged line of bangs on her forehead, keeping them mussed just so.--You are soooo mad at Sela. Know how I know you're mad at Sela?--No. I don't.--I know you're mad at Sela because you didn't check out her a.s.s when she went out of the room. And everyone checks out Sela's a.s.s.--Except me, I guess.--No, you too. Because your eyes kind of flicked over to check out her a.s.s, and then you remembered how mad you are at her so you didn't look. Like that was showing her or something. Which is really funny because all you did was cheat yourself out of a good look at an amazing a.s.s. I should know. I look at it all the time.She cranes her neck around and looks down her back at her own bottom.--I do all the same exercises as her. I mean, not the same weights, she's way stronger than me. Obviously. But I do all the calf raises and presses and leg curls and everything that's supposed to make your a.s.s pop, and mine just stays where it is. Flatflatflat. I want an a.s.s like Sela's. Everyone wants an a.s.s like Sela's. One way or another.She looks at me, the bangs back in her eyes.--But yeah, you maybe don't want her a.s.s. I hear you have a girlfriend or something. I mean, I don't really believe you wouldn't want Sela's a.s.s, but maybe you don't.--She's got a d.i.c.k.She frowns.--Huh?--Last I heard, Sela was pre-op. She's got a d.i.c.k.She shakes her head. -- So? What's that got to do with her a.s.s ?I put a cigarette in my mouth.--Christ if I know.She watches while I light up and take a drag and blow smoke. She watches while I do that, while I stand there and itch all over from the need to get the h.e.l.l out and do something for Evie and try not to look like I've got a care. She watches until there's a long ash hanging from the end of the cigarette and I'm looking for a tray.She smiles and points at a low table next to an Eames chair and ottoman.--Over there.I walk over, my hand cupped below the ash, and knock it into the silver tray on the table and stand there and smoke some more.She points.--Can I have one of those?I dig the pack from my pocket and shake a smoke out and toss it to her. She catches it and places it in her mouth and walks down the room until she's right in front of me.--Light?I snap the Zippo in front of her.She places the tips of her fingers on the back of my hand, guiding the flame closer to her, the unb.u.t.toned cuff of her long-sleeve blouse sliding up her forearm and revealing the lone silver bracelet torn from a pair of handcuffs locked around her right wrist.Her eyes flick from the bracelet and the few links of dangling chain to my eyes and she catches me looking at the cuff, remembering how it got there.She gives a little smile, like she's just scored a point, and she draws on the filterless Lucky, and immediately starts hacking.She doubles, choking and heaving, holding the smoke out at arm's length.I pluck it from her fingers and put it in my face as I cross to the bar and pour a gla.s.s of ice water from a crystal pitcher and bring it back to her.I hold it out and she shakes her head, tears steaming down her cheeks, huge phlegmmy hacks shuddering her little body. I push the gla.s.s against her lips and tilt it up and she's forced to open her mouth and swallow, half of it running down her chin. The coughs subside into little hiccups and she knocks my hand aside. I take the gla.s.s to the bar and set it there and watch while she wipes her running mascara with the tails of her top.I drop the cigarette in my hand into the water at the bottom of the gla.s.s and pluck the one she started on from between my lips and tally her score.--You almost