He pauses on a landing, waits as I negotiate around some broken glass with my bare, mangled foot.
—That there is no going back.
He starts up the next half flight.
—Traditionally, that kind of offal weeds itself from the community. Viewed as an engine of evolution, the Vyrus is a most powerful instrument for defining the fittest of the species. One can argue at length as to whether we are human any longer. Coalition precepts hold that we are. Regardless, the Vyrus insists on extreme levels of fitness, resilience, adaptability. Without those qualities, the runts die out quite rapidly. Our primary concern is not how best to steel them to this life, to aid in their adaptation, but how to make their deaths as rapid and as invisible as possible.
He stops at the top of the stairs, waiting while one of the enforcers opens the door and sweeps the area beyond with the barrel of his weapon.
I point at him.
—He making sure no sleeping pigeons are waiting to get the drop on us?
Predo waits for a nod from the enforcer and goes through the door ahead of me.
—Our intelligence on the Bronx is far from extensive. But we have heard about the Mungiki.
I step out onto the roof, a river breeze in the tops of the high trees that grow from the grounds below, a few hazy stars above.
—Mungiki are in Queens.
He stops next to one of the half-dozen TV aerials that sprout from the roof.
—We heard some were still left.
—I hear they’re all out. Whole crazy pack of them in Queens.
—Is that what the drums tell you, Pitt?
—No, that’s what being exiled up here for a year tells me.
He studies a spray-painted tag on the back of a cement urn decorating the edge of the roof.
—A year.
He looks at me.
—A year in the Bronx.
He looks me up and down.
—And, until the last few hours, very little worse for wear.
He resumes his walk, skirting a sag in the tar paper where rainwater has pooled in the shade of one of the trees, greened with scum.
—But you have always shown the resilience I was speaking of. I doubted it for some time, thought your sentimentality would get the best of you. Labeled you overly reckless. But I was wrong. Your natural ruthlessness serves you well. A particularly useful adaptation for this neighborhood, I imagine.
I think about what I learned growing up in the Bronx, who taught me the nature of ruthlessness. I wonder if Predo knows this is home turf for me. Wonder if it matters what he knows.
He looks back at me.
—No comment?
He’s right, no comment.
He shrugs, stops at the southwest corner of the building where the tops of the trees part, the sky opens up and the view carries straight to the lights and towers across the river.
—Perhaps you have some comment regarding that.
I look at the City, but I still have nothing to say.
He lays a hand on the snapped base of another of those urns.
—We do not want her killed, Pitt.
He looks at me.
—The wreckage that now floats around her would become un-moored, drift into the open. She has established herself, in her hubris, in the midst of our turf. An entire apartment building in the near center of Coalition territory. She’s housing them, providing for their needs. A welfare state. Were she to die, that flotsam would bob into our streets. We could not contain them all. A strike of any scale on the building would draw far too much attention. Our influence spreads to certain circles in the uninfected community, but not so broadly that we can conceal a paramilitary raid in the heart of the Upper East Side. No.
His hand wraps the jagged stump of cement.
—As appealing as assassination may be, it is out of the question. We must rather proceed with greatest discretion. We know her ultimate goal.
He looks upward.
—A cure.
Shaking his head.
—But we need to know by what organizing principles she will proceed. If she is pledged to secrecy, working on her own under the auspices of her father’s biotech labs and with no outside research partners, we have some amount of time and leeway in our plans. If she intends to make this a public effort, marshaling evidence that the Vyrus is some form of illness, and then launching a public-health campaign via a grandstanding news conference or similar stunt, we shall have to act posthaste.
I grunt.
He looks at me.
—Yes?
I’m still looking at the City, the Empire State Building’s spire lit up in red, white and blue.
—Nothing. I just like to make a mental note when people use words I’ve only read in books before. Posthaste.
—Well, in an effort to broaden your vocabulary, allow me to use another word: genocide.
—Yeah, I heard that one before.
—Good. Then I do not need to define it for you. You can picture it on your own. How it will proceed if she tries to launch an effort to cure the Vyrus as if it were African famine relief or a similar faddish cause for dissipated fashion models and rock stars to champion.
I step closer to the balustrade, eyes on the lights.
—Maybe we’d get our own concert.
—The best we might hope for, Pitt, would be an orchestra of our own imprisoned kind to serenade us as we filed into the showers.
—Yeah, well I’m not arguing the point.
—No. Nor would I expect you to. Occasional lapses into romanticism aside, you have always been clear on what fate waits us if we are revealed.
I give him a look.
—Wonder.
—Yes?
—What’s Bird think of all this? The Society? Rest of the Clans?
He folds his arms.
—Tensions, unsurprisingly, are high. Your former employer, Bird, still feels that our long-term best interests can only be served when we all unite and present ourselves en masse to the public eye. He does, however, allow that the moment is not yet ripe. That the girl’s efforts are destabilizing. The Hood, while still maintaining a war stance on our northern border, have taken a similar position. D.J. Grave Digga will not pursue hostilities while this matter is unresolved.
I measure my heartbeat, let five slow beats count off before I go further, knowing Predo will fish out my interest if it is not guarded.
—I’d think the idea of a cure would send Enclave over the edge.
He pulls his arms tighter around himself.
—Daniel would have had some opinion on the matter. Insane as he was, he would have had a measured response. The idea of a cure for the Vyrus might well have been a heresy to him, but Daniel would never have considered that it was an actual possibility. I expect he would have bided, as he did in most all Clan matters. But.
I count more heartbeats.
—But?
He unfolds his arms.
—But Daniel is dead. And there is a new head of Enclave. And he has declared that Enclave no longer communicate with heretics.
He looks back at the city.
—Daniel was as fanatical as the rest of them in their childish superstitions, but he was, at least, vaguely grounded in the Clans. I could make some judgments regarding how close they might be to launching their eventual crusade. Now they have sealed themselves off, we have no idea of their intentions.
He shakes his head.
—I don’t know whether to be relieved or terrified. But, they are, in any case, not at issue just now.
He turns to me.
—At issue is simply the need for information. And so, you will join her Clan. You will gather all the intelligence you can, and you will deliver it to me.
I consider.
—Fuck you.
He nods.
—Yes, of course, the prospect of doing the smartest thing, of taking the action that will best ensure your own security along with everyone else’s, does not appeal without so
me promise of remuneration. I did not expect it to. I will forgo threatening your life. That, I trust, is implicit in any offer I may ever make to you. But something more.
He points at the City.
—Manhattan. Civilization.
He trails his arm, offering.
—You are unwelcome there. So vicious and unreliable in your nature that you even went so far as to bite the hand that fed you. So far that even Bird could no longer tolerate you.
—Technically speaking, I didn’t bite him. I shoved a couple nails in him.
—So I heard.
He allows the corner of a smile.
—As much as I might like to do the same, it does not change your circumstance. He will not have you back. And you were never embraced by the Coalition. You lack the pigment for the Hood. Daniel’s fondness for you is as dead as he. Perhaps you might find a home hiding at the foot of the Island, among the other cast-aways, but that would require that you traverse all of our territories. And sooner or later you would be sniffed out. And now, well, here am I, standing in front of you, in the Bronx. So tell me, Pitt.
He allows rather more of a smile.
—Where would you scurry to next? To what hinterland? Where to be certain that I could not find you again?
He holds up a hand.
—More simple for you to erase that question. Replace it with this one, What would you do with open passage on the Island?
I watch the black waters between the Bronx and Manhattan, as Predo spins words at me.
—Go to the Horde girl. Join her. Find her intentions. Strengths. Weaknesses. Report them. This will serve all the Clans. Once done, I will secure you a Coalition visa. And ensure rapprochement of some kind with Bird.
He’s to my left, in my new blind spot, invisible. I turn so I can see him.
—How many of your people did you already put inside?
He lowers his arm.
—Five.
—How many has Sela sniffed out and killed?
He slips a hand inside his jacket and takes out the folded photo and looks at the young girl’s Amazon minder.
—Four. She’s somewhat more efficient than I suspected.
—And none got close enough to the girl to find shit.
—No.
He looks up from the photo.
—But you have a history with her. She is fond of you. And Sela trusts you.
—Let’s not get carried away.
I look back at the City, letting him slide into darkness, outside my vision.
—Once I’m back, once I do this, I won’t pledge Coalition.
—Don’t be silly, we wouldn’t have you. We will simply facilitate your return and offer securities against your life.
—You’ll tell everyone to leave me the fuck alone or you’ll have them killed.
—Yes, just so.
So many goddamn lights. A whole world on a chunk of rock in the middle of dark waters.
—I want the name of the one you still have inside.
—Why?
—So I can fucking pretend to find him on my own and hand him over to Sela for execution. That way she’ll know I’m on the up and up.
I hear a pen uncapped, smooth roll of expensive ink on stiff paper.
He offers me the photo, a name written on the back.
I take the photo, stuff it in my pocket, and look at him.
—When do we go?
He smiles, shakes his head.
—We do not go, Pitt. I go. You find your own way. After all.
He shrugs.
—It wouldn’t look at all right if someone were to see me dropping you off at Eightieth and Lexington, would it? In addition, as unified as Clan intentions may be on this matter, trust is more than usually at issue. Ms. Horde has sympathizers at all levels.
—Got spooks of her own?
—Not as such. But certainly there are individuals within the Coalition, Society and Hood who are quite willing to volunteer information to her in hopes it can help her to her ultimate goal. And more pragmatic others willing to offer similar information at a price. Thus, while Digga might be willing to allow you passage across Hood turf to the Coalition, I have chosen not to inform him of the operation. A truism of intelligence is that the more people who know about an operation, the more it is at risk. And we cannot risk Horde or Sela knowing that you and I are associated. Hood surveillance is not up to Coalition standards, naturally. I expect you’ll have little or no trouble circumventing it. Much better for the sake of verisimilitude if you worm across the river yourself and pick your way with great caution to the girl.
—There had to be a hitch in the deal somewhere.
I look down at my bloody clothes, my one remaining boot.
—Do you think verisimilitude could suffer to the extent of a couple bucks so I can find some clothes that won’t have people pointing at me and screaming for a cop?
He waves one of the enforcers over from the eastern corner of the roof.
—Petty cash.
The enforcer takes an envelope from his side jacket pocket and drops it in one of the scummy puddles.
I look at Predo.
—You rehearse that move in advance?
He shrugs.
—Actually, not. This one has initiative.
I bend and pick up the envelope.
—Charming quality, that.
He starts across the roof.
—Don’t take too long with your tailor, Pitt. I’ll want a report soonest.
I flick stinking water from the envelope.
—Yeah, get right on it. Chop, chop, and all that.
He pauses at the access door to the stairs.
—Do that. The line of those waiting to dismember you should you fail has grown rather long.
I take the money from the envelope.
—Well it was never short.
He considers.
—Yes, always a popular man.
I count the bills.
—Speaking of popularity.
He waits.
I look up from the envelope.
—That Dickens fan you have working up here, the one with the Fagin fetish. Lament?
—Yes.
I flip through the bills, making sure it’s not Monopoly money.
—I’m gonna have to kill him.
He looks at his shoes, looks up.
—Complete the assignment, Pitt. After that, how you spend your political capital is your own concern. However, killing a Coalition resource could well nullify any other aspect of our deal.
I stuff the cash in my hip pocket.
—Well, seeing as I always assume you’ll fuck me over in the end, that doesn’t really change my approach.
He nods.
—Not unwise, I will admit.
He turns. Stops.
—One thing, as long as killing has come up, I think I must renege on my earlier statement.
—What was that?
—When I said I’d forgo threatening your life. At the risk of becoming redundant, let me assure you that this is by far the most pressing issue on which I have ever employed you. And let me further assure you that if you should betray me in any way, I will kill you when we next meet. With my own hands. For the sheer pleasure of it.
He raises an eyebrow.
—Need I add that failure in this case will be deemed a betrayal? No. I think not.
And the door swings shut behind him.
I turn to the City.
It’s there. Right where I left it.
Is she? Is she where I left her? In the harbor of Enclave. Is she as I left her? With a new thirst she never asked for?
Is she alive?
Evie.
I look away from the city, the ghosts of the lights still in my eye.
I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die any minute now. Any second. I’m gonna up and die right here if I don’t get a fucking cigarette in my mouth in about one second.
I hobble down the fire escape from the roof of the Fr
eedman Home, along a weed-choked path to the street and look down McClellan at the glowing storefront of a twenty-four-hour bodega. I’m not overly concerned about going in there with one bare foot and a considerable amount of dry blood on my clothing, this is the Bronx after all, but best to minimize the visual impact I might make.
I cut over to Walton and head north. There’s a little A.M. action on One Sixty-seven around the tight cluster of stores. They’re all dark except for another bodega, but it’s the same grouping of shops and signage you see on every merchant block up here.
Send Money, Cash Checks, Income Tax, Abogado, Peliculas, Cell Phone, Discount Fashions, Unisex Salon, Long Distance Pre-Paid, Travel.
At the corner some kids hang around the subway entrance passing a blunt and a couple bagged forties. Two gypsy cabdrivers stand outside the bodega drinking café con leche.
I cross the street far down from them, my eyes scanning the tops of streetlamp posts, tree branches and the telephone and cable TV wires that cross between the big apartment blocks that line Walton.
At Marcy I spot what I’m looking for and shimmy up a lamppost and untangle the pair of sneakers that some kid has tossed up there to dangle in testament to some shit that I have never figured out as long as I have lived in this city.
I sit on the curb and stuff my feet inside, leaving the laces undone. They’re too small, but the right one fits a little better than the left. Not having a big toe is already paying off.
Farther up the street I jump and grab the bottom rung of a fire-escape ladder, pull myself up and climb two stories to the landing where someone has left their laundry out to dry overnight. I take a green Le Tigre and a pair of khakis, drop them to the sidewalk and climb down. In an alley between buildings I strip out of my bloody shirt and pants and pull on the clothes.
No, not exactly what I’d buy for myself, but they were the first things I saw that looked big enough to fit.
I ball my old clothes and stuff them deep in a garbage can. All except my jacket. I roll that into a bundle inside a few sheets of discarded newspaper and put it under my arm.
At One Seventy there’s another strip of shops. No one lingers outside the bodega here. I limp up the street and inside and the proprietor looks out from behind his Plexiglas kill-shield and his eyes just about bug.
Every Last Drop Page 6
