—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. God 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 ass and tell me what the hell 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 glass 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 hell 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 détente 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 assistance 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 fucking thing he wanted to know. Every goddamn thing he got me up here to find out from me.
I’m getting screwed.
Figure I know that much. God knows
I should recognize the feeling when Predo slips it in. Scumbag’s had his action in my ass often enough.
Manipulate, he said.
Guess that’s the way the polite folks are saying fucked 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 damn 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 fuck.
Pull my ass 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? Bullshit.
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.
Fucking job!
Oh. Fuck me.
Two dozen pints. He said, Two dozen pints. Fucker 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? Hell yes, he would.
Or.
Shit.
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 could…
What?
Fuckers!
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 asshole, till further notice.
Terry is just my boss and my oldest friend and a man who I don’t trust for shit, 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 shit 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 fuck 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 fuck 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 shit.
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 cocked.
—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 fuck 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 fucking 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 ass when she went out of the room. And everyone checks out Sela’s ass.
—Except me, I guess.
—No, you too. Because your eyes kind of flicked over to check out her ass, 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 ass. 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 ass pop, and mine just stays where it is. Flatflatflat. I want an ass like Sela’s. Everyone wants an ass 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 ass. I hear you have a girlfriend or something. I mean, I don’t really believe you wouldn’t want Sela’s ass, but maybe you don’t.
—She’s got a dick.
She frowns.
—Huh?
—Last I heard, Sela was pre-op. She’s got a dick.
She shakes her head. —So? What’s that got to do with her ass?
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 hell 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 unbuttoned 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 glass 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 glass 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 glass 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 glass and pluck the one she started on from between my lips and tally her score.
—You almost had it down, you know.
She looks up at me, the makeup smeared from her face, the teenager beneath it revealed.
—Had what down?
Half the Blood of Brooklyn Page 4
