Half the Blood of Brooklyn

by Charlie Huston

  He looks my way.

  —Least that’s how it was. Till the Docks up and went to Manhattan and ain’t come back not a one.

  I drive, half listening with my half ear, thinking, figuring, looking for an angle that will send me home before I do something stupid. Stupider than usual.

  He talks.

  —Not that I give a damn. Bastards always had their fingers in one too many pies far as I’m concerned. And they got damn grabby with the ladies when they came around to see the show. A little touching ya got to expect, but Docks boys tended to ride their flippers a bit high up the thigh for my liking.

  Vendetta folds her arms on the dash and rests her chin on them.

  —Docks stink. All of them. Of tar. Think because a girl’s in show business she’s naturally a whore. Had to take the burlesque out of the act when we went out there. Would have raped me and Harm to death they’d seen that.

  She puts her forehead down.

  Stretch touches the back of her head.

  —We’ll get her back, darlin’.

  Her voice is muted by her arms.

  —What they gonna do with her?

  Stretch clacks his teeth.

  —Gonna do nothin’ to her. Lay a hand on her, gonna find it’s a stump when I come through their turf.

  I touch the smoke tucked behind my whole ear. My last smoke.

  He shifts his ass and adjusts the pieces of 2×4 he dug out of the back of the van and put on the seat to use as a booster.

  —Turf. They started that shit out here. First thing was, they sealed themselves up. Few years back, five or six, you wanted to get from Sheepshead Bay to Sunset Park, suddenly you had to circle through Dyker Heights. Then they started pushing out, clearing blocks for just themselves. Not a matter of talkin’ to the right fella to pass, just no damn passage at all. Try to go straight across Bensonhurst like you used to, a freakin’ boat comes cruising up and a bunch of guys with beards and fedoras come piling out, beat the crap out of you, toss you outside their turf. If you’re lucky. You’re not lucky, you never see the outside of Gravesend again.

  I’ve got my fingers on that smoke, I start to tug it from behind my ear, stop, look at him.

  —A boat?

  He spreads his arms.

  —Car. Bigass Caddies and Lincolns an’ suchlike. You know, Jew Canoes.

  I put the cigarette in my mouth and put it to work and I get a little less stupid, for the moment.

  They don’t go out on Friday nights. Chaim. Shiva. Trying to save the bodies of their friends from the fire. The lingo they were talking.

  —Jesus, they’re Jews.

  He scratches his chest.

  —Well, that’s one way of putting it.

  —Thing I can’t figure out, how a man comes all the way out here and doesn’t bring an extra pack of smokes.

  —I was planning on going straight back over the bridge.

  —Sure you don’t have a spare hiding somewhere?

  —I had a spare it’d be sticking out of my face right now.

  Vendetta points out the windshield.

  —There. There.

  We come forward from the back of the van, me crawling, Stretch walking.

  I try to see something, but we’re on the far side of McDonald Avenue

  with all of Friends Field between us and Washington Cemetery.

  —What?

  She jabs her finger at the playground on the edge of the Field.

  —In there. Someone was walking around in there.

  —What about in the cemetery?

  She points again.

  —No, just there in the park. I can’t see shit in the cemetery.

  I edge back and sit on the floor.

  —This is bullshit.

  Stretch comes back.

  —Tellin’ you, they got to bury their dead within twenty-four hours. It’s like a rule they have.

  Vendetta turns.

  —Like not working on the Sabbath.

  He kicks one of the pieces of wood littering the van.

  —That was pure bullshit that was. Ain’t no confusion about that. Everyone knows they don’t do nothin’ from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday. Don’t work, don’t drive, don’t answer the phone, don’t turn on a fuckin’ light. Only way anyone gets around anymore in Brooklyn is Friday night. Only time safe to go out and do some foraging. We couldn’t do the act at all anymore they didn’t lie low Friday night.

  I pick up one of the wood scraps and pop my switchblade and start whittling.

  —Based on the way they fucked your shit up, I’d say that rule’s become pretty fucking optional.

  He sticks a thumb in his own chest.

  —All I know is, they have to bury their dead, and they got to do it in one of their own cemeteries, and this is the cemetery they use.

  Long shavings of wood curl from the stick I’m working on.

  —And what if they do it tomorrow night?

  He hooks his thumbs in the straps of his overalls.

  —They won’t.

  —We know that because?

  —Because they won’t.

  He looks at the stick I’m honing.

  —Is that a stake you’re making?

  I run my blade along it.

  —Yeah.

  He lets his arms hang at his sides.

  —That like supposed to be humorous or something?

  I hold the safe end of the stake to my eye and sight down it.

  —Not to me.

  —Why you making it, then?

  I test the point with my thumb.

  —Because I may need to kill more people than I have shells for if your shitty plan gets us that far.

  He grunts and turns and goes back front with Vendetta.

  —Telling you, this is the place.

  I flick the blade across the tip of the stake, wondering if this is the worst play I’ve ever made. The competition is stiff. Sitting, waiting to get lucky. Lucky enough to throw down on guys that favor bows and arrows and fuck knows what else. Hoping to get lucky that they have Lydia with them or know where she is. Lucky enough to cruise over their turf to wherever she may be and get her out. Because I owe her.

  But I owe Evie more. For what, I don’t know. But there it is.

  I owe her.

  I stop carving. I fold the knife away and tuck it in my boot. I feel in my coat pocket for the keys. Finally getting smart.

  —Fuck this.

  I come forward, drop the stake on the dash and get behind the wheel.

  Stretch puts out a hand.

  —Whoa, whoa. We drive in there, someone’s gonna see us. We gotta wait till they come and start the service. They start chantin’ and rockin’ back and forth and sayin’ kaddish, we can get the jump on them, take a couple hostages.

  I turn in the seat.

  —We aren’t going in there. We’re getting the hell to Manhattan. Way to handle this is, we let Terry Bird handle it. He’s a fucking politician. Lydia’s with them, he’ll get her out.

  Vendetta rises a little.

  —Papa.

  He touches her.

  —Don’t worry, pumpkin.

  I start the van.

  —You guys, you can hop out and get killed here or you can ride with me as originally planned.

  Vendetta takes his hand.

  —Get her back, Papa, we got to get Harm back.

  I put the van in gear.

  —Bird’ll do what he can. He loves that stuff. Helping out. He can get Lydia back, he can get your chick back.

  Stretch puts a hand on my arm.

  —You’re not thinkin’ straight. Harm is with them. I’m getting my girl back. Your woman? Who knows she’s even alive?

  I look at his hand. —You know she’s alive.

  He moves the hand.

  —Well, yeah.

  I put my hand on the hogleg.

  —You said you saw her alive.

  He wipes his mouth, smiles.

  —Well, it was awful chaotic
with the blood and the fire and the killin’ and all that was goin’ on. Could be I confused things a bit.

  Vendetta jumps and flops her body across my lap and hits my gun hand and the hogleg falls into the step well and she starts flailing her hands and flicking the headlights on and off and slapping the horn. I put my left elbow in the back of her neck and reach for the stake on the dash and Stretch’s teeth go into my right thigh. I kick and grab his head with both hands and wrench it to the side and he comes off with a mouthful of my leg, spitting it and hissing and vomiting from the taste of the Vyrus and I throw him in the back of the van as headlights shoot through the windshield and something huge and heavy barrels into us and the door next to me crumples and Vendetta is tossed from my lap across the cab into the other door. I reach down into the step well and Stretch slams into the back of my seat and crawls over the top of it and drops on my bent back. People are piling out of the big cars that have us boxed at the curb. I stand and the hole in my leg is jammed into the steering wheel and I pound Stretch into the roof and reach and my fingers find the stake on the dash and I shove it into the meat between Vendetta’s shoulder and neck as she flies back across the cab at me. Her velocity carries her into me and I fall back into the crushed door and Stretch is slashed on the shards of glass that are all that’s left of the driver’s side window. I still have hold of the stake and I twist it and wrench it down and Vendetta’s collarbone snaps and the ends tear through her skin as I pull the stake out and her blood sprays the windshield red, the headlights glowing through it.

  Then they’re in the van. In through the rear. In through the passenger door. Pulling Stretch out the window behind me and dragging the ruined door open. Piling on top of me, cutting, pulling, hammering.

  Then leather straps go around my arms, keeping me from punching; and around my legs, keeping me from kicking; more around my head and between my teeth, keeping me from biting.

  One of them runs at me, screaming, waving a small axe.

  —Chaim! Chaim!

  Others grab him and take him to the ground, all of them losing their fedoras in the struggle, but not the yarmulkes pinned to the tops of their heads.

  Stretch pulls free and runs to where Vendetta is sprawled on the curb trying to push her bones back inside her skin.

  —I got you, pumpkin.

  A tall one gets up, dusts his fedora, returns it to his head, straightens his vest and the long threads that dangle from beneath it.

  —Someone get him away from the girl.

  Stretch cradles bleeding Vendetta, my flesh still on his lips.

  —To hell with you, Axler. Your cousin is bleeding-out here and you fuck with her father. Now take me to your dad. I want my other daughter back.

  I miss the rest of the reunion when the lid of a car trunk slams shut on me.

  —Kill them.

  —We will, Selig.

  —Kill them now.

  —Your brother, Selig, think of your brother.

  —I am. What else is there to think of? Kill them.

  The tall skinny one puts his hands on the little fat one’s shoulders.

  —Selig, to talk about killing them here, now, it doesn’t do. It won’t do Chaim any good.

  Selig pulls free and turns, his arms spread wide between the tombstones.

  —I don’t know, I don’t know what is best for my brother? To have his murder avenged is best. To have his whole body would be best. Not to have parts of him scattered and burned would be best. To have a proper burial would be best. To say the prayers and take the time would be best. None of this is right, Axler. None of it. I didn’t want it. Chaim wanted it. I only came for him. To protect him. Too late. So what if we kill them now? Here? So what? Nothing else is right. Nothing is right in the world.

  Axler walks to him and grabs the lapels of his long black coat and shakes him.

  —Shut up. Coward. Shut up. Your brother is a hero. A warrior. You are a coward. Shut up. Stop saying his name. You want them dead? You should have been with your brother when he was the first in the tent. You could have killed them then. After, only after it was over, did you become brave. Coward. Help bury your brother and leave vengeance to men.

  He pushes the little one and he stumbles back and falls over a low headstone, scattering the rocks piled on top of it.

  He gets up on his hands and knees and crawls around, crying, gathering the rocks while the others dig the grave for his brother and mutter hurried prayers.

  He places the rocks back on the headstone, one by one, eyes turned from the blood-soaked shroud that wraps his brother’s corpse.

  —It was wrong, Chaim. A sin. All of it. On the Sabbath. Working. Making a plan. Driving. On the Sabbath. Small sins leading to greater. Killing on the Sabbath. Killing in the name of God on the Sabbath. I told you you’d be punished, brother.

  Axler turns from his digging and spears the point of his shovel in the ground.

  —Shut up. There were no sins. This was not work. This was service to God. We didn’t even drive ourselves. And we didn’t use guns. Guns are machines, yes. A bow and arrow is not. An axe is not.

  Selig clenches his fist around a rock.

  —It’s a tool. A knife, an axe, a bow. They are tools.

  Axler picks up the shovel.

  —This is a tool. Should I wait to bury your brother if it means I must dig? If we sinned, God will let us know.

  They lower the dead body into the grave. They put his long knife and his bow and his little axe in with him. And they put their shovels aside and begin to pray.

  Selig joins them.

  They pray a long time.

  Then they turn to the Strongman and start working to pull their other friend free of the arrows that pierce them both.

  That takes much longer.

  Deep inside Washington Cemetery, they’ve left us bound at the edge of one of the roads that wanders back and forth between the fenced burial plots. Off blessed earth. Or whatever the fuck they call it.

  Now, all the stiffs six feet under and on their way to wherever, they come for us.

  Axler and Selig, a half dozen others in black coats and wide-brimmed hats. Some limping or cradling limbs that took shells from Lydia’s gun. A couple others waiting in the cars, the headlights dark.

  Time for Selig to get his wish.

  Axler bends and rips the leather strap that winds over Stretch’s face.

  Stretch snaps his bare gums.

  Axler reaches into a pocket and pulls out the steel dentures.

  —Looking for something, old man?

  —Fuck you, punk.

  Axler puts the teeth back.

  —You, old man, you should have known better than to keep what’s ours from us.

  —They ain’t yours.

  —They are. And they know it. That’s why she came back.

  —Vendetta doesn’t want to be here. She wants her sister and her own life.

  —She wants her home and family, her own kind. That’s why she betrayed you and signaled for us.

  Stretch tries to spit, can’t without his teeth and it dribbles on his chin.

  —Fuck, we signaled you. We came to you. We came for Harm.

  Axler reaches inside his vest and brings out a long sheathed knife.

  —Don’t lie now, old man, of all times.

  —We signaled you for a swap. For Harm.

  Axler draws the blade from its sheath.

  —You have nothing to trade. And we don’t deal in flesh.

  Stretch’s eyes shoot at me.

  —I have him.

  Axler sets the sheath aside and lays the long blade at Stretch’s throat.

  —No, we have him. And he’ll die just like you. Easier, actually. He’ll simply die for having killed Chaim. You, we’ll divide you together with your bones in twelve pieces, and we’ll send you into all the neighborhoods of Brooklyn. So they’ll know we’re coming.

  —Asshole, he’s not from Brooklyn.

  Axler’s fingers shift on the h
andle of the knife.

  He looks at me.

  He looks back at Stretch and presses the knife into his skin and draws blood.

  —Where?

  —Kid, what do you think you can cut on me that will make me tell you shit if I don’t want to?

  Selig steps up.

  —We have to kill them, Axler. Now.

  —Shut up.

  Stretch bares his neck further.

  —Yeah, kill us. Kill me, the one guy who can tell you who he is and where he’s from and what he wants. Then kill him, the guy from Manhattan. And see what kind of hell comes down. Your papa will be so proud. ’Course he’s gonna be pretty pissed as it is if I know the man at all. But I might be able to put a spin on the deal that’ll make things shine a bit brighter for you.

  Selig touches Axler’s shoulder.

  —Don’t listen to him, we have to do it now. And we can’t lie about it. We have to accept the punishment we have earned. We’ve sinned, Axler.

  Axler pulls the knife back.

  —Put them in the cars.

  —Axler!

  He sticks the long knife in Selig’s throat just below the chin and pushes and the point rips out the back of his neck at the base of the skull and he holds him in the air while his legs dance for a moment and then he drops him from the blade to the ground.

  A couple of the others take a step back. None step up.

  He wipes the knife.

  —And we must dig another grave. For Selig, who died bravely with his brother Chaim.

  And they do as he says.

  But his mom is pissed.

  —Axler, Axler, what did you do to the car?

  —It’s nothing, it’s some Bondo.

  —Look at it, it’s a cavern. It’s a crevasse. That dent, it’s an abyss in the fender. You can’t fill that with Bondo.

  —You pull it out, you put some Bondo in there, you sand it and you primer it and paint it and it’s as good as new.

  —What are you talking about, new? It’s not like new. It’s ruined. Look at it, look at it. How did this happen?