Half the Blood of Brooklyn

by Charlie Huston

  Clan Cure.

  God I hope the name is all about what she’s trying to do and not about the fucking band. I hate that band.

  Like the name matters.

  They’ll never let her get away with it.

  But.

  More money than God. Business and legal hooks deep in the straight world. Knowledge of things she has no right to. That no one has a right to. And a woman like Sela at her side. Love at her side.

  No one will be able to take them head on.

  So maybe they’ll make a run.

  Figure once word gets out what she’s planning, what she’s selling, the bill of goods, they’ll get plenty who’ll want to pledge. Young and desperate and feeble and alone, they’ll take in the dregs. And the sly and the lazy who smell a good thing in her money, and her promise to feed everyone.

  Yeah, figure they’ll make a run.

  Figure they’ll run till everyone realizes that a cure is a dream and she’s out of her skull. A run till Predo and Terry start sending in their people to infiltrate and fuck shit up.

  Figure it will end bad.

  Like there’s any other kind of ending.

  Christian takes two more beers from the case and cracks them open and hands one over.

  —A war. That’s a hell of a thing. Think we’d all be together, what with how much we have in common.

  He blows across the mouth of his bottle.

  —You think about it much, Joe?

  I tap my Zippo against my bottle.

  —What part?

  He points at a scabbed gash on the back of my hand.

  —What it is. If any of the looneys are right. Like maybe it’s not a virus at all. Maybe it’s a chemical. Something the government experimented with and lost control of. Or maybe they are in control of it, and they’re watching us all the time to see how we cope with it. Or a curse. Not like some Dracula bullshit, but a real curse from a real God. Like in the Bible. In the Bible, a curse is usually a test. So maybe it’s a test. And the ones that pass it are the ones who don’t give in to it. Like the only way to win is to let yourself die. Or the Enclave and that stuff. What if they’re right? Or is it the next step in evolution or a failed step or is it because somewhere in our past all our grandmoms took the same medication or we stood too close to an X-ray machine or all screwed the same monkey. Shit, I don’t know.

  He makes a fist, loosens it.

  —Do you ever think about what we are?

  I finish my beer.

  —Well, Christian, way I figure it, either you’re a Vampyre created by the Vyrus, or you’re a vampire created by a something else. It makes any fucking difference which it is, I haven’t noticed.

  He looks down the neck of his bottle, drains it.

  —Yeah, guess that’s so.

  He tosses the bottle into a garbage can against the wall and it shatters.

  —But still, I’d like to know someday.

  I toss my bottle after his.

  —Don’t hold your breath.

  More beer. More good music. The sun is moving across the sky out there. Things will be happening soon.

  Things are already happening.

  He points at the knife-thrower’s target.

  —Remember that?

  I look at the photocopied face of the Arab on the target.

  —Sure.

  He shakes his head.

  —That smell. When they went down. Man, that smell. Blood. Gallons. Everyone went berserk. Rogues. Clan members. Losers came out of the woodwork and swarmed down there for days. Man. Looking at the missing-person posters after, I used to wonder how many went in the towers and how many just got taken off the street. Chaos.

  —It was a mess.

  He nods.

  —But you were righteous. You and Terry. Saw right away it had to be stopped. Went down there and cracked skulls. Closed it down. All the cops and emergency services, they had come across a couple of us feeding in that rubble, first thing we would have been rounded up and thrown in camps. Man.

  He laughs.

  —Would have been all the proof they needed which side the devil was on. Would have thought we were flying the planes.

  He stops laughing.

  —But it was a mess. You came and told me you needed us down there. We rode. But, man, that was some killing we had to do, wasn’t it?

  I pick at the edge of my beer label.

  —That was some killing.

  He looks at me.

  —You can’t stay here, Joe.

  I take a drink.

  —I know.

  —Hate to have to make it that way.

  —I get it.

  —Kind of always thought you’d end up down here with us. Just didn’t think it’d be after you shot Lydia and stabbed Bird. We can stand some heat. The local odds and ends down here below Houston, they cause trouble, we can hold our own against any of them. But a real Clan? We just don’t have the soldiers for it, man.

  —Sure.

  He points the neck of his beer bottle at the guys goofing in the garage.

  —And I’m club president, man. I got a responsibility to the members. I say we’re riding into war, they ride. But there has to be a reason. Has to be some profit. You had joined up back when I offered, it might be different.

  —Sure.

  He looks at me.

  —A war, man. Bird tells you there’s a war coming, I have to take that serious. Sure, man, we like to crack skulls. We want to ride free and do what the hell we please, but there’s shit I don’t need to see again. You, Joe, trying to keep you here, at the Society’s back door, that’s gonna raise things to an instant boil. There’s a war on the way, I can’t stop it. But I have no percentage in hastening it along. Or asking it in.

  I get tired of hearing what I already know and take him off the hook.

  —I’m not asking you for anything. Sun goes down, I’m gone.

  He lets some air out.

  —We’ll give you some wheels. Something to wear doesn’t smell like shit. That’s about all we got to spare.

  —I’ll take them.

  I stand up.

  —Mind if I use the phone?

  —All yours. You remember how?

  —Yeah.

  I limp over to the old pay phone mounted on the wall next to a collage of Hustler pinups. I take the handset from the cradle and hit the side of the phone a couple times until I get a dial tone.

  I punch in some numbers.

  Tenderhooks takes the tarp off a well-used ’75 850cc black Norton Commando.

  —Gonna beat your kidneys to hell.

  I feel the broken ribs in my back.

  —Great.

  We get some gas in the tank and dribble a little in the carb and Tenderhooks kicks it a few times and it coughs black smoke and shudders awake. He revs it up, twisting the gas with the chrome pincers at the end of his prosthetic arm, and it settles into a nice, even idle and he lets it run for a minute and kills it.

  He wipes some dust from the tank.

  —She’ll do ya.

  —Thanks.

  I finish my last beer and tuck the empty bottle in the inside pocket of my leather jacket. Even after a good sponging and a spray with Lysol it’s rank and stained. But Evie gave it to me, I won’t leave it behind.

  The only guy big enough to give me some pants is nicknamed Tiny. So it’s a given I have to cinch the belt tight around my waist to keep the jeans from falling down. I opted for one of Tenderhooks’s sweaty thermals. It’s snug and smells almost as bad as the jacket. But someone had some old combat boots my size. So there’s that.

  Christian comes back with the piece of rubber hose I asked for.

  —You don’t want a full can? We can stick it in the saddlebags.

  I stuff the tube into one of the jacket pockets.

  —This is fine.

  —Got a couple pieces in the armory, you want one.

  —Keep ’em.

  Tenderhooks hauls on a chain and it rattles throu
gh a pulley and the door rolls up.

  I push the bike out to the street and lean it on its stand.

  Christian hands me a pair of goggles.

  —Hey, man, the Van Helsing. You ever figure that?

  I swing a leg over the seat.

  —Yeah. That was a bunch of crazy Hebrews out in Brooklyn.

  —Brooklyn? No shit?

  —Yeah. Way I clock it, Solomon was selling them blood that wasn’t kosher. They found out.

  —Serious?

  —Yeah.

  —What was with all the chopping?

  —They like to cut people into twelve pieces. It’s a thing they do.

  He shakes his head.

  —Some fucking people, man.

  —Yeah.

  I kick the bike and trip it into gear and ride.

  I ride Pike to Division and veer south into Chinatown. Wall turf. Not that there’s much left of the Wall. At Confucius Place

  I cut down to Pearl, and from there under the Brooklyn Bridge to Water and Slip.

  The limo is there.

  I pull up behind it and wait for a hail of bullets. It doesn’t come. I let the bike idle and climb off and put it up and limp over to the car and a tinted rear window zips down and Dexter Predo looks at me.

  —You look worse for wear, Pitt.

  —You look like a rat-faced shit fucker.

  He nods.

  —Well, now that we’ve exchanged secret passwords to assure each other of our real identities, we can converse freely.

  He gets out of the car and the driver’s door opens and his giant squeezes out.

  I light one of the Marlboros Christian gave me and blow smoke in his direction.

  —Fuck you.

  He flexes the muscles in his nostrils.

  Predo points down Slip toward Front.

  —Shall we?

  —You gonna take my arm?

  He rakes his fingers across his forehead, brushing aside the sweep of his bangs.

  —It’s a busy evening, Pitt. One that promises no end of complications. Most, I have already gleaned, having to do with you. Well, that comes as no shock. But I am pressed. You offered information. Very well. I am intrigued. We can proceed, or Deveroix here can thrash you for bringing me out under false pretenses, and I will depart.

  I look at the giant.

  I look back at Predo.

  —Yeah, sure, let’s talk. I’ve been beat on enough.

  He raises an eyebrow.

  —Well, you were bound to reach your limit sooner or later.

  So we walk.

  And I spill.

  I give him the whole thing.

  The Docks. The Freaks. The Chosen and the lost Tribe of Gibeah. Shooting Lydia. Daniel in the sun. My death sentence. Sela and her machine gun. Stabbing Terry.

  I give him everything but Amanda and her plans.

  And Evie. I don’t give him Evie.

  And when I’m done he looks up at the underside of the bridge.

  —A compelling tale. One I can’t help but feel has gaps. Sizable gaps.

  He looks at me.

  —Still, value given.

  He nods and I follow him back to the car where he waves at Deveroix, who touches a button on his key chain and the trunk eases open, and Predo reaches inside and takes out a small leather case and flicks the clasps and shows me the contents.

  —As agreed.

  Several tight bundles of cash. Several pints of blood. And a loaded .38 Detective Special. All of it nestled in smoking dry ice.

  —Value paid for value given, yes, Pitt?

  I take the case.

  —Yeah.

  He closes the trunk lid and waves Deveroix down and the giant crams himself back into the car.

  I take the revolver and tuck it in my belt and put the case in one of the saddlebags.

  Predo comes over.

  —And now?

  —None of your fucking business.

  He pinches his lower lip.

  —But it could be.

  I wait.

  He cocks his head at the limo.

  —Deveroix. I think you were right about him. And his ambitions.

  —And?

  —He’ll have to be replaced.

  I get on the bike.

  —I just quit a job.

  —I know. It amused me to ask more than anything. And to imagine the look on Bird’s face if you had been smart enough to accept.

  He turns and walks toward his long black car.

  —But you’re not smart enough, Pitt. And that’s almost a pity.

  —Predo.

  He stops with the door open.

  —Yes?

  —Just wondering, when I came to see you and you let it slip that you knew exactly how many pints the Candy Man had in stock, was that on purpose? To test how smart I am?

  He’s perfectly still, nothing moves, not an eyelash.

  I move my mouth.

  —Or was that a mistake? ’Cause you’d rather no one know you were supplying him?

  He blinks.

  I don’t.

  —Where do you get all that blood, man? Where do you guys get all that fucking blood?

  He touches the knot of his tie.

  —Don’t overreach, Pitt.

  He slides into the car.

  —Good night.

  The door closes and the engine starts and the lights come on.

  I rumble the bike up alongside the driver’s window and knock on it.

  The giant tightens his lips and rolls it down.

  I shake my head.—Deveroix? You made that up, right? Come on, you can tell me. I mean, Joe’s not my real name.

  He squints.

  —You’re on the outside now, pissant.

  He makes two fists and places them end to end and twists them apart like he’s ripping something in half.

  —Watch your back.

  —Yeah, yeah.

  I pull the revolver and empty it in the giant’s face.

  I look at the shadow in the backseat.

  —That was a freebie.

  I toss the gun in the limo and ride up Slip to Pearl and north.

  A guy like that, it doesn’t pay to have him around when you’re out in the cold. Besides, not like I didn’t tell him I was gonna do it.

  A couple miles away I park the bike and unscrew the cap from the gas tank and slip the hose inside and suck on the other end until the gas flows. I fill the empty beer bottle and raise the end of the hose and the rest of the gas runs back into the tank. I toss the hose aside and screw the cap into place and walk over to a dumpster and find a rag and stuff one end into the neck of the bottle.

  Back on the bike, I ride around the corner and stop in the middle of the block and straddle it. I look up and measure the distance as I remember it and light the rag and heave the Molotov in a high arc up over the Enclave warehouse, and above the sound of the Commando, I hear shattering glass.

  Fire.

  It will do little.

  But I want him to know.

  That I’m alive. That’s it’s not over.

  And that I’ll be coming back for her.

  Thirty minutes later I’m crossing the Broadway Bridge at the northern tip of Manhattan. Onto original turf. Unhallowed ground. Home.

  The Island is done with me. Closed its doors and cast me out.

  That’s just fine. I wasn’t born there. Only made.

  And soon enough the city will be burning.

  And I’ll be going into the flames.

  To get my girl.

  Dreaming of fire and love and an enemy’s blood, I ride into the Bronx.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHARLIE HUSTON is the author of The Shotgun Rule; the Henry Thompson trilogy, which includes the Edgar Award–nominated Six Bad Things; and The Joe Pitt casebooks. He is also the writer of the recently relaunched Moon Knight comic book. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife, the actress Virginia Louise Smith. Visit him at www.pulpnoir.com.

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  Charlie Huston, Half the Blood of Brooklyn