No Dominion

by Charlie Huston

  —OK.

  —Things ain’t always what they look like they is.

  —I know.

  —When the man give you a proposition, you take it. Right?

  —What?

  —Take the proposition.

  —What?

  He glances at the door.

  I hear them.

  I’m off the couch and down the hall. Behind me the door is kicked in. I’m past a bedroom, past the bathroom. Ahead, there’s one more door. I open it and a vacuum cleaner falls out. Footsteps are behind me. I turn around.

  Timberlands is coming down the hall followed by the two rhinos from last night. I reach for the switchblade in my pocket.

  Percy yells from the parlor.

  —Careful, he got a knife.

  Timberlands pauses as I pull the switchblade and pop it open. He puts his hand in the pocket of my own fucking jacket and pulls out my own fucking .32 and points it at me.

  —Gonna put a hole in yo ass, you doan drop it.

  I drop the knife.

  He steps to the side to make room for the rhinos. I try to fight them, but they make me stop. They drag me back down the hall and through the parlor.

  Percy is talking.

  —Take you long enough. How long a man supposed ta entertain the white boy?

  Digga is standing in the open doorway.

  —Just as long as it take, Percy.

  —They not happy with you, Pitt.

  I’m sitting in the backseat squeezed between the two rhinos. Timberlands drives. Digga sits in the front passenger seat.

  —Why’s that?

  —Could be cuz they had ta go down like that. Had ta take a rap on the back of the skull from the one-armed man. Not the kind of thing a man likes gettin’ ’round. Course, it ain’t gettin’ ’round.

  —No?

  —Shit no. What gettin’ ’round is how you fooled they asses into openin’ the door and then took ’em both. That the story gettin’ ’round. An that the real reason they not happy with you.

  —Too bad.

  —Too bad for you, they get a chance to dance on you.

  I look from one rhino to the other.

  —I like dancing.

  Digga turns himself around and looks at my face. He points at it.

  —Not done yet. Mark him up a little more.

  The rhinos toss a couple quick elbows at my face. My lips split open. A knot starts to grow over my right eye. My nose breaks for about the twentieth time in my life. It’s OK. Pain is relative. You never stop feeling it, but have enough of it inflicted on you and you get kind of accustomed to it. It’ll all heal. If they don’t kill me.

  —Enough.

  They stop.

  —See what I mean, Pitt. They just not happy with you.

  My right eye is swelling, closing up. I squint at Digga.

  —What about you, you happy with me?

  —Me? Well, I say this, you playin’ yo role.

  I spit blood onto his upholstery.

  —Still happy with me?

  Digga snaps his fingers at Timberlands.

  —Pull over.

  —Know what that is?

  —A park.

  The Hummer is pulled over on Morningside Avenue at 123rd.

  —Look like a park, don’t it?

  —Yeah.

  —But it ain’t. That a outpost. That a Coalition outpost.

  The park is overgrown and abused. Dirty snow from our last big storm is dotted with unclaimed dog crap.

  Digga points.

  —Look.

  I look. He’s pointing at the paths that climb up the park, climb up a cliff face like the one that backs Jackie Robinson. But it’s different here. At The Jack, the cliff is native stone, raw and worn from when it was first cut. Here, the heights of the park are defined by a massive barrier. Huge blocks of dark stone are masoned into a wall topped by an iron fence. Two paths cut back and forth across the park, climbing to two great staircases, one at either end of the park.

  —See what they got up there?

  Morningside Drive runs atop the wall, lined with luxury apartment buildings and a tower of Columbia student housing.

  —That was part of the treaty Luther made when we got independence. Had to leave them this turf. They settlement. They Gaza Strip. They presence up here so no one forget this was all theirs once. All those sweet blocks around Columbia, that still Coalition turf. That where it comin’ from.

  —What’s that?

  —That shit. That poison they pumpin’ into our blood. That shit you say croppin’ up downtown, too. You think that a coincidence? Some dangerous-ass new drug, only drug can get a Vampyre hooked, just happenin’ to drop on Society an’ Hood turf? That sound likely to you, Pitt? Or it sound like a conspiracy?

  I look behind us to the east, where the sun will soon be rising.

  Digga grabs my face and turns it back toward the park.

  —Don’t you be worryin’ ’bout that sun. It rise all on its own. This what you came up here for, ain’t it? This what Bird sent you to look into?

  —Nobody sent me. I’m here on my own.

  —Uh-huh. Up here investigatin’ this shit cuz you got a social conscience.

  —I care about the little people.

  —Uh-huh. A’ight. That good to know. Mean you won’t mind doing a little service for yo black bruthas and sistas. Let’s stretch our legs.

  Timberlands and the rhinos stay by the Hummer while Digga leads me to a bench.

  —Percy talk to you?

  —He said some things.

  —He one alchemical niggah.

  —If you say so.

  —Trust me on that, he is. So, you got a little picture ’bout the political climate up here?

  —Volatile.

  —Volatile. You got some words on you, son. Yeah, volatile. Right now, it more volatile than usual. That because of you. Word out you on the loose. I put that word out. While you rappin’ with Percy, I been talkin’ with Papa Doc, tellin’ him how you busted out. Now he say you a Society agent. Cross Coalition territory without no passage, come up here with an enforcer on yo ass; do all that to create friction when he be wantin’ ta make peace with our neighbors to the south. Wants to call Dexter Predo, tell him we got nothin’ to do with somethin’ nasty happened to his man. Wants to call Terry Bird, tell him we want compensation for the trouble you cause us. Whatever you up here for, Predo and Bird? Neither them muthafuckas gonna be happy with you. But don’t worry, I talk Papa down. Told him. First things first: got to find the muthafucka. Then we can worry ’bout who first in line to fuck yo ass. Now, ton tons macoute out looking for you. Ton tons macoute. Named for the secret police down in Haiti. Bad news. Man ’tween a rock an’ a hard place, he be glad he not you right now.

  He looks at the sky.

  —’Course, soon enough they gonna stop lookin’. Everybody gonna sit out the day. Start it up again come sundown. Think I can keep them from callin’ on Predo or Bird ’til then. Give you maybe enough time ta do somethin’ ’bout your situation.

  —Any ideas?

  He turns his face to the heights above us.

  —Go up there.

  I look up at the old, well maintained buildings illuminated by ornamental street lamps and security lights.

  —You go on up there where the white folk live.

  —And when I’m up there?

  —See if you can’t get taken in. Them settlers got people watch that border all the time. They spot you, probably got yo picture in a face-book. Gonna want to talk to you. I be surprised they don’t grab you up an’ get you inside before you can burn.

  —Then what?

  He faces me, lays his arm along the bench behind my shoulders.

  —Get me some fuckin’ proof they sendin’ that shit down here. Find it. Bring it out. Do that? I fix all this other shit. Get me proof and I put Papa where he belongs. And I put you on yo way back home. Don’t say boo to Predo or Bird ’bout shit.

  —Or?
/>   He takes his arm away.

  —You goin’ up that hill, Pitt. We gonna sit down here in the Hummer behind all that UV tintin’ an watch. You try to come back down, we gonna have yo ass. Once you up there, only so many things can happen. Sun gonna kill you, or maybe they gonna kill you. Nothin’ lost on my end either way. They take you in, you either gonna do my job or you ain’t. You shine it on, manage to get back home on yo own or work out some deal they send you home, we gonna know sooner or later. An’ we gonna make them calls to Predo an Bird ’bout how you makin’ troubles up here. Stir shit up, make life uncomfortable. Bird gonna want nothin’ ta do with you on his turf no more. Once you off Society land, we gonna come for you. Makin’ you a proposition, Pitt. Oughta take it.

  I take a look at Timberlands and the rhinos. They’re not far enough away for me to kill Digga before they can get to me. I think about what Percy said about propositions. Guess this is what he meant. Nice of him to give me a heads up. Sort of.

  —Being awfully generous with me, Digga. Why’s that?

  He shrugs.

  —Different reasons. Mostly, you white. Need a white boy ta go up there. Other than that, Chubby Freeze vouch for you.

  —Yeah, imagine my situation if he hadn’t.

  Digga laughs.

  —That no lie, muthafucka. That no lie.

  He stops laughing.

  —So what it gonna be?

  I look at the sky again. Getting lighter with every minute.

  —Well, like you say, I’m going up that hill. Once I’m up there, we’ll just have to see what happens.

  —That right, we will see what happen.

  He stands up and heads for the Hummer. I follow him.

  —Say. One thing.

  He has the door open.

  —What that?

  I point at Timberlands.

  —Suppose I could get my jacket back?

  Digga creases his forehead.

  —Doan ask me, it his jacket now.

  I look at Timberlands.

  He looks at me.

  —Fuck off, it my jacket now.

  —Uh-huh.

  I look at Digga.

  —How ’bout my gun and my knife?

  Digga looks at me, looks up the hill, looks at Timberlands.

  —Man should not go unstrapped.

  Timberlands shrugs. He hands me my switchblade and I slip it in my back pocket.

  —My piece?

  He takes the .32 out of my jacket’s pocket. He weighs it in his hand.

  —Gat a piece a shit anyways.

  He hands it to me. I take it from him and stick the barrel in his mouth.

  —Suppose I could have my jacket back?

  The rhinos take a step. Timberlands stays where he is, but his eyes go to Digga.

  Digga shakes his head.

  —Me, I’d give him the jacket, niggah.

  Timberlands takes off my jacket, carefully. He holds it out. I take it, remove the barrel of the .32 from his mouth and wipe it on the front of his shirt. He and the rhinos close in.

  Digga holds up his hand.

  —Uh-uh, no time now. Sun gonna be up. Man’s got walkin’ to do.

  The rhinos get in the Hummer. Timberlands walks around to the driver’s side.

  —Gonna settle with you later, muthafucka.

  —Yeah, yeah. Wait your turn.

  Digga gets in the Hummer and sits there with the door open.

  —Someone special musta give you that jacket.

  I put it on, take my Zippo from the pocket and use it to light one of Percy’s Pall Malls.

  —Yeah, pretty special.

  The asphalt path climbs through pools of lamp light. Down here, just off the street, they’re cast by ugly gray industrial lamps. Up higher, around the wall, they have the same ornamental lamps you’d find in Central Park.

  The sky is low and sickly. I walk beneath it, the wall looming closer. Plastic bags are snagged in the bare branches of the trees. They look like scraps of dead skin. The park lights go out, letting me know daylight is on the way. The hovering storm clouds will give me a little time, blocking out the worst of the sun. But I need shelter, I need it fast. I look down at the street. Digga’s Hummer cruises slowly, keeping pace with me, making sure I don’t make a break. Making sure I don’t run for God knows what.

  Figure Digga’s right about the border patrol up there. Probably spotters in that big dorm. Get someone installed up there near the top floors and they can spot for miles. And I will be in their face-book. If they’re up there, and figure they must be, they have my face. Digga’s probably right about what that means, too. Means they’ll try to snag me off the street and bring me in. Only question left for me is how to play it at the top. The paths bends again, cuts, and I’m looking up the southern staircase. Wide, the wall on one side, a view of the Hood on the other, a gate at the top.

  I climb.

  Figure I let myself get hauled in, at least I don’t have to worry about the sun. For the moment. Soon after that, I’ll probably be hearing from Predo. That’s what Digga doesn’t really know about; that damn hard-on Predo has for me. Figure that’s gonna make it pretty difficult for me to fish for any information on the shit. Difficult as in impossible. I make a break for it, I might make it to that 1 stop. And if I make it to the train, get my ass back downtown in one piece? Figure Digga’s right on that count, too: gonna be hell to pay. A Rogue at odds with both the Coalition and the Hood? Count my remaining days on one hand and you’ll have some fingers left over when you’re done. I come to a landing halfway up the staircase. I stop and look at the view. I light up.

  Yeah, this one’s a bitch alright.

  I turn around and look at the wall. It’s right in my face now. I have to crane my neck to look up to the top. Big stones with deep cracks at the joints. Yeah, I would have held on to this turf, too. If hell ever does break out between the Coalition and the Hood, this will be the turf to have. I smell something on the wind. I look up at the gate at the top of the stairs. They’re up there, two of them, waiting.

  I look back down through the park. The Hummer is still down there. I think again about the enforcer: a skin full of that shit and being eaten by frenzied dogs. I touch my left shoulder where a dog once bit me. I didn’t like it. I look back up at the guys above: silhouettes against the blank sky. I drop my smoke, grind it out under my boot, and climb.

  They’re young as hell and armed to the teeth. The ones at the top of the stairs flash me the tiny black machine pistols that dangle from their shoulders. One of them latches onto my arm and jams his weapon into my back. If he pulls the trigger the bullets will spew out and slice me in half. He pushes me away from the wall as the other one stays at the top of the steps making sure no Hoodies are following me. Once he’s sure his rear is safe, he follows us to the curb and raises his fist in the air. A black SUV pulls out from between two parked cars, zips up and stops on a dime. The back door opens and another young guy with a machine pistol grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me inside. The door slams, a bag is dropped over my head, my hands are yanked behind my back and bound with wire, and I’m finally given a proper pat-down that finds both my revolver and my switchblade. The only real pisser is that they take my smokes and my Zippo as well.

  They don’t talk. The SUV jerks around a corner, taking a left. Another quick left, and another. And one more for good measure. Then some more of the same. Jesus, they got most of the snatch right, but this is just embarrassing.

  —I can tell you’re driving in circles.

  Another left.

  —I mean, if you’re trying to disorient me, you might want to throw in a right turn every now and then.

  Another left.

  —See, like right now, we’re on the south side of that same block you grabbed me off of.

  Another left.

  —East side.

  Another left.

  —If you don’t want to change it up, you can also try giving a guy a whack over the head or something
so it’s harder for him to know his left from his right.

  WHACK!

  I shut up and let them do it their way.

  The boys are young. The woman is old.

  —What did he have?

  One of the black leather jacketed muscle boys hands her a Ziploc bag full of my stuff. She unzips it. She opens the cylinder on the revolver, ejects the shells, sees the one spent round and sniffs the barrel. She empties the smokes into a bowl and hands it to one of the boys, who grinds them up and sifts the tobacco and paper through his fingers. She pulls the inner workings of the Zippo out of the scratched chrome sleeve. She undoes the little screw at the bottom and shakes the lighter ’til the flint drops out. She uses her fingernails to pinch out the piece of cotton at the bottom and unravels the long, Ronsonol-soaked wick inside. She places the gutted lighter beside the gun. She gives my keys and the change that was in my pocket a quick glance. She pops the switchblade open and squints into the slot the blade folds into. She taps the handle against the table and hears that it’s hollow. She hands it to the boy who ruined all my smokes. He sets it on the floor and stomps on it and the plastic grips shatter. She bends and looks through the pieces. She looks at me.

  —His clothes?

  One of the boys who grabbed me shakes his head.

  She frowns.

  —Do it now.

  One of them pulls wire-cutters from his pocket and snips my hands free and they strip me to my skivvies. They run their fingers over seams and inside pockets. They tap the heels of my boots. She passes my jacket through her hands, finding flakes of tobacco in the pockets along with a couple movie ticket stubs and a poker chip I got at a bar as the marker for my second drink during a two-for-one happy hour. She flexes the chip between her thumbs and forefingers, it snaps in half.

  I scratch my balls.

  —That was good for a drink at HiFi.

  She doesn’t look up, her fingers probing at an irregularity in the collar of my jacket. She picks up the switchblade with the broken handle.

  —There’s nothing in the jacket.

  She presses the tip of the blade against the collar.

  —Ma’am, I’d really prefer if you didn’t do anything to that jacket.

  She shoves the point through the leather and jerks it to the side, tearing a small hole in the collar. She puts the knife down, works her fingers into the hole, gets a grip, and rips the collar wide open. She looks at the filleted leather. She throws the jacket on top of the rest of my clothes.