Every Last Drop jp-4

by Charlie Huston

  I light up.

  — You start cutting deals with Cure, how's that gonna sit with the rest of the Clans? I mean.

  I pick a flake of tobacco from my tongue.

  — The minute you enter into that kind of negotiation, it gives them legitimacy, yeah? Can't imagine that'd go over with anyone. Least of all the Coalition. Seems unwise. Things being as unstable as you say they are.

  He smiles.

  — I'm anything but close-minded, Joe. Tell me what you re suggesting. -Let me go, III make the arrangements. You'll get your money.

  He pushes out his lower lip.

  — Like I say, I'm not what you'd call close-minded. Always looking to see the bigger picture in life, my whole forest-and-trees thing, but this is a tough one for me to wrap my head around, man. So, just for fun, because I like a good theoretical discussion, tell me how it is I can trust you in this scenario you're spinning.

  I grin. -Fuck, Terry, who said shit about trust?

  He extends an index finger like a saber. -Touche.

  I drop my grin.

  — But you're missing a big piece of things, man. For a guy who likes the big picture, you're missing a big fucking piece of things. -Please, I love nothing more than to be educated.

  I point at the door. -Terry, what the fuck am I doing here?

  He cocks his head.

  I point at him.

  — Strange, yeah? Why, of all places, come down here? Am I that stupid? I want to die that bad?

  He temples his fingers, put the tips at his lips. -OK, yeah, I follow. Go on. -Terry, there is one reason, and one reason only for me to be here.

  I point north.

  — The Bronx sucks. There's no infrastructure for us. Hell, there's no structure at all. Its a bunch of free agents, with life spans preset to a couple months, running around trying to get all they can lay their hands on before they burn out. Its a place for dying fast. And so maybe I've always looked to have as much leeway as I could get away with, but turns out I maybe didn't know what that meant. Turns out maybe I didn't know just how much the Clans do to make life possible for a guy like me. Maybe I didn't know how good I had it.

  I rise.

  — I want back. I want back in the world. I want civilifuckingzation, man. And you want to know why I'd get the girl to shovel some serious cash your way and come back down here and be at your fucking mercy? Well that's why, man. I am tired of living with the savages. OK, so maybe it's gonna be hard to rehabilitate my reputation, but it's got to be better than what I was doing up there.

  I plant myself in the middle of the room.

  — I want to come home, man. I'm not saying it will be like it was, I know that can't work, but I want to be back downtown. Find me a corner, somewhere out of sight, just get me back down here, man. That's all. That's all.

  I let all my air out, deflate. -That's all. I just want to come home.

  Terry considers me from the floor, touches the tip of his nose. -Well, I won't deny it, Joe, I'm a sucker for a good redemption story.

  He pulls his legs in, rises easy, stands in front of me. -But I'm not a sucker.

  I look him in the eye. -I know that. -Sure you do. Well. Cards, then.

  He fans an imaginary poker hand.

  — We need the money. Negotiating with the girl would be bad for business. You can get the money. And.

  He drops the cards. -I believe you need to be down here.

  He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear.

  — I don't believe your sob story about wanting to come home, but I do believe that you want to be down here.

  He inspects my face.

  — Why is that, Joe, huh? What's down here, besides familiar ground, that you have to be so close to it? You leave a score unsettled? It that old story?

  I hold his gaze.

  — Just what I told you, Ter, just that I need to get out of the jungle. -OK, OK, that's cool. I can play it like that. Just, if it is a revenge thing, be careful about who you take a bead on. Your slack is played down here. You go up, get the money, come back, and yeah, I can figure something. We can find a corner for you. But it'll be a quiet corner, man, and you'll have to keep it that way. -All I'm asking for is a second chance.

  He gets tired all of a sudden. -Yeah, you find one of those, you tell me how I can get one for myself.

  I smile. -Yeah. I find where they keep them second chances, III share them around.

  I get rid of my smile.

  — Speaking of second chances, or second bananas I guess, cant help but notice you're making policy decisions without Lydia around.

  The tiredness that came over him a moment before stakes a claim on more of his face.

  — Well, man, III tell you, that's true, she's not here for this. Which, if you put a little, I don't know, a little thought into it, it might become clear why that is. I put some thought into it, Joe. I'm not claiming to be cerebral by nature, instinctive moves are more my style. I like to think that energy, personal energies, are a medium I have a small talent for reading. But that's maybe not the point. The point is, once you think about it, her feelings of animosity toward you aside, you cant help but notice that when you've had your back against the wall with the Society and managed to find your way to, forgive the pun, to daylight, that Lydia always seems to be in the know in a certain kind of way that suggests, I don't know what, involvement of some kind. So maybe it's an intuitive leap on my part, or maybe it's just obvious as hell, but I thought, seeing as I was coming over here to have Hurley kill you, that it would be best to leave her out of the loop this time.

  He tugs his soul patch.

  — Lydia has always operated her Lesbian, Gay and Other Gendered Alliance with a fair amount of independence within the Society. Always swung that bloc of votes to wherever she felt, I don't know, justice was best served. These days, she's, and this is her right, she's started going it alone more than in the

  past. She's, this is, this is a real strength of hers, the narrowness of vision thing, so she's really pushing for more direct action. For the Society to move more aggressively toward making the Vyrus and the infecteds public. She's talking timetables and benchmarks and action agendas for taking the final step and putting ourselves out there and seeing if people are ready to accept us. Me, I'm still trying to keep mouths fed, trying to keep us all together and on message so we can have unity before we make that push. Needless to say, there's some distance between us right now. And I admire her moral and ethical solidity, the strength of that structure of values she's built her life on, but that woman, she can be a real pain in the ass when its time to get our hands dirty.

  — She's a ball breaker. -Not how I would put it myself.

  He blows out his cheeks. -But I wouldn't argue too much over it.

  I wave a hand.

  — Yeah, Lydia, always a stickler for procedure and due course and all that crap. Woman like that, she just has a way of screwing up a good old-fashioned political assassination.

  The tiredness leaves his face, replaced by something a bit sharper and less inclined to take my shit.

  — True is true, Joe, and we've made a deal here and all that, but this is a bit of a sensitive subject. So you might want to put a sock in it. -Sure, man. Just sorry to hear the two of you aren't getting along.

  He touches his thigh, where I drove the nail into his flesh. -I'm not a fool. You know that. And I know Lydia was involved. And it hurt, Joe. In more ways than one. -I know you re not a fool, Ter. And it wasn't supposed to tickle.

  He taps the edge of the left lens of his glasses. -What happened to the eye?

  I shake my head.

  — Peeped one too many keyholes. -Well, bound to happen the way you get around. Speaking of which.

  He goes to the door to let Hurley back in.

  — While you re working on getting some money out of the girl, you might, I don't know, take a look around her operation. I hear they're having some tough times over there. Dealing with some crisis management issues. />
  — Where you hear that?

  He shrugs.

  — Just something I hear. But I'd be curious to know how she's going about things. How she's handling keeping things, I don't know, keeping things afloat. Idealistic causes always take a hit when there's not enough loaves and fishes to go around. After all, not like I'm against what she has to say. The idea of a Clan that supports all its members equally, that's not far from our charter, I'm just concerned about her larger goals. The whole idea of a cure is outstanding in theory, but it's a real disruption. That kind of thing has to be planned, coordinated, not just dropped like a bomb. What I'd really like.

  He puts his hand on the knob.

  — Is for her to know she has more of a friend down here than she maybe thinks she does. Certainly, you know, more of a friend here than she has in the Coalition. That kind of thing, Joe, she should hear that.

  He looks at me over the tops of his glasses.

  — She should hear it from someone she trusts. Someone not in any kind of official Clan hierarchy.

  I take the penultimate smoke from my pack, regretting that Terry already cut Phil loose and that I can't send him out for more.

  I light up, shake out my match, nod at Terry. -Sure, Terry, I follow. From someone she can trust.

  He looks at the slash of light that's crept to the wall. -Guess there's nothing for it but to wait. -Guess so.

  I flick the extinguished match into the piled mess on the floor.

  Now all I got to do to survive the day is listen to a few more hours of Terry's bullshit. I touch my neck.

  Maybe I should have let Hurley break it.

  I get an escort.

  — Ya ought ta do sumptin bout dat eye, Joe.

  — What do you recommend, Hurley, a contact lens?

  I point at the smoke shop on Second and St. Mark's. -Mind?

  He looks at the scratched face of his ancient wristwatch. -Naw, don' mind. Just ya be quick bout it. Terry said nae fookin' bout.

  He waits by the door, casting his eyes about for sudden moves on my part while I buy a couple packs of Luckys. Down here in civilization, they actually have the ones without filters.

  The guy slides them to me and I knock the plastic case next to the register. -And I need a lighter.

  He sticks his hand inside the case — Want one with the titties?

  His hand hovers over a Zippo with a bare-chested pinup girl enameled on the side.

  — No. And I don't want one with a Jack Daniels label either. Just give me the plain one.

  He takes one of the plain ones out, sets it next to the smokes. -Anything else? — Flints and some fuel.

  He takes a yellow plastic tab, laddered with tiny red flints, from a hanging rack of them behind the counter, reaches below the counter and sets a yellow and blue Ronsonol squirt bottle with the rest of the stuff.

  I give him some cash and fill my pockets.

  On the street Hurley steers us north. -Naw, ain't contact lenses I'm talkin1 'bout, Joe.

  I look up from the delicate work I'm doing in my hands, unscrewing the little shaft in the bottom of the lighter to slip in a flint. -Huh?

  He points at his own eye.

  — Yer eye. It's a bit what dey call conspicuous. Doesn't do fer us, ta be standin' out ina crowd.

  I drop the flint in the shaft and use my thumbnail to screw the cap back into place, reflecting on the idea of this semi-retarded Irish behemoth in the double-breasted overcoat and fedora lecturing me on the topic of standing out in a crowd.

  I flip open the nozzle on the Ronsonol bottle and send a stream of fluid into the exposed wick folded into the body of the lighter.

  — Well, I tell ya, Hurley, I had a pair of sunglasses that hid it pretty well, but they got crushed when you grabbed me and yanked me into Phils room. -Ach.

  He shakes his head.

  — I'm sorry bout dat, Joe, truly I am.

  I close the bottle, drop it back in my coat pocket and slip the lighter into its brushed-chrome sleeve.

  — Not a problem, Hurl, you've done worse by me and it's never interfered with our relationship.

  He touches the brim of his hat. -Sure an dafs true. Dat's true.

  I thumb the lighters wheel, a spark jumps and a large flame trails greasy black smoke from the new wick. I touch the flame to a cigarette and inhale the mixed flavors of smoke and burning cotton and lighter fuel. I snap the lighter shut, bounce it on my palm once, feeling the warmth of the just-extinguished flame, and drop it in my pocket to clink against my arsenal of brass and sharp steel.

  He stops as we reach the south side of Fourteenth. -Well, dis is it fer me. On yer own from here.

  I linger, looking south down Second. The marquee at Twelfth Street advertises a midnight double bill of The Killer Elite and Soylent Green.

  Date night at the old Jewish vaudeville theater.

  Hurley taps my shoulder.

  — C'mon, Joe, no time ta reminisce, yu'v got miles ta go till ya sleep n all dat. -Yeah, miles to go.

  I look at him. -By the way, Hurl, you're looking a lot better than the last time I saw you.

  He rubs his stomach.

  — Sure, an why wouldn't I be? Tell ya, only ting hurts worse den all dem bullets goin' in is pickin out da ones dint come out da udder side. -Yeah, well, sorry about that.

  Jeo Pitt 4 — Every Last Drop

  He waves a hand, shakes his head.

  — Come now, wasn't yer doin'. Ya didn't pull da trigger. An like ya say, me an you, we always bin professional wit one nother. -Yeah. Sure.

  I look north. -Know something? — What's dat?

  I look over my shoulder at him.

  — People down here who thought I was the badass, they must never have met you.

  He smiles, showing me horse teeth. -Well an1 its nice o1 you ta say so. -Ta, Hurl. -Ta yerself, Joseph.

  I start across the street. -An, Joe.

  I look back.

  Hurley covers his left eye. -Tink bout a patch. It'd suit ya, it would.

  How you know if you've successfully ditched a tail by going where you were supposed to and then where you were not supposed to, is you show up someplace where you really don't fucking belong. If they're there, your ruse has failed. The best way to avoid having your ruse busted in this fashion is to never reappear where your tail can follow you.

  Figure Hurley marching me right to the Coalition border at Fourteenth, and

  standing there watching until I cross over, effectively blows that part of my plan.

  I need a cab.

  I need to get my distinctively one-eyed face into a fucking cab right away before the Coalition spotters that roost about Fourteenth make me. Naturally, my need being desperate, there's not a fucking cab in sight.

  I start trotting, making for Union Square. I should be able to score a cab. Worst case, I can jump the L train to Eighth Avenue.

  Border of no-man s-land.

  All I need is a little shard of luck and I can cross back over the border and onto turf where no one goes, before Predos tails pick me back up.

  Unfortunately, God has no luck to spare tonight.

  So when the limo pulls to the curb in the middle of the block and the back door swings open, I don't wait for anyone to point a gun at me before I climb

  — Was I unclear about both the urgency of this assignment and the need for utter discretion? Did I in some way fail to communicate to you that your only

  option was to go directly to the Horde girl? Did I leave any room for confusion as to what the consequences would be if you failed to execute precisely as I told you?

  — No, you were actually very fucking clear about all of that. Did I do something that suggests otherwise?

  Predo makes a gesture taking in the downtown streets were leaving behind. -Does this detour not suggest otherwise?

  I lean forward from the rear-facing seat.

  — No. What it suggests to me is that I'm doing my fucking job. And, for the record, almost getting throttled in
the fucking process.

  My shaking hand spills more cigarettes into my lap than even I can smoke at once. -Fuck.

  I shove them back in the pack, breaking several. -Fuck.

  Predo observes. -Nerves, Pitt?

  I get an intact cigarette in my mouth and light it.

  — Nerves? Hell yes. You ever had Hurleys paws around your neck? — I cannot say that I have.

  I spew smoke. -Well count yourself well fucking blessed.

  He leans forward, touches a slightly depressed square of leather on the bar to my right, it eases open, revealing a gleaming and perfectly unblemished ashtray. -Perhaps you should explain.

  I blemish the ashtray.

  — Ill explain. Ill explain that Horde is as nutty as her father. Ill explain that as nutty as she is, she knows to listen to Sela. III explain that only a fucking moron would see me on their doorstep and not have some questions about my loyalties.

  He looks out the window, watches as we glide past snarled taxis and buses, the limo apparently obeying some other set of traffic and physical laws. -Did you tell them about my mole?

  — How do I do that? How do I walk in the door and expose a mole in the first hour? How do I know something like that unless I'm around for a while to

  poke? No. What I did was tell them to put me to the test.

  — And?

  — And.

  I lean back. -And Amanda Horde told me to go downtown and talk to Terry Bird.

  Night outside.

  His face is doubled by the dark glass.

  Does he know the nervous beat of my heart is telling a story different from the one my mouth is? — And?

  I rub my forehead.

  — She's looking for an alliance. She's looking for one of the Clans to acknowledge her. She's looking for legitimacy. So where's the first place she's gonna look?

  It's possible that we turn a corner, but It's impossible to say for sure from within the infinite smoothness of the car.

  Predo's hands are folded in his lap, he unfolds them, looks at his manicure. -And you saw him?

  — Yes.

  — And he let you go?

  I wave a hand at all the expensive leather and wood. -Well here I am, right? — Yes.