Digga closes his eyes.
—Don’t call me that shit.
—Uh-huh, heavy lies the crown. You wanted it, it yours now. I doubted, all these years, but you the man. Luther X left him no heir, but you the man now. Hail an well damn met.
Digga rubs his eyes.
—Shit.
Percy shakes his head.
—Got to run now. Got last things to say. Lissen close.
Digga opens his eyes.
Percy starts to whisper.
—Kill all yo enemies now. An Predo gonna call soon. Lookin’ for to bargain an armistice. Promise you stay in your place an he won’t cross One Ten. Send gallons of blood. An mean it too. Then he gonna march below Fourteenth. An when he got it sorted there, come back up here for yo head. That what.
Digga nods.
—What’s my play?
—You play is you take what he offers. Bargain it some, but take.
Digga shakes his head.
Percy looks at me.
—Pitt.
I nod.
—Take the deal.
Percy nods.
—Uh-huh.
I stop nodding.
—And when Predo turns south you shoot him in the back.
—Uh-huh, that the way.
He looks back at Digga.
—Be a hard-hittin’ brutha. Don’t take no shit. But cogitate before you act.
—Yes, sir.
Percy’s pupils expand like smoke, like the black is leaking into the rest of his eyes.
He turns them on me.
—An look to the young people an they’s baby.
I step a little closer.
—Where are they?
He manages to move his head, jerking his chin south.
—Seems they was disillusioned some by what they found up here. Said they needed a proper community for they’s child if it was to blossom. Talkin’ ‘bout the lady down south. One with all them big ideas ‘bout a cure an integration between infected an uninfected an all that. Seemed to think that was the right place for them an they’s unbounded love.
Digga squeezes Percy’s finger.
—They important, Perce, somethin’ I should do? Anything to what they think about that baby?
Percy manages to lift his head a little.
—Important? They’s kids damnit. Got they heads up they asses maybe, they just a couple of children young an in love. Got to be room for that. Ain’t no thing hard to think ‘bout.
Eyes on me again.
—Hey there, Joe Pitt. Got to be room left for love in all this, right? Mean, got to be room we go out on a limb, help just because. World where we been drinkin’ the blood of children raised in the dark. Got to be room to make somethin’ better. Shit. Help the young people is all. An for they’s baby, it more than likely just a baby. Shouldn’t need more reason than that.
His head drops back.
—An leave me the hell alone. Still Enclave. Gonna die proper from no blood. Die proper. Cut me a few times, let me go, cut me and let me go.
Digga doesn’t have a knife. I hand him mine. The Vyrus is almost dead in the old man, bled out too fast to find that place where he’d frenzy, past healing. The fresh cuts open and close like mouths for a moment, then hang gaping, the last little blood seeping out. Digga climbs from the van, closes the doors, hands me the blade, and walks away some. I stand there, listening as Percy thrashes inside, no screams, just dying as quiet as he has it in him to die.
The young lady with all the big ideas.
It’s not like I didn’t see it coming. But still.
Set to look for one runaway, I find myself staring down a path that beats its way to another. The original lost girl. One of the top names on the list of people I’d hoped being underground would keep me away from.
Not that she’s ever done me wrong. Just that she radiates danger with a half-life of forever.
Just that she has no fear. Smarter than everyone else put together, but still not sure that I wasn’t the one who killed her mom.
I did.
For all the right reasons.
Man, this time out, the crazy barrel is getting emptied entirely. Right on my head.
Digga’s rhinos pack the van with stiffs. Not the type to be particular about a man’s remains, he leaves Percy where he lies and lets the other dead be piled on top of him.
There is a curious absence of sirens after all the shooting.
I mention it.
Digga gives his take.
—Probably not a good thing. Says to me the cops got a sense there be shit they should best keep clear of. Says they started to map the places that kind of shit goes down of late. Like, back in the day, cops did not roll on any shit in Harlem, yeah? What it was, a death wagon came ‘round in the morning, picked the stiffs off the street. Then the cops come and try to sort shit out. Or not. An every now an again, they draw some circles on a map, ‘round those areas they knew shit was most fucked up, an they roll with the paddy wagons an the tear gas an the billys an they crack skulls and drag niggahs out. Like to remind everyone which the muthafuckas in charge of this shit. An such.
Jenks and two other rhinos are what’s left of the crew that came up the park. And Jenks looks worse than ever. They close the back doors of the van, and Digga waves them off.
—Drive it up to the Jack. Put ‘em in a lye bath.
Jenks croaks, gets in the van with one of the rhinos and they drive off.
Digga checks me out.
—Coulda thanked the man for savin’ your life, muthafucka.
I’m rolling a smoke.
—He never thanked me for sparing his.
Digga nods.
—True dat.
We start down the path.
I light up.
—Cops aren’t gonna sit pat much longer.
—No. No, they ain’t.
—City feels all wrong.
—Yes, yes it do.
We reach the spot where we shot it out. I couldn’t find bullets that fit my gun, so I took one off a dead enforcer. Lean gun, sleek, like a fashion accessory. It fits at the base of my spine, but the weight is wrong, lighter than I like.
I kick some pebbles through a puddle of blood.
—It’s gonna be a mess.
His hands are deep in the pockets of his coat. He shrugs without pulling them free.
—I try an be philosophical about this shit. Got people depending on my ass to make the right calls, but they’s only so much a man can do in this climate of mental instability. I got to try an keep the Hood together, fight for the betterment of my bruthas and sistahs, but, same time, can’t afford to live no fantasy about how fucked up shit is.
He nods to himself.
—People gonna die. My people. Lots. Trick from my end is to see more of someone else’s people die first. Be sure we can claim what’s ours when the smoke clears. If it go that far. Which I ain’t sure ‘bout as yet. Possibility people could all have a sudden attack of gettin’ they’s shit together. Never know.
—Don’t count on it.
—Oh I don’t, I don’t.
We’re at the bottom.
He looks up at the top.
—Got to do the old man’s biddings now. Kill on some folks.
He looks at me.
—Don’t suppose?
I’m dropping a butt in the gutter, rolling another.
—Got lost people to find.
—Uh-huh. Young lovers and a baby.
He brings his hands out of his pockets and waves them about a little.
—You find that hole. You light the match, put it to the fuse and set that flame headin’ to the powder. Then while we all run around tryin’ ta stomp the damn thing out, you just go ‘bout your fuckin’ bizniz.
I set a match to a fresh smoke.
—That’s how I had it figured. Why?
I drop the match.
—It not working for you?
He lowers his hands.
—Pitt, te
ll you a true thing, you drew down on Lament, for whatever the fuck reason, an that played out right. Maybe kept me from havin’ a neck stretch. But still an all, muthafucka, if Percy didn’t say he wanted those kids looked to, I’d be killin’ yo ass right this fuckin’ second. An you ask me, I called Predo and Bird and everyone else together and dropped yo head on the floor, everyone be so damn happy they just get to huggin’ and settlin’ they’s differences. Say to that shit?
I take a drag, consider the prospect that he might be right, and blow some smoke.
—I say that if you think that, you’re pretty fucking stupid to be letting me walk off with my head.
He thinks about it, I can see it in the way he’s looking at my neck.
Me, I’m thinking how many times I’ve been told my mouth is gonna get me killed. First time was about the first time I opened it to cry because I was hungry. Seems the last time was less than an hour ago when Digga busted my nose. How a man lives that long without figuring that keeping his mouth shut is an option is beyond me. I’ve had the point reinforced enough times. Except I don’t like doing what people want me to.
Mostly because I don’t like them I guess.
People, I mean.
Digga takes his eyes from my neck. I appreciate the restraint. More than I could have mustered in his shoes. I was him, my head would be in the gutter by now.
He shakes his head, turns and points at the cars at the curb.
—The Escalade’s mine. I ain’t givin’ up the Bentley for your ragged ass. That leave the ‘95 Impala.
He looks at me.
—Percy’s favorite ride.
We walk to the car.
—Any tips on crossing One Ten?
He touches the nape of his neck.
—Well, it’s night, so that help. An fact is, anybody can only watch for so much. True this car is one they know. Coalition spotters likely got pictures, got the plate number. But unless you get stuck at a light right at One Ten, right where a spotter is lookin’, you can squirt through. Border always been porous that way. Trick is how to stay invisible once you across. ‘Specially seein’ as where you headed. Was me, I’d maximize my potential, take Harlem River Drive, come west once you drop far enough south. After that, could try drivin’ up on the doorstep where yo headed, right through the door. Might get in safe that way.
I open the Impala’s door.
—Tight?
He puckers.
—We don’t get much news from down there, but you size it up. Middle of Coalition turf a crazy little chick thinks she can cure the Vyrus sets up shop, declares she’s Clan Cure, an invites all the infected losers she can get to come live with her in peace. Shit goes sideways. She guns up and turns her haven into a redoubt. No one in, no one out. Tell me what Predo does ‘bout that. No, I’ll tell you. Embargoes they’s ass. No blood. Let ‘em sit in that building with no egress or ingress at all. Eyes all over that street.
He shakes his head.
—What Percy thinkin’ lettin’ his young people in love run down to that shit is beyond my ken. Wild shit is what it is.
He shakes his head, fiddling with his hair.
—Had to go an die now, he did. Just when I need a haircut.
I look somewhere else.
He makes a soft sound.
I keep looking away.
He drops his hand from the back of his head.
—Muthafucka.
I get in the car and turn the key.
—Thanks for the wheels.
He puts a hand on the open door.
—Percy an shit.
—Yeah. Percy.
I take the wheel.
He pushes the door closed. I put it in drive and pull away. Watch him standing there in the rearview.
King in exile in his own land. Alone. And most cruel.
There’s a worm at the heart of the world, eating itself.
Did you know that?
It’s true.
And with each bite it does itself injury. Kills itself a little more. Digests another mouthful of its own intestine. Its howls are muffled by its body. But, being as it’s at the heart of the world, people still hear it. They get driven mad from listening to the damn thing eat itself. They want to make it stop so they won’t have to hear it anymore. And the way you kill what’s at the heart of the world is, you kill the world.
Tell me you don’t know the people I’m talking about.
Driving down Harlem River Drive, traffic breaking now, the Impala growling to itself about the pace, I let the radio scan the frequencies. A year underground and a man misses out on a lot. Arts and culture. Science and technology. Politics and finance. Most of the music puts my teeth on edge. But it always has. The news doesn’t so much put them on edge as make me wish for something bloody to sink them into.
I think in verbs while I listen to the news. Rend. Rip. Tear.
I hear that worm in the news, eating itself, choking on a bite, puking it back up, eating it again. And I wonder where it all starts. This cycle. What I feel on the streets, the tension, does it start with what people like me are doing just around the corner, the almost immediate danger of things that feed on blood going to war? Or does it start with what people completely not like me are doing, far away and out of touch, blood feeders of a different sort, going to war?
The scan hits the Jam, “That’s Entertainment.” I turn it up and let the subwoofers in the trunk of the Impala pound bass through my spine.
Fuck the worm. I have a gun and a knife and a couple feet of braided wire that can saw through bone. Get that worm between my teeth, eat it before it can eat itself. Like finding it at the bottom of a bottle of mescal.
Mescal.
I need a bar.
I’m not a complicated guy.
What it takes to keep my hackles down is mostly a drink, a smoke, no one fucking with me, and at least a pint of blood a week. Although on one a week I’ll be getting pretty cranky by Thursday night. Right now what I need is the drink. A plain drink. Booze. There wasn’t much of it to be found the last year. I had a couple guys I could slip a couple bucks to and they’d do my shopping for me up top, but you couldn’t much trust those sterno suckers to bring back a bottle for you and expect to find anything in it. Now, once I start thinking about how good a drink would go down, I can’t get clear of the thought.
I need a drink. And a place to have it in where I won’t get fucked with.
The HRD became the FDR around Gracie Mansion. Like that’s a surprise. At Seventy-third I slip off to an exit lane, take it two blocks to Seventy-first, cut west and over to First Avenue and back uptown. I’ve only been on the Upper East a couple times in my life, but it’s a part of Manhattan, so I know there are bars. I go with a pub this time out. Safest choice when you’re going in blind. Yeah, they’ll likely serve you your drink in a stemmed glass, but they have every flavor of whiskey, at least one good-looking girl with a brogue, and the Pogues on the juke.
There’s a guy parked just up the street in an idling car, waiting for someone to come out from a building. I pull in alongside him and beep. He looks, I hand signal, asking if he’ll clear the space while he waits so I can park. He turns away, acting like he didn’t see.
There’s a bunch of change at the bottom of one of the cup holders between the seats. I dig out a handful, roll down my window, and throw it at the guy’s door. He jumps and looks at me with that Oh no, I’ve upset a crazy person look that all New Yorkers get once or twice a year. I give him a new hand signal, pointing at him, pointing at the street, hoisting my middle finger. Sign language gets through this time as he begins to pull from the spot, clear on the fact that he’s supposed to fuck off now before I hurt him.
I park, lock the Impala, walk into the Banshee Pub, pass the happy-hour cluster of dart-playing ex–frat boys, order a double, and a guy drinking something light blue looks at me and points at my eyepatch.
—Hey, you look like a pirate.
I swallow my drink, put the glass dow
n, look at the bartender, point at the glass, and look back at the guy with the blue drink.
—You look like a punching bag.
I get my second drink, and no one else fucks with me.
Bliss.
• • •
Tick-tick-tick.
I drink.
Tick-tick-tick.
I smoke.
Tick-tick-tick.
I know people in Cure. I know the top ladies. I just don’t know where I stand with them these days. Call them, could be they sound all happy to hear from me, Sure, Joe, come on in, we got a secret passage all set up, just say open sesame. Come through to the other side and find Sela with her favorite machine gun. Or just her bare hands. Hard to say which would kill me quicker. Figure she’d be happy to see me gone no matter the situation. Her main squeeze is the big question mark.
Amanda Horde. Founder and true believer of Cure.
How she feels about me, it all depends on what she remembers now. And how insane she is these days.
But I got other phone numbers. One of them, it’s always been pretty lucky for me. Another woman, for fuck sake. But it’s not like that with us.
Lydia.
Good thing about Lydia, you know how she’ll play her hand every time. Straight.
No pun intended.
—Who is this?
—Hey, Lydia.
—Who is this?
—Me.
There’s this pause, the kind of pause it’s easy to imagine the person on the other end of the line wishing they could reach through the phone and grab you by the throat and shake you up and down until you break.
There’s a hiss of held breath being released and pushed through a word.
—Coward.
Could be. Could be. Either way, it’s not a word that skins my feeling.
—Good to hear your voice too, Lyd. Hey, I got a joke for you.
—Pitt.
—How do you know a lesbian is on a second date?
—Was it a lie?
—Hang on, this is OK material.
—Was it?
—You know a lesbian is on a second date when she shows up with a pickup truck full of stuff to move in.
—Is it there?
I try to think of another joke.
She doesn’t wait.
—Are those kids really out there? Was it a lie, Pitt? Was it an angle you were playing? I don’t care about what it’s done to everything. It doesn’t matter. But the kids, Joe. Are they really in that hole? Is it real? Tell me. Did you make it up? You made it up. Tell me. You made it up.
My Dead Body Page 7
