—You’re making it come alive for me, Hurl.
—Well, an it was a time. So an all. Montaigne. He ran one o dese gangs. Run ‘em inta a place, come in wit maybe just a little rabble rouse ta start it off. Just loud. Boisterous like. Ya know what da word means?
—Heard it before, yeah.
—Lovely word. Remember da nun who taught it to me. Cracked my knuckles a hundred times wit a ruler before I had it right. An I never did get it spelled proper.
He sighs.
—A true bitch of a woman she was. I killed her, I did. Fer her sins of cruelty on children.
He shoots an elbow at my ribs. Doesn’t break any new ones, but leaves me gasping.
—Yeah, an ain’t dat a laugh, Joe.
He laughs.
—Killed her fer her sins. Oh, if dere’s a god, he’s gonna be upset wit me over dat bit o humor.
His laugh winds down.
—So, boisterous and all, Montaigne and his fellas would come in, draw a little ire perhaps, an tings would get a little messy from dere. What stared as a tussle would soon become a brawl, and den a riot.
He shakes his head.
—An den a slaughter.
With the butt of the hammer he pushes up the brim of his fedora.
—Ah da yella press in dem days, dey went fer it so. Gangland Slayings in Den of Sin. Oh an dey loved it. Had dey just but known the headlines dey mighta had wit just a wee little diggin’. But no, dey were happy wit da obvious, da low-hangin’ fruit o dat vile profession. Montaigne had naught ta fear from dem or da police. Worse dey could come cross would be a couple o real gangsters in one o dem places. Couple fellas wit dere .45s in dere pants an maybe a violin case under da table. If ya follow me.
He holds the sledgehammer like a machine gun and waves it back and forth.
—Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat.
He rubs his stomach.
—Serious stuff, a belly full of lead. Such a ting had happened, would have saved Montaigne some weepin’.
He frowns.
—Instead of which it came down ta me an Terry lookin’ him up at a place he kept off Mott Street. Little lay-by he had wit a fluff I recall was named Eileen.
He winks.
—I always remember da purdy ones, Joe. No matter how far back.
He lifts his shoulders and drops them.
—Shame we had ta put her in da ground wit Montaigne an all. As part of makin’ it look right.
He drapes the hammer over his shoulder, trudging along with me.
—He’d just made one splash too many is what he’d done. Could have moderated himself a bit, he might still be about. Not likely, but possible. But even if no one sussed to what he an his fellas was really about, still they were makin’ far too much of a ruckus. Too many o dem yella press stories. Too many o dem gangland headlines. Coppers had to make a move sooner or later. Dey started pokin’ ‘bout, it wasn’t gonna do no good fer no one. Me an Terry, we had our own business concerns to worry on. Montaigne, he just served no purpose a’tall. Good ting ‘bout dem times, ya just put a few bullets in a fella, dropped him in a gutter. Yella press had dem another headline, an da story came to a close.
He kicks a few gallons of water out of his way.
—Now, Joe, da story ain’t never come to an end.
He points the hammer at me.
—Ya ask what I hear? Well I tell ya, I hear tell on da TV dat dere’s maybe a serial killer on da loose in Manhattan. Not no normal serial killer, but like a team o dem. A gang o serial killers. Dat’s what da story is dey like to tell. In da absence of any sense comin’ from the police on da matter. I won’t tell ya what da headlines in da Post look like.
He waves the hammer at the arched roof of the tunnel.
—All dis conflict and bad feelins, it’s makin’ fer more dan a man’s fair share o sloppiness in tings. Not all bodies get hid, not all witnesses get taken care of. Just makes fer a mess. An a story today, it never dies, not till dere’s a better one. An tell me, Joe.
He bumps my shoulder with the hammer.
—Where are dey gonna find a better story den Serial Killer Gangs? Unless it’s us, Joe, I don’t tink dat’s a story dat’s like to die soon. Not o natural causes anyhow.
He swats the air with his hand.
—An dat’s what I hear. Trouble an woe. Maybe, Joe.
He nods to himself.
—Maybe an so dere’s nothin’ better to do now but to make a big cannonball and go out wit a splash.
He wags a finger at me.
—Not dat I’m one fer despair, mind. Not, leastways, not while Terry is still about ta mind the store fer us all.
I grab a fistful of my stomach and squeeze, trying to distract myself with a different kind of pain.
—Yeah, Hurley, I hear you. Be a terrible thing to find out Terry wasn’t in there doing it like it should be done.
—Shake a man’s faith to lose Terry.
—Yeah.
I give another squeeze to my gut.
—What else you hear, Hurl?
—How so, Joe?
He chuckles at the rhyme.
I glance at the compass, still bearing north, still on the path.
—What’s the word on how it splits up? Coalition’s got the Bulls and the Bears, the Wall, the Family. Society and the Hood together. Any word on how the others jump?
—Others, Joe? An who would dose be? Dat rabble in Brooklyn, we don’t make truck wit dem no more.
I look into the dark water ahead.
—Any word on Enclave picking a side?
He holds up a second.
—Enclave, Joe.
He carries on with me.
—Dey don’t have no side but dere own mad selves.
—Sure, I know that, but what do you hear?
I sidle close, drop my voice.
—Come on, Hurl, you catch a little of everything. Must be rumors.
He looks both ways over his shoulders.
—Well, I don’t like to talk on what I’m no expert ‘bout, but a man hears a ting or two.
He drops his own voice.
—Generally, dough, tis a sore spot for Terry. What wit how you took da Count over dere, him an all his money an all. Dat was a dissatisfaction. A real blow. Terry now, he always had a patience wit da Enclave dat I could never muster myself. Dem religious types, remind me too much o da nuns. But Terry, he likes ta say dat what a man believes is his own damn business. An I can’t argue. Dough I find it hard to ignore dat dem Enclave believe dat anyone what ain’t wit dem is just due to be laid low when da time comes. Makes a man tink he’d be better off if dey was done wit.
—Ever fight one, Hurl?
He shakes his head.
—Much to my consternation, no. I hear dey are fierce in battle. An dat fires my imagination, it does. Course, I’ve fought some udders who was starvin’ like, in dat old Vyrus madness. I’d show you da scars, but dey healed.
He laughs again.
—Healed. Anyhow, I’ve tussled my fair bit wit da starved and savage, but I hear tis not da same wit Enclave. Hear dey can control it like. Not just berserk, but remember who dey is and what dey’s about.
He smacks the hammer into his palm.
—To a brawler like myself, Joe, dat sounds a challenge.
He shrugs.
—Someday perhaps.
He hooks a thumbs in his suspenders.
—But you were askin’ what I heard. An’ I’ll tell ya, I hear it’s no good over dere. Da rumor is, da rumor is dey got some kind of troubles o dere own. Sign o da times it is. Squabbles inside. Da Count, we knew he took da reigns over dere when Daniel croaked it, but we hear he got himself competition. What it is, I hear, is.
He looks back at some of the Bulls trailing us, leans closer, whispers in my ear.
—I hear tis a girl.
I look at him.
He nods.
—A girl is what I hear. Puttin’ up a challenge to head Enclave. Not.
He looks behind
us again and raises his voice a bit.
—Not dat dere’s naught wrong wit it. But.
He shakes his head and lowers his voice.
—A girl still.
He sighs.
—Always a madness in dat place, Joe. No tellin’ which a way dey might come out on any issue, but always seemed to me dey were traditional types. Den again, long as I knew, it was Daniel over dere callin’ da shots. Never had no goings on wit da man myself, but I heard how he was reliable like. In da way of his kind dat is. Crazy, but reliable like. Fer da time bein’, I’m just happy ta have dem off on dere own while we finally settle accounts. Tell ya, Joe.
He slaps my back and I go to my knees in the water and he hauls me up.
—Sometin’ like dis? A troop o hard hitters makin’ tru da sewers ta lay a hurt on da competition? Well, it may not be good fer business in da short, but tis good fer da soul. A bit o da old days come ta life is what it is.
He comes in close again.
—It’s all up in da air it is now. Sideways like. Confusin’ even, an I don’t like ta utter da taught, but even Terry steps outside hisself frum time ta time. Some o da plays we made of late, dey just don’t make no sense. I don’t expect ta understand every little ting, but I don’t grasp how it does us good when Terry an Lydia are forever at each other’s troats.
He rubs his chin.
—An while I know it’s not how Terry’d a had it, I have ta say dat fer meself, tis more dan a relief ta be getting’ over wit da inevitable. I follow Terry’s lead, an everyone knows dat, but it is a ting dat warms my heart ta be getting’ dis out o da way once an fer all. Direct like. An maybe get all back ta normal like. Terry his old self again.
He straightens.
—Whaddya say ta a song?
He opens his pipes, belts his tenor, echoes in the tunnel making him a chorus.
—Ye haven’t an arm, ye haven’t a leg, hurroo, hurroo
Ye haven’t an arm, ye haven’t a leg, hurroo, hurroo
Ye haven’t an arm, ye haven’t a leg, Ye’re an armless, boneless, chickenless egg,
Ye’ll have to be put with a bowl to beg,
Oh Johnny I hardly knew ye.
After midnight is what Predo said.
And at his disposal: four enforcers in cop uniforms, those action-movie types with their body armor and grappling hooks, the others in coveralls, sweat suits, business casual. One big Vampyre costume party.
Figure he can play it a couple ways. Lead with the fake cops. Put them up on the stoop to knock on the door, force their way in, make way for whichever masqueraders have been planted on the street. Commandos will be on the roof already. They can come straight down, or just sit up there to pick off anyone who tries to get out through the fire exit up top. Plenty of extra bodies to spread around the streets in case something sloppy happens and they have runners that need to be snatched away. Biggest problem with that play is the cop uniforms. Neighbors see them out their windows, they’re gonna pull up a chair to see what it’s all about. As long as the action stays inside the Cure house, it’s not all bad. But can you count on that? No. Best to count on shit getting all fucked up in this kind of scenario. Not that there’s ever been this kind of scenario. So figure he might play it straight paramilitary.
Commandos blow a hole in the roof, pour inside, start flushing everything to the bottom. Fake cops are outside, ready to do “crowd control” on anything that comes out. Some of those coveralls had ConEd logos. Guys might be set to cut power to the house, maybe the whole block.
How good are Predo and his enforcers?
One-on-one, they’re good as it gets in terms of being fit and well trained and inclined to want to hurt a person, but not big on independent thought. Rote fighters. Counterpunchers most of them. Fight dirty enough and you have a good shot. Pretty good in small group, but the same weaknesses apply.
But this?
Who the hell knows.
Mean, they haven’t done it before. And hard to figure where they’d practice. Chances are, once they pull the trigger and start this thing, it’ll all be theory they’re trying to make work the way they want it to. Counting on Horde’s people being disorganized, starving, poorly armed.
Predo had any idea how far gone things really are in there, he’d probably not be bothering. Just keep his embargo in place and wait a little longer.
Heat. He’s feeling it.
What Hurley had to say about the news. That stuff has always stung the Coalition more than it has the downtown types. Psycho-killer headlines, that tension on the streets, the feeling out there that something’s not right. Predo doesn’t like it. And if he doesn’t like it, his bosses on the Coalition Secretariat like it less.
Old schoolest of the old school. Bunch of top hat and evening cape boys sitting on the top floor of Coalition HQ. Fancy Upper East town house just around the corner from the Guggenheim. Calling shots that knock balls over the whole Island.
Used to be, I pictured them smoking big cigars and drinking port. Like from a nineteenth-century political cartoon. Red noses, round bellies, resting their feet on the backs of the slobs. Nothing wrong with it if you can get a seat at the table, I suppose. Not my style, but I get why people want to be on top. Means there’s no one overhead to drop a load on you when their bowels get loose.
Got a different picture of them now.
Lean. Burnished. Dipping fingers into bowls of something that looks like looped purple licorice ropes. Putting them at their lips and sucking.
Sucking cord blood from harvested umbilicals.
Hole-raised kids with chains on their necks scattered around the room.
Not a picture from satire, but something literal. Like I’m thinking that’s what it’s really like up there on that top floor. Very much just like that.
Types living that way, you might figure they have a vested interest in avoiding the kind of headlines Hurley mentioned. So yeah, figure again that Predo’s feeling heat, needs to get the situation under control. Minimize risks and exposures. Start with what’s right there in the middle of their turf. The Cure house.
A quiet play. Clandestine. That’s what he’ll be going for. The fake cops, they won’t lead, they’ll hold back for an emergency. Whole thing will be invisible if Predo has his way. Commandos first, dead of night, figure between three and four. Time for us to make the scene before it goes down. Get inside, make a deal with Horde and Sela, and be waiting for Predo’s enforcers when they come in.
And once they’re in and the bullets fly, I grab the girl with her baby, try and take the boyfriend if I can, and get the hell out.
Who’s thrashing?
Not me.
I have a plan.
—You said you knew the way.
—I do.
—It’s almost three in the morning.
—Just be quiet, I’m trying to smell something.
—Oh, I’m sorry, is my voice interfering with your sense of smell? Is it getting in your nose and distracting you?
—Lydia.
—Joe.
—If you’d had given me that gun, I’d be shooting you again right now.
She turns to Terry.
—He’s lost. He’s cracking wiseass now because he’s lost and it’s what he does when he knows he’s fucked up.
Terry sloshes closer.
—Joe?
I hold up a hand.
—Just shut up for a minute and back off.
A cramp hits my gut and I fold over it.
Terry presses the heel of his hand into his forehead.
—How long since you had anything?
I unfold.
—Too long what with the ass-kicking I’ve been taking. So I’m maybe not at my sharpest. So I need maybe a little space and quiet here.
He turns to Lydia.
She looks at me, jabs a finger.
—Time’s almost up.
And works her way through the water back to her Bulls.
Terry tugs the edge of his watc
h cap.
—Getting late. Another thirty minutes and the risk and reward elements on this will have seriously eroded. We’ll have to turn back and, I don’t know, negotiate some kind of settlement. Me and Lydia, I mean. You.
He looks at the water.
—To be honest, Joe, you’ll be staying down here. Metaphors aside, saying it like it needs to be said, get us the fuck up into the Cure house or Hurley is going to beat you to death with his hammer.
A few yards away, Hurley turns. Shows me his hammer.
—If it must be, Joe, so it will. An nothin’ personal.
I nod.
—Yeah, sure, I’ll play the nail. No problem. Just give me a shot at this with no one on my back.
Terry raises his hands and backs away.
—Hey, I’m the last one to want to get on anyone’s back, man. That’s not my thing. Just that we have a timeline. Structure is tough, but once you get into it, you have to stay there.
Another moment when it might be better I don’t have a gun, but I’d still be happy to see one come floating by on a raft of shit. Nothing pops up, so I close my eyes, try to ignore the ache that’s creeping into my marrow, try and find a scent of dry air.
Something sears my cheek.
I open my eyes.
A flicker of white at the edge of my vision, down the tunnel.
I look back at Hurley, leaning against the far wall, hammer cradled in his arms, whistling Irish war ballads to himself.
The heat wavers in the air. I touch it, feel it dissipating, but know the course.
I raise my arm and point.
—This way.
Seven minutes later we’re in the Second Avenue line above Sixty-eighth. Minutes after that we’re in the access shaft, making our way past Phil’s corpse.
Terry looks at the mangled body.
—Sela did that?
I walk away.
—I did that. Finally had enough of his double crosses.
Could be I hear a chuckle in the dark. Crazy old man chuckle. Laughing at what I said, or at what he’s leading me back to. Or could be I hear nothing at all. Nothing but me laughing at myself.
Hurley widens the hole I made when I came this way before. Hunched to make our way up the sewer line, we straighten when we reach the storm vault, looking up at the drain hole I shoved Phil through.
We study it, picked out in crossed flashlight beams.
My Dead Body Page 17
