Every Last Drop (11 page)

She turns, looks over the Bronx. —Johnson won the Croix de Guerre. First American ever.

She looks at me. —Good to have someone to put your back against when the close work starts.

She spits over the rail.

—So how about you owe me on this one. Sometime I need someone to have my back, maybe I give you a call.

I fold the bills over.

—Can't say It's a safe bet III be around long enough to pay off. —Ill take that chance.

I put the money in my pocket. —If that's how you want it. —That's how I want it.

She starts to walk backward, away down the bridge approach. —Guy said the bridge was clear. No watchers. Grab yourself a ride on the

other side. Said steer clear of Marcus Garvey Park. Said Malcom X is clear all the way to One Ten. Once you cross to Coalition turf, who knows what the hell you find. But in a car, I don't know how they go about spotting you.

I raise a hand. —Stay alive.

She raises a hand. —That's the plan.

She turns away, takes a couple steps, turns back. —Joe. —Yeah. —Little advice. —What's that?

She points at my trousers. —Lose the khakis. They do nothing for you.

She turns again and breaks into a trot, jogging smooth and easy till she boosts herself over the rail, dropping into Macombs Park, lost from view.

I find a cigarette to put in my mouth and start over the bridge.

Summer wind is blowing, taking the smoke downriver. A couple cars roll

past, vibrating the bridge plates. I slap one of the beige-painted trusses and it tolls like a low bell. I cross the midpoint, feel my feet start to hurry, make them pace slow.

Is my breath short?

It is.

Past the little stone hutch where the operator sits when the bridge swings open, I hit the western approach. Look down, see the river disappear behind me, land under the bridge.

Crossing Hellfighters, coming onto the Island, fingering the straight blade in my pocket.

At Adam Clayton Powell Junior and One Fifty-three I raise my hand in the air then step in front of the gypsy that tries to drive past me. The driver looks at the color of my skin and his door locks snap down. I show him the color of my money and the locks pop up.

He watches me in the rearview as I slide into the back.

I point. —South.

He starts rolling. —How far?

I lean into the leather, light a smoke. —Not too far. But take Malcolm, will you.

He takes the left onto One Forty-five. —Right. The scenic route.

I roll the window down and smell the summer stink of Manhattan. —Sure. The scenic route. Why not.

How you know you're being watched is, you have clandestine arrangements with someone you don't trust under any circumstances that don't involve that individual being tied up and held at gunpoint. It also helps if the individual involved shares a similar attitude toward you.

The rest is easy.

See, once you've established a level of trust like that, the only question you have to ask yourself is, Assuming I don't want to be followed, where do I go?

The obvious answer being, / go where they expect me to go.

And then I go somewhere else.

The gypsy drops me at the corner of Second Avenue and Seventy-third. For a

moment I sit there with one foot out on the sidewalk, thinking about pulling my leg back in, closing the door and telling him to roll farther south.

It passes, and I get out and close the door and he drives off.

No. That's a lie.

I get out and he drives away, alright, but it doesn't pass. The gravity pulling from below Fourteenth doesn't go away. Back on the Island, it just pulls harder than ever.

How you ignore a thing like that is, you move. Create momentum. Build velocity to carry your mass outside the influence of the body pulling at yours.

I walk east on Seventy-third, aligning myself with a new trajectory, knowing that what happens beyond the event horizon cannot be described until you are caught in its tide.

The building is mid-block between First and Second, only four stories, but stretching the width of three tenements. Big ground-floor windows covered in sheets of dark paper in a manner to suggest some kind of renovation within. A half-full construction Dumpster at the curb. Upper-story windows heavily draped.

A double stoop leads up to a portico entrance.

The sky's holding the day back yet.

Time enough to make a courtesy call and be on my way. I go up the steps and push the buzzer.

It's a mess.

Like there was ever any doubt, right?

Something like this, the only way you think its going to be anything but a mess is if you re one of those people they call an idealist. Those people, I generally prefer the word asshole when I describe them. Not that I fault a person for doing their own thing, but assholes of the Idealist strain have a habit of fucking things up for everyone else.

Nothing like a person with a dream and a vision for getting a load of people all fucked up.

But Jesus its a mess.

It reeks. Rank with overcrowding.

Fear. Desperation. Misery.

All these most pleasant human emotions have a smell.  None of them enjoyable. The air in here is heavy with all of them. A man could gag. —Urn, mind your step there. Just. Yes. Just kind of, urn, step over them and. Obviously these are less than ideal conditions. You're certainly not seeing us

at our best. But I, urn, assure you that this state is only temporary. Once the renovation is complete we'll have these people housed, urn, properly.

I follow his advice and just kind of step over the people sleeping in the hallway.  Not that they're actually sleeping. What they're actually doing is watching us pass, tracking us through slitted lids. I hear one or two sniff at me as I weave through their jumbled limbs and bodies. —Hey, hey, man.

I look down at the hairy face looking up at me from his spot, reclined along the wainscoting.

He scratches his fat belly through his Superman T-shirt, pointing a rolled-up copy of Green Lantern at me. —You got anything?

I step past him. —No. I ain't got anything.

He sits up, waves his comic book at me as I follow my guide. —Bullshit, man! That's bullshit! I can smell it on ya! I can smell it, man! We can all smell it!

Bodies rouse, the more lively ones tilt their faces up and inhale.

My guide tugs at the shirttails that hang ever so stylishly from the bottom of his argyle sweater. —Urn, just a little, urn, more briskly here. Just up here.

He picks up the pace, doesn't pay enough attention, steps on someone s fingers. —Hey, fuck! —Sorry, urn, so sorry. —Watch where the fuck, Gladstone. —Yes, urn, sorry.

The comic book geek is on his feet.

—Can't get away with this shit, Gladstone. Come through here, stomp on people, bring some asshole that's holding and won't share out.

More sniffing from the bodies.

Voices.

—Who's holding? —Fuckin Gladstone. —Holdin?

—I smell it. I smell it.

Gladstone stops at the door at the end of the hall, sorts keys. —Yes, urn, so sorry, yes, my mistake, didn't mean to. Yes, urn, just in here if you will.

He slips a key in the lock.

—Just, urn, in here and. Urn. Yes, if you'll all please just be patient, I'm sure we'll have something for you all just as soon as, urn. Yes. Urn.

I pass through, glancing back, seeing the comic book geek flipping us off. —Fuck you, Gladstone!

The others in the hallway settling back into torpor and misery. These being easier and more comfortable than action and rage.

The door closes and Gladstone locks it tight.

—Urn, Sorry, urn. Normally wed have taken the elevator to the office level. Not walked through the, urn, residences, but, urn, the elevator is out and, well, there are some difficulties involved with getting it serviced. So, urn. Up here and, yes.

He pulls at his lower lip. —By the, urn, way, are you holding any?

I walk past him, up the fire stairs. —No. Just I couldn't get all the blood out of my jacket when I cleaned it last.

He comes after me. —Oh, yes, that would, urn, explain it.

—It's a fucking mess.

—I know.

—And it's getting worse.

—I know.

—And it's going to happen again.

—I know, Sela.

—Urn, yes, excuse me.

I watch Gladstone's back as he sticks his head a little farther into the room beyond the door he cracked open only after knocking politely about ten times and finally deciding the people fighting beyond it had not heard him.

The folks inside take note of his presence. —What? What? —Urn, I. So sorry, Miss, but I, I did, urn, knock, and.

—What, Gladstone?

—Nothing. I mean, urn, someone, a, urn, new, urn.

His arm is waving at me, indicating my presence, despite the fact that it is invisible to the people he's speaking with.

—A new, urn, applicant. And I, urn, know you like to greet each one, urn, personally, so I.

—An intercom, Gladstone. We have a perfectly good one. Or has that broken now too?

—No, I, urn, I. I buzzed and. Would you like to, urn? —Wait. Gladstone.

The other voice has taken over, the one that shares my opinion about things around here being a mess. —Urn, yes?

—Is there someone out there? —Urn, I.

He pulls his head back, looks at me to make sure I'm still there, then sticks his head back into the room. —Yes, urn. There. Yes.

—Motherfucker! See! See! A mess! These people. No regard for security. No

understanding of protocol. Is it any wonder things like this shit come up?

—They're not these people. They're our people. You, of all people, should get

that.

—Don't, not now. This is no joke. And it's no time for remedial lessons in

compassion and understanding. You!

Gladstone s back stiffens. —Urn, yes?

—You bring someone up here again without clearing it through me, you'll be back in the dorms.

—I, urn, yes, I. It's just, I did buzz and, urn. —Shut the fuck up. —Urn.

I grab the edge of the door and pull it open, move Gladstone out of the way and step into the room.

Sela goes for the piece strapped into the shoulder holster she's wearing over her tank top.

Her hand freezes on the butt.

—Oh Jesus.

I raise a hand. —Yeah, good to see you too.

Her hand stays on the gun. —Did I say it was good to see you, Joe?

—No, but I always try to read between the lines. Figured you going for your gun was how you express affection these days. —That not how she expresses affection at all, Joe.

The girl comes out from behind her desk, puts a hand on Sela's arm, rubs her thumb across a vein that swells down the muscle. —Chill out, Sela.

Sela takes her hand from the gun, but I'd be hard-pressed to describe her as chilled out. —Don't get too close to him.

The girl comes toward me. —Don't be silly, it's Joe. What's he gonna do, kill me?

She comes closer.

—He'd never do that. He'd never hurt me at all.

She smiles. —Well, except for maybe that time he slapped me.

She squishes her face. —But I was being pretty bratty. Giving him a bad time about things.

She stops in front of me. —Well, come on, Joe. What do you think?

She gives a little spin, displaying her slacks, French-cuffed shirt, suit vest and expensively shorn hair. —Have I grown up right?

I take off my huge sunglasses and show her the fresh scar tissue. —I don't know, maybe I need a better look.

She claps, wraps her arms around me, turns her face into my chest and inhales. —Oh, Joe, you always know just what to say to make me feel safe.

I stand there with her arms around me, my own arms at my sides, looking at Sela.

She shakes her head. —She her own thing, our girl, isn't she, Joe?

—The logistics of it are just devastating. I mean, it was one thing to say we were going to establish a Clan, take in anyone who wanted to join, supply them with blood, and then make the cure available to them once I find it.