Every Last Drop (13 page)

She holds out a hand and Sela pulls her to her feet. —Easy, baby.

—I'm fine. Its just a little sugar crash. —It's severe exhaustion and borderline malnutrition is what it is.

Amanda twists her hand free. —I said I'm fine. I just need a smoothie or something. —You need a proper meal and sleep.

—Sela, back off. I love you, honey, but give me just a little space here before I positively freak out.

She turns to me.

—I mean, you don't see Joe going all flattery on me just because I got a little dizzy.

She brushes the back of her hand across her forehead, fusses her hair some more.

—That's like one of Joe's great assets. He doesn't get flattery, do you, Joe? He just sees what needs to be done and deals with it. After that, It's all just like a question of whether you do it and accept the consequences, or don't do it and accept some different consequences. Like with this problem today. Joe

gets it. I mean, you get it too, Sela, but Joe gets it in a different way. Joe sees the consequences of not handing out some kind of punishment here. Don't you, Joe?

I shrug. —If you say so.

She bunches both fists, tucks them beneath her chin and smiles wide. —Oh, Joe! I'm so happy you re here.  I mean, I always knew you d come sooner or later, but its just perfect that you came when we really really need you. Having you join us, that's going to make all the difference for so many reasons. —Yeah, well, thing is.

I take a drag. —I'm not here to join you.

I take another drag. —I'm just here to spy on you for Dexter Predo. Now that I've done that.

I point at the liquor cabinet. —III be looking for a drink. After.

I point at the door.

—Ill be looking for the rear entrance.

—No.

—Can I finish?

—No.

—I mean, so, what, just out of hand, you wont even listen?

—No.

—Joe, really, all I'm asking is for you to listen for a minute. Just a couple

minutes while I explain just what it would mean to us. I mean, this is really

really important.

I toss down my drink. —And all I'm telling you is no.

She sips on the smoothie Gladstone brought her.

—What is that about? I mean, I know you dont like to be indebted to anyone, but I'm not even talking about a favor. I'm talking about a business transaction. And you just want to sit there and be all.

She makes a stone-face, drops her voice an octave. —Wo. Wo. Wo. My name is Joe Pitt and I don't do nuthin' I don't want to do and I

won't even listen because I don't know a good thing when I have it and I'd rather be all fucked up and tragic and sad and go hurt people.

She points at me. —And you're doing it right now, you're thinking about hurting me.

She shakes her head. —You are so thin-skinned.

She leans forward and puts her elbows on the desk.

—But OK, you don't want to join us. You don't want to do business with us. But you're here. I mean, there has to be a reason why you're here. Besides spying for Predo, I mean. I mean, I'm not saying that's not what you re doing, but there's a reason. Because.

She folds her hands on the desk and lowers her face and rests her chin on them.

—I know you, Joe. I know you like people to think you just run around from job to job looking to stay ahead. But I know you have things that get you worked up.

She winces.

—Like when you slapped me? When I was talking about your girlfriend that time.

She looks at Sela. —Sela heard what happened.

I run a finger around the rim of my glass. Crystal, it sings a pure note.

Amanda bites her lower lip. —You tried to infect her. That's what she heard. And it didn't work.

Jeo Pitt 4 - Every Last Drop

It's quiet, just the glass repeating its song.

—I know I never met her. But she must have been something, Joe. I know that. I mean, she must have been something else.

She lifts her chin from her hands.

—So now, I mean, I guess that means you re alone. Like, not just alone like you like people to think you are, but really, seriously, alone. Sooo. So, I'm guessing that's why you're here. Because I don't know where you've been, or what kind of deal you made with Predo, but, and please don't get all pissy with me about this, but I think that the reason you took his job is because you were tired of being alone.

She stands.

—But being, like, you, you couldn't just come here and say, Hey, guys, mind if I hang out?

She comes around the desk.

—So here you are, too stubborn to just jump in and join the family. OK. But, I mean, you came up the stairs, you saw those people. Those people, Joe, they're starving. I mean, its getting bad. The guy were talking about that went hunting, that's, like, that's the tip of the iceberg. Pretty soon, there's gonna be more of that. And more. And we're not going to be able to contain it.

She sits on the edge of the desk. —It is going to get so ugly. So fast. And so soon.

She rubs her face. —We've just.

She looks me in the eye.

—We've got to have more blood. Now, we think we know where we can get it. But its going to be a serious pain in the ass.

She reaches out and rests her fingers on my knee. —And we need your help. —You shouldn't be asking him.

She looks at Sela. —Why not?

Sela points at me. —He's spying for Predo.

Amanda looks around the room like she's missed something. —So? I mean, he told us that. He's obviously not all Coalition all of a sudden.

Sela watches me as I pick up the bottle from the desk.

—It doesn't mean anything. Predo may have told him to tell you. This could be their game.

Amanda grabs the sides of her head. —Well if you're going to get all twisty-turny about it well never get anywhere.

She holds out her arms.

—I mean, what's he going to tell Predo? What are we hiding? Were like all of twelve blocks from his office. He can come take a look if he wants. Shit, far as I'm concerned, he can come join if he wants. We're here, we're taking all comers, and were finding a cure. What's the big secret?

Sela puts her hands on her hips.

—I don't know! But he wants something. And he sent Pitt here to find it. And letting him stay is fucking dangerous no matter what your feelings about him are. It's stupid. And you're not stupid.

Amanda rolls her eye. —Baby, you know what, fuck you.

Sela cocks her head. —Excuse me?

Amanda cocks her head to the same angle. —Oh don't whip out that sistah attitude and throw it around in my office.

Sela raises an eyebrow.

—Uh-huh. Alright, I wont bring the sistah attitude in here. Ill leave it at the door. Ill leave all that shit outside as soon as you stop acting all Mata Hari. Like you know how this is played. Because, little lady, you do not. You may be the smartest one in the room, but there is shit you do not know. This guy, your precious Joe, sure he comes across sometimes. Sure he's turned up in the right place at the right time once or twice, but mostly what he does is he gets people killed. And a lot of them, they get killed because he has a history of playing off both sides. You want to get all sentimental about him because he saved your life, I get it, but he has been in Predos pocket for years. Fuck, he's been in everyone's pocket one time or another. He comes out and tells us he's here for Predo, that means shit. All that means is whatever he's after, whatever Predo's after, it has nothing to do with him being here spying.

She looks at me.

Amanda looks at me.

I set my empty glass on the desk. —Well, I had my drink.

I stand. —Now can you show me that back way out?

Amanda watches as Sela enters the code and unlocks the door that leads to

the alley.

—You're wasting so much time, Joe.

I lean against the wall.

—I  don't know about  that.   I  had  a  nice  drink,  got  caught up with  old acquaintances. Worse ways to spend an hour.

She gives the eyeroll she's been perfecting since she was nine. —Not what I mean. And you know it.

She reaches over and grabs the sleeve of my jacket.

—This is the place for you. This is the last place for you. What we're doing here, its real. You can huff and makes faces and act like you think I'm crazy,

but you know I'm doing the right thing. And you know I can get this done. Anything you do between when you walk out that door and when you come back and tell us you're with us, all that will be such a waste of time.

I look at her. —Sweetheart.

I come away from the wall. —I don't think you re crazy.

I gently twist my arm free. —I know it like I know life ain't fair.

I make for the door, stopping to give Sela a look. —Try to keep her alive.

She opens the door. —It's what I'm here for. —Yeah.

I point down toward the basement.

—It'll make your job easier if you do like she says and kill that guy who made the mess.

I start down the rusted steel steps that lead into the alley.

Sela stands there watching. —Were not all like you, Joe. Some of us don't take to killing so easy.

I walk toward the gate that leads out onto Second. —Not my fault.

On the street I find a yellow. The driver asks me where I want to go.

I can't go there yet.

So I tell him to take me to the Bowery.

The nice thing about a place like the Whitehouse is they don't feel compelled to announce you if you drop by at an unusual hour to visit a guest. The bad things about a place like the Whitehouse, listed alphabetically, start somewhere around armed robbery, run past cockroaches and dirty needles, hit their stride with mass murder, start to tail off at rape, and end with a classic: zoophilia.

Add in the smattering of semi-functional resident bums, midwestern teenage runaways, and gagging-drunk European tourists on a budget, and you've got a holocaust of vomit and shit smells that draw up the stairwell like smoke pouring up a chimney.

I can almost see the reek as I climb through it.

Coming onto the top-floor landing, I have to turn sideways to fit down the narrow yellow hallway punctuated with close-set white doors. I hear snoring, early morning fornication, someone listening to Kraftwerk so loud on their iPod that they might as well hook it up to some speakers, a toilet flushing and clogging in the communal bathroom, and the distinct sound of someone moaning through a gag while a belt is applied to bare skin.

I long for matches and gasoline.

End of the hall, front of the building, I stop at the final door.

There's silence behind the door. Not even the grinding of teeth I would have expected. The lock is the worst piece of shit I've ever seen in my life. I flip my straight razor open, slip it in the half-inch gap between the door and frame, and start to edge the bolt out of its socket, pulling hard on the doorknob to create friction so the bolt doesn't snap back into place.

The door to the bathroom opens and a girl with the hem of her short skirt tucked into her panties, a ring of hickeys around her neck, and a shiny pink wig askew on her head, staggers down the hall to the room where I heard the fucking sounds.

She tries the knob and it doesn't open.

She bangs the door.

—You fuckers! Stop fucking and let me in!

The panting and groaning behind the door gets louder, faster.

She bangs again. —Fucking open up! I'm not waiting out here till you guys cum.

The fucking goes on.

She puts her forehead against the door and slouches and turns and looks at me, my razor working the lock. —Hey.

I watch the pulse that makes one of the hickeys on her neck flutter. —Hey.

She licks dry lips. —Thought that guy lives there.

I look at the door I'm working. —This guy?

She closes one eye, trying to think over the rising volume of her friends' fucking. —Yeah. Said he lives there.

—When'd he say that?

She looks down, sees her skirt, tries to pull it free of her waistband. —Shit. Uh, when'd he? Other day.

She pulls her panties down, gets her skirt straight, leaves her panties at her knees for the moment. —He, urn.

She covers her mouth.

—When I was blowing him. Said he lives there when I was blowing him. Said anytime I wanted to score I could come over for the same deal.

She drops her hand, points at the door.

—He wasn't lying to me, was he? I was fucking counting on getting some X off him for a party tonight.

I shake my head. —He wasn't lying.

She smiles, reaches down and pulls her panties back up, catching her skirt in them again. —Cool, that's cool.

There's a definite crescendo from behind the door, a shriek, a yelp, glass

shattering.

She blinks a few times.

—Hey, if you, like, got something on you, I could really use it. Not for free, but like the same deal I made with your friend.

I shake my head. —No, I'm not holding.

She sighs. —Shit.

The door bumps her ass and she lurches upright as it swings open into the hall. —Fucking about time.

She walks into the room. —You're such a whore, I told you not to fuck him without me.

The door closes.

I pop the lock, go inside, shut the door.

The room is shin-deep in empty take-out containers, plastic baggies, dirty clothes and toenail clippings, the walls covered in photos of barely clad starlets and models torn from men's lifestyle magazines. Through the grimy

barred window I can see an edge of sunlight is touching the roof of a building across the street. I pull it open to get some air in, then grab a dingy blanket from the bed to drape over the curtain rod. Its summer in New York City and the air coming in the window doesn't smell any better than the air already in the room. I light a cigarette and sit on the board-narrow bed and smoke and wait for the scum bucket that lives in the shithole.

Finally.

Back where I belong.

The cockroaches in the room, they move to avoid the blade of sunlight that cuts through the crack at the windows edge and slices across the floor. Roaches not liking daylight, its no great shock that I don't have to wait long for my particular roach to come home.

I know him by the sharp report of nails worn through the heels of his ankle boots striking the hallway floor. Even over the stuttering pipes, creaking joints and bitter howls of the waking building and its occupants, I recognize his nervous step.

Outside the door he jitters the keys in his hand, simultaneously keeping rapid time with clacking teeth. The key jams into the lock and the door jerks open and I smell his greasy pomade.

He steps in, closes the door, freezes with his hand on the knob and looks at the blanket blocking out the day. —Oh.

It's a small room, a very small room, a room with more in common with a closet than with other rooms. It takes his eyes less than a heartbeat to look it over and see the dark silhouette on his bed.

He holds his key to his face, looking at the fob that dangles off it. —My bad. Wrong room. Ill just. Don't get up. Ill just.

Not the brightest bulb, but not the dimmest, he knows that people who wait in your room with the window blacked out are bad news.

He just doesn't know how bad the news is yet.

He starts to open the door.

—Ill just. Go to my own room, yeah? Right. Sorry about this. My bad. Totally my bad. This place, so cheap, right? Have like ten different locks in the whole joint. Open someone else's room by accident. Happens all the time. My bad. Really, don't get up.

I don't get up. —No, you got the right room.

He stops vibrating. —Oh shit.

I watch a roach skitter across the shaft of daylight. —Close the door, Phil.

He closes the door.

I stomp on the roach. —Got some things I want to talk to you about.

If it wasn't daylight I could take him by the ankle and dangle him out the window and cut to the chase.