Every Last Drop (3 page)

I peel a strip of fabric from the shredded headliner.

—Better give the Post a call. Give your exclusive before its too late.

She blots some sweat from her temple with the back of her hand, a cross tattooed in the flesh where her thumb joins her hand glistens. —I'm not arguing whether it was the thing to do, I'm just saying you could have been a little quieter.

—Sure. I could have left a nice quiet corpse of a woman with a broken neck. And they could have autopsied the body and found nothing else wrong, except that she had only half a tongue. Nice and pink and healed and looking like shed been born that way. And wouldn't that have provoked some interest when her family found out about it. Half a tongue? What are you talking about? Oh, and I imagine the M.E. might also have been intrigued by the way she was missing about half her blood with no fresh wounds through which it could have come out.

She pinches the butt of her cigarette between thumb and forefinger. —And when you showed the fuck up here on my turf I could have cut a deal with the Mungiki and had you escorted into the fucking river. But you said you d be cool. So if I want to talk to you about shit that doesn't play cool by me, you can listen and not talk hardcase. Yeah?

I flick some ash.

—Didn't know you had pull with the Mungiki.

She lights a fresh Pall Mall.

—Yeah, well, you don't mix enough to know shit up here, do you? —Nope.

—No one has pull with the Mungiki. But since they moved to Queens they sometimes need a favor here. —How you get that gig?

She sighs.

—I used to date one of them. —Dated a Mungiki? Filed teeth and all?

She gives me that look again. —Don't believe all the shit you hear, man. They don't file their teeth.

She watches as a handful of couples file out of the Multiplex from the last show.

—Not all of them, anyway. And he wasn't Mungiki when we were hooking up. Just a guy.

—Huh, well, fascinating stuff, but if we're done threatening each other,  I thought I might get on. Maybe look into those kids.

She blows ash from the tip of her cigarette. —Don't fuck with the kids.

I eye her. —There a reason I shouldn't?

She eyes me back. —Yeah. I just told you not to.

We do a stare-down while I chew it.

Lady looks twenty-one. Maybe younger. She older? Yeah, a few years, but not by much. You don't feed heavy in the Bronx, not heavy enough to keep the years at bay. Look at me, couple years back I looked maybe late twenties. Now Id be pressed to pass for thirty-five. At this rate I'm gonna catch up with forty-eight in a hurry.

But she's got youth on her side. Real youth, not the borrowed kind.

Long in the legs. Khaki cargo pants, white retro Jordans, a black tank tucked at the waist, tight over a black sports bra. Tattooed shoulders, hands, neck, designs dark against brown skin. Black hair, short and greased back. Sinews running down long arms. Loping muscles built playing point guard with the boys at Rucker Park over the river.

Esperanza Lucretia Benjamin.

Closest thing the Concourse has to a boss. Only one up here seems to care if the lid ever blows off. Only one can talk to the Mungiki and come away with her head unsevered. One tough chick.

Warden.

Two ways you go to prison.

First way is keep your eyes down and suck up against the wall when the big dogs pass by, hope no one notices how harmless you are, how badly you just want to do your time and get back to your life on the outside. Spend your days counting the minutes till someone maybe decides you got a mighty pretty mouth.

Second way is go in and take a look around and find the chair in the day room with the best view of the TV, go up to the skinhead sitting in it, spit in his face, and shank him in the ear with the sharpened end of your toothbrush. Let everyone know you're not going anywhere. You're not a guest, you're fucking home. Do it that way, and when you get out of solitary you'll find that chair waiting for you to plop down in it and watch General Hospital.

Guess which was my approach.

Found a patch of Franz Sigel Park, a patch near the corner of Walton

Avenue and Mabel Wayne Place where they got that cute red, white and blue sign. The Bronx. All-American City. A patch of trees and weeds and rock that reeked of some fucker doing his thing there for years.

Then I staked it out, waited till he dragged someone back into his favorite spot, came up on him as he was getting ready to put on the feedbag and I broke his spine in three places and let him lie there paralyzed and watch me while I dined out on his handiwork.

I peed all over his yard.

Then I killed him.

Soon enough, Esperanza called. Made it clear she was what passed for law around here. Made it clear what she was looking for in a neighbor. Made it clear that One Sixty-one and the Concourse being about as close to civilization as you get up here, she wanted to see it remain that way. Made it clear that the only kind of profile that would do in these parts was a low one. And I made it clear I couldn't agree with her more. Proved the point by showing her the corpse I'd made out of the guy who'd been living in Franz Sigel. A guy it turned out had been the source of Monster in the Park stories amongst the citizens. The kind of stories that attract undue attention.

She was pleased.

And I was home in the Bronx.

Again.

Not that I've strayed over to Hunt's Point to walk down memory lane and see the house I grew up in or anything. Do that and I might get inspired to burn it down. And I kind of doubt that my folks are still living there, so what would be the point?

Any case, not an easy woman to get on the right side of. And, once there, you don't want to circle round to the wrong side.

Not on her turf.

Our cigarettes go out and, in the interest of lighting new ones, we end our staring.

I inhale smoke, blow it out. —OK. III stay away from the kids.

She looks me over, nods. —That out of the way.

The tip of her finger touches the corner of her mouth. —You got plans the rest of the night?

I wave my cigarette. —Smoke this. Steal some money so I can get more cigarettes. Go hide from

everybody.

—Very nice.

—Yeah, and I got a good book and a lovely bottle of chardonnay to curl up

with later.

—Feel like company?

I look at her. I try to do it from the corner of my eye, but why bother? She knows I'm looking.

This one, pure hell on wheels, asking me if I want some company.

Do I.

I take a drag, chew on it, let it loose, and climb out of the car. —I want company, III find a dog.

She keys the ignition and the wagon grinds to life. —If that's what floats your boat, Joe, you have a good time.

She puts the car in gear, rolls to the drive, exhaust pouring from her tailpipe.

I stand there and watch till her lights are lost in traffic.

It ain't the first time she's asked. Not that I'm bragging. I'm just saying she's the kind of woman knows how to complicate a mans thinking.

A place like the South Bronx has a way of narrowing a persons focus. So you'd think my thinking would be pretty uncomplicated all the way around these days. That would be smart.

People having a conversation about me, that word, smart, it doesn't come up often. And I'm just smart enough to know there's a reason why.

But not smart enough to do anything about it.

What can I say? This old dog, he's still too busy chasing his own tail to bother learning any new tricks.

Across the river I had a life. Or a thing that I'd shaped into a semblance of a life. Had a face in the straight community. Folks downtown, citizens without know-how of this other life of ours, they knew me as a local fixer and rough hand. A guy could take some shifts when your bouncer got picked up by the cops for armed robbery and you needed a quick replacement. Guy you could come to when that deadbeat boyfriend still hadn't gotten out of your apartment four months after you dumped him. Guy you could slip a few bucks to escort said boyfriend to the curb. Trace a skip. Kick the vig loose from a welcher. No office, mind you, but a guy around that if you knew the right person I might get pointed out as the type could solve your problem.

Not what you d call steady work, but I made my own hours. Kind of a key

point, all things considered.

And some gigs for the Clans. Do some deeds in the cracks, unofficial and off the books. And toward the end, a real job with the Society. But that didn't go so well. Low job satisfaction. Engagement terminated by agreement between both parties. No references forthcoming from previous employer.

Guess it was that nail in the artery thing. That and maybe that I didn't give two weeks' notice. Not really sure which it was that queered the deal.

Any case, on the Island I was a face, and a face can make some money. Make moves. Get his hands on the necessities of life.

Food. Shelter. Clothing.

Blood. Bullets. Money.

Those kinds of things.

Blood is tricky. But blood is always tricky. Money can help you lay hands on blood but its always tricky. No doubt it's trickier up here, you expect that. No local organization means no hustlers, no infrastructure to support a dealer who might be able to buy pints off the local junkies or something, act as a clearinghouse. Means no friendly faces at Bronx-Lebanon or St. Barnabas who you might slip some cash to and come away with a bag.

No, it's all pretty much smash and grab up here.

An uncomplicated life in the Bronx. By which a man means a predators life. No job. No prospects. No permanent place of residence. No prospects. Prized possessions are best carried on ones person, as running may be required at any moment. And needs of the moment are the tasks of the moment.

So, after having Esperanza cloud my thinking, I work my way south. Toward a certain dead-end block of Carroll Place, just behind the Bronx Museum, where I recently clocked a rotating cast of young men receiving calls on their cells, soon after followed by slow-cruising cars that swept into the cul-de-sac, paused to pass handshakes out the window, and rolled back out the way they came in.

Blood. Money. Bullets.

I feel in my bones that the guy hanging on the stoop with his cell will have all three.

How fortunate, that vacant lot at Carroll and One Sixty-six. It invites privacy. Limits distractions. While I tend to business.

I should have broken into a couple cars on the way, scrounged a few bucks for a pack of smokes. That would have passed the time. Better, I should have done something to scratch Bullets off my to-do list before running this particular errand.

Who'd have thought the modern crack dealer went unarmed these days? Not that I expected his bullets to fit my gun. Id assumed he'd be carrying the standard 9mm that's been all the rage for decades now. My own sidearm is a fusty .38. But, not being too attached to these things, I'd have happily tossed mine in favor of his. Seeing as I used mine to commit a homicide earlier this evening, I'd planned on leaving it on this guy after I knocked him out, took his cash and tapped him for a couple pints. With a bit of luck he might have kept it, at least that mugger left me with a gun, and gotten busted while it was in his possession. A long-odds bet, but worth putting some chips on.

But no gun.

Pity.

A gun would come in very handy when the hornet buzz of furious engines bounces from the sides of the buildings lining Carroll and I find myself pinned in four crossing headlight beams.

The engines drop to idles. —What up with white guy? —Yo, what up, white guy? —He a funky-lookin' white guy. —Like that jacket.

—You like that jacket, niggah? —Like that jacket. —Gonna bite off white guys style? —Just I like that jacket.

I shake my head. —Kid, this jacket won't fit you.

The one who snagged the cop's cap outside the Stadium pulls the bill of that cap to the side. —White guy talks.

The one with eyes for my jacket runs a finger over the thin shadow of a moustache that rims his upper lip. —Don't worry, white guy, I grow into it.

The smallest one guns a bike forward into the light from the streetlamp, and I see she's a girl

She snaps her bubble gum. —Don't know why you want that funky-lookin jacket. Look stinky.

The last one, the one with the Dominican flag do-rag, drags on a Newport.

—Too hot for a jacket. He don't need no jacket.

Moustache holds out his hand. —Gimme the fuckin' jacket, white guy.