Joe Pitt 2 - No Dominion (15 page)

They don't talk. The SUV jerks around a corner, taking a left. Another quick left, and
another. And one more for good measure. Then some more of the same. Jesus, they got most
of the snatch right, but this is just embarrassing.

--I can tell you're driving in circles.

Another left.

--I mean, if you're trying to disorient me, you might want to throw in a right turn every
now and then.

Another left.

--See, like right now, we're on the south side of that same block you grabbed me off of.

Another left.

--East side.

Another left.

--If you don't want to change it up, you can also try giving a guy a whack over the head or
something so it's harder for him to know his left from his right.

WHACK!

I shut up and let them do it their way.

The boys are young. The woman is old.

--What did he have?

One of the black leather jacketed muscle boys hands her a Ziploc bag full of my stuff. She
unzips it. She opens the cylinder on the revolver, ejects the shells, sees the one spent
round and sniffs the barrel. She empties the smokes into a bowl and hands it to one of the
boys, who grinds them up and sifts the tobacco and paper through his fingers. She pulls
the inner workings of the Zippo out of the scratched chrome sleeve. She undoes the little
screw at the bottom and shakes the lighter 'til the flint drops out. She uses her
fingernails to pinch out the piece of cotton at the bottom and unravels the long,
Ronsonol-soaked wick inside. She places the gutted lighter beside the gun. She gives my
keys and the change that was in my pocket a quick glance. She pops the switchblade open
and squints into the slot the blade folds into. She taps the handle against the table and
hears that it's hollow. She hands it to the boy who ruined all my smokes. He sets it on
the floor and stomps on it and the plastic grips shatter. She bends and looks through the
pieces. She looks at me.

--His clothes?

One of the boys who grabbed me shakes his head.

She frowns.

--Do it now.

One of them pulls wire-cutters from his pocket and snips my hands free and they strip me
to my skivvies. They run their fingers over seams and inside pockets. They tap the heels
of my boots. She passes my jacket through her hands, finding flakes of tobacco in the
pockets along with a couple movie ticket stubs and a poker chip I got at a bar as the
marker for my second drink during a two-for-one happy hour. She flexes the chip between
her thumbs and forefingers, it snaps in half.

I scratch my balls.

--That was good for a drink at HiFi.

She doesn't look up, her fingers probing at an irregularity in the collar of my jacket.
She picks up the switchblade with the broken handle.

--There's nothing in the jacket.

She presses the tip of the blade against the collar.

--Ma'am, I'd really prefer if you didn't do anything to that jacket.

She shoves the point through the leather and jerks it to the side, tearing a small hole in
the collar. She puts the knife down, works her fingers into the hole, gets a grip, and
rips the collar wide open. She looks at the filleted leather. She throws the jacket on top
of the rest of my clothes.

--He can dress.

I dress. I look at the ruined collar. I remember the day Evie gave me the jacket. It was
my birthday. The day she thinks is my birthday, anyway. I look at the old lady and put the
jacket back on.

--Can I have my poker chip back? They might still accept it.

She picks up the two halves of the poker chip and hands them to one of the boys.

--Make him eat it.

They don't really make me eat it. What they do is, they get me on my knees and stick the
barrel of one of those guns in my neck and I open my mouth and they shove the jagged edged
pieces of plastic inside and force it closed and punch my face a few times and the broken
chip cuts up my tongue and gums and the soft insides of my cheeks. But, no, I don't
actually eat the chip. When they're done I look at the old woman, still seated on her
couch, wearing that very practical sweater and slacks combo and equally practical walking
shoes, gray hair back in a bun, reading glasses dangling from a neck strap, machine
pistolÐarmed boys arrayed around her. I open my mouth and the broken chip and some bits of
skin and a large quantity of blood falls onto the parquet floor.

--I don't suppose your last name is Predo, by any chance?

She brings the glasses to her eyes and looks me over. Inspects me. Takes my measure. I
don't like it.

She lowers the glasses.

--If Dexter Predo were my child, I'd cut out my womb and throw it on the fire.

I wipe blood from my lips.

--Well, we have that it common. Minus the womb.

--One lump or two.

I scratch my cheek.

--If I say three, are you gonna whip out a mallet and hit me over the head with it?

She wrinkles her forehead at me, tiny silver tongs still poised over the sugar bowl.

--Excuse me?

--Nothing. Sorry. No sugar.

--Milk?

--Black is fine.

She lifts the delicate cup and offers it to me. I take it and give it a good sniff.
Nothing but the strong scent of Earl Grey.

She watches me through the steam drifting off the top of her own cup of sugary, milky tea.

--Tell me, Mr. Pitt.

--Yeah?

--What is it about the manner in which you've been treated here that makes you think we'd
resort to anything so subtle as drugging your tea?

I take a sip.

--Nothing. Habit.

She nods.

--One may assume then that you do not often take tea with friends.

--If one wanted to, sure.

I look over my shoulder at the window.

--It makes you nervous?

I look back at her.

--A big, east-facing picture window with nothing covering it but a drape? Yeah, I'm a
little itchy about it.

--It's a very heavy drape.

--Imagine my relief.

--And we certainly wouldn't consider throwing it open on you while we are all here together
enjoying our tea.

I look at the four boys standing about the room. They're taking their tea in shifts; two
of them sipping while the others keep their guns on me.

--Sure. But you never know when someone on the street might shoot out that window and tear
that rag to shreds. You should nail up some plywood at least.

The corners of her mouth drop.

--Plywood. It would ruin the room.

She stands and walks toward the window.

--And I would lose my view.

She fingers a fold in the burgundy drapes.

--True, I cannot enjoy it during the day. But at night it is still quite spectacular.

She stares at the curtain, looking beyond it to the sprawl of the Hood below Morningside
Park.

--Even if it does remind one of what is out there.

She turns back to me.

--Of what is living in homes that were once ours. On land that we rightfully own.

She spreads her arms wide.

--No, Mr. Pitt, I keep this window so thinly covered for a reason. So that I might open it
that much more quickly when the time comes to watch the things down there being burned out
of their nests.

She returns to the couch.

--That day will come soon enough. I can bear waiting for it a little longer. Just now, we
should talk about you. And what is going to be done with you.

I swirl the last of my tea around the bottom of the cup.

She points at the cup.

--Anything of use to you in there?

I look at the tea leaves. They don't tell me the future. They don't tell me anything at
all. But I don't really need them, I already have a pretty good idea of what's going to be
done with me.

--Nothing I can see.

She holds out her hand.

--May I?

I hand her the cup.

She gazes into it.

--Hmm.

--'M I gonna hit the lotto?

She sets the cup on the tea tray.

--No, just as you said, nothing. But I can tell you your future nonetheless.

--That would be a relief about now.

She arches an eyebrow.

--A relief? Well then, allow me to relieve you. I will soon call Dexter Predo and inform
him that we have you in our custody. He will immediately make arrangements for your
rendition, which will most likely take place as soon as the sun has gone down. You will be
transferred to Coalition territory proper, and Predo will begin a lengthy interrogation.
When he has extracted every last scrap of useful information you possess, you will be
executed. In the traditional fashion. Having not seen the sun inÉmany years, I could
almost envy you the view you will have.

I cross my legs.

--But not really.

She shakes her head.

--No, not really.

I play with the frayed hem of my jeans.

--So what's holding up you making this call?

She slips her glasses on and studies me again.

--Dexter Predo will do what is best for the Coalition at large. Or rather, what is best for
the Secretariat and for his chances of advancing to that body. I, on the other hand, will
do what is best for our settlement here. This final scrap of our great northern territory,
which is all Predo retained for us when he negotiated that abominable treaty with the
animals on those streets.

She gives it a rest for a second.

I have nothing to say. So I don't.

She picks it back up.

--Seeing as you have just come from our occupied territories, I am very curious to hear
about what you have seen there.

Another rest.

Me, I still got nothing to interject.

--Predo will offer as little of this information to me as possible, keeping the most useful
details for himself.

I look at the mixing bowl at the edge of the table, the one still filled with the remains
of those cigarettes.

--And I intend to extract as many of those details as possible before I must call him and
report your capture. Using the same tactics he will use.

I cough.

--Lady, if you're offering me a chance to avoid being tortured twice, just say so. Tell me
what you want to know and I'll spill it. Just maybe one of these guys could get me some
rolling papers so I can put my cigarettes back together and have a smoke while I'm
talking.

She looks at one of the boys. He comes over and puts a box of Marlboro Lights and a yellow
Bic on the table.

I light up.

She takes my empty cup off its saucer.

--You may call me Mrs. Vandewater. I prefer it to
lady.

I blow smoke.

She slides the saucer in front of me.

--I'm afraid I don't have a proper ashtray.

More smoke.

--And now that you have your cigarette, I would like to know what you saw while you were
below. How many soldiers, what arms, defenses along the border, these are the details I am
most interested in.

I heave out another lungful of smoke and knock ash onto the very-expensive-looking Persian
rug that her tea table rests on.

--Fuck off. Mrs. Vandewater.

I expect to be given a few good raps on the back of the skull and hauled away to a
basement or some other place where the floors aren't as nice and the bloodstains won't
matter so much. But all that happens is the Vandewater lady gives a little sniff, lets her
glasses drop to the end of their neck chain, gets up and walks out, two of her boys
trailing her. The others don't even slap me around. They just stand there and keep me
covered, both of them staying on the same side of the room so there's no chance they might
shoot each other if they have to open fire.

I make the most of it, smoking the rest of the Marlboros and grinding the butts into the
rug. It passes the time.

An hour goes by. I run out of cigarettes. I stand up and the boys don't shoot me. I
stretch. Still no bullets. I take a step in their direction. They both take their fingers
from the safe position alongside the trigger guard and wrap them around their triggers. I
take a step back. They unwrap. So I guess this is my side of the room. I take a look.

I had the bag over my head when they brought me in, but I'm pretty sure we stayed on that
same block they were driving around. There or very nearby. They drove us down a ramp into
an underground garage. The elevator went up express, opening right into the apartment. The
way Vandewater talked about the view, figure we're anywhere from the sixth to the tenth
floor. I can't hear anything from the other rooms of the apartment or the apartment above.
Probably prewar, brick walls. The wainscoting and the molding around the ceiling have
never been painted over white like in most old Manhattan buildings. Yeah, this is one of
those places on Morningside Drive, one of those castles right at the top of the park.

I take a look at the walls: a couple nice prints, some of van Gogh's sunflowers, a
Remington. Nice stuff, but not my style. There are a few plaques, dark wood with brass,
the Vandewater name engraved prominently. Awards. Acknowledgments for efforts. Thanks for
donations. That kind of thing. Some sheepskins, too. A yellowed diploma from Columbia when
it was still King's College. Several more, also from Columbia. Men and women, all
Vandewaters. Most very old, some that are new.

I look at the new ones. All the degrees taken in the sciences. Biology mostly. I think
about that. I think about that school right around the block. I think about the kind of
people who go there. And I file those thoughts away. I get lucky, I can maybe follow up on
them someday. Think I have an idea who one of those thoughts might lead me to.

I look some more.

There are some photos. Silver-framed, sitting on a table at the end of the couch, a shaded
lamp illuminating them.

I look. Blink Look again. I pick one up.

Vandewater. Predo. Terry Bird.

The door opens. Vandewater comes in. Her boys come after, a sagging, head-bagged body
between them.