Joe Pitt 2 - No Dominion (19 page)

Dead men naked they shall be one

With the man in the wind and the west moon;

When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,

They shall have stars at elbow and foot;

Though they go mad they shall be sane,

Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;

Though lovers be lost love shall not;

And death shall have no dominion.

And I ride the rails, straight down to 14th Street. Straight down and free and clear. And
I just know that it's gotta be bad news.

At 14th, my nerves shot to hell, I get off. I transfer to the L line, cross over to First,
and walk out of the station and back into the day.

The sun presses on me just the same as it did Uptown, but here it is almost a relief. As
if it were a different, more familiar sun. I walk quickly to 10th, stopping in at my deli.
I grab a six-pack and a carton of Luckys. The guy gives me a book of matches and I light
up. I walk the last half block to my front door. I step into the vestibule and check my
mail. Just a couple things for
occupant,
same as always. I go down the hall to my apartment, unlock the three deadbolts, go
inside, turn off the alarm, close the door, snap the locks, rearm, and lean my forehead
against the wall. I stay like that 'til I know I have to move.

I walk past the couch, wanting nothing half so much as to sink down onto it, drink my way
through the six and smoke Luckys one after another. Instead, I go down the stairs into the
basement apartment and get my other gun.

There's nothing wrong with the 9mm I took off Shades, it's just that I know this gun, I
trust it as much as a gun can be trusted. Being a gun, it's more than likely gonna end up
in someone else's hand being pointed at me someday, so I don't trust it too much. But it's
mine and I've used it to kill people before, so I know it works. I leave Shades' piece in
the gun safe and pocket my own. Then I crack the fridge.

The bag of anathema is still in my jacket. I take it out and give it a sniff. I have no
way of knowing for certain if it's still potent, but it sure as shit smells like it is. I
stick it in the fridge. I don't want anyone smelling that stink when I come through the
door. I look at my own last pint. The blisters on the backs of my hands throb. My whole
body feels baked and dry, skin bright pink. Once it's gone, it's gone. Fuck it.

I pop the pint open and suck it down. Once it's in me, I wonder what the hell I was
debating about. Of course I'm drinking it now, you should always drink it now. Drink all
of it you can whenever you can. Anything that makes you feel like this, you should drink
it. I drain it, slice it, lick it clean. It's good. The blisters don't go away, but they
feel a fuck of a lot better. Everything feels better. We'll see how good it feels in a
couple days, if I'm still alive and haven't scored. I toss the empty into the biohazard
bag and close up.

In the can I give my face a good splash, wash away the last bits of scab clinging to the
inside of my mouth. Some of Vandewater's blood is on my shoulder. I towel it off. I see
the hole she ripped in the collar of my jacket. I stick my finger in it. Gonna take a pro
to make that look OK again. I put the jacket back on. I toss all of Shades' sun-gear in
the trash and dig out my own, tired of the stink of someone else's sweat in my pores.

I slam one of the beers and put the rest in my normal fridge, the one with actual food in
it, or stuff with mold growing on it, anyway. I grab my picks and I stick a couple extra
packs of smokes in my pockets. Wishful thinking on my part, hoping I might actually get to
smoke all of them. I leave.

The Count's place is where I left it. I could lurk outside, wait 'til someone goes in and
slip in behind them. But lurking and the sun don't go together. Instead, I go next door to
the El Iglesia de Dios.

Churches don't bother me. Some guys, they do. Some make a big show of it, avoiding places
like this, part of the scene they think. Some are genuinely freaked out. Those are the
ones that are sure we're all cursed. They may not say it out loud, but they think it. Most
of those kind, they don't last. Who can last walking around thinking their immortal soul
has been consecrated to damnation? Except the folks who think that way and really dig it.
Those ones are out there, too. They bug me. Who'm I fooling? They give me the willies. But
churches don't bother me one way or another. Just four walls and a roof. And maybe a big
wooden cross with a guy nailed to it. Nothing I haven't seen before.

I go into the church. There's a couple old ladies in there, kneeling, heads bowed on
folded hands. Could be praying. Could be junkies on the nod. Churches are good for that
also. I walk past them, right up the aisle and through the door behind the altar. There's
a corridor. At one end an office door, at the other a stairwell. I take the stairs.

I run into a guy in a coverall. He's carrying a toolbox. He gives me and my ski mask and
sunglasses a look.

I point up the stairs.

--All done?

He looks blank for a second then nods, hooks his thumb back up the way he came.

--Yeah, yeah, all set. Where's the?

--In his office. He'll have your check.

--Oh. Really? OK. Thanks.

We edge around each other and I keep climbing, going past a couple landings and whatever
he may have been repairing in here. The door at the top is padlocked. I don't bother with
the picks here, just grab the lock and give it a good yank and the screws holding the hasp
fast to the door frame tear loose. I push the door open. Jesus, it's bright out there. I
go out on the roof and close the door behind me.

There's a gap of about six feet between me and the fire escape next door. I jump it. I
don't need a running start. I come down on the escape, making a lot of noise, and have
clambered up the iron ladder to the roof before anyone can peek out their windows.

No shade at all. I scoot around on the verdigrised copper sheeting. I find a window that
looks in on darkness. I break it and go in. It's some kind of hut, a storage and service
unit of some kind. Cobwebs and boxes and gardening tools, of all things. But no door into
the building.

I sit in the darkness and smoke. I drop the spent butt and stomp on it. My foot lands on a
trapdoor. Fuck, Joe, take a better look around next time. It's one of those spring-loaded
jobs. I give it a push. No luck. It's locked on the other side. I stomp on it. Something
gives. I stomp again. Something rips loose and the trap swings down and a ladder unfolds
and bangs into the floor. Subtle. I go down. Just a tiny landing at the top of the stairs.
One door. No one looks out of it to see what the noise is about. Lucky them. I fold the
ladder and close the trap and go down a couple floors.

The Count's door is locked. Well, no shit. I take out the picks. They're good locks. It's
an expensive building, they should be good locks. But I'm up for the game. Fresh pint just
down the hatch, I can feel and hear every pin as I tease them into alignment. I pop the
first. I pop the second. I draw my gun and go inside.

They're all on the nod, heaped half naked or more in Poncho's door-walled room. If they
hadn't been high when they crashed, they would have woken up the second I came through the
door. Or maybe that's just me. Maybe when you live like this, with people, lovers, maybe
when you have a Clan to watch over you, you sleep easier. Maybe I'm the only one whose
eyes snap open five or six times a day, when a car with an odd sounding engine drives past
or a rat rustles the garbage out front or a kid laughs on the sidewalk. Maybe that's it.
Maybe my life sucks just a little more than everybody else's. But I doubt it. I think all
our lives suck about the same amount. Just in different ways. I look at The Count,
Poncho's legs wrapped around his, Pigtails and PJs jumbled next to them.

This guy, I'm about to make his life suck in all kinds of brand new ways.

I nudge the sole of his foot with the toe of my boot. He stirs, they all stir, but only
his eyes open.

--Wha? Hunh?

--Morning.

--Whan? Joe?

--Yep.

--Hey. What's up, man?

--You.

He cracks a tired smile.

--Not really, man.

I show him the gun.

--Count. Get up or I'm gonna start shooting your girls.

Poncho's eyes fly open at that.

I level the piece at her face.

--Stay there.

She stays there. The Count gets up. He's wearing blue and white briefs and a girl's
T-shirt that rides too high on his skinny belly, Buffy silkscreened on the front.

I point at the girls, all of them stirring now.

--Tell them to stay put.

He runs a hand through his tangled hair.

--Yeah, no problem.

He looks at them.

--Chill, ladies. This is cool. Just a misunderstanding. Nobody lose it. Me and Joe are
gonna figure this out.

He looks at me.

--Right, man?

--Sure.

I let him lead the way over to the kitchen. Behind us, the girls press their eyes against
the cracks between the doors that screen Poncho's room.

The Count points at a coffeemaker.

--You want some?

--No.

--Cool if I make some?

--No.

--OK. OK. So what's the deal?

He leans his skinny butt against the counter, arms folded, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

--This a jack? You after my stash?

I point at his shirt.

--That supposed to be funny?

He looks down at the picture of the vampire slayer on his chest, shrugs.

--I don't know. I guess so, maybe.

--I hate that shit. That self-aware, ironic, pop culture Vampyre shit. I hate it.

--I.

--Like it's a game.

--It's not supposed to mean anything. Just a shirt.

I bang the barrel of my gun across the bridge of his nose. The nose breaks and bloods runs
out. He barks, goes to his knees, hands over his face. Another of those kids who hasn't
figured out the pain thing.

--Fuck! Oh fuck!

--That funny, Count? That fit in with your hipster Vampyre lifestyle?

I kick him in the gut. He rolls onto his side, curled in a ball.

One of the girls hisses. I don't bother to look. I put the gun to The Count's head.

--Stay in that fucking room or the gravy train goes off its rails right here.

The hissing continues, but quieter.

I grab some of his hair and pull his face out of his hands.

--Those supposed to be your brides, those girls? They complete the scene for you? Help to
polish your image, Count?

I knock out a couple of his teeth with the pistol butt, knowing they won't grow back.
Happy about it.

More hissing.

--Fuck you. Fuck your stupid games. Come down here. Like the vibe, do ya? Uptown not your
style? Columbia not for you? I get it. Me, I was just Uptown myself. I see why you
wouldn't be into that. All those boys the old lady keeps around, I can see where you
wouldn't want to join that scene. So, pre-med wasn't what you wanted. Tell me. Tell me
about Columbia. Was she saving a spot for you on her wall? Old lady Vandewater, she got a
place all picked out to hang your sheepskin next to the others?

--Don't.

I put the barrel in his mouth, make it harder for him to talk.

--Come down here where people live their lives. People try to get by. Try to make this
fucked up shit work. Come down here playing games and drawing attention and making life
harder than it already is. You fucker.

He dribbles some blood from his mouth.

--Dunht!

I take the barrel out.

--What?

--Don't. Oh fuck. Don't fucking. Don't kill me, man. Don't.

I drop him.

--You stupid fuck. You'd be lucky if I was the one to kill you.

--Just. Please. Don't.

--And besides, nobody tell you yet? You already died.

He coughs blood.

I drop a dish towel on him.

--Get your shit together. I want to hear about Tom. Tell me again how he was the one
sponsored you. I want to hear about you and Tom.

The door busts in.

I hesitate for less than a second. That finishes me. I had time to get one round off.
Trying to decide whether to use it to kill The Count or slow down Hurley finishes me. I do
manage to get one in on him, one punch in the gut. It doesn't do anything. You can't fight
Hurley. He puts me down, Tom right behind him.

They're pretty surgical about it, almost as clean as Vandewater's boys. They chill the
girls, get me and The Count wrapped tight, and have us out and into a van before anyone in
the building can take an interest.

Figure we'll end up at one of Tom's personal safe houses. Someplace private where he can
ice The Count until they have their story straight. Me, I'm way past icing in Tom's book.
I'll be lucky if this hood ever comes off my head. Actually, I'll be luckier if it never
does and they just put a couple in me and sink me in the river. Figure there's a chance of
it. Tom may have enough heat on him that he won't take any chances, just waste me and get
rid of me. Figure that's wishful thinking. He's had a hard-on for me for too long. He
wants to get his licks in before the story's over. He's such an incredible dick he won't
be able to resist torturing me one last time. Figure that's about the way things work out.
I ain't got any better coming to me anyway. I've done my share of this shit. What goes
around, it comes around. Figure it's my turn.

And figure I'm pretty fucking surprised when the hood comes off and the first face I see
is Terry's.

He's not alone. Far from it.

They get me strapped to my seat. When the bag comes off my head, I'm expecting to see
Tom's fist coming at my face. Wrong. There's Terry, sitting at the kitchen table in the
Society headquarters, sitting there with some notes and shit in front of him, looking at
the papers. There's Tom, pacing back and forth behind him, a few of his partisans standing
around the room. There's The Count, taped up to a chair right next to mine. Looks like
Hurley must have given him a good one 'cause he's out. Dry blood covering his lips and
cheeks and chin, snuffling through the scabs clogging his nose. He's better off. There's
Hurley, right off my shoulder, making sure I don't try to do fuck knows what. And there's
Lydia, sitting next to Terry, not looking happy to see me at all. Terry, Tom and Lydia in
the same room. Me on the other end of their hard looks. Not the first time I've been here.
But it's never a good thing, having the senior council of the Society all in one place
looking at you like your head coming off is a foregone conclusion and they're just
deciding who gets to swing the ax.

--Hey, guys. What's up?

Terry takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes, making a big show of how run down he is.

--I need your help, Joe.

Tom starts waving his arms around.

--Fuck that,
his help.
We don't need his help, he's already helped plenty, already fucked himself. It's time for
sentencing. I move waiving the inquiry and going straight to the sentencing.

--Yeah, Tom, once we're officially convened and the whole council is here, that'll be cool.
But for now, I'm just kind of passing the time with an old friend here.

--Bullshit! That's favoritism, Terry! That kind of crap, that shit is over! You can't get
away with, with protecting him anymore. He's done. And, man, your time, your time is
coming to a close. As soon as we're convened, as soon as this
spy
has been executed, I'm calling for a referendum on your chairmanship. You harbored his
ass, you kept this serpent in the garden, man. This shit is down to you as much as it is
to him.

Terry starts to open his mouth. I get ready to enjoy seeing Tom put in his place, but it
doesn't happen. Terry just shakes his head and holds up one hand.

--Yeah. Yeah, you're right. That's right. And I, man, I thoroughly expect something like
this, my chairmanship has to come into question. That's, you know, that's just the price.
But I am going to invoke some privileges, I am going to serve as Joe's defense in the
inquiry.

Tom shakes his head, arms folded over his chest.

--Not gonna be an inquiry.

Terry nods.

--Yeah, OK, if you have your way, in the sentencing phase I'm still gonna serve as his
defense. And, you know, as such, I have a right to talk to the man. Right here, in front
of everybody.

Tom taps his index finger on the table right in front of Terry.

--No. Fucking. Way. No way does this guy get any more special treatment.

Lydia leans forward, putting her elbows on the table, her biceps stretching the fabric of
her black sweater.

--You're wrong, Tom.

He moves his eyes from Terry to her.

--What?

--It's due process. He may be a shit, and Terry may be on his way out, but due process is
due process. He can talk to him if he wants.

There's a little stare-off. Lydia could tear Tom a few new assholes at will. If he didn't
have his partisans here. But it hasn't come to that yet, it hasn't come to an open coup of
Society leadership. Yet.

He nods, throws up his hands.

--OK, OK,
due process
it is. But if Terry can ask questions, we all can.

Terry shrugs.

--Sure, sure, if that's what it takes. Sure.

He looks back at me.

--So, like I was saying, Joe, I can use your help. As I guess you can kind of see, the
shit's been hitting the fan.

--No kidding?

--Sure has.

--How hard?

Tom sits on the edge of the table.

--Not as hard as I'm gonna kick your balls into your throat if you don't stop being a
smartass.

I look at him.

--How's the leg, Tom? Get that bullet out?

He laughs.

--Yeah, be funny. Take it all the way. Sure, I got the bullet out. Got it in a plastic bag.
Gonna be exhibit A when we sentence your ass. That alone, fucker, that alone is gonna get
you executed. Before we do it, I'm gonna take that bullet and shove it through your ear.

I look at Terry.

--You gonna let him talk to me like that?

Terry fingers his papers, gives them a flip.

--Well, right now, like you kind of been hearing, there's not much I can do. I mean, you
ask how hard the shit's hit the fan, let me tell you, hard enough to stick on everything.

--That's pretty hard.

--Yeah, yeah it is. Hell, Joe, once we got tipped off you were on your way back down, the
shit would have to be pretty hard to get Predo and us to agree to let you pass all the way
without no one getting in your way. 'Cause, you know, no one wanted a big scene with you
getting dragged off a train or anything. And still, getting Predo to agree to let us take
you into custody, that took some doing. Wouldn't you say that's some shit hitting hard?

I don't say anything. I don't really have to. Because he's right, that's some shit hitting
the fan pretty damn hard.

--You got to admit, whatever it was made you go wandering around the Hood, trailing one of
Predo's enforcers, whatever that was, it'd have to be pretty damn important to get you off
the hook at this point. And, well, that's even assuming the enforcer hadn't gone missing.
Then we got.

He looks at his papers.

--We got one of Digga's people, Papa Doc, sending word through Predo that you escaped
custody and beat on some guards. All and allÉ

He looks at the papers again.

--Looks like you've been making some noise all over. And, you know, shooting Tom, well,
that was a bad call, too. So.

He drops the papers and looks up.

--So, I don't know. You got anything to say about all this?

Anything to say? Anything to say about Terry being the one who set me off poking in the
first place? No. Not yet.

And Tom's just playing his angle. Hand it to the shit, it's a bold play. We'll see how far
it gets him.

--I got nothing to say.

Tom hops off the table and goes to the fridge.

--And how 'bout this, asshole, got anything to say about this?

He drops a bag of anathema on the table.

--Got anything to say about this being in your apartment? You fucking poisoner. You
motherfucking dealer piece of shit.

Terry gives me a look.

The look goes from the anathema to me and back again. A shake of the head goes with it.

--Of all things, Joe. This stuff? I never thought I'd see it again. Been so long, I had to
explain it to Tom and Lydia. You know it's killing kids out there? You know what it's
doing right now to our kids? Let alone the Society cause, man. Stuff is trouble. Got to
say, Tom's right on this one, it's poison.

Lydia points at the bag.

--That shit. That shit. That kid you took care of at Doc's? That fish you put down? That
fish was one of mine. He was in the Alliance. You. You fucking. You what? You hooked him
and what? He was gonna talk to someone? Tell someone where he got it? Was that it? Did you
give him the hotshot that sent him over? You. Jesus. You fucking.