Joe Pitt 2 - No Dominion (3 page)

What I need is a real gig. A deal that will pay off big in both categories. I need
something besides all the nickel-and-dime crap I've been hitting for the last year or so.
The year since I pissed off the Coalition and they stopped dropping their loose ends on
me. I never realized just how much I relied on the scraps from their table 'til they were
gone. But I sure as shit miss them now.

For the thousandth time I think about giving them a call. Ringing up Dexter Predo and
telling him I made a mistake. Telling him I can make it right; I'm ready to toe their
line. I think about it. But the phone stays right where it is.

Fuck those assholes.

I walk out of my place and down the block to Avenue A. I hit the deli around the corner
for a pack of Luckys and a beer. I cross the avenue, find a bench in Tompkins Square and
drink and smoke and think about my problem. My problem is jobs.

My work comes to me by word of mouth. Problem is, word hasn't been getting around much
lately. No straight citizens showing up with a deadbeat dad to track down, none of the
smaller Clans calling to have a Rogue swept off their turf. Just me picking up bouncer
shifts at Niagara and some arm-twisting for a couple shylocks. Shit work. Fucking
Coalition. When I finally bit back at those guys, I maybe bit a little too hard; bit clean
through the hand that fed me.

The Coalition is the only game when it comes to booking a heavy gig, but they always got
to rub your face in the fact when you come calling. Kind of makes you resent them for
being the only Clan that has the juice and the resources to drop a couple grand and a
dozen pints on a guy on anything like a regular basis. And Predo? He just plain hates me.
That's what happens when you land in the middle of the Coalition spymaster's plans and end
up screwing them up all to hell. He hates you. He wants your head. He has papers on his
desk he thinks it will maybe look good holding down.

I suck down the last of my beer, toss the empty in a trash can and start walking. The
Coalition is the only outfit that could hook me up regularly, but there are other Clans,
and you never know when they might have some dirty work lying around. And I may have been
avoiding this play for a good long while now, but the two pints left in the fridge are a
pretty compelling argument to bite the bullet. So I head east, toward Avenue C and Society
headquarters, biting that motherfucker all the way.

--Hey, Hurley.

--Joe.

--Read any good books lately?

--Fuck yas.

--Yeah, I like that one, too.

It looks like your average Alphabet City tenement, but it's not; it's a fortress. I don't
know exactly what kind of security or how many partisans they got holed up here, but
Hurley is all they need. He stays in front of me, slouched against the door frame,
threatening to bring the whole building down if he leans a little harder.

--Sumtin' on yer mind, Joe?

--Terry around?

--Yeah.

We stand there, me on the threshold, him blocking my way. I want in, but I don't think I
could ever want anything badly enough to try and force the issue with Hurley. Guy's been
around at least since Prohibition. I can't begin to calculate how tough a Vampyre thug has
to be to last as long as he has. As for him, he's in no hurry to move himself. He could
stand there all night waiting for me to get down to business and never move an inch. It's
not that he's possessed of Zenlike patience, it's just that he's too stupid to ever get
bored.

--Think I might talk to him?

--Gotta appointment?

--An appointment?

--Yeah.

--Since when does Terry make appointments?

Someone steps out of the shadows behind Hurley.

--Since I took over security.

I look him up and down.

--Evening, Tom. See you finally got that promotion you been bucking for.

--It wasn't a promotion, asshole. The Society isn't a fucking corporation, it's a
collective. I was elected to the post by my peers.

--Yeah, sure. Anything you say. I'm sure Terry backing you had nothing to do with it.

He starts to come outside, but stops himself.

--OK. OK. You know, you can say whatever you want, Pitt. Doesn't matter to me. Know why?

--No. Tell me, please.

--'Cuz you're just a slob on the outside who's trying to get inside, and all I have to do
to get rid of you is this.

And he slams the door in my face.

Well, shit, I'm a bigger pain in the ass than that.

I cover all the buttons on the intercom panel, push them down and hold them there. It
takes about a minute for him to open back up.

--Knock that shit off, Pitt!

I take my hands off the buttons.

--Hey, Tom. Terry around?

--You don't have a fucking appointment. No appointment, no Terry.

He slams the door. I hit the buttons. He opens the door.

--Hey, Tom. Terry around?

--Hurley, get rid of this guy.

Hurley comes out onto the porch.

--Time fer ya ta go, Joe.

--Hey, Hurl, that rhymes.

He points at the steps.

--Ya want ta walk down 'em, or ya want ta fall down 'em?

I stand on my tiptoes and look over his shoulder at Tom.

--So if a guy wanted to make an appointment, how would he go about it?

Tom smiles.

--A guy like you? An old friend of Terry's?

--Yeah, a guy like me.

--Well, I'd say all a guy like you has to do is pencil something in for a week past fucking
never.

--That's a long time.

--Hurley.

Hurley turns around and looks past Tom.

--Yeah, Terry?

--What's the hassle about?

--Joe here wanted ta come in.

--Well, why's the man standing out there?

--Didn't have no appointment.

--That's cool. Let him in.

Tom spins, dreadlocks flying.

--What the fuck? He's got no appointment.

--No problem, Tom. I'm not really busy right now. Just taking it easy.

--That doesn't matter. I'm supposed to be clearing people in advance.

--Sure, but we got to stay flexible, too.

--But security.

--Sure, sure, we want to be safe. But that's Joe. We all know Joe.

I hold my hand up.

--Hey, Terry, I don't want to cause trouble. I can make an appointment. No problem.

--No, man, no. Come on in.

--You sure?

I take a step toward the door. Hurley moves to the side, but Tom steps in front of me.

--Security is supposed to be my job. And this asshole hasn't been cleared by security.

Terry takes off his Lennon glasses and wipes them on his Monterey Pop Festival T-shirt.

--Yeah, man, you're security and all, but we got to remember this is a community
organization. You know, it's all well and good for us to be safe, but we have to be able
to respond to the needs of the community. Otherwise, man, what's the point? And Joe here,
he's a member of the community. So let's, you know, let's just bend a point here and let
the man in.

--Fucking. I was duly elected and I'm taking this shit seriously. I'm drawing a line. No
appointment, no meeting. Especially for a security threat like this guy.

Terry puts his glasses back on.

--A line. Uh-huh. A line. OK. OK. I get it. You and Joe have history. Some, you know, some
difficult history. Some unresolved conflicts. That's cool. So I tell you what, why don't
you and Hurley go do a perimeter check?

--What?

--You know, go, like, check the perimeter. Make sure it's secure or whatever.

--My post is--

--Tom, really, go check the damn perimeter and stop acting like a storm trooper.

Tom opens and closes his mouth a couple times, looks at me, looks back at Terry, looks at
me again.

--This goes on the list, Pitt. Right near the top.

And he storms down the steps, making sure to hit me with his shoulder on the way.

--What list is that, Tom?

--Fuck you, cocksucker. Come on, Hurley.

--The list of times you've made an ass of yourself?

--FUCK YOU!

He walks away down the sidewalk, Hurley a few steps behind him.

I turn to Terry.

--It really safe letting him walk around with Hurley?

--He's an OK guy, Joe. Good at his job. Pretty mellow most of the time. It's only when he's
around you that he loses his cool.

--Well, that's the only time I see him.

--Think there's a connection there?

--Got me.

He smiles.

--Uh-huh. So. Something you wanted to see me about?

--Yeah.

--Well, come on in, my friend. I'm just brewing up some
chai.

--Lucky me.

--The thing is, Joe, the thing is, I really thought I'd be seeing more of you. After the
last, you know, realignment, I thought we had gotten back some of that trust, some of
those good vibes we used to share.

--Thought it'd be just like old times?

He takes a big whiff of the branches and dirt brewing on the stove.

--Well, old times. You can never get those back. But I thought we'd reached an accord, an
understanding. Something to build on. But you haven't really been around. Why do you
suppose that is?

--Got me, Terry. Maybe because I don't like you?

He laughs as he pours the mess in the pan through a strainer and into a cup.

--Well, yeah, I guess that'd explain it. Sure I can't interest you in some of this? It'll
mellow you right out, put you in a good frame for conversation.

--I don't like to be mellow.

--And that, Joe, that is too bad. Too bad.

He picks up his cup, walks across the dingy kitchen and takes the chair next to mine.

--Well then, what is it, my man, what's on your mind?

--A job. I need a job.

You could say Terry saved my life.

You could also say that over two decades back he found me on the bathroom floor at CBGB,
bleeding my life away through a hole that had been chewed in my neck. The guy who put the
hole in me must have had a real taste for that shit, a real yen for the old-school style.
That kind of thing ain't easy, a person's got to be desperate-hungry, or just be the sort
who enjoys it. This guy, he'd taken his time with me, buttered me up, picked me out of the
crowd as an easy mark. He was right. Nineteen seventy-eight: me, seventeen and living on
the street, a hard-ass punk looking for cash, looking to score. He offered me a twenty to
suck me off. No brainer at the time. Terry found me right after. Scooped me off the floor
and took me to a Society safe house. Not like this deal they got now, but one of the holes
they used to skulk around in before they had fully secured their turf. I ran with him for
a few years, learned the ropes, saw how some things got done.

Salad days, those.

--Not to make light, Joe, but we're not really an employment agency.

--No shit, Terry. I don't need a career, I need a gig. I need to beef up my stash and make
some money.

He shrugs.

--I don't really see where we can help. Now, don't get me wrong; you're hard up, we can,
you know, front you a little something to get you by. But our resources are limited. You
know that.

--Sure.

--What we do have, we need to use it to help support the cause. World's not gonna change on
its own.

--Sure.

--The Society is always looking for opportunities to reach outside, to aid anyone afflicted
with the Vyrus, but the pledged membership, the people doing the actual dirty work of
trying to integrate the infected population into the noninfected, they have to come first.

--Right.

He takes a big sip of his gunk, ponders a moment, then lays it out.

--Now if things were different, if you were still a member, there'd be a few more options.
There'd be, you know, emergency funds and such that could be tapped. But for a Rogue, even
one like you, one we like to think of as an ally? Well, the politics of charity are more
complicated than they should be.

--That an offer?

His mouth drops open a little.

--An offer?

--You asking me to come back?

He waves his cup.

--Joe. If you wanted to come back in, all you'd have to do is ask, man.

He sips again, watching me through the steam rising off his cup.

--Well I'm not asking.

--Too bad, man. Too bad.

--Besides, you got yourself a security chief. What would you need me around for?

He sets the cup on the table.

--Your ego need stroking, Joe? Self-esteem been suffering? Need an old friend to tell you
how much you meant to the cause?

I stand up.

--You're not my friend.

I start for the door.

He talks to my back.

--Actually, I am. More of a friend than you know. And I can prove it.

I stop.

--How's that?

--Have a seat.

I stay on my feet.

--Joe, have a seat, man. And tell me about that deal at Doc Holiday's last night.

I stay by the door.

--Guy was spazzing on something and I took care of him before he could cause more of a
scene. Why do you care?

He picks up his cup.

--Because he was one of ours.

--Why should
I
care?

He takes a sip, swallows, smiles.

--Because maybe there's a job in it. For the right man.

I take a seat.

Something happens on Society turf, Terry knows about it. Fourteenth to Houston, Fifth
Avenue to the East River, if it happens on those blocks, Terry will hear. Especially if it
involves anything having to do with the Vyrus. That kind of stuff is very close to the
Society's whole charter: their ultimate goal of integrating the infected with the general
population. That's Terry's personal daydream: uniting all the Clans, bringing together a
population of
Vyrally infected individuals
that is large enough to have a political identity. He thinks that if he can bring us
aboveground, we'll be able to get the resources of the world behind finding a cure for the
Vyrus. It's a nice thought, I even believed in it for awhile myself, then I woke up. We go
public, the world community is gonna take note all right. They're gonna take note and
start opening concentration camps.