Joe Pitt 2 - No Dominion (5 page)

He points at himself.

--But not for people like
me.

He grins.

--I get it.

He wets his lips with Scotch and his eyes wander off.

I slap the table.

--And?

His eyes come back around.

--And? Oh, right. Yeah, yeah, I heard about that shit. The new deal, the shit the new kids
are into. 'Course I heard about that shit, who ain't? Shit, Joe, where ya been, under a
fucking rock?

--Wish I could get my hands on it, whatever it is. Try some of that shit.

--It'd kill ya.

--Me? Naw. Never.

--It's cutting through the Vyrus, Phil. It'd kill ya.

--Well, OK, sure, maybe, ya put it that way, maybe. But if anyone could hack it, it'd be
me.

--'Spose it would.

We're walking down A, leaving Niagara behind us. Phil wants to score and the place is dry.

I could just beat it out of him, give him a good one every time his mind starts to wander,
but with the amount of speed he's pumped into his system the past two weeks it could take
a lot of slapping around. Not that I'm opposed to slapping Phil. Not that I'm opposed to
beating the hell out of him for that matter. A worm like Philip, he was pretty much born
to be slapped. Christ, he was any more of a Renfield he'd be stuffing his face with flies
and cockroaches. God only knows how Phil ever found out about the Vyrus, probably by being
somewhere he shouldn't have been, but he's been existing on the edge of the community for
some years now. Really, it's kind of a miracle none of us have killed him yet. Guy's right
hand's been keeping secrets from his left for so long he doesn't even know which is which
at this point. But he won't fuck around with me anymore, not after the last time. He used
up his last Fuck-With-Joe-Pitt Coupon about a year ago. I made his face look different
when he cashed it in. He tries to play me again and I'll take it clean off. So we walk
down to the Cherry Tavern.

The guy working the door takes one look at Phil and me and shakes his head.

--Uh-uh. We're full up.

A couple teenage girls come giggling up. He glances at their fake IDs and waves them in.

He's in his early twenties, his arms and chest pumped too big for his legs. He's all high
on working the door at this East Village meat market, enjoys being the man who decides
which guys get in for a crack at all the underage pussy he lets in, and which do not. Me
and Phil, we're a little long in the tooth for this place. Me, I'm very long in the tooth
for it, but I don't look it, wearing my age as well as I do and all. Far as he's concerned
we're a couple trolls who are gonna fuck up the ambience. I could do some things, I could
grab his balls and give 'em a yank, I could bounce his skull off the door, I could just
put a hand on his shoulder and squeeze until he gets the point. Instead I pull out a
twenty.

He plucks it from my fingers.

--Happy hunting.

The Cherry has turned the corner about four or five times going from shit-hole to hot spot
and back again as a new crop of NYU kids comes in each year. Right now it looks to be on
the downward curve. It's doing a brisk trade in binge-drinking hipsters, but they're not
fucking in the bathrooms. I drag Phil to the bar and order three of the specials: shot of
house tequila with a Tecate back. We work our way through the hormones to the back of the
bar where we find some open space and take a seat at the tabletop Ms. Pac-Man machine.

I put two of the specials in front of Phil.

--Drink up.

--Thanks, Joe. I was gonna buy, my round and all, but thanks.

He takes a sniff at one of the glasses. He pulls a face.

--Jeez, Joe, not the best stuff.

--Yeah, well you know the Cherry, not big on the fifteen-dollar Scotches.

--Yeah. Place is a dump.

He downs one of the shots and follows it with beer. I do the same.

--So talk to me, Phil.

His eyes are dancing over the tightly packed crowd, searching for anyone who might be
holding. I snap my fingers in front of his face.

--The new shit. I've been under a rock, so tell me about it.

His eyes never leave the kids in their low-slung jeans, Pumas and hoodies, trying to spot
the telltale hand clasps of drugs being passed off. But he talks.

--Yeah, the new shit, it's like all the rage. Not, you know, thick on the ground or
anything, but, like, the thing with the cutting edge crowd, the new kids are bringing it
in.

--New fish found it?

--Yeah, that's the vibe I'm getting. Like this isn't the kind of thing the old farts, no
offense, Joe, but not the kind of thing the old farts are into. That a monkey fist?

He's pointing at a bulge about the size of an eight ball of coke in the tight pocket of a
girl's cords.

--Not my specialty.

--It is, it's a monkey fist. That chick's holding. Watch my beer, I got to go talk to that
chick.

I grab his wrist before he can get up.

--Not yet.

--C'mon, man, I got to get in on this.

--Sit. Drink. Talk.

He watches her edge into the bathroom followed by a couple of her friends.

--Aw, man, gonna be nothing left.

I push the last shot of tequila in front of him.

--Drink.

He downs the shot.

--Anyway, not the kind of thing for the senior circuit is what I'm hearing. Taboo shit,
scandalous and exotic. Frankly, shit piques my interest in the worst way.

--You see anyone do it?

--Naw, naw. All happening behind closed doors like
Reefer Madness
or something. Stories you hear, about these intimate rave kinda scenes with everyone
hitting the new shit and freaking out and fucking wolves and bats and shit. You know, that
kind of thing.

Right. Bat-fucking. That kind of thing.

--Where you get these stories? There aren't enough new fish around for a scene like that.

The girl in the cords comes out of the bathroom, monkey fist significantly depleted. Phil
rolls his eyes.

--Aw, man, aw shit. I knew it. Fuck.

--Where you getting these stories, Phil?

--I don't know, around, you know, just, in the air. Shit like that, it's just in the air.

--In the air and I haven't heard about it? Terry Bird hasn't heard about it?

He chugs beer, some of it overflows his mouth and runs down his chin. He wipes it with the
back of his hand.

--In the air for people like me, man, people looking to score. You, Joe, you got a one
track mind; you're like this worker bee always trying to, like, you know, get what you
need, always working a
job.
May as well be nine to five. And Bird, he's like the establishment down here. May still
be fighting the good fight with the Coalition, but far as the kids are concerned, he's
pretty much The Man himself. New fish aren't looking to fight the power, they're looking
to maybe have a good time, enjoy life while it's, you know, youngish. Think they're gonna
come above ground to chat it up with a guy like you?

He's looking at me now, talking to me without watching the room. I stare at him. He
snatches up his other beer, takes a drink, tilting his head back to break eye contact.

--Anyway, that's, like, about it, I guess. All I got anyway.

--Uh-huh.

--Yeah, that's it.

He drinks some more beer.

--That was quite a speech.

A little more.

--Where you get a speech like that, Phil? All them ideas?

He finishes the beer, shrugs.

--I dunno.

He points.

--Hey, hey, that look like--?

I cover his hand with mine.

--I said,
Where'd you get a speech like that?

He tries to tug his hand free of mine, but I keep it pinned to the table.

--Speech? Jeez, Joe, that's no speech, that just the speed rapping, just the old oral
diarrhea. Just, like, whatever garbage rolling around my head getting cleared out by the
speed. You know that.

I press down on his hand.

--Who you been talking to, Phil?

He clenches his teeth.

--Talkin' to?

--Phil, I'm gonna crush your hand. You'll never cut another line again. Who you been
listening to?

He's grabbed onto my wrist with his free hand, trying to pry himself loose.

--Um, yeah, well, yeah, I could have been list'ning to someone, to this guy.

--What guy?

--Guy goes by,
The Count.

I lift my hand. He snatches his back and massages it.

--Jeezus, Joe, didn't have to do that. Could have broke the damn thing. Ain't ya had enough
fun whalin' on me over the years? Ain't enough enough?

--Where do I find this guy?

--Got me. I mean, really,
got me.
The guy ain't like no friend of mine or nothin', he's just a guy who's around who I
crossed paths with a couple times.

--Set something up for me.

--Aw c'mon. That could take all night. I got things of my own to deal with, I got a high to
maintain here and you already got me off my schedule. As it is I don't know how I'm gonna
score, gonna have to rely on the kindness of strangers or something to get by, and now you
want me to invest my few remaining energies in taking care of your business? That ain't
right, Joe, you know that ain't right.

I stand up and dig the last of my cash out of my pocket. After the drinks here and Niagara
and the twenty for the doorman, there's about forty left. I drop it in front of him.

--Score.

He scoops the money up.

--Sure thing, don't gotta tell me twice.

--Score, and then get me my meet. I want it set up tonight.

--I don't know, man, could be tough on short notice. Like I said, not like he's a pal of
mine or anything.

He's looking sadly at the bills in his hand, rubbing them back and forth against one
another.

--Forget it, Phil, that's all there is. Get me the meet. I'll talk to you later tonight.

He gives up, tucking the cash into his jeans.

--Sure thing, Joe. You got it. Just tell me where to meet you and I'll be there.

--I'll find you.

--Uh, sure, sure OK. Um, where ya gonna find me?

--You'll be at Blackie's, right?

--Sure.

--I'll find you there.

I make my way out of the place, leaving behind the low fog-bank of cigarette smoke, the
fake wood paneling and the aroma of puke that drifts from the can every time someone opens
the door. Leaving behind Philip, hip deep in his element.

The Count.

There's one born every minute. Or every couple years anyway. Seems there's always someone
coming down the pike calling themselves The Count, or Vlad or Vampirella or some shit.
Some asshole geeked on the whole vampire scene and wanting to play the role to the hilt.
Whatever, I'll meet this guy and talk to him. Won't be the first time I've grilled a dude
in a red satin-lined cape. Sad to say, it won't be the last.

It's close to one. Blackie's won't open 'til the regular bars close at four. I wander past
Doc's. A sheet of plywood has replaced the window I sent The Spaz through last night. I
think about going in to talk to the bartenders, see if they saw anything I didn't, but
it's pretty packed. I'll save it for later. I walk to the corner of 10th and A. Take a
left and I can stop by my place and grab some more cash, dig into that emergency fund. I
stand on the corner for a minute. But I'm just putting shit off. I know where I need to go
now, and my money's no good there anyway. I walk one more block down A, take a right on
9th, and cross over to Avenue C.

When I come through the front door of Hodown, Evie glances up at me from behind the bar
and gives me a look. She's weeded back there. I slip past the pedal steel, fiddle and
harmonica trio jamming on the tiny stage, collecting empties from the tables. I take the
bottles behind the bar, dump them in a plastic garbage can with a couple hundred others
just like them, and start washing glasses. Evie nods at me as she shakes a martini.
Fifteen minutes later the glassware situation is looking better, so I go back around to
the fun side of the bar and take a seat.

Evie's still serving the crowd. It's not a bad bunch. This late at night in the middle of
the week it's mostly waiters and waitresses getting off their shifts at the ten thousand
cafŽs and bistros that opened down here in the last decade. Or it's regulars coming in to
work on their liver disease and listen to the music. She pops open a Lone Star, slides it
down the bar to me. A half hour later things settle down and she comes over.

She wipes her hands on the bar rag tucked into her studded belt, picks up my smokes from
the bar and sticks one in her mouth.

--Got a light?

She hardly ever smokes.

--What happened today?

She picks up my Zippo and lights the Lucky herself.

--No big deal.

--Good. What'd the doctor say?

She looks at the band.

--You hear these guys before? Corpus Christi?

--Yeah. I heard them before. What's the doc say?

She takes a drag, coughs on the smoke.

--Said. Cough! Said. Cough! S'cuse me.

She takes a sip of my beer and stops coughing.

--Doctor said my viral load was up. Said the HIV is showing again.

I try to touch her hand, but she moves it. She stares at the band, holding the smoldering
cigarette unsmoked.

--OK. Then what's next?

A guy at the other end of the bar tries to catch her eye. She doesn't see him.

--Well, it's the second test showing a load, so that means we have to test to see if I've
developed a resistance to the Kaletra.

--And if you have?

--We try other drugs.

--So when do you get the resistance test?

The guy at the bar is waving his hand.

--I get the resistance test after I take the recommendation from my doctor to my insurance
company and they say I can have it, and if it comes back inconclusive I have to get them
to approve a different test, and if that's inconclusive we start shooting in the dark,
trying different meds, but since Combivir and Kaletra are the Health and Human
ServicesÐrecommended treatments, I'll have to get every new drug we try approved first,
and that will take Jesus knows how long, and they all have a different set of side effects
so, instead of just puking all the time, I might start putting on something charmingly
known as
back fat
or losing my hair or, you know, experiencing sudden heart failure.