Joe Pitt 3 - Half the Blood of Brooklyn (20 page)

--And it made a pile of problems for Daniel. As he'd been nursing me along all the while.

He drops the butt and grinds it under a bare leathered foot.

--Bitch's bastard, I wish I could have a word with the fucker. I really do, buddy. Still.
You never know.

He squints at me.

--Ever seen one of them things, buddy?

I play the light over the floor, don't say anything.

He nods.

--Yeah, you seen one. Scary as all hell, yeah? Know what's scarier? Nothing. Nothing in
this world scarier than a Wraith, buddy.

He moves closer.

--I watched it happen once. Watched Daniel and a couple other of the old-timers sit and
meditate for days, none of us allowed a drop of blood while it was goin' on. Watched a
crack open. In the air. A crack in the air. Know what that looks like, buddy? Looks like
nothin'. Looks like what nothin' looks like. Watched one of them things squirm out of it.

Closer.

--And then I stopped looking. 'Cause I didn't want to see anymore.

Closer, whispering.

--Know what they say? Say about them? What Daniel said they are, buddy? Know what they are?

He licks his lips.

--They're what happens. They're what happens when the Vyrus is done with us.

He points at himself.

--They're what's gonna happen to me.

He points at me.

--And they're what's gonna happen to you, buddy.

He leans his mouth close to my ear.

--They're what we become.

He puts a hand on my shoulder.

--So you never know, buddy, we both may get to see Daniel again.

He leans away and looks me in the eye.

--Boo!

I jump.

He laughs.

--Sorry, sorry, buddy, it's the prankster in me. I may be a true believer now, but I still
got discipline problems.

I crack a knuckle.

--Yeah. I can see that.

He stops laughing.

--Buddy, they call it a sense of humor. Look into it.

--Sure, as soon as you show me how I get the hell out of this place.

He points up.

--There. Up the ladder, buddy.

I rake the light up the wall and see the rungs bolted into the concrete, leading to a
trap.

--It's an alley up there. Might be a couple garbage cans on top of the trap, but no lock.
That work for you?

I shine the light back at the floor.

--Yeah, that'll work.

He reaches out and takes the flash and switches it off and we're in darkness again.

--Well, up you go, then.

I climb.

At the top I put my shoulder against the trap and heave and some cans crash to the ground
and it swings open and flickering Manhattan night light fills the narrow sky above the
alley.

--Buddy, hey, buddy.

I look down into the black tunnel.

--Yeah?

--You sure about that, goin' up there, you sure? 'Cause think about it, what's gonna happen
sooner or later?

--What's gonna happen?

--Buddy, what's gonna happen is that sooner or later they're gonna find us out. Shit,
buddy, they may already know about us. Seems kind of far-fetched to think they don't, huh?
And when they're ready, when they got things set up for us exactly how they want, they're
gonna hunt us all down. Right, buddy, that sound about right? Sure it does. My religious
zeal aside, I got no illusions. Why do you think I stay down here? Up there, what you got?
Think. It's not even natural. Trying to live a life that isn't yours anymore, right?
That's all it is, buddy. Down here, I'm safe as houses. No one hunting me down here. I hit
a bum for some blood, no one cares. No one calls the cops. Buddy, down here, I'm the top
of the food chain. Down here, I can last forever. If I want to. Think about it. Down here
is where you belong. It's where we all belong, buddy.

I look up at the sky.

--I'm not saying you're wrong. But I got someone up here.

--Huh. Well, that's different, then.

I look back down into the hole.

--What's your name, old man?

--Joseph. Yours?

I blink.

--Simon.

I hear his feet padding away.

--Be seeing you, Simon.

I climb out into the alley and close the trap.

I make for home, my stink clearing the sidewalk ahead of me.

I make for home.

Where I have blood and guns.

I want them so bad, I want blood in my gut and a gun in my hand so bad that I don't even
see Lydia's bulls coming for me. Just the tattoo across the biggest one's knuckles before
her fist lands in my face.

FURY.

--I try, Joe. I try harder than most to take your smartass bullshit and not lose my cool. I
try to understand that something made you the way you are, but there are limits to my
compassion and my patience.

Lydia points at a chair and her bulls drop me in it.

--You push and you push and you push. You do just enough to make me think you might have an
ounce of decency, and then you fuck it all up.

She leads the other women to the kitchen door and ushers them out. She closes the door
behind them and turns to face me.

--What I really can't stand is that you insist on engaging in behavior that forces me into
taking actions that aren't part of my nature. I end up doing the kind of things Tom would
have done. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel? Unhealthy. That's how. I hate it.
But let me tell you.

She crosses the room.

--Shooting me was the fucking limit!

She's spent a day getting straight. Drinking from some crazy stash of cage-free,
no-hormone-injected, organic blood that she keeps around so her sensibilities won't be
offended. She took too much hurt in Brooklyn and from my gun to be a hundred percent. But
she's close enough. The fist she plants in my gut tears something in there. Something that
hurts a lot. Her next punch might just put a hole in my stomach and go right out my back.

Fortunately Hurley comes in and pulls her off me.

Hey, I'm a lucky guy.

She jerks free of him.

--Don't, Hurley, don't ever touch me.

He rubs a hand over his whiskers.

--Sure, Lydia, don't mean nuttin' by it, I know I ain't yer type a feller an' all. Just dat
Terry asked I should see ya don't kill him none. An' looked fer a moment dat der might be
some danger of ya gettin' carried away some.

From the floor I look up at her.

--Hey, Lydia.

She looks at me.

--What?

--I could have swore you told me never to
threaten
you again. I didn't think actually
shooting
you would be such a big fucking deal.

Hurley shakes his head.

--Shut the fook up, Joe.

And his boot puts me out.

--This is getting a little old, isn't it, Joe?

--Don't know what you mean by that, Terry.

--Us sitting around the table. You with your back to the wall. Me and Lydia spelling out
how things are. You finding a way to live with that and get a little of what you want from
the situation. How many times we been through this?

--Put it that way, a few.

--More than a few, Joe. Many more than a few. And let me tell you, I am getting, man, I
don't know, weary of the dynamic.

Lydia stops staring at her hands resting on the tabletop and looks at him.

--
Weary of the dynamic,
Terry? Come on. Can we cut through the crap?

Terry rubs his forehead.

--Yeah, yeah. I'm just trying to create a little context for the discussion. I just want us
all to understand that we've been this way before and maybe we won't be able to sort
things quite the same as we have in the past. Things change, you know, and it may be that
there's a sea change happening here that won't allow us to deal with this situation in the
same manner as we would have in the past.

--I said,
Cut through the crap,
Terry.

--I know what you said, Lydia.

--Well then?

He starts to raise a finger, drops it.

--OK. OK. The direct approach. That's really your style anyway, isn't it, Joe?

I'm on the floor in the corner of the kitchen, Hurley seated on a stool next to me. Not
that he needs to keep an eye on me. Not that I'm gonna do anything. Not that I can do
anything.

I touch the welt Hurley left on my forehead. I think I can feel the pattern of his boot
tread impressed in torn skin.

--Sure. The direct approach.

I take my hand from my forehead.

--You sent me to Brooklyn and I got all fucked up and caught in the middle of some crazed
holy war, and I killed a bunch of people and chopped a Rebbe into pieces so they'd know
not to fuck with us. And if you didn't want it to turn out that way you should have sent
someone else.

Terry clears his throat.

--Well, yeah, man, that's all, I don't know, good as far as it goes. Lydia covered that
part for me already. Except, you know, the chopping into pieces stuff. But I can see that.
I can see how that will be effective. But, you know, having done all that, and having, and
this was impressive, having saved Lydia, you, well, man, you shot her.

I look at her.

--She got in my way.

Terry folds his arms.

--Thing is, Joe, it's not the first time you've shot a member of the Society council. And,
sure there were extenuating circumstances the last time, but it's not the kind of thing we
can let roll by. And then there's this other thing Lydia mentioned.

He looks at her.

She looks at me.

--Where is she, Joe?

I count heartbeats, get to twenty before Lydia gets tired of waiting.

--What did you do with your friend, Joe?

Terry has his elbows on the table, he leans his forehead into his hands.

--Did you infect her, man? Did you do that, Joe? Did you consciously and willfully go into
the uninfected community and infect someone with the Vyrus?

I count fifteen this time.

Get tired of counting.

--I didn't infect her.

Lydia and Terry look at each other.

Terry rotates the little gold hoop in his earlobe.

--Tell me you didn't try, man. Just, please, man, tell me you didn't try.

I count one heartbeat.

--I did try.

--Ah, fuck.

Lydia stands.

--You killed her. You. You tried to infect her and you screwed up and you fucking killed an
innocent woman, you stupid little. Joe. You. Damnit. Damnit.

Terry takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes, slips them back on.

--Did you do it? Is that how it happened?

I don't count anything this time. But I don't say anything either.

Lydia comes around the table and makes for me.

--What are you? What are you? We're trying to change things. We're trying to change and
you. You.

Hurley is in front of her.

She stops. Looks at the floor. Walks back to the table and sits.

Terry watches her. Waves Hurley to the side. He taps the tabletop.

--This is a big deal, man. So, you know, I need you to tell me, Joe, is that what happened?

I think about what happened. I think about the Count's blood in Evie. Instead of mine. I
try to think of a way of saying it out loud. But I don't have to. Because what happened is
so very simple.

--I tried to infect her. And it didn't work.

He takes off his glasses again and covers his eyes.

--Ah, fuck.

Lydia walks to the door. Stops with her hand on the knob.

--The sun.

And walks out.

Terry takes his hands from his eyes and looks at Hurley.

--Hurley?

Hurley stretches his neck.

--Whativer you say i'tis, Terry, so i'tis.

--Not this time, man, you got to make the call for yourself.

Hurley looks at me, shrugs.

--Sun i'tis.

Terry nods.

--Yeah. The sun. Unanimous.

Hurley rises.

--Ya want I should lock him away till mornin'?

--No. That's cool. Leave us alone for a bit. We've got stuff to kick around.

--Sure.

He gets up and tips his hat at me.

--Too bad ya fooked up like dat, son. Fer a woman an' all. Still, nuttin' personal.

And he's out.

Terry stands.

--Joe. Man. What can I say? I mean, it's not like you gave me any choice. I make an
exception on something like this, well, where's it gonna end? Lydia? How long do you think
I can keep her loyal to the Society if we start bending on basic principles? No. It's
greater-good time, here. Time to. Ah, shit.

He walks to the door and stands there for a moment with his ear against it and locks it
and stuffs his hands deep in his pockets.

--When I found you, Joe. Man. You were. I don't know, you were an animal. You were.

He smiles.

--Such a classic punk. Like, you know, like you had invented attitude and had to show it
off. Pure promise. Made for those days. All that rough and tumble. I never regretted
bringing you in. Even after you left the Society. Even then I.

He comes away from the door and crosses toward me.

--Well. You know. And when I got you to come back in last year? That was, that was like a
dream come true. But. Then. I guess you could say I was living in the past maybe. Well, no
maybe
about it. I
was
living in the past. You can't go back. That is the truth. It's a clichŽ, but it's the
truth. All that stubbornness you had when you were a kid, all that attitude, I thought
you'd outgrow it.

He laughs.

--Wow, was I wrong.

He's in front of me. He looks over at the door. Looks back at me.

--I want to do something for you here, man. But you got to tell me something.

He takes his hands from his pockets.

--Where's the Count, Joe?

I almost laugh. But it would hurt too much.

--Took you long enough, Terry.

He squats.

--Uh-huh, and now I'm asking. Where is he?

I look around the room.

--Notice you waited till we were alone to get into this.