Joe Pitt 3 - Half the Blood of Brooklyn (4 page)

I flick my butt and it arcs out the open window and between the bars of the security gate.

--Because he's an idiot, Terry. Because he's the kind of asshole goes around hacking
people's heads off when he could just shoot them. Because he's a fucked-up nut job who
knows just enough about us to be dangerous, but not enough to know Solomon was clean.

Lydia is pointing at the window.

--You planning to go out there and pick that up? Litter doesn't throw itself in the
garbage, you know.

I pull out a fresh smoke.

--It bothers you, go toss it in a can.

--I swear, Joe, sometimes I think Tom was right about you, sometimes I think you're working
for the Coalition, trying to subvert everything we do down here.

--And we all know where thinking like that got Tom.

She comes away from the window.

--That a threat?

That a threat? Am I threatening the head of the Lesbian Gay and Other Gendered Alliance?
Am I throwing down on a woman I might not be able to take one on one, let alone if she
comes at me with a couple of her bulls behind her?

Fucking no, I am not.

But I have shit manners.

--Fuck you, Lydia.

--Fuck you twice, Joe. Fuck you all over if you ever come close to threatening me. Tom was
a spy. A scumbag subverter and a counterrevolutionary and a real asshole. He got what he
asked for. But you ever come close to threatening me with the sun again, I'll bring fury
down on you.

--You'll bring
fury
down on me? What the hell is that supposed to-

Terry looks at the ceiling.

--Forest! Forest! Forest!

I crush the cigarette in my hand.

--Brooklyn. OK? I get it. Lydia gets it. Brooklyn is what's going on. Brooklyn is the big
picture. So what the fuck? What's that got to do with the Candy Man?

Terry smiles.

--See, you do have wider vision, man. That's great.

Knowing it's the kingdom of the blind around here, what's that say about me and my vision?

I open my hand and spill tobacco and shredded bits of white paper on the tabletop.

--Great, now we got that sorted out, can I blow?

Terry untangles his legs, straightening them, rising erect.

--Joe. Lydia. Just as we are negotiating possible alliances with these, I guess they have
to be called pseudo Clans at this point, just as we're initiating
talks,
a Van Helsing appears. On our back porch. An apparently seasoned and knowledgeable Van
Helsing who kills in a, you know,
potent
style. But he does this-

Lydia coughs.

--We don't know it's a man. Can we please not
assume
the male pronoun for a change?

--Right. So the Van Helsing, he or she, kills an uninfected guy like the guy was infected.
If he or she does it out of ignorance, it's kind of, well,
incongruous,
to use a five-dollar word. So maybe it's an
accident.
Or maybe it's a
message
that even an uninfected isn't safe if he's trucking with the likes of us. Or maybe,
maybe, it's done just to stir up some shit.

The phone rings.

--I mean, these are delicate times. New faces coming over the bridge. Elements no one has
had contact with in, like, decades, man. Talking complex ramifications here. Talking old
growth forests getting new seedlings. Talking shifts in the balance of power.

The phone rings.

--And the Candy Man, for all his, no pun here, all his sweetness, he was a hard-core
businessman. He was a stone reliable dealer below Houston. The only one down there all
those Rogues and odd bits of Clans could rely on in a pinch.

The phone rings.

--Think that's not gonna stir concern down there? I mean, Christian finds out about this,
what's he do? He doesn't burn the store like would have maybe been the easy thing, he
comes and gets Joe. He looks north. He sees a potentially troubling situation near his
club's turf and reaches out for some Clan involvement.

The phone rings.

--He looks for some people who can stabilize a situation and bring a little balance
before
things can get knocked off kilter. He knows. His riders relied on the Candy Man. So he
knows what this could mean.

The phone rings.

--And, yeah, maybe it's all as simple and screwed up as a Van Helsing. Maybe we can get
him, or her, before a little panic takes place. And then, well, market forces will take
over and someone will fill Solomon's void and it'll all be cool.

The phone rings.

--But maybe, and I'm not talking from any secret well of knowledge here, I'm just saying,
maybe.

The phone rings.

--Maybe it's someone fucking with us.

The phone rings again and Terry grabs it from its cradle on the wall.

--Hello? Hey. Hello. Yeah. How 'bout that? Been a while. OK, OK, the usual. Yeah? Wow. That
was fast. Sure. Hey, we all got our ways. Who? No. Not them. Sure the Freaks did. No
surprise, but not them. Uh-huh. I know. Old times, kind of. Well, sure, you know, that was
different. Yeah. Uh-huh. Hang on.

He holds the phone out to me.

--It's for you.

I take the phone and put it to my ear.

--Yeah.

--Pitt, it's Predo. I understand there is a Van Helsing in your midst. We will need to
address this. Come see me.

Fucker.

Little fucking fucker Predo is, he keeps me waiting in the lobby with nothing but back
issues of
The New Yorker
and
Town & Country
to read.

I fiddle a Lucky out of the pack and stick it in my mouth.

--Uh-uh.

I look at the giant behind the reception desk.

--
Uh-uh
what?

He waves his pen back and forth.

--Not in here.

I take out my Zippo.

--What's with everybody? It's smoke. It doesn't hurt us. It's like the best part about the
Vyrus. Look, Ma, no cancer.

I snap the lighter open.

He places the pen on his desk, aligning it perfectly with the vertical edge of his
blotter.

--Don't even think about it.

I tap the tip of the unlit cigarette.

--Buddy, it's too fucking late for that, I'm thinking about it.

He smiles, no doubt dying for me to light up so he can stop dicking around with the boss'
PowerPoint presentation and go to work on me instead.

--Then you best find something new to think about.

I size him up. It doesn't take long. A guy built like that, you'd have to be blind not to
be able to size him up from about half a mile out. I'm a big guy, but one of his suits,
the jacket would make a nice overcoat for me. Still, I long to try it, see if I could put
a couple in his face before he tears the desk in two, jumps across the room, digs his
finger into my sternum and pulls my rib cage out.

Not that I got anything to prove, but the fucker pisses me off. Way he backed up Predo
that time they broke into my place and tossed me around, that made me not like him. Not
that I ever did in the first place. Piece of Coalition enforcer shit that he is.

But I didn't bring a gun. And I don't have the stones to try it even if I was packing.

I drop the Zippo back in my pocket, take a big drag off the unlit cigarette, pull it from
my mouth, blow a huge cloud of no smoke in his direction.

--Gotta rule against this?

He slits his eyes.

--Sooner or later.

--What? Sooner or later you're gonna sprout something from the brain stem that keeps your
lungs pumping?

He rises. If we were outside, if it was daytime, he'd blot out the sun.

--Sooner or later you are going to fuck up and be back on the street again. Sooner or later
you won't have Clan protection anymore. Sooner or later you're going to be a Rogue again.
And nobody will care what happens to you. Nobody will care when I pick you up by the
ankles and wishbone you.

What's a guy gonna say to that? Especially seeing as it's likely true.

Wish I had that gun.

The phone on his desk buzzes. He presses a button on it and picks up the handset.

--Yes. I'll send him up. Yes, Mr. Predo.

He closes his eyes, frowns.

--Yes, I will, sir. Unforgivable. It won't happen again.

He puts the phone down, opens his eyes, keeps the frown.

--Mr. Predo will see you now.

I get up.

--And we were just getting to know each other so well.

He looks me in the eye.

--And I am to offer my apologies for my threats. I went far beyond the limits of my duties.
A simple request not to smoke would have been more than enough.

He sits, picks up his pen and starts pretending to do something in an appointment book.

I walk to his desk and stand there.

He looks up.

--Yes?

--I never heard the actual words
I'm sorry.

His fingers tense, the stainless steel barrel of his pen flattens between them.

--I'm
sorry.

I tap invisible ash onto his desktop and make for the doorway that leads to the stairs.

--Keep your fucking apology. First time I get the chance, I'm gonna see how many bullets I
can fit in that empty head of yours.

He presses the buzzer that lets me pull the door open, masking whatever it is he's
muttering about my mother.

Like I ever gave a shit about her.

--I'm wondering, Pitt.

I'm remembering what it was like when I was a kid, the handful of times I attended school,
the way those days inevitably ended in the principal's office or a police station. The
lectures. The rhetorical questions. The,
What were you thinking?
The,
How do you expect to get anywhere doing things like that?
The,
Is this how you act at home?
The,
Do you think you're scoring any points with that attitude?

--I'm wondering, is there anything you care about at all?

Nights like this, it's easy to remember those days.

I stop picking at the knot tangling my bootlace.

--I care about getting out of here as soon as possible.

Predo places the pen on his desk, aligning it perfectly with the vertical edge of his
blotter.

--If that is your goal, you might try paying attention for a few moments.

I point at the pen.

--You know your receptionist did that the exact same way. What do you think that's about?

--I wouldn't know.

--Hunh.

He watches me, the bright blue eyes in his smooth boyish face looking at me, slouched in
the uncomfortable small wood chair across from him.

--Any other random thoughts, Pitt?

I give up on the knot and uncross my legs.

--Nothing just now. Why don't we get to your thing.

--
Thing.
My
thing.
That is what I am talking about. A Van Helsing, well versed from what I hear, at large,
and you evaluate it as a
thing.
An object or idea of no value relative to any other
thing.
No better. No worse. Of no greater concern than a rock or a tree, perhaps.

--What is it with people and trees tonight?

--Excuse me?

--Nothing.

He brushes the flop of dark bangs from his forehead.

--Someone was talking about trees?

I shrug.

The corner of his mouth twitches upward.

--Was Bird speaking on the subjects of forests and trees?

--What's it to you?

The corner of his mouth straightens.

--Nothing. I have heard similar lectures in the past.

I look back at the knot, give it a tug, pulling the wrong end and drawing it tighter.

--Pitt?

I keep my eyes down. Thinking about Terry and Predo. Hippie Terry. Head of the Society.
Revolutionary who organized all the downtown riffraff and Rogues almost forty years back,
got them on the same page and broke off a piece of Coalition turf to make their own. And
old man Predo. God knows how old, but so well fed, so blooded up he still looks
twenty-five. Coalition whip and public face of their Secretariat. The one who straightens
the rank and file. Head of the enforcers. The man who counters the Society's drive to
unite all the infecteds and take us public with the Coalition's doctrine to unite in utter
secrecy. A couple of true believers in separate corners. Guys taking potshots at each
other every chance they get.

They go back.

Back to a time when Terry was up here. A time when they worked the same side. A time maybe
only they and a couple other people know about. Like me.

A time I figure they'd kill to keep hidden.

I put the thoughts away. Blink. And look up into the spymaster's eyes.

--I'm Society, Predo. I was out, now I'm back in. You want to fish for what goes on behind
closed doors, find another place to drop your line. I don't run your errands anymore and I
don't give up skinny on my people. You want to know do I care about anything, now you
know.

His eyes widen.

--Heaven's, Mr. Pitt, have you seen the light? Are you a believer again? Forgive my
surprise. I was under the impression that you had taken over Society security because it
was the only way Terry would tolerate you on their turf anymore. My apologies if I've been
mistaken. I never meant to impugn your devotion to your cause.

--Impugn my ass and tell me what the hell you want.

--There, that is the Pitt I am most familiar with, the one I have come to know and
manipulate with such ease in the past.

I think about throwing my chair through the covered window behind him and pushing him
after it. But it's probably safety glass and I doubt the chair would break it. And we're
only on the second floor of the Coalition's Upper East Side brownstone anyway. So what the
hell good would it do? Not like the sun's shining out there or anything.

--Thinking about hurting me, Pitt?

I nod.

--Most of the time.

--Naturally. It is your nature to think ill of your betters. As to what I want, well,
simple professionalism. You handle security for your Clan, I oversee somewhat larger and
more complex operations of a similar nature for mine. In an era of dŽtente such as we now
enjoy, I merely wish to keep open the lines of communication between our offices when
threats emerge that might endanger the well being of all. Something like a Van Helsing, I
would have hoped to receive a direct call rather than having to find out about it through
sources of my own.

--While we're on the subject.

--Yes?

--What sources of your own are spilling news about what happens below Fourteenth?

--Below Houston is open territory. We have alliances just as you do.

--Still dancing with the Bulls and Bears?

He blanks his eyes.

--Anything you want to know, Pitt, ask it directly. Attempt to winnow information from me
and you will only become frustrated and waste your limited resources.

--Seemed that was a direct question.

He ignores it anyway.

--What can you tell me about the Van Helsing?

I hold up my hand, tick a finger off.

--He killed the Candy Man.

I tick another finger.

--He did it old school.

Another finger.

--He tainted a load of blood.

And my last point I tick off on my thumb.

--And he dumped ammonia around to get rid of his scent.

Leaving me showing him one finger.

--And that's it.

He nods, looks at a couple papers on his pin-neat desk, ignores the finger, and makes a
couple notes.

--Well, then. Dismembered corpse. Two dozen tainted pints. And you are on the job. Very
well.

He places a paper in his out-box.

--Good luck finding him.

I lower my finger.

--That it?

He glances up.

--Of course. As I said, a consultation was all I wanted. I have no interest in prying into
a matter that lies so close to Society turf.

I get up.

--Yeah, sure, because that would be out of character for you.

He looks back at his papers.

--Have it as you wish.
My
wish is simply to facilitate the secrecy the Coalition believes is in all of our best
interests. I have no desire to advance the goals of the Society, but interfering in a
matter like this can only lead to unwanted publicity. That said, should you require any
assistance in your investigation, you have only to call.

The fingers of one hand waft in the direction of the office door.

--Until next time.

I look at him, illuminated by the green shade lamp on his desk, surrounded by hardwood
filing cabinets, the walls decorated by black-and-white photos of former holders of this
office. All of it as it has been for more years than I learned to count in school. And I
make for the door.

--Yeah, sure, next time.

--Pitt.

I stop with the door half open.

--Yeah?

--How did things go with the Docks?

I hesitate. It's a heartbeat. Less than a heartbeat. But I hesitate.

--Docks?

--The Brooklyn Clan that's looking for a Manhattan ally.

--Sure, I know who they are, just haven't seen them myself.

--Odd.

--How's that?

He taps a finger against his chin.

--We had scheduled a meeting with them. Understanding that they were to meet with the
Society first.

--News to me. How'd that go?

--They never arrived.

--Hunh.

He watches me.

I shrug.

--Bridge-and-tunnelers, guess they got bad manners.

He lifts an eyebrow.

--I suppose so.

I start to go out the door, turn back again.

--Hey, that thing.

He looks up again. --
Thing?

I point at his desk.

--The thing with the pen, the way you put it there, all perfect. The way your boy
downstairs does it the same exact way. I got a theory about that.

--Yes?

I purse my lips.

--He's studying you. Marking your moves, the way you go about it.

--About?

--Your business.

I pistol my fingers at him.

--He's trying it on, Predo, seeing how the job would fit him. Yours, that is.

And I'm out the door and down the stairs and through the lobby past the giant who's gonna
have Predo's eyes in the back of his head from here on out, and on the street where I can
breathe.

I light a smoke.

Did it tell him anything? That hesitation, did it spill what went down with the Docks? I
don't know. But he's better at this than I am. He's better at everything than I am. It
probably told him every fucking thing he wanted to know. Every goddamn thing he got me up
here to find out from me.

I'm getting screwed.

Figure I know that much. God knows I should recognize the feeling when Predo slips it in.
Scumbag's had his action in my ass often enough.

Manipulate,
he said.

Guess that's the way the polite folks are saying
fucked over
these days.

Like to say he's got it all wrong. Like to say he's never had my number. Never pulled it
over on me. Never made me dance on his strings. But I'd be lying. And lying to yourself
pays out nothing. Not that it's ever stopped me before.

Terry and his damn forest. Well, he was right about that. Way Predo snagged me at the end
there, asking about the Docks, figure he's seeing the same landscape as Terry. Both of
them looking across the Brooklyn Bridge at all that territory, the couple thousand
infecteds that have been living in the bush out there, and how they've suddenly started
crossing the bridge looking to come back into civilization.

A Van Helsing?

Like Predo could give a fuck.

Pull my ass up here, drag me across 14th Street for a
consultation
he knows Terry won't let me bow out of. Do that for a lone whackjob? Bullshit.

Do that to fish for what Terry's up to with Brooklyn? Yeah, figure that's how Predo plays
his games. And figure Terry's got that figured just as well.

Now I'm supposed to go home, turn in my report, tell him how it went down so he can take a
read on Predo's hand.

Both of them trying to get an idea of the other guy's cards by looking at my face.

Fucking job!

Oh. Fuck me.

Two dozen pints. He said,
Two dozen pints.
Fucker knew what Solomon had in stock. Predo. Van Helsing. Would he do that? Send one of
his enforcers down to do a job that looks like a Van Helsing? Do that to get me in his
office where he can look me over? Hell yes, he would.

Or.

Shit.

Or it could have been Terry. Could have been he had Solomon done, knowing Predo would try
to play me. Terry could have done it to get me in Predo's office so he couldÉ

What?

Fuckers!

Try to think like them, try to make your thoughts slither and creep like theirs, all you
get is tangled and lost. Screw it. Keep it simple.

The Van Helsing is just a Van Helsing, till further notice.

Predo is just an asshole, till further notice.

Terry is just my boss and my oldest friend and a man who I don't trust for shit, till
further notice.

I can't afford to figure it any other way. I can't afford to try and play it any other
way. Start playing someone else's game, you've already lost. Besides, I got more important
things to worry about.

I got a sick girl.

--Joe.

I stop kicking the can I've been chasing down the dark Central Park footpath. I look at
the woman blocking my way.

She's black and she's beautiful and she's built like a brick shit house.

--Sela.

She toes the can with the point of her glossy black knee-high boots, the slit in her skirt
falling open over a bare, muscle-rippled thigh.

--Got a minute you can spare?

I look at my watch.

--Not really.

A long red nail scratches the back of her neck just below the line of cropped, tight black
curls.

--Too bad.

I make to go around her.

--Yeah, too bad. See ya around.

She nudges the can in front of me and steps into my path.

--Not what I meant.

I look down at the can, back up at her.

--How did you mean?

Her big shoulders roll under the designer leather of her tailored jacket.

--I meant
too bad
in the sense that it doesn't matter if you've got a minute to spare or not. I need it
anyway.

I take her in: the new uptown threads, the salon cut, the makeup so flawlessly applied
that you only know it's there because you can't see it. I think about the last time I laid
eyes on her: in an Alphabet City tenement, the ripped jeans she'd had on, the Patti Smith
T, the mohawk she'd sported then. I don't have to inhale to smell the money all over her,
or the hand it came from. I got no interest in seeing that hand again.