Every Last Drop

Jeo Pitt 4 - Every Last DropCash changes everything, even in the hands of a guy clearly wearing someone else's polo shirt.He drops two packs in the tray.I look at them. —No, no, not that shit. Give me the real ones, the filterless.He looks at the display of smokes behind him. —I got the filters or I got the filter lights. Don't got filterless.I toss another twenty on the tray and point. —Give me that pair of scissors hanging there.He rings up the scissors while I open both packs of smokes. I knock the bottom of one pack until just the filters stick out, open the scissors, and slice them off. I repeat with the second pack and leave the trash in the tray with the change from my purchases.The guy points at the mess as I make for the door. —Not your garbageman, motherfucker.I hold up one of my modified smokes. —Buddy, you're lucky I didn't burn this fucking place to the ground.So much for keeping a low profile in the Bronx.Then again, so much for the Bronx.Rounding onto Rockwood I run my hand along the bars of the fence that separates the little playground on the corner from the rest of the world. My fingers snag one by one on the bars. Kids play here during the day. I know because I can hear them when I use my bolt-hole next door. This time of year they mostly run in and out of the spray from a little fountain, returning again and again to push the silver button on a red post, triggering the water when it times out.Not a bad sound, those kids.Sentimental. Romantic.Predo knows shit. Just likes to throw words like that at me. Figures they'll get my goat. Figures I got some problem with being who I am. What I am. Figures he can worm under my skin and make me jumpy.I ever bothered time on who I am, I might get worked up about it. But why fret on something you cant change.I come even with tonights cave, one of a half dozen or so that I like torotate between. A crumbling garage surrounded by ruined cars at the back of a mechanics asphalt lot. The business itself is a block over on One Seventy-two. This place here the guy uses as dead storage.I scale the chain-link, drop inside and edge between a wall and an old red van. Back of the van are a couple steps down to a door held shut by rusty hinges. A stone rams head worn smooth by rain is wedged into a notch over the door. The walls are crumbling stone and brick. A limestone foundation visible at the foot of the wall.Its fucking old.I push the door and it grinds open about eighteen inches before jamming on an engine block just inside. I work myself through the gap. Inside, I push the door closed. I could have gotten a lock for the door, but it was open when I found it. Figure the sudden appearance of a lock might attract someone s interest. Some places are so forlorn, figure they're safer if they look like anyone could come in and lie down to die anytime they please.I reach inside one of the empty cylinder chambers on the big V-8 block and find my flashlight and flick it on. If the windows weren't all boarded, enough light would filter in for my eye to work with, but that's not the case. Pitch isn't so black.The light shows me the piled heaps of twisted rust and grease. It looks likesomeone bought the scrapped wreckage of a hundred demolition derbies and dumped it all in here until it could be made use of.How lucky for me to find such cozy lodgings.I skirt the piles, working my way to my burrow at the base of the north wall under the buckled hood of a 49 Ford. Behind the mix-and-match seats I've wedged together for a cot, I find a filthy nylon laundry bag.Worldly goods.A couple plain black Ts mean I can scrap the pastel thing I'm wearing. Rarely felt better about getting rid of an article of clothing. Spare boots means I can get my feet unpinched and out of the sneakers. No backup pants just now so I'm stuck with the khakis, but they're getting nice and greasy now, so that's not so bad. Spare works. I open the kit and make sure its all there: hose, needles, blood bags.No spare gun or switchblade or Zippo.But lots of paperbacks. Moving from place to place these days, a DVD player is a bit of an encumbrance. And an expense. I find the copy of Shogun that I couldn't get through, unsnap the rubber band that holds it closed, open it, and take the brass knuckles and straight razor from the hollowed pages inside.A faucet scabbed with peeling lead paint juts from a wall at the back. I takemy jacket, the Le Tigre shirt, and a small box of detergent from a Laundromat vending machine, and go squat by it. I get the shirt damp and sprinkle some soap powder on it and start to work at the blood on the jacket. Not the first time I've done this.Back outside, I pull the door closed and look at the City of Light Christian Center across the street. Is it ironic, me crashing across from a church? No, it is not fucking ironic. What it is is fucking business as usual in the Bronx. Churches are like hair salons up here. Cant go two blocks without passing at least one.Pentecostal Church of Jerusalem II. Cherubim and Seraphim Church. Congregation of Hope Israel. Healing of the Heart Worship Center. Concillio de Iglesia Pentecostal Vision Para Hoy Inc.Danger isn't that you'll burst into flames should you accidentally rub against one, danger is that all those fucking places are breeding grounds for superstition. Not just the usual shit about the virgin giving birth and her son growing up to get crucified and come back to life. These people, they believe in all kinds of crap.Not least of all, some of them believe in vampires.The fact they believe in the kind that can be chased off with garlic and byinvoking the name of the Lord is beside the point. Simple fact is, they believe.I hit the corner of Rockwood and the Concourse at the big apartment building that looks like Charles Addams was a big inspiration in its design, and cross the Boulevard.Believers are a problem.Believers keep me moving from shithole to shithole up here. Mean, you slap a reputation for nocturnal habits on top of the white skin, and some of these churchy types get even more nosy than usual.But the Bronx isn't the only place where believers make trouble.That scene cooking over the river. That isn't about believers facing off for a dustup, I don't know what it is. Everyone putting their back in a corner, going into a big stare-down, waiting for someone to twitch and turn their eyes away. That happens, someone blinks, and the rest will be on their throat. Whittle themselves down till there's two left, circle, sniff and hit the floor with their teeth buried deep in each other's flesh.Smells like a lot of dying getting ready to happen.I think about Predo's little presentation on the Horde girl and everyone's reaction to her plans. Trying to pry the truth from the cracks between all his lies isn't worth the time. I've tried, and never come away with more thanbloody fingertips.Only way to get to the heart of what Predo s up to is to pick up a knife and start digging under the skin till you hit a gusher.One could ask, Why bother?Why jump when the little prick comes calling with a setup that could be straight and narrow, but that just as clearly won't leave room to squeeze out at the end? Things so bad up here? So miserable just eking it out? Life lack some kind of meaning when it's lived this close to the bone? Willing to put your neck on the block just for a chance to live back in Manhattan? Mean to say, Joe, it's a great city and all, but the rents are out of fucking control!And I could answer back, Mind your own fucking business.Man have to have a reason to do something stupid?Man got to be more than just bored and sick and tired of what he's got right now to decide to risk a pile of worthless crap on a crooked wheel?So.Figure I got a reason. Figure I got a couple reasons. Figure there's some people over there important to me. Figure there's two of them.Figure one of them I got to kill.The other. Well, figure that's a little more complicated. Figure the other is agirl. That's always more complicated.Figure a chance to get across the river with a little time to work with is all I've been breathing for. Get picky about who comes offering everything you've been dreaming about for over a year, and it'll slip away, never to be seen.So it's a crooked deal. So I'm angling to get myself real fucking dead. So what?I play this right, I may get to see my girl again. Fact that if she's alive, it could mean she's just waiting for a chance to kill me doesn't enter into the situation.I like her anyway.Besides, you got something better to die for?Past the Morris Hair Salon and Spa, the svelte figure of a yellow neon woman standing in for the / in Morris, Bonner dead-ends in a cul-de-sac of weeded gardens. One yellow-brick tenement, a three-story town house of rotted wood shingle, a gray aluminum-sided row house with a rooster weathervane bolted above the porch, and another fucking Pentecostal church.Juan 3:16 on a green sign.For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoeverbelieves in him shall not perish but have eternal life.Funny thing. Live in this life, do the things we do to stay alive. Know that if you do it enough you could go on living for a very long time, sometimes you think funny things.Like that line about drinking His blood and eating His body.Guy like me hears that and he could get ideas about what was really going on at the last supper. Not that I'm saying anything. Just that I like to give myself a good laugh every now and then.Back of the church, behind chain-link, is a yard of high green weeds and low-hanging branches that screen the rear of a dingy white row house seated off the cul-de-sac. I go over the fence, through the brush and scratch at the red backdoor of the place.Nothing happens. I scratch again. More nothing. So I knock. Same result. I pull my hand back to give the door a good banging and smell the gun oil on the barrel of the shotgun before it tickles my neck. —You wake my neighbors and I'm gonna be mad as hell.I raise my hands.—You use that thing and they'll wake the hell up all right. —They will. But they II be too scared to look out their windows.—Good point.She takes the gun away. —The hell you doing here, Joe?I turn and show Esperanza my new scar. —Hoped you'd have a pair of sunglasses I could borrow.—Thought you had a quiet night planned.I settle into the ladder-back chair in the corner of her basement room. —So did I. Ran into a guy named Lament had other ideas.She puts the .20 gauge on the floor next to her old army cot. —Lament. —Got in a tangle with some of his kids.She pulls a drawer open on an old bureau. —You hurt any of them?I point at my face.—I look like I hurt any of them? Want to see where that crazy fucker bit my toe off?She digs in the drawer. —No, I do not.—Didn't think so. Between that, losing an eye, and my bad knee, I'm gonna be roadkill any night now.She looks up from her search. —Kind of doubt that.I light a smoke and drop the spent match in one of those ashtrays with a plaid beanbag base.—Doubt all you like, but I'd have to contract dire leprosy to start losing parts any faster.She takes a green and gold sweatband from the drawer and stretches it between her fingers. —Howd you get away? —Cut a deal.She drops the sweatband back in the drawer and looks over. —Cutting deals Isn't Laments style. —What can I tell you, I cut a deal.She scratches her upper thigh just under the hem of the flannel boxer shortsshe wore outside to threaten me. I'm assuming she was wearing them already and didn't put them on special for the occasion. —Guess its not unheard of.She's washed her usually slicked hair and it hangs black and glossy to her jawline. —I cut a deal with him once.There's an old Ewing poster above the cot, corners ripped by thumbtacks.I stretch my leg, feel the gravel in my knee grind.—Don't say. Didn't know you know the guy. Truth is, before tonight, I didn't know he existed.She twists a hank of hair.—Like I said before, you don't look to get involved in the neighborhood, you can't expect to know what goes on. —True. True. So you one of his kids?She tucks the hair behind her ear. —Yeah. I started over there.She cocks a hip, rests a hand on it and leans against the bureau, flashes some attitude.—But I didn't like the way he ran things. —So you cut a deal.She works a cigarette from her pack on the bureau top and puts it between her lips. —I cut a deal.I watch her look for a match, and take mine out of my pocket. —Having seen his operation, that sounds like it was a wise move.I flip her the matchbook. —What kind of deal did you cut?She lights a match and puts the flame to her smoke.—I cut the kind of deal where I dragged him out of the sun when the Mungiki would have let him burn.She crosses and drops the match in the ashtray.—Deal was, he was too fucked up at that point to do anything but whine while I kicked him in the face before I left.She drives her bare heel into the floor a couple times. —I was smarter, I would have left him in the sun.—What stopped you?The tip of her tongue appears between her lips, slips back inside. —I was afraid. Stupid. Afraid he'd be able to do something if I killed him.She knocks some ash. —He has a talent for that.She takes a drag and smoke rides her words. —A real gift for making kids afraid.The tips of our cigarettes flare a few times.I stub mine out. —Never too late to make up for past mistakes.She nods.—Yeah, I've thought about it. Every time I hear another kid went missing up here, I think about going over and finishing that deal. —Something holding you back?She walks back to the bureau. —Yeah.She rests her smoke on the edge of the bureau and starts digging again.—I'm still afraid of him. How funny is that?I think about my parents, about urine running down my leg as they came at me.I watch her, and try to read the dark tattoos on her dark skin in the dark room. —Nothing funny about that at all.She takes a pair of big geriatric sunglasses and a compact from the drawer, crosses to me and slides them on my face.She tilts her head and gives me a once-over. —Just like you just went to the eye doctor.She palms the compact open and holds it in front of my face.I take a look at myself in the huge black goggles. —Oh yeah, very inconspicuous.She clicks the compact closed. —Better than walking around with that hamburger showing.She takes the glasses. —It gonna grow back?—No. But it'll heal some. Part of the eyelid might grow back. Probably skin will just seal it up.She sets the sunglasses and the compact on the top of her boom box next to the ashtray.—Gonna be light in a few hours. —Yeah. —Just saying, you may as well stay here.I shift in the chair. —No, I gotta—She holds up a hand.—Don't tell me what you gotta, Pitt. I didn't ask. I don't need to hear your excuse. And, for the record, I didn't mean anything by the invitation.She goes to the bureau for her smoke.—You've made it plenty clear you re not interested. I've made it plenty clear I am, and that there's no strings attached. I don't need to be turned down twice in one night. When I say, You may as well stay, I'm picturing me in my cot and you on the floor. Not that I'd suddenly play hard to get if you climbed under my blanket, but you've let me know that's not the way it's gonna be.She crosses her arms over her cutoff WNBA tank. —So you staying or going? Cuz I'm ready to get some sleep.I look around her little bunker room. Knicks posters, the scratched bureau, boom box and a stack of hip-hop and reggaeton CDs, small collection of basketball shoes, microwave, few groceries stacked on milk crates, chem-toilet in the corner, pile of books in both English and Spanish, that little cot.The chambers of the Queen of the South Bronx.The idea of climbing off that floor and into her cot, well, a man would have to be flat-out dumb as mud to pass on a chance like that.But two people would break that cot. —I cant stay.She heads for the cot. —No problems. Door is right there. —I need to go.She lies down. —Don't tell me your plans, Pitt, just get going.I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees.—I need to go across the river.She looks at me.I look back. —And I need help.I rub my chin. —Tonight.She laughs.I nod. —Yeah, funny, right?She laughs some more, stops, looks at me. —No. Not funny. Just I get it now.She puts her hands behind her head. —Man I was freaking out on it. —What's that?She laughs again.—Why you kept saying no. I mean, I've been turned down, shit happens to any girl. And I don't usually offer twice. You, I've put it out there a bunch of times. Imean, a girl thinks, What's wrong with me? I didn't know if it was the whole jock thing, like you like your chicks more feminine, or maybe you don't like Latinas. I could not figure that shit out. I mean, Pitt, there ain't that much up here to choose from if we want to stay in our own kind. You don't look so bad, you can talk when you get the urge, and you're not some freak running round gnawing on anything with blood in it. And I know I got something that works. I could not figure this shit out. Why the fuck we never hooked up.She rolls on her side and points at me. —You got yourself a girl over there.She laughs.Women. You tell me they're not all witches, and III tell you you haven't been paying attention.—It's not that easy. —You do it all the time.She raises a finger and wags it at me.—OK, first, I do not do it all the time. I do it every chance I get, but that is far from all the time. Second, what I do on my own, and what you need, those are two very different things.I look at the clock.—Its the same damn river, Esperanza.—It may be the same damn river, Pitt, but we are two very different people. —Which means?She points at her skin then points at mine. —That need to be spelled out any clearer?It doesn't. —I still need to get over.She taps a bare toe on the shotgun lying next to her cot. —I hear that. But they don't want you over there. I mean.She raises her hands over her head. —You came up here, you had to know that was like a one-way ticket.I walk to the bureau and look at the high school basketball trophies lined on the top. —I need to get over.She jabs a finger at me. —They. Don't. Want. You. I cross over, it's one thing. Mean, I been hittingRucker since I was a kid. Before Lament ever got his hands on me, I was a face over the river. Once I got infected and then got clear of Lament, I started going back. Didn't take long before one of Diggas rhinos saw me play. He sniffed there was something extra in my game. But they're cool with me. Digga called a sit-down, spelled out the rules: As long as I tithe over a percentage of what I take from the boys I school playing one-on-one at Rucker, I can come and go.She gets up and comes over and takes one of the trophies from my hands. —Don't fuck with those.She puts it back in place.—You can't just go back, man. That ain't the way this works. You got sense, you know this. Shit, you're from over there. You know damn well they don't want any of us outer-borough trash coming over. I wanted to pledge Hood, Digga might have me, but that's as much because I'm an earner as it is I'm brown. They don't want no more mouths to feed over there.She rubs her thumbs on the chipped leg of a gilded ball player. —Why I stay here. We want anything, we got to make it better over here. Fuck their Island. Shit cant be sustained. How you going to keep the population down? Think on that. It's a goddamn virus, no way to keep it from spreading. Mean, I barely stayed in school enough to play ball, but even I can readenough to get that straight. Island cant last.  Future is over here. Where there's room to spread.She lifts her chin.—Wait and see. Years go by, it's gonna be the other way around. Gonna be their asses trying to cross over. Get to this side.I take one of my custom-cut smokes from the pack. —No argument. But it don't change things.I light up. —I need to get over.She throws her hands up and walks away. —Like you're not even listening.I study the scratches on the cement floor. —I'm listening. I'm just not hearing anything that helps me.She turns. —If that's what you're waiting for, you should get moving.I look up from the floor and study her young face.—I'm not asking you to hold my hand. I'm not asking you to carry me across. Way I figure, chances are no one will even see me. How many subwayplatforms can they cover? How many trains can they ride looking for refugees? Coalition cant keep everybody from crossing their turf, someone always slips through the cracks. Coalition has cracks, the Hood has to have holes you can walk through. All I'm asking is, Where are the holes? I get snatched, I get taken to Digga, I got a history with the man. Maybe he cuts me loose. Doesn't matter. Time is an issue. Sides, I don't want anyone to know I'm over there. I don't want anyone to know I'm back.She touches her earlobe. —What's that about?I smile. —I'm hoping to surprise a couple people.I hold out my pack and she comes over and takes a smoke.She leans in to the lit match and looks at me. —That's a nasty smile you got, Pitt.The smile stays where it is.She blows out the match. —I like it.She takes a deep drag and exhales.—That girl you got over there. Turns out she don't know what she has in you, you bring that smile back over to this side of the river. We could get some things done here.I put the smile away.She lifts her shoulders. —And there it goes.She reaches past me and pulls open a drawer and takes out a pair of knee-length cutoff jeans. —They move around.She puts the smoke between her lips and pulls the cutoffs on. —Only got so many people to watch their border, so they move them around. Got apartments they move in and out of with views of the bridges. Shift others from station to station and line to line, sniffing for refugees. Buses and trains. Got some guys work the graveyard in the toll booths. Hows that for security? Others got MTA jobs, down in the tunnels. Conductors. Motormen. Maintenance. Only the Hood can do that. What's the last time you saw someone white working the subways? First of never, that's when. Coalition tried to put one of theirs in a job underground, everyoned be like, What the fuck?She points at a Starks jersey on the back of the chair. —Toss me that.I toss it to her and she peels off her WNBA top. —Don't be staring at my tits. You had your chance.I take a drag and look away as she pulls on the jersey.She's right, I had my chance.And I passed on the best the Bronx has to offer.So.Back to the fire.I stand at the foot of the Macombs Dam Bridge, leaning against one of the Tudor abutments, smoking, looking down the length of the swing bridge at the Island, a little over two thousand feet away.Esperanza watches the approach. —Should be a gypsy around anytime. —They don't like to stop for me. —Why not? —Why do you think? I'm white. They think I'm a transit cop or something.Looking to bust them for hacking without a medallion. —I can flag one for you.I flick my butt over the rail of the bridge. The wind off the Harlem grabs it and spins it away. —III walk.I take the cash Predo gave me out of my pocket. —How much?She shrugs. —Guy I called, he'll need a couple bills.I peel off two hundred. —And you?She points over the river at the FDR. —That stretch of road, just that couple blocks, know what it's called?I look at it. —Nope.—Three Hundred Sixty-ninth Harlem Hellfighter's Drive. Black regiment. First fought in World War I. Spent one hundred and ninety-one days under fire. Suffered over fifteen hundred casualties. Guy named Private Henry LincolnJohnson, and his buddy Private Needham Roberts, they fought off twenty-four Germans. Just the two of them. When Roberts was shot, Johnson used his bolo knife and rifle butt to hold off the krauts.She turns, looks over the Bronx. —Johnson won the Croix de Guerre. First American ever.She looks at me. —Good to have someone to put your back against when the close work starts.She spits over the rail.—So how about you owe me on this one. Sometime I need someone to have my back, maybe I give you a call.I fold the bills over.—Can't say It's a safe bet III be around long enough to pay off. —Ill take that chance.I put the money in my pocket. —If that's how you want it. —That's how I want it.She starts to walk backward, away down the bridge approach. —Guy said the bridge was clear. No watchers. Grab yourself a ride on theother side. Said steer clear of Marcus Garvey Park. Said Malcom X is clear all the way to One Ten. Once you cross to Coalition turf, who knows what the hell you find. But in a car, I don't know how they go about spotting you.I raise a hand. —Stay alive.She raises a hand. —That's the plan.She turns away, takes a couple steps, turns back. —Joe. —Yeah. —Little advice. —What's that?She points at my trousers. —Lose the khakis. They do nothing for you.She turns again and breaks into a trot, jogging smooth and easy till she boosts herself over the rail, dropping into Macombs Park, lost from view.I find a cigarette to put in my mouth and start over the bridge.Summer wind is blowing, taking the smoke downriver. A couple cars rollpast, vibrating the bridge plates. I slap one of the beige-painted trusses and it tolls like a low bell. I cross the midpoint, feel my feet start to hurry, make them pace slow.Is my breath short?It is.Past the little stone hutch where the operator sits when the bridge swings open, I hit the western approach. Look down, see the river disappear behind me, land under the bridge.Crossing Hellfighters, coming onto the Island, fingering the straight blade in my pocket.At Adam Clayton Powell Junior and One Fifty-three I raise my hand in the air then step in front of the gypsy that tries to drive past me. The driver looks at the color of my skin and his door locks snap down. I show him the color of my money and the locks pop up.He watches me in the rearview as I slide into the back.I point. —South.He starts rolling. —How far?I lean into the leather, light a smoke. —Not too far. But take Malcolm, will you.He takes the left onto One Forty-five. —Right. The scenic route.I roll the window down and smell the summer stink of Manhattan. —Sure. The scenic route. Why not.How you know you're being watched is, you have clandestine arrangements with someone you don't trust under any circumstances that don't involve that individual being tied up and held at gunpoint. It also helps if the individual involved shares a similar attitude toward you.The rest is easy.See, once you've established a level of trust like that, the only question you have to ask yourself is, Assuming I don't want to be followed, where do I go?The obvious answer being, / go where they expect me to go.And then I go somewhere else.The gypsy drops me at the corner of Second Avenue and Seventy-third. For amoment I sit there with one foot out on the sidewalk, thinking about pulling my leg back in, closing the door and telling him to roll farther south.It passes, and I get out and close the door and he drives off.No. That's a lie.I get out and he drives away, alright, but it doesn't pass. The gravity pulling from below Fourteenth doesn't go away. Back on the Island, it just pulls harder than ever.How you ignore a thing like that is, you move. Create momentum. Build velocity to carry your mass outside the influence of the body pulling at yours.I walk east on Seventy-third, aligning myself with a new trajectory, knowing that what happens beyond the event horizon cannot be described until you are caught in its tide.The building is mid-block between First and Second, only four stories, but stretching the width of three tenements. Big ground-floor windows covered in sheets of dark paper in a manner to suggest some kind of renovation within. A half-full construction Dumpster at the curb. Upper-story windows heavily draped.A double stoop leads up to a portico entrance.The sky's holding the day back yet.Time enough to make a courtesy call and be on my way. I go up the steps and push the buzzer.It's a mess.Like there was ever any doubt, right?Something like this, the only way you think its going to be anything but a mess is if you re one of those people they call an idealist. Those people, I generally prefer the word asshole when I describe them. Not that I fault a person for doing their own thing, but assholes of the Idealist strain have a habit of fucking things up for everyone else.Nothing like a person with a dream and a vision for getting a load of people all fucked up.But Jesus its a mess.It reeks. Rank with overcrowding.Fear. Desperation. Misery.All these most pleasant human emotions have a smell.  None of them enjoyable. The air in here is heavy with all of them. A man could gag. —Urn, mind your step there. Just. Yes. Just kind of, urn, step over them and. Obviously these are less than ideal conditions. You're certainly not seeing usat our best. But I, urn, assure you that this state is only temporary. Once the renovation is complete we'll have these people housed, urn, properly.I follow his advice and just kind of step over the people sleeping in the hallway.  Not that they're actually sleeping. What they're actually doing is watching us pass, tracking us through slitted lids. I hear one or two sniff at me as I weave through their jumbled limbs and bodies. —Hey, hey, man.I look down at the hairy face looking up at me from his spot, reclined along the wainscoting.He scratches his fat belly through his Superman T-shirt, pointing a rolled-up copy of Green Lantern at me. —You got anything?I step past him. —No. I ain't got anything.He sits up, waves his comic book at me as I follow my guide. —Bullshit, man! That's bullshit! I can smell it on ya! I can smell it, man! We can all smell it!Bodies rouse, the more lively ones tilt their faces up and inhale.My guide tugs at the shirttails that hang ever so stylishly from the bottom of his argyle sweater. —Urn, just a little, urn, more briskly here. Just up here.He picks up the pace, doesn't pay enough attention, steps on someone s fingers. —Hey, fuck! —Sorry, urn, so sorry. —Watch where the fuck, Gladstone. —Yes, urn, sorry.The comic book geek is on his feet.—Can't get away with this shit, Gladstone. Come through here, stomp on people, bring some asshole that's holding and won't share out.More sniffing from the bodies.Voices.—Who's holding? —Fuckin Gladstone. —Holdin?—I smell it. I smell it.Gladstone stops at the door at the end of the hall, sorts keys. —Yes, urn, so sorry, yes, my mistake, didn't mean to. Yes, urn, just in here if you will.He slips a key in the lock.—Just, urn, in here and. Urn. Yes, if you'll all please just be patient, I'm sure we'll have something for you all just as soon as, urn. Yes. Urn.I pass through, glancing back, seeing the comic book geek flipping us off. —Fuck you, Gladstone!The others in the hallway settling back into torpor and misery. These being easier and more comfortable than action and rage.The door closes and Gladstone locks it tight.—Urn, Sorry, urn. Normally wed have taken the elevator to the office level. Not walked through the, urn, residences, but, urn, the elevator is out and, well, there are some difficulties involved with getting it serviced. So, urn. Up here and, yes.He pulls at his lower lip. —By the, urn, way, are you holding any?I walk past him, up the fire stairs. —No. Just I couldn't get all the blood out of my jacket when I cleaned it last.He comes after me. —Oh, yes, that would, urn, explain it.—It's a fucking mess.—I know.—And it's getting worse.—I know.—And it's going to happen again.—I know, Sela.—Urn, yes, excuse me.I watch Gladstone's back as he sticks his head a little farther into the room beyond the door he cracked open only after knocking politely about ten times and finally deciding the people fighting beyond it had not heard him.The folks inside take note of his presence. —What? What? —Urn, I. So sorry, Miss, but I, I did, urn, knock, and.—What, Gladstone?—Nothing. I mean, urn, someone, a, urn, new, urn.His arm is waving at me, indicating my presence, despite the fact that it is invisible to the people he's speaking with.—A new, urn, applicant. And I, urn, know you like to greet each one, urn, personally, so I.—An intercom, Gladstone. We have a perfectly good one. Or has that broken now too?—No, I, urn, I. I buzzed and. Would you like to, urn? —Wait. Gladstone.The other voice has taken over, the one that shares my opinion about things around here being a mess. —Urn, yes?—Is there someone out there? —Urn, I.He pulls his head back, looks at me to make sure I'm still there, then sticks his head back into the room. —Yes, urn. There. Yes.—Motherfucker! See! See! A mess! These people. No regard for security. Nounderstanding of protocol. Is it any wonder things like this shit come up?—They're not these people. They're our people. You, of all people, should getthat.—Don't, not now. This is no joke. And it's no time for remedial lessons incompassion and understanding. You!Gladstone s back stiffens. —Urn, yes?—You bring someone up here again without clearing it through me, you'll be back in the dorms.—I, urn, yes, I. It's just, I did buzz and, urn. —Shut the fuck up. —Urn.I grab the edge of the door and pull it open, move Gladstone out of the way and step into the room.Sela goes for the piece strapped into the shoulder holster she's wearing over her tank top.Her hand freezes on the butt.—Oh Jesus.I raise a hand. —Yeah, good to see you too.Her hand stays on the gun. —Did I say it was good to see you, Joe?—No, but I always try to read between the lines. Figured you going for your gun was how you express affection these days. —That not how she expresses affection at all, Joe.The girl comes out from behind her desk, puts a hand on Sela's arm, rubs her thumb across a vein that swells down the muscle. —Chill out, Sela.Sela takes her hand from the gun, but I'd be hard-pressed to describe her as chilled out. —Don't get too close to him.The girl comes toward me. —Don't be silly, it's Joe. What's he gonna do, kill me?She comes closer.—He'd never do that. He'd never hurt me at all.She smiles. —Well, except for maybe that time he slapped me.She squishes her face. —But I was being pretty bratty. Giving him a bad time about things.She stops in front of me. —Well, come on, Joe. What do you think?She gives a little spin, displaying her slacks, French-cuffed shirt, suit vest and expensively shorn hair. —Have I grown up right?I take off my huge sunglasses and show her the fresh scar tissue. —I don't know, maybe I need a better look.She claps, wraps her arms around me, turns her face into my chest and inhales. —Oh, Joe, you always know just what to say to make me feel safe.I stand there with her arms around me, my own arms at my sides, looking at Sela.She shakes her head. —She her own thing, our girl, isn't she, Joe?—The logistics of it are just devastating. I mean, it was one thing to say we were going to establish a Clan, take in anyone who wanted to join, supply them with blood, and then make the cure available to them once I find it.She points at the twin flat-screen computer monitors on her desk, the piles of paper. —But it is so another thing to actually be doing it.She flops back in her leather office chair and kicks her heel against the floor, spinning slow and lazy.—Don't misunderstand, I do not have any regrets. I'm young, I have the energy, God knows I'm smart enough to handle it all, but III totally fess that it's way harder than I expected it to be.She stops spinning, launches herself from the chair and begins circling the desk, plucking papers at random.—I completely miscalculated demand. I mean, the numbers are way out of whack. There's only a few thousand infected on Manhattan, right? The ones aligned with Clans, why would they take a risk, move over to us? We assumedmostly wed get Rogues. How many could that be? With a food source strictly limited by the land available, its just common sense that predators not operating with a pack are going to get squeezed out. So we assumed a couple dozen Rogues, at most, a like amount of crossovers from the Clans, people willing to take that chance because they were committed to the idea of a cure, and some refugees who got the word and managed to make it over to the Island.She shakes one of the papers.—At this point, in our first year, we were assuming a max membership of eighty. We prepped for one hundred. Just to be safe.She crumples the paper and throws it on the Persian rug underfoot. —Two-hundred and sixty-one.She shakes her head.—I mean. Holy shit. The renovations. The initial renovations were hard enough. But you buy a building, grease the right palms, bribe the tight asses on the neighborhood committee and get to work. Once the materials start moving in and out, the people on the street have no idea what you're actually doing inside. The rooms were so nice. We really went the extra mile. No Pottery Barn or IKEA crap, really nice beds, furnishings. Tried to give each room a character. Like a boutique hotel. That's what the builders thought we weredoing.She goes to the door, opens it and points at her outer office. —Now? Did you see it? In the halls. On the stairs. How do we bring a crew in here to tear out the walls and turn the second and third floors into the barracks we need? How do I take delivery on a hundred bunk beds? Like no one is going to notice and ask what the hell is going on. Little things. The elevator. I cant get a repair service in because I don't have room to hide all these people. A building this size, things are constantly breaking, wearing out. Were taxing the plumbing like you wouldn't believe. The longer these things go without maintenance, the worse everything gets.She throws the papers in the air, stands there as they snow around her. —And food, just regular food, were sneaking it in. So the neighbors don't know how many are here. I mean, the FreshDirect truck cant be rolling up every day and unloading enough groceries for a cafeteria, can it? I mean. My God. Jesus. Shit.She sighs, looks at me, smiles.—Listen to me. I mean, could I sound a little more like my dad? He d come home from work, it d be just like this. The lab or the office or both, something was always blowing up. All he wanted to do was be up to his eyes in research, but it was always patent this or government oversight that or board of directorsare cock-suckers.She rubs her forehead.—And that's what really kills. Not being in the lab. I mean, I know I have responsibilities here, and I took all this on and I have to deal, but it's not even what I want to be doing. I mean.She drops her head back and opens her mouth wide. —Gaaahhh.She rolls her eyes.—This stuff is so boring. And I mean, the whole point is a cure, right? I mean, that's why these people are packing in here, right? I mean, why name the Clan Clan Cure if I never get to work on it?She leans against the desk, opens a cigarette box and takes out a clove. —And that place. It's a whole different headache.  Cause the Vyrus, It's testy as hell. It's really, what's so sad, it's really a pussy. I mean, there are other viruses that are way more robust. Think about it.She comes over and puts her cigarette in her mouth and leans in. —Light?I snap a match and she touches her cigarette to it.—Thanks.She moves away, blows a cloud.—Think about it. The Vyrus, it can only live inside the human body. It can only survive in a human body. It can only spread itself blood to blood. And it's so hyper, it colonizes host cells so quickly and burns them out, that it needs to have its environment constant/y refreshed. And it kills its host and rarely gets a chance to reproduce. I mean, is that inefficient or what? Seriously, it is one crap piece of engineering. One of those evolutionary steps that's so random and poorly designed that it actually proves evolution. I mean, why would God bother with a thing like that? Intelligent design? Not.She crosses to the window. Lifts the hook that holds the shutters closed behind the curtains.—Something fussy like that, just getting a look at it is a pain. Creating a stable environment for it outside a host? Talk about tedious. And then, a thing like this, finding a cure for a virus, you don't do that alone. Not even when you're smarter than everyone else.She opens the shutter a crack, puts her hand through and parts the curtain. —There's just way too much busy work. I mean. Cultures, batches of this and that, computer modeling, archiving. Its like working on a code. Like how whenthey try to break a code they sometimes give just a piece of it to each team. So they don't really know what they're working on. Keep them isolated from one another. I have to do that. I mean, the lab I assembled for this at Horde Bio Tech, it's not staffed with assholes. Well, some of them are assholes, but they're really fucking smart assholes. Show these people the whole Vyrus, let them get a good look at it and see its behavior? You will see some serious freaking out. But.She turns, light from a streetlamp drops through the curtain and crosses her face, makes her perfect skin glow. —It is amazing.She lifts her hand to the light, stares at it reflected there. —That's one of the things that's amazing. Light. Like we've been doing things with light. These guys at ASU, they've been blasting viruses in blood samples with a laser. Like fifty megawatts per square centimeter. Which isn't half as nasty as it sounds. And so, like, we've known for a long time you can kill viruses with UV radiation, but that causes mutation. And mutation leads to adaptation over time. So, these guys, they've been using visible light pulses. And it works. It.She holds up her cigarette, wiggles it, creating a jagged stream of smoke. —It vibrates a virus, physically disrupts the virus shell, this thing called thecapsid. It cripples the virus it affects. Virus cant function, and dies. So.Her eyes are big, staring a million miles.—The Vyrus, your Vyrus, goes haywire when exposed to solar UVA, it mutates. But not adaptive mutations. Or not that we can see because it happens way too fast. But, but, maybe we can find a wave of radiation, a visible wavelength to shatter the Vyrus1 capsid? It's so, it's way outside the box, but the Vyrus isn't in the box, so this is the kind of stuff we have to. I mean.She stares farther, going away from the room, deep inside some other place. —It is so fucking cool.She takes a big drag.—It's like, like being a pioneer. Like none of the rules apply and you can try anything. Anything. Nothing is out of bounds. And. Oh, and I said about computer models. The good thing about having too many people here, it gives us a really good pool to draw samples from. And, because the Vyrus, it does mutate. Radically. From person to person. I mean, we've got a couple people here who infected other people here. And even then, the same strain passing from host to host, it mutates. But within a range. I think. So we can draw samples. And like I said, the Vyrus is a total puss, and if you mishandle a specimen it croaks like that, but if you do it right we have time to log themutation. So we're creating a database of mutations. Like, we can look and see its favorite tricks. How it hides. How it defends itself. Maybe get an idea why some infecteds get a lot stronger, and some not so much. Or healing. Like some strains seem to mutate in a fashion that really enhances new cell growth. But not all of them. And.Her eyes slide sideways, unfocus, and someone cuts her strings and she's hitting the floor.Sela gets to her before I do, feels her pulse, takes the burning cigarette from between her fingers and stubs it in an ashtray on the edge of the desk.I look at her as she brushes loose strands of perfect hair from Amanda's forehead. —She OK?Sela doesn't look at me, just lifts the girls head into her lap. —She's exhausted. —Yeah, well I guess being crazy will do that to you.She looks at me now. —She's not crazy. She's a visionary.She looks back at her lover's face.—She's special, Joe.I fish a smoke from my pack. —Specially fucked up, Sela.I drop a match in the ashtray, see Amanda's clove still smoldering and crush it.—She had mind-fuck parents and they mind-fucked her. She's got too much money and she's too smart for her own good and she's seen too much and she knows things that are too weird. And that's all fucked her up. She's not normal. She's bent as hell. She's crazy.Sela rests her hand on the girls forehead. —You calling yourself normal these days, Joe?I smoke some more.Sela looks at me. —Yeah, I didn't think so.She slides out from under the girl.—She works harder than any of us. She never stops. She's here in this office or she's at the lab. I can barely get her to sleep two hours out of every thirty. She never stops.  She never gives  up.  Everyone who shows up on thatdoorstep, she says yes to. She takes them all in. —Like I said, crazy.She steps to me, every flawlessly cut muscle on her is rigid. —She never stops working, Joe. For us. She's not infected, but she never stops trying to help us. She works harder to help us than we work to help ourselves.She raises a finger and shows me the short, sharp, red nail at its end. —So be careful how you talk about her.She angles the finger at my face. —You only got one eye left to poke out if I lose my temper.Its true Sela wouldn't even know the girl if I hadn't been around. It's true I've known Sela since she was a punk-attitude pre-op tranny down with the Society, as opposed to a fashion-plate, lipstick pre-op up here with Amanda. It's even true she saved my life once.But none of that will save my eye if she decides she's got a hankering to see it on the end of her finger.Diplomacy is required. —Sure thing, Sela. I get it. Mean, the fact she's investing her energies intrying to save a bunch of people who look at her like food, fact that she's filled a building with them, all of em close enough to smell her all the time, that doesn't indicate anything about her sanity. Stable as a rock, your girl there.She pulls the finger in, joins it up with four or five others, and I get a second to wonder how far my head will fly if she decides to knock it off my neck, then she lowers her fist. —Yeah, you re right about that part. That part's a problem.She steps back. —Those people downstairs, that's a problem.She folds her arms.—Think it's tough getting enough burgers in here to feed all them, imagine what it's like getting enough blood. We've got the money. We just got no place to buy from. They're starting to starve. Couple already have. Burned out. Went berserk. Want to know how good it was for morale when I had to bring those ones down? Not good at all. And last night. That thing we were getting into when you showed up. One of our members went hunting last night. Just a block away. On our doorstep. —Sloppy. —Desperate.—Witnesses?She rubs the back of her neck.—Witnesses. No. Not to the act. But he left one majorly fucked-up corpse. I expect to see coverage on that the second I take a look at New York One. —Where's the guy?—He's here. He's locked in the basement for now. We're trying to sort out what to do about him.I take the last drag off my smoke and stub it. —Kill him.She shakes her head.—No. That's not what were doing here. Were making something different. —Fine. Make something different. But the smart play is you kill him. You know that.  He went off the  reservation.  So  now you kill him. And make  sure everyone in the place knows you killed him. —That's what I've been telling her.We look down at Amanda, her eyes open, fiddling her hair back into place. —I mean, I want there to be room for compassion around here, but we're on the brink. Order has to be maintained at some point.She holds out a hand and Sela pulls her to her feet. —Easy, baby.—I'm fine. Its just a little sugar crash. —It's severe exhaustion and borderline malnutrition is what it is.Amanda twists her hand free. —I said I'm fine. I just need a smoothie or something. —You need a proper meal and sleep.—Sela, back off. I love you, honey, but give me just a little space here before I positively freak out.She turns to me.—I mean, you don't see Joe going all flattery on me just because I got a little dizzy.She brushes the back of her hand across her forehead, fusses her hair some more.—That's like one of Joe's great assets. He doesn't get flattery, do you, Joe? He just sees what needs to be done and deals with it. After that, It's all just like a question of whether you do it and accept the consequences, or don't do it and accept some different consequences. Like with this problem today. Joegets it. I mean, you get it too, Sela, but Joe gets it in a different way. Joe sees the consequences of not handing out some kind of punishment here. Don't you, Joe?I shrug. —If you say so.She bunches both fists, tucks them beneath her chin and smiles wide. —Oh, Joe! I'm so happy you re here.  I mean, I always knew you d come sooner or later, but its just perfect that you came when we really really need you. Having you join us, that's going to make all the difference for so many reasons. —Yeah, well, thing is.I take a drag. —I'm not here to join you.I take another drag. —I'm just here to spy on you for Dexter Predo. Now that I've done that.I point at the liquor cabinet. —III be looking for a drink. After.I point at the door.—Ill be looking for the rear entrance.—No.—Can I finish?—No.—I mean, so, what, just out of hand, you wont even listen?—No.—Joe, really, all I'm asking is for you to listen for a minute. Just a coupleminutes while I explain just what it would mean to us. I mean, this is reallyreally important.I toss down my drink. —And all I'm telling you is no.She sips on the smoothie Gladstone brought her.—What is that about? I mean, I know you dont like to be indebted to anyone, but I'm not even talking about a favor. I'm talking about a business transaction. And you just want to sit there and be all.She makes a stone-face, drops her voice an octave. —Wo. Wo. Wo. My name is Joe Pitt and I don't do nuthin' I don't want to do and Iwon't even listen because I don't know a good thing when I have it and I'd rather be all fucked up and tragic and sad and go hurt people.She points at me. —And you're doing it right now, you're thinking about hurting me.She shakes her head. —You are so thin-skinned.She leans forward and puts her elbows on the desk.—But OK, you don't want to join us. You don't want to do business with us. But you're here. I mean, there has to be a reason why you're here. Besides spying for Predo, I mean. I mean, I'm not saying that's not what you re doing, but there's a reason. Because.She folds her hands on the desk and lowers her face and rests her chin on them.—I know you, Joe. I know you like people to think you just run around from job to job looking to stay ahead. But I know you have things that get you worked up.She winces.—Like when you slapped me? When I was talking about your girlfriend that time.She looks at Sela. —Sela heard what happened.I run a finger around the rim of my glass. Crystal, it sings a pure note.Amanda bites her lower lip. —You tried to infect her. That's what she heard. And it didn't work.