Every Last Drop

Jeo Pitt 4 - Every Last DropIt's quiet, just the glass repeating its song.—I know I never met her. But she must have been something, Joe. I know that. I mean, she must have been something else.She lifts her chin from her hands.—So now, I mean, I guess that means you re alone. Like, not just alone like you like people to think you are, but really, seriously, alone. Sooo. So, I'm guessing that's why you're here. Because I don't know where you've been, or what kind of deal you made with Predo, but, and please don't get all pissy with me about this, but I think that the reason you took his job is because you were tired of being alone.She stands.—But being, like, you, you couldn't just come here and say, Hey, guys, mind if I hang out?She comes around the desk.—So here you are, too stubborn to just jump in and join the family. OK. But, I mean, you came up the stairs, you saw those people. Those people, Joe, they're starving. I mean, its getting bad. The guy were talking about that went hunting, that's, like, that's the tip of the iceberg. Pretty soon, there's gonna be more of that. And more. And we're not going to be able to contain it.She sits on the edge of the desk. —It is going to get so ugly. So fast. And so soon.She rubs her face. —We've just.She looks me in the eye.—We've got to have more blood. Now, we think we know where we can get it. But its going to be a serious pain in the ass.She reaches out and rests her fingers on my knee. —And we need your help. —You shouldn't be asking him.She looks at Sela. —Why not?Sela points at me. —He's spying for Predo.Amanda looks around the room like she's missed something. —So? I mean, he told us that. He's obviously not all Coalition all of a sudden.Sela watches me as I pick up the bottle from the desk.—It doesn't mean anything. Predo may have told him to tell you. This could be their game.Amanda grabs the sides of her head. —Well if you're going to get all twisty-turny about it well never get anywhere.She holds out her arms.—I mean, what's he going to tell Predo? What are we hiding? Were like all of twelve blocks from his office. He can come take a look if he wants. Shit, far as I'm concerned, he can come join if he wants. We're here, we're taking all comers, and were finding a cure. What's the big secret?Sela puts her hands on her hips.—I don't know! But he wants something. And he sent Pitt here to find it. And letting him stay is fucking dangerous no matter what your feelings about him are. It's stupid. And you're not stupid.Amanda rolls her eye. —Baby, you know what, fuck you.Sela cocks her head. —Excuse me?Amanda cocks her head to the same angle. —Oh don't whip out that sistah attitude and throw it around in my office.Sela raises an eyebrow.—Uh-huh. Alright, I wont bring the sistah attitude in here. Ill leave it at the door. Ill leave all that shit outside as soon as you stop acting all Mata Hari. Like you know how this is played. Because, little lady, you do not. You may be the smartest one in the room, but there is shit you do not know. This guy, your precious Joe, sure he comes across sometimes. Sure he's turned up in the right place at the right time once or twice, but mostly what he does is he gets people killed. And a lot of them, they get killed because he has a history of playing off both sides. You want to get all sentimental about him because he saved your life, I get it, but he has been in Predos pocket for years. Fuck, he's been in everyone's pocket one time or another. He comes out and tells us he's here for Predo, that means shit. All that means is whatever he's after, whatever Predo's after, it has nothing to do with him being here spying.She looks at me.Amanda looks at me.I set my empty glass on the desk. —Well, I had my drink.I stand. —Now can you show me that back way out?Amanda watches as Sela enters the code and unlocks the door that leads tothe alley.—You're wasting so much time, Joe.I lean against the wall.—I  don't know about  that.   I  had  a  nice  drink,  got  caught up with  old acquaintances. Worse ways to spend an hour.She gives the eyeroll she's been perfecting since she was nine. —Not what I mean. And you know it.She reaches over and grabs the sleeve of my jacket.—This is the place for you. This is the last place for you. What we're doing here, its real. You can huff and makes faces and act like you think I'm crazy,but you know I'm doing the right thing. And you know I can get this done. Anything you do between when you walk out that door and when you come back and tell us you're with us, all that will be such a waste of time.I look at her. —Sweetheart.I come away from the wall. —I don't think you re crazy.I gently twist my arm free. —I know it like I know life ain't fair.I make for the door, stopping to give Sela a look. —Try to keep her alive.She opens the door. —It's what I'm here for. —Yeah.I point down toward the basement.—It'll make your job easier if you do like she says and kill that guy who made the mess.I start down the rusted steel steps that lead into the alley.Sela stands there watching. —Were not all like you, Joe. Some of us don't take to killing so easy.I walk toward the gate that leads out onto Second. —Not my fault.On the street I find a yellow. The driver asks me where I want to go.I can't go there yet.So I tell him to take me to the Bowery.The nice thing about a place like the Whitehouse is they don't feel compelled to announce you if you drop by at an unusual hour to visit a guest. The bad things about a place like the Whitehouse, listed alphabetically, start somewhere around armed robbery, run past cockroaches and dirty needles, hit their stride with mass murder, start to tail off at rape, and end with a classic: zoophilia.Add in the smattering of semi-functional resident bums, midwestern teenage runaways, and gagging-drunk European tourists on a budget, and you've got a holocaust of vomit and shit smells that draw up the stairwell like smoke pouring up a chimney.I can almost see the reek as I climb through it.Coming onto the top-floor landing, I have to turn sideways to fit down the narrow yellow hallway punctuated with close-set white doors. I hear snoring, early morning fornication, someone listening to Kraftwerk so loud on their iPod that they might as well hook it up to some speakers, a toilet flushing and clogging in the communal bathroom, and the distinct sound of someone moaning through a gag while a belt is applied to bare skin.I long for matches and gasoline.End of the hall, front of the building, I stop at the final door.There's silence behind the door. Not even the grinding of teeth I would have expected. The lock is the worst piece of shit I've ever seen in my life. I flip my straight razor open, slip it in the half-inch gap between the door and frame, and start to edge the bolt out of its socket, pulling hard on the doorknob to create friction so the bolt doesn't snap back into place.The door to the bathroom opens and a girl with the hem of her short skirt tucked into her panties, a ring of hickeys around her neck, and a shiny pink wig askew on her head, staggers down the hall to the room where I heard the fucking sounds.She tries the knob and it doesn't open.She bangs the door.—You fuckers! Stop fucking and let me in!The panting and groaning behind the door gets louder, faster.She bangs again. —Fucking open up! I'm not waiting out here till you guys cum.The fucking goes on.She puts her forehead against the door and slouches and turns and looks at me, my razor working the lock. —Hey.I watch the pulse that makes one of the hickeys on her neck flutter. —Hey.She licks dry lips. —Thought that guy lives there.I look at the door I'm working. —This guy?She closes one eye, trying to think over the rising volume of her friends' fucking. —Yeah. Said he lives there.—When'd he say that?She looks down, sees her skirt, tries to pull it free of her waistband. —Shit. Uh, when'd he? Other day.She pulls her panties down, gets her skirt straight, leaves her panties at her knees for the moment. —He, urn.She covers her mouth.—When I was blowing him. Said he lives there when I was blowing him. Said anytime I wanted to score I could come over for the same deal.She drops her hand, points at the door.—He wasn't lying to me, was he? I was fucking counting on getting some X off him for a party tonight.I shake my head. —He wasn't lying.She smiles, reaches down and pulls her panties back up, catching her skirt in them again. —Cool, that's cool.There's a definite crescendo from behind the door, a shriek, a yelp, glassshattering.She blinks a few times.—Hey, if you, like, got something on you, I could really use it. Not for free, but like the same deal I made with your friend.I shake my head. —No, I'm not holding.She sighs. —Shit.The door bumps her ass and she lurches upright as it swings open into the hall. —Fucking about time.She walks into the room. —You're such a whore, I told you not to fuck him without me.The door closes.I pop the lock, go inside, shut the door.The room is shin-deep in empty take-out containers, plastic baggies, dirty clothes and toenail clippings, the walls covered in photos of barely clad starlets and models torn from men's lifestyle magazines. Through the grimybarred window I can see an edge of sunlight is touching the roof of a building across the street. I pull it open to get some air in, then grab a dingy blanket from the bed to drape over the curtain rod. Its summer in New York City and the air coming in the window doesn't smell any better than the air already in the room. I light a cigarette and sit on the board-narrow bed and smoke and wait for the scum bucket that lives in the shithole.Finally.Back where I belong.The cockroaches in the room, they move to avoid the blade of sunlight that cuts through the crack at the windows edge and slices across the floor. Roaches not liking daylight, its no great shock that I don't have to wait long for my particular roach to come home.I know him by the sharp report of nails worn through the heels of his ankle boots striking the hallway floor. Even over the stuttering pipes, creaking joints and bitter howls of the waking building and its occupants, I recognize his nervous step.Outside the door he jitters the keys in his hand, simultaneously keeping rapid time with clacking teeth. The key jams into the lock and the door jerks open and I smell his greasy pomade.He steps in, closes the door, freezes with his hand on the knob and looks at the blanket blocking out the day. —Oh.It's a small room, a very small room, a room with more in common with a closet than with other rooms. It takes his eyes less than a heartbeat to look it over and see the dark silhouette on his bed.He holds his key to his face, looking at the fob that dangles off it. —My bad. Wrong room. Ill just. Don't get up. Ill just.Not the brightest bulb, but not the dimmest, he knows that people who wait in your room with the window blacked out are bad news.He just doesn't know how bad the news is yet.He starts to open the door.—Ill just. Go to my own room, yeah? Right. Sorry about this. My bad. Totally my bad. This place, so cheap, right? Have like ten different locks in the whole joint. Open someone else's room by accident. Happens all the time. My bad. Really, don't get up.I don't get up. —No, you got the right room.He stops vibrating. —Oh shit.I watch a roach skitter across the shaft of daylight. —Close the door, Phil.He closes the door.I stomp on the roach. —Got some things I want to talk to you about.If it wasn't daylight I could take him by the ankle and dangle him out the window and cut to the chase.Instead I have to be subtle. —I'm going to cut your nose off, Phil.He holds his hands up.—Whoa! Whooooaaaahhh! Who said? Cut me? How did we get to? Hey, man, I'm sayin', How did we just skip aii the way across you're gonna beat the shit out of me, kick my teeth in, put a cigarette out on my forehead, and get aii the way to cutting my fucking nose off?He drops his jaw.—Like, what happened to conversation? What happened to getting all caught up?He crosses his arms over the front of his dirty silk Hawaiian print shirt and moves his head to one side. —Hey, great to see you, Joe. Long time. How ya been? Fine? You been fine?He puts his hands on his hips, moves his head to the other side.—Sure, Phil, I been fine. How you been? What you been up to?Back to position one.—Me, oh, I been OK, the usual. This and that. And, you know. Mostly what I been up to is.He throws his hands in the air.—Mostly I been spending my days and nights making sure no one cuts my nose off.He covers his nose. —I'm saying, Seriously fuck, Joe! Cut my nose off? My nose?He walks in little circles, kicking the trash out of his way. —Why not an ear? My lips? Fingers? Jeezus!He stops, holds a hand up.—Not, mind you, that I'm making suggestions, expressing a preference, mind, just that, you know, fuck. You know?He stands and pants.I show him the razor again. —You want to let me finish?He pulls his head back.—Oh, there's more? There's more after you're gonna cut my nose off? You got more that comes after that? Here, let me pull up a chair, let me get comfortable for this, I can't fucking wait to see how it ends.There's no chair in the room, so he takes a seat at the end of the bed, crosses one leg over the other, rests his hands on his knees and cocks an ear my way. —By all means, man, proceed.I balance the razor on my finger, watch it jump slightly with every beat of my heart. —What I was gonna say, Phil, was, I'm gonna cut your nose off.He nods. —Yep, yep, got that part, got it. Gooo ooon.I flip the razor, catch it so it rests easy in my palm.—I'm gonna cut your nose off, I was saying. I'm gonna cut your nose off if you waste a single fucking second of my time, is what I was saying.I look from the blade to his face.—If that makes any difference in your reaction, Philip, that is what I was saying.His jaw tightens, clicks twice, he nods. —Yeah, yeah. Sure. That makes a difference. Urn.He points at his nose. —Too late.I fold the razor. —No, man.I slip the razor into my pocket. —It's not too late.He queases a smile.—Great, Joe, that's great. You know I want nothin' but to help an old buddy like you. Never want to waste a second of your time. Time being, you know.He rubs fingers against thumb, hopefully. —Time being money. You know what I mean. —Yeah, I know, Phil.I take my hand out of my pocket. —I just thought wed do this one the old-fashioned way.He sees the brass knuckles on my fist. —Aw, Joe, we coulda worked it out like gentlemen.I give him a closer look at the knuckles.Much closer.He slams into the wall and drops in a jumble on the floor.I stand over him, using one of his old dirty wife beaters to wipe the blood from brass. —Shut up, Phil.I point at the crushed mass that used to be his nose. —Just feel lucky you still got that fucking thing.—I need to know how it stands.—Right, right.—There a bounty?—A? A what? A bounty? Jeezus, man, what do you? A bounty?I knock the brass knuckles on the side of the sink where he's washing the blood from his face. —Stay focused, Phil.He flinches. —Yeah, focused.He looks in the mirror, sees the bib of blood spread over his shirt. —Oh for fuck! Maaan. That sucks.I clink the knuckles again.He snaps to.—Yeah, focused. Yeah, bounty. Yeah. Like I was sayin? Fuck do you think, Joe? Stab Terry and all. You think there's a bounty? Fuck yeah, there is. —How much?He pulls a baggie from his pocket, starts sorting through the pills inside. —Man, this II teach me to focus exclusively on the ups. I mean, fuck, I don'tgot a single painkiller in here.He fingers a couple chalky white pills from the bag and pops them in his mouth. —Still, any port in a storm.I slap the back of his head and he coughs and the pills fly out of his mouth, bounce off the mirror and drop to the floor.He  stares  at  the  pills,  one   resting  at the  edge  of the  pube-clogged scum-grate in the middle of the room, the other rolled to the base of a toilet inside one of the doorless stalls. —Oh, that, that was utterly unnecessary. That was totally fucking flagrant.I put a finger beneath his chin, raise his eyes to mine. —Phil, perhaps I'm not communicating my urgency here.I fit my hand around his jaw.—Its early in the morning and you re burned out, distracted. I know. It's hard for you to focus. But.I exert pressure, squeezing the hinges of his jaw.—If you pay attention, you'll notice that I'm talking more than I usually do, giving you more chances than I usually have in the past to tell me what thefuck I want to know before I give you some new scars.His jaw creaks. Phil whimpers. —That might give you some idea of just how thin your ice is.I stiff-arm him into the wall, careful not to shatter his jaw. I don't want to shatter it yet, not until he's talked. —And just how bad things are going to get if you don't focus immediately.I relax my hand and take it from his jaw. —How much, Phil, how much has Terry put on my head?He works his jaw up and down, listens to it click, rubs it. —Twelve pints.I look at him. —Again? —Twelve pints. —A blood bounty?He wipes some of his own blood from his face. —What I said.The door swings open and Phils next-door neighbor comes in wearing astained bed sheet like a poorly wrapped toga. She walks past us, eyes all but closed, goes into a stall, hikes her sheet, sits and places her elbows on her knees with a yawn.I grab Phils shoulder and aim him at the door. —Come on.He looks back at his lost pills, straining against me. —Just a sec, man, just a sec, really, man, I can't afford to let that shit go.I shove him at the door. —Yes, you can.He bangs out into the hallway and I follow him. —Twelve pints.He walks backward, trying to get a peek through the swinging bathroom door.—Man, that fucking chick is gonna snag my shit. —Anyone scooping that stuff off the floor is hard up enough to deserve it.He raises a hand. —Well there you go, man, you just described me.I give him another shove and he bounces off the door to his room.—Twelve pints is an interesting number, Phil.He gets the key from his blood-stippled high-waisted trousers. —Fascinating, I'm sure. But, like, you don't understand what I got going here.He points at the bathroom.—That chick there gives it up for anything. Mean, I could probably lay off some NoDoz on her and come away with a hand job. Thing is, I'm not saying / wouldn't eat the shit on the floor back in there myself, but with this deal I don't have to. I can just give them to her and still get a hummer out of it.He sticks up both thumbs. —It's win-win, man.He lowers his thumbs.—But if she sees them on the floor she'll eat them just out of fucking curiosity. Man, I'll be out the pills and the hummer.He points both thumbs down. —Lose-lose. —Hey, asshole.The girl stands in the open bathroom doorway.Phil points at himself.She nods. —Yeah, you. That stuff you gave me, that was like total bullshit, wasn't it?He shakes his head. —What, huh? No, no, that was good stuff, I wouldn't, you know.She puts her hands on her hips and the sheet falls off one shoulder, exposing a tit topped by a scabbing Betty Boop tattoo. —Yeah, like you said you wouldn't cum in my mouth either.He shakes his head.—That was like I told you, like an accident, like I lost focus for a second at the point of impact and next thing I knew, BANG.She narrows her eyes. —Yeah, bang, my ass.Phil puts a leer on. —Hey, if that's what you're into.She makes a fist and starts down the hall.—Don't even, you dick. Cumming in my mouth is one thing, but that shit you gave me was almost all baby laxative.Phil backs into his door. —Hey, no way.—Bullshit. I've had the runs all morning. —Look, this is the big city, you got to expect shit to be cut a little.The girls door opens and a guy with too many gym muscles sticks his head out. —What the fuck, that the guy ripped you off?Phil raises a righteous finger.—Ripped off? I. Man, I never in my life. This shit is like a calling for me. I. Out of the kindness of my, I, I, like I barely have any shit for myself and I cut a deal with this girl, throw her a little help when she's in need and now. I.He folds his arms. —I'm fucking insulted.Too Many Muscles comes fully out of the room, bare-assed, showing the rest of his muscles. —Fucking rip-off artist.Phil opens his mouth and I dig a thumb under his arm and turn him to his own door.—Open it.He looks at me.—Sure, sure, just no one likes being called a rip-off artist. —Open it.He opens the door.Too Many Muscles is trying to catch my eye so he can flex and make it clear that I shouldn't fuck with him. The girl is shaking her fist in Phils face, her voice rising, telling him she better get some good X off him if he expects another blow job. The corridor is filled with smells of shit and smoke and sweat and fungus and incense and fast food and spilled cheap wine and puke and the residue of the last corpse that rotted unnoticed in its room for a week before it was found.It's distracting.So distracting I don't register for a beat that Phil never put his key in the knob I locked before we went to the bathroom to clean his nose. So distracting I don't hear what I should hear, don't smell what I should smell. So distracting that after I shove Phil into the room I stand frozen for a moment when the side of beef disguised as an arm comes out of the dark room and fists a gloved collection of bratwurst into the collar of my jacket.And then I am pulled inside by a force not unlike being roped to the back of an MTA bus as it pulls from Penn Station, and the door is slammed shut behind me on the suddenly retreating couple in the hall.—He's still giving me that look, tell him again it wasn't me.—I know it might be a little hard to believe, the situation being what it is, buthe's actually telling the truth, Joe.—See, it wasn't me, man. I mean, just basic logic at work, man, I mean, do themath. Like, two and two does not make five, and for it to have been me, well,you d like have to go back and make that apple not hit Galileo's head andmake two plus two equal like eleven. If you get me.—Newton.—No thanks. I'm not hungry. Like, the way he's looking at me, I'm never likelyto eat again the way it makes my stomach jump.Terry shakes his head. —No, the name you were, you know, searching for, it's Newton.Phil scratches his head, careful not to disrupt his pompadour. —Name? What name? I don't know any names, man, I don't know a thing. I'm like barely involved in this shit. Innocent bystander.Terry taps my razor against my brass knuckles.—The man who got hit in the head with the apple, who invented, although discovered is a more accurate word, gravity, his name was Newton. Sir Isaac Newton.Phil holds up both hands in denial.—I'm telling you, Bird, I never heard of the guy. Like with Joe here, he just showed up. I'd known he was coming I woulda called you. I was gonna call you.He looks at me.—No offense, Joe, and not like there's anything in it for me, but if I want to stick around these parts I got to do what's smart.He raises a finger. —But I did not, in fact, make that call. Cuz why would I? For what? And when?He shows the raised finger to Terry.—And this Newton character? Never heard of him. He's around, I'd never know it.Terry looks at the mass of shadow behind Phil. It comes away from the wall and taps him on the chest and Phil goes down hard into the corner of theroom.The mass looms over him. —Siddown an' shutit, Philip.Phil cowers. —Yeah, sure thing, Hurley. Its shut.He covers his mouth with his hands.Hurley turns to Terry, rolls his neck. —Dat good enow, Terry?Terry sets my weapons on Phils narrow dresser.—Yeah, that's fine, that's fine. Just we all need to relax a little. Get a little less chatter in here, clear the air of static and confusion.He adjusts the set of his Lennon glasses on the bridge of his nose. —Like, for instance, Joe, while yeah, Phil is a nasty cockroach of a Renfield and would sell his, I don't know, his soul, mother, anything like that, for a few bucks or a handful of black beauties, he didn't have anything to do with this.He combs his soul patch with the nail of his index finger. —Truth is, you weren't the victim of any kind of, I don't know, betrayal or setup, you were really, when you get into it, the victim of your own nature.He places a hand on the inner thigh of his often-mended hemp jeans. —What I'm getting at here is that you, over the many years of our association and, if I'm opening up, which I am, over the many years of our friendship, you were given a lot of slack. Yards and yards. Part of that was in tribute to the bond between us.He points at the window where the gap of daylight has grown brighter. —You know they closed  it?  CBGB,  they closed  it.  Outbreak of sudden hostilities between the guy who owned the place and his landlords. A homeless charity, of all things. Couldn't be negotiated. They, there's some some irony in this, the homeless charity people, they gave him the boot.He looks lost for a moment.—The Bowery without CBGB. What's that? Like, and it's not an overstatement at all, you know, like the end of an era.He looks at me.—Big landmark in our relationship, yeah? The Ramones. That gig. Man that was a great gig. One of their best. I was having an amazing night. Right till I went in the can and found you all opened up and bleeding on the floor. Tell you, till very recently, I don't know, I always hoped Id find the guy who did that and, don't get me wrong, but thank him.He spreads the fingers of both hands across his chest and bows his head. —I know how that sounds. Believe me.He raises his head.—But the point isn't to thank the guy for causing you pain, for infecting you, for sending you into this life and all the, you know, complications that come with it.He lowers his hands from the front of his East Village Organic Foods Co-op shirt.—The point would have been to thank him for dropping you in my way. For facilitating whatever, I don't know, whatever energy it was that knew I needed someone like you at that time. I mean, man, over the years, we got some things done. Not always seamless, III be first to cop to that, but we got some things done. So.He points at the window again.—For a long time I always had this vague kind of feeling that guy deserved some thanks from me.He touches that spot on his thigh again.—You know, until you got Hurley there shot to pieces and did your best to kill me.I light the smoke I've been paying attention to while he's been talking. —Terry, lets face it, when all that went down, I wasn't at my best.I wave my hand, leaving a rising trail of smoke. —I'd been at my best, you d be dead right now.A sharp light comes to the corner of his eye. —Well, that's a point that could be debated. Isn't it?I nod.—Sure. Feel like you maybe want to have Hurley step into the hall and we can debate it now?He runs a hand over his head and down the length of his ponytail. —No, Joe, that's not going to be the way this happens.He comes and sits next to me on Phils sagging bed.—What I was getting at before, about how, I don't know, Phil there didn't have anything to do with us being here, about how that was your own fault, that wasn't a minor point. See, the fact that you were, for all intents and purposes, sitting on death row when you made your break, that's not exactly an extenuating circumstance. More like that's further grounds speaking against you.I find a blue and white cardboard coffee cup on the floor and knock some ash into it. Not that I'm too worried about making a mess, just that I'd like to avoid burning the place down. Till I'm certain that's my best option, anyway. —Yeah, I follow, Terry. Thing is, you were planning to put me in the sun. So I'm hard-pressed to see what you can do at this point that's any worse.He takes his glasses off.—Worse, yeah, worse. Well, that's part of the whole picture thing here. Like how the reason we know you re here, that's because you're here. Which, I know sounds deliberately circular, but It's really not.He taps my knee with one of the arms of his glasses.—The way you left us, that big bang you went out with, that required a great deal of effort on my part to, well, not so much to cover up, but to keep in perspective. That story had circulated too widely, it would have destabilized things. Not a situation we can afford in already unstable times. Yeah. So. When we took it to the street, the picture that was painted was very much of our making. But based on your own work.He folds and unfolds the arms of the glasses.—So, your failed attempt to infect your girlfriend, that was retouched a bit. That became a, I don't know, a situation where you fed on her to save yourown skin. The thing is.He puts the glasses on.—You have down here, or, you know, had, kind of a folk status. You may have been the security arm of the Society, but people felt like they could depend on you for a fair shake. Plus everyone likes a badass. Everyone likes telling stories about a badass. And everyone likes the idea that their badass is badder than everyone else's badass. And people, turns out, had this idea that you were their local badass.He shrugs. —We needed to change that, whatever, that perception.He scratches his shoulder.—So we let it be known you'd iced and drank up your own girl. That wed put you in custody. And that before your trial, you backstabbed a couple partisans and slipped out on your belly like a snake and ran north to the Coalition.He shakes his head.—Turns out, people hate nothing like they hate a fallen folk hero. So when someone caught sight of you down here on the Bowery, they didn't think twice before making the call. And granted.He holds a hand flat, wiggles it side to side.—That's a chancy call to receive. People are so, I don't know, eager to lay you to rest, they see a big guy with dark hair and a leather car coat and they're placing the call. We've followed up on more than our share of bad numbers.He steadies the hand.—But someone seeing a guy fitting your description coming here, to Philip Sax's flophouse? That needed immediate executive attention.He gestures at the window. —As it was, we just made it over before things got dicey with the dawn.He sits, looking at the garbage between his feet, lips pursed.I flick some more ash, look down myself. I can't see the half of the room on my left. The other half of the room is pretty much filled with Hurley, leaving a scrap of space on the floor for Phil to occupy. Hurley d barely need to move to grab me if I started something. Grab me and hoist me up so my head either flattens against the ceiling or pokes through it into the room above. Or he could just pull one of the two .45s he's always got on him and blow a few chunks out of my brain. My other option, jumping out the window, seems similarly unwise.The whole burn the place to the ground with everyone in it idea is picking upserious traction. I scan the floor for any tinder that looks especially flammable.Terry unpurses his lips and looks up from the garbage.—Anyway, the tone of things being what they are, your unpopularity with the masses being what it is, this isn't so much a matter of trying to find the most miserable way to send you to your death. I wanted to do that I could just call a general assembly of the Society and toss you in the middle of the room and watch the madness of crowds take over. No, Joe.He stands. —This is simply a case of expediency.I watch as he moves to the farthest corner possible in the tiny room. —Phil, you may want to cover your eyes.Phil covers up.Terry looks at me. —He can be smart when he needs to be.He gives a slight, sad wave. —Hurley.Hurley grunts.Terry nods.—Kill Joe.The bratwurst hands come out of the gunny-sack pockets of Hurley's overcoat and go around my throat. I am levitated from the floor, trying not to thrash, knowing the torque might snap my neck.I wheeze through the pinhole Hurleys grasp has reduced my larynx to. —Huuuneee.Terry squints at me.Phil peeks from between his fingers. —Jeez, oh jeez, oh shit.He covers his eyes back up.I force the last bit of air in my lungs up past the crushing fingers. —Uuhhhnneee.Phil peeks again.—Man, that's so fucked up. Is he calling you honey? Is that normal for this kind of shit?Terry raises a finger.Hurley relaxes his thumbs just enough to let some more air slip down and out of my throat.—Muhhnneey. Muhhney, Thhheery. Muhhneee.Terry nods, Hurley squeezes, Phil re-covers his eyes.My legs thrash, I can't stop them, my body twists, I have my hands on Hurleys fingers, trying to pry them loose, but I may as well be trying to bend the barrel of one of his guns. I try aiming a kick at him, and graze his thigh and he holds me at arm's length, putting me out of range.Terry watches me dying, tucks his toe under a mashed pizza box, flips it, watches roaches scurry for cover.He looks up. —Take Phil out, will you, Hurley. You can let him go.Hurleys hands open and I drop. —Sure ting, Terry, whatever ya say.He collars Phil and hauls him up. —C'mon, ya wretched piece oh shite, it's some fresh air yer wantin'.Phil writhes.—Aw, man, it's my fucking room, man. How come I'm the one that's gotta take a stroll? I mean, so OK, obviously you guys can't take a walk right now, but how come I gotta? Not like I'm any friend of the daytime either.Hurley shakes him once. —Yer takin a walk cuz the alternative is ya take a dive offa da roof.Phil pumps his legs.—Hey, a nice refreshing stroll, a perambulation, yeah? Sounds good. Do me good.They go out.Terry comes and stands over me. —Tell me exactly why I should care about the money you mentioned.I inhale, smoke rasping over the raw inside of my throat and down into my still-parched lungs. I exhale, cough long and hard, and draw a trembling one and a two in the air with my cigarette. —Twelve pints.I look at Terry.Terry watches the numbers drift. —Yes?I exhale again, blowing the numbers to scraps. —Twelve pints. Contents of a human body. As close to exact as possible.What you were offering for my head.I rub the bright red finger marks on my neck.—Out of character for you, Terry, offering a blood reward. Out of character for the Society. Especially a number like that. Suggests someone s gonna die for you to pay off on that bounty. Kind of contrary to your whole thing about coexisting with the uninfected community. Places a certain kind of value on me. Also sends a different kind of message to the troops than you like to. Me.I put a finger in my own chest.—I figured you d offer money. Don't want the members thinking about blood as a commodity, after all. Then I remembered.I snap my fingers. —Moneys a little tight for you these days, isn't it?Terry nods, combs his soul patch again. —Yes, losing the Counts income has been a blow to our liquidity.I turn my head side to side, listen to hear if anything grinds that shouldn't. —Sure, hard to keep fighting the good fight without some greenbacks in your pocket.He stuffs his hands in his pockets, shrugs.—So, OK, Joe, you have my attention. Hurley is at bay for the moment. Here's your big reprieve. Yes, we, sad as it is to say, we in the Society need money as much as anyone else. Would it was not so. Yes, the resources we had on hand before we lost the Count had allowed us to expand the kind of support we offer to our members, better housing, improved medical care. We were, if you can believe it, we were able to put one of our members who had been a grief counselor before she was infected, we were able to pay her a salary, keep her from having to take a night job, make her available full-time to counsel the newly infected and help them to make the adjustment. It was a real boon, putting the Counts family's petrodollars to good, healing work. So, OK, so we've gotten by on far less than we have now, but its a hard time to be cash strapped. So, yes, there's something to talk about here, but it's going to be a very brief dialogue if you don't have something substantial to offer in the next, I don't know, the next half a minute. And I'm sorry if that sounds unreasonable.I nod, use some of my thirty seconds taking a drag, use a few more blowing out the smoke, and offer something substantial. —The Horde girl.Terry takes his hands from his pockets, looks at them. —Yes, that's substantial.—It's not so much that I don't trust you, it's more that I'm not sure that money, even a great deal of it, will be of more value to the Society in the long run than your death.I shift on Phils mattress, moving myself from one collection of broken springs poking me in the ass to a different collection of broken springs poking me in the ass. —No argument out of me, Terry, it's a conundrum.Terry, on the floor, his back against the dresser, shifts his legs away from the line of daylight that continues to track across the room. —Yeah, that's it, Joe, a conundrum. Well put. Certainly, I don't doubt Miss Hordes affection for you. I think the chance she took abetting your escape last year speaks volumes about her, I don't know, feelings. And her resources are well known. I am as certain as a person has a right to be certain of anything in this life that I could send her word that you're in our custody again, and that she'd be more than happy to open several large offshore accounts accessible by the Society's not-for-profit corporation. —But then you can't kill me.He juggles his hands. —Well, yeah, sure we could still kill you. It might cause some problems, butlets not split hairs. Lets just say it's the, forgive me this, its the money or your life.I grimace. —Jesus, Terry.He holds up a hand.—Pun unintended. I swear. Cheap humor when talking about a persons life has never been my style. You know that.I look at the collection of water stains on the ceiling. No, joking about killing has never been Terry's style. His style has always been more about making declarations regarding the greater good, and then telling me who needed to die for it this time.Interesting, the shoe being on the other foot, my death being the one supposed to promote the greater good. Who knew I had it in me?I open my flip-top and look at the butt ends of my last couple smokes. —Doesn't matter anyway, you cant make a deal with her nohow.He raises his eyebrows.—I cant? That's an odd point to make. Doesn't really seem to speak in your favor.I put a smoke in my mouth, light it. —Bargaining a ransom. Kind of a serious business proposition. So tell me.I light up.—You start cutting deals with Cure, how's that gonna sit with the rest of the Clans? I mean.I pick a flake of tobacco from my tongue.—The minute you enter into that kind of negotiation, it gives them legitimacy, yeah? Can't imagine that'd go over with anyone. Least of all the Coalition. Seems unwise. Things being as unstable as you say they are.He smiles.—I'm anything but close-minded, Joe. Tell me what you re suggesting. —Let me go, III make the arrangements. You'll get your money.He pushes out his lower lip.—Like I say, I'm not what you'd call close-minded. Always looking to see the bigger picture in life, my whole forest-and-trees thing, but this is a tough one for me to wrap my head around, man. So, just for fun, because I like a good theoretical discussion, tell me how it is I can trust you in this scenario you're spinning.I grin. —Fuck, Terry, who said shit about trust?He extends an index finger like a saber. —Touche.I drop my grin.—But you're missing a big piece of things, man. For a guy who likes the big picture, you're missing a big fucking piece of things. —Please, I love nothing more than to be educated.I point at the door. —Terry, what the fuck am I doing here?He cocks his head.I point at him.—Strange, yeah? Why, of all places, come down here? Am I that stupid? I want to die that bad?He temples his fingers, put the tips at his lips. —OK, yeah, I follow. Go on. —Terry, there is one reason, and one reason only for me to be here.I point north.—The Bronx sucks. There's no infrastructure for us. Hell, there's no structure at all. Its a bunch of free agents, with life spans preset to a couple months, running around trying to get all they can lay their hands on before they burn out. Its a place for dying fast. And so maybe I've always looked to have as much leeway as I could get away with, but turns out I maybe didn't know what that meant. Turns out maybe I didn't know just how much the Clans do to make life possible for a guy like me. Maybe I didn't know how good I had it.I rise.—I want back. I want back in the world. I want civilifuckingzation, man. And you want to know why I'd get the girl to shovel some serious cash your way and come back down here and be at your fucking mercy? Well that's why, man. I am tired of living with the savages. OK, so maybe it's gonna be hard to rehabilitate my reputation, but it's got to be better than what I was doing up there.I plant myself in the middle of the room.—I want to come home, man. I'm not saying it will be like it was, I know that can't work, but I want to be back downtown. Find me a corner, somewhere out of sight, just get me back down here, man. That's all. That's all.I let all my air out, deflate. —That's all. I just want to come home.Terry considers me from the floor, touches the tip of his nose. —Well, I won't deny it, Joe, I'm a sucker for a good redemption story.He pulls his legs in, rises easy, stands in front of me. —But I'm not a sucker.I look him in the eye. —I know that. —Sure you do. Well. Cards, then.He fans an imaginary poker hand.—We need the money. Negotiating with the girl would be bad for business. You can get the money. And.He drops the cards. —I believe you need to be down here.He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear.—I don't believe your sob story about wanting to come home, but I do believe that you want to be down here.He inspects my face.—Why is that, Joe, huh? What's down here, besides familiar ground, that you have to be so close to it? You leave a score unsettled? It that old story?I hold his gaze.—Just what I told you, Ter, just that I need to get out of the jungle. —OK, OK, that's cool. I can play it like that. Just, if it is a revenge thing, be careful about who you take a bead on. Your slack is played down here. You go up, get the money, come back, and yeah, I can figure something. We can find a corner for you. But it'll be a quiet corner, man, and you'll have to keep it that way. —All I'm asking for is a second chance.He gets tired all of a sudden. —Yeah, you find one of those, you tell me how I can get one for myself.I smile. —Yeah. I find where they keep them second chances, III share them around.I get rid of my smile.—Speaking of second chances, or second bananas I guess, cant help but notice you're making policy decisions without Lydia around.The tiredness that came over him a moment before stakes a claim on more of his face.—Well, man, III tell you, that's true, she's not here for this. Which, if you put a little, I don't know, a little thought into it, it might become clear why that is. I put some thought into it, Joe. I'm not claiming to be cerebral by nature, instinctive moves are more my style. I like to think that energy, personal energies, are a medium I have a small talent for reading. But that's maybe not the point. The point is, once you think about it, her feelings of animosity toward you aside, you cant help but notice that when you've had your back against the wall with the Society and managed to find your way to, forgive the pun, to daylight, that Lydia always seems to be in the know in a certain kind of way that suggests, I don't know what, involvement of some kind. So maybe it's an intuitive leap on my part, or maybe it's just obvious as hell, but I thought, seeing as I was coming over here to have Hurley kill you, that it would be best to leave her out of the loop this time.He tugs his soul patch.—Lydia has always operated her Lesbian, Gay and Other Gendered Alliance with a fair amount of independence within the Society. Always swung that bloc of votes to wherever she felt, I don't know, justice was best served. These days, she's, and this is her right, she's started going it alone more than in thepast. She's, this is, this is a real strength of hers, the narrowness of vision thing, so she's really pushing for more direct action. For the Society to move more aggressively toward making the Vyrus and the infecteds public. She's talking timetables and benchmarks and action agendas for taking the final step and putting ourselves out there and seeing if people are ready to accept us. Me, I'm still trying to keep mouths fed, trying to keep us all together and on message so we can have unity before we make that push. Needless to say, there's some distance between us right now. And I admire her moral and ethical solidity, the strength of that structure of values she's built her life on, but that woman, she can be a real pain in the ass when its time to get our hands dirty.—She's a ball breaker. —Not how I would put it myself.He blows out his cheeks. —But I wouldn't argue too much over it.I wave a hand.—Yeah, Lydia, always a stickler for procedure and due course and all that crap. Woman like that, she just has a way of screwing up a good old-fashioned political assassination.The tiredness leaves his face, replaced by something a bit sharper and less inclined to take my shit.—True is true, Joe, and we've made a deal here and all that, but this is a bit of a sensitive subject. So you might want to put a sock in it. —Sure, man. Just sorry to hear the two of you aren't getting along.He touches his thigh, where I drove the nail into his flesh. —I'm not a fool. You know that. And I know Lydia was involved. And it hurt, Joe. In more ways than one. —I know you re not a fool, Ter. And it wasn't supposed to tickle.He taps the edge of the left lens of his glasses. —What happened to the eye?I shake my head.—Peeped one too many keyholes. —Well, bound to happen the way you get around. Speaking of which.He goes to the door to let Hurley back in.—While you re working on getting some money out of the girl, you might, I don't know, take a look around her operation. I hear they're having some tough times over there. Dealing with some crisis management issues.—Where you hear that?He shrugs.—Just something I hear. But I'd be curious to know how she's going about things. How she's handling keeping things, I don't know, keeping things afloat. Idealistic causes always take a hit when there's not enough loaves and fishes to go around. After all, not like I'm against what she has to say. The idea of a Clan that supports all its members equally, that's not far from our charter, I'm just concerned about her larger goals. The whole idea of a cure is outstanding in theory, but it's a real disruption. That kind of thing has to be planned, coordinated, not just dropped like a bomb. What I'd really like.He puts his hand on the knob.—Is for her to know she has more of a friend down here than she maybe thinks she does. Certainly, you know, more of a friend here than she has in the Coalition. That kind of thing, Joe, she should hear that.He looks at me over the tops of his glasses.—She should hear it from someone she trusts. Someone not in any kind of official Clan hierarchy.I take the penultimate smoke from my pack, regretting that Terry already cut Phil loose and that I can't send him out for more.I light up, shake out my match, nod at Terry. —Sure, Terry, I follow. From someone she can trust.He looks at the slash of light that's crept to the wall. —Guess there's nothing for it but to wait. —Guess so.I flick the extinguished match into the piled mess on the floor.Now all I got to do to survive the day is listen to a few more hours of Terry's bullshit. I touch my neck.Maybe I should have let Hurley break it.I get an escort.—Ya ought ta do sumptin bout dat eye, Joe.—What do you recommend, Hurley, a contact lens?I point at the smoke shop on Second and St. Mark's. —Mind?He looks at the scratched face of his ancient wristwatch. —Naw, don' mind. Just ya be quick bout it. Terry said nae fookin' bout.He waits by the door, casting his eyes about for sudden moves on my part while I buy a couple packs of Luckys. Down here in civilization, they actually have the ones without filters.The guy slides them to me and I knock the plastic case next to the register. —And I need a lighter.He sticks his hand inside the case —Want one with the titties?His hand hovers over a Zippo with a bare-chested pinup girl enameled on the side.—No. And I don't want one with a Jack Daniels label either. Just give me the plain one.He takes one of the plain ones out, sets it next to the smokes. —Anything else? —Flints and some fuel.He takes a yellow plastic tab, laddered with tiny red flints, from a hanging rack of them behind the counter, reaches below the counter and sets a yellow and blue Ronsonol squirt bottle with the rest of the stuff.I give him some cash and fill my pockets.On the street Hurley steers us north. —Naw, ain't contact lenses I'm talkin1 'bout, Joe.I look up from the delicate work I'm doing in my hands, unscrewing the little shaft in the bottom of the lighter to slip in a flint. —Huh?He points at his own eye.—Yer eye. It's a bit what dey call conspicuous.  Doesn't do fer us, ta be standin' out ina crowd.I drop the flint in the shaft and use my thumbnail to screw the cap back into place, reflecting on the idea of this semi-retarded Irish behemoth in the double-breasted overcoat and fedora lecturing me on the topic of standing out in a crowd.I flip open the nozzle on the Ronsonol bottle and send a stream of fluid into the exposed wick folded into the body of the lighter.—Well, I tell ya, Hurley, I had a pair of sunglasses that hid it pretty well, but they got crushed when you grabbed me and yanked me into Phils room. —Ach.He shakes his head.—I'm sorry bout dat, Joe, truly I am.I close the bottle, drop it back in my coat pocket and slip the lighter into its brushed-chrome sleeve.—Not a problem, Hurl, you've done worse by me and it's never interfered with our relationship.He touches the brim of his hat. —Sure an dafs true. Dat's true.I thumb the lighters wheel, a spark jumps and a large flame trails greasy black smoke from the new wick. I touch the flame to a cigarette and inhale the mixed flavors of smoke and burning cotton and lighter fuel. I snap the lighter shut, bounce it on my palm once, feeling the warmth of the just-extinguished flame, and drop it in my pocket to clink against my arsenal of brass and sharp steel.He stops as we reach the south side of Fourteenth. —Well, dis is it fer me. On yer own from here.I linger, looking south down Second. The marquee at Twelfth Street advertises a midnight double bill of The Killer Elite and Soylent Green.Date night at the old Jewish vaudeville theater.Hurley taps my shoulder.—C'mon, Joe, no time ta reminisce, yu'v got miles ta go till ya sleep n all dat. —Yeah, miles to go.I look at him. —By the way, Hurl, you're looking a lot better than the last time I saw you.He rubs his stomach.—Sure, an why wouldn't I be? Tell ya, only ting hurts worse den all dem bullets goin' in is pickin out da ones dint come out da udder side. —Yeah, well, sorry about that.