I rush between patches of shade until I get to the L. I take it back across town and hurry to my pad. I still haven't called Evie to tell her I'm OK. For that matter, I still haven't cleaned up after sleeping on the sidewalk.
Out of the shower I call Evie.
—Hey, baby.
—You OK?
—Yeah, sure, babe, I'm fine.
—Was there any trouble?
Piles of it.
—Could've been, but Terry took care of it.
—Hope that was OK, me calling him. I didn't want to cause a fuss over nothing, but after that stuff with poor Lep I figured . . .
—No, it's cool. You did right.
We hang on the phone for a second, listening to each other thinking. I'm thinking this is new territory for us. She's always made a point of staying out of my business and I've always made a point of keeping her out. I don't know what to think of her talking to Terry on her own, but I don't like it much. As for her, I don't have a clue what she's thinking about.
I hear her shift the phone, her short fingernails clicking against the mouthpiece as she brushes her hair out of the way.
—I'm off tonight.
Tuesday, one of her nights off. Date night for us.
—Yeah, babe, probably not a good night for it.
She makes a little sucking sound, her tongue pulling down from the roof of her mouth. It's the sound she makes when she's starting to get bugged.
—Right. 'Cause you got the thing you're working on.
—Yeah.
—'The thing that got Leprosy killed.
—Evie.
—That you won't tell me about.
—Not now, OK?
—Even though I was the one washing Lep's blood off you.
—I said not now.
—OK, then when, Joe? When do I ever get to know what you're
up to?
—Just. Not now.
—Not now. Where have I heard that before?
She pushes all the air out of her lungs; it's the sound a person makes when they're trying to keep their cool, the one Evie makes when her cool's already been lost.
—There's only so much a girl will take, Joe. Even a girl you can't fuck.
She hangs up. And can you blame her?
So that's one more thing for me to deal with. I'd like it to be at the top of my list, but it's not. Instead my list reads something like this:
1) Find carrier.
2) Find Horde girl.
3) Find out who is spying on me.
4) Call Terry.
5) Deal with Predo.
6) Make up with girlfriend.
Oh, and at the top of that list you can add, GET SOME BLOOD. But the phone call is the only one that looks doable right now, so I call Terry.
—Joe, I really wanted to talk to you, man.
—We're talking, Terry.
—Yeah, but the phone. Not the same as sitting down face-to-face, you know.
—I could see you later tonight.
—No, no good, I have to go uptown tonight.
—Uptown?
—Above a hundred and tenth.
—Hood?
—Grave Digga is talking war parties again and I want to see if I can mellow him out.
—Tomorrow night, then.
—I may have to crash up there a couple nights. I got transit on a boat, but the pilot can't guarantee a return trip. And the way things are with the Coalition these days, I don't think they'll be laying any passes on me to cross their turf.
He's right about that. At the best of times the Coalition wouldn't be looking to do Terry any favors, but with all the dust being kicked up down here they'll be twice as hardcase about it. And that's assuming they don't know he's going to talk to the Hood.
The Hood is an offshoot of the Coalition. Back in the sixties, about the same time Terry was organizing the Society, Luther X organized all the blacks and Latinos in the Coalition, split them off and took control of everything above One Tenth. A truce was negotiated and the Coalition ceded the territory, but they didn't like it. All the same, things were pretty peaceful between them until last year. Last year someone stuck a couple knives through Luther's eyes and his warlord DJ Grave Digga took over the Hood. He went on a purge and claimed he found Coalition agents in the Hood who had assassinated Luther. Since then he's been sending raiding parties below the border and trying to get Terry and the Society to hook up with him to wipe out the Coalition. Not my problem.
—Then I guess we'll just have to talk now. What do you want?
—Just wanted to talk with you, have a little communication about everything that's been going down.
—I mean, what do you want for getting the Dusters to pick me up?
—Hey, Joe. That was an act of humanity. I know what it's like up there. Your girl calls me and tells me you went to meet some
client and you're not back? Then she tells me the meet was uptown? What am I gonna do, not care? And from what I hear, you needed the help. Christian tells me you were zonked out on the sidewalk with a bunch of homeless people, getting ready to work on your tan.
—Yeah, so what do you want?
—What I want, what I wanted, man, was to rap, make sure you're OK. You don't want to come over, that's your business- We're all free to do as we please.
—I don't like open accounts, Terry. What do you want?
He chuckles.
—I know. Joe don't take nothing from nobody, good or bad. I was just trying to do the right thing by a guy who used to be my friend. A guy, by the way, I still think of as a friend.
—Funny, last time this friend saw you, he ended up getting a couple ribs cracked by your mick thug.
—That wasn't personal, Joe, that was politics. I needed to throw Tom a bone to keep him from going radical on us. That was for the greater good. And I'd prefer it if you didn't use terms like mick.
—OK, Terry, you'll let me know when you want to collect. In the meantime I'll throw you this. Tom was right, someone else was poking around at the school, looking into what happened with those shamblers.
—Victims of Zomb—
—The fucking walking corpses, whatever you want to call them. Someone else was taking an interest.
—Any idea who?
—All I know is that it's someone very private, someone doesn't like to leave anything behind, not even a scent. Sound like anyone you know?
He's quiet for a sec. I let it dangle there.
—No, I don't think so, Joe, no one I know.
—You might want to keep your eyes peeled. Because whoever it is, they're creeping around on your turf.
I hang up. Let him chew on that. Maybe he'll poke around and find something out. Be nice to have someone doing my dirty work for a change.
There's still time till the sun goes down, time to kill before I can go looking for the girl and the carrier.
The girl and the carrier.
Something snaps together in my head.
Oh fuck.
I smell my hand. It's not there anymore, I washed it off in the shower. I go to the heap of dirty laundry in the corner. I throw the burnoose to the side, find the black jeans I had to wear to the Cole last night because Lep's blood had ruined my suit. I hold them to my face and sniff, cigarette smoke, the dirty pavement I slept on, my own sweat. Same thing with the shirt I wore. But he touched me, I know he did, shook my hand and gave me that fake hearty slap on the shoulder. Where's my jacket? I slide open the closet door and take my jacket off the hanger. It's the nice one, the lightweight leather sport coat Evie bought me. It's got a scuff on the sleeve from last night's nap on the sidewalk. I put my nose against the right shoulder and inhale.
There it is, that smell. The one I smelled on my hand last night after Horde and I shook. That odor from the school. That musky sex scent that was all over the cardboard mattress and the zombie girl. It was on Horde's hands. It was all over him, but I couldn't smell it because the reek of Leprosy's blood was still in my hair
and nostrils.
They have names, the shamblers from the school have names. The boys' were Joey Boyles and Zack Blake. The girl's name was Whitney Vale. That's the one I care about.
She was nineteen, born and raised in Nyack. Her mom says she split as soon as she turned eighteen and she'd only seen her a couple times in the last year when she showed up to ask for money. The dad's been a no-show since she was born. She was working part-time as a bag checker at one of the used record stores on St. Marks. The manager says she hadn't shown up for a week or two. I get all this off my computer when I check the sites for the Times, News and Post. I try Googling her name and get the articles I just read along with the AP coverage, and some creep claiming he has nude pics of her that he's willing to sell.
I look at the clock, it's 9:11 P.M. It'll be dark enough for me to go out now. I get up from the computer and pull on a T-shirt and the leather jacket. It's plenty hot out, but I need something to cover the revolver I stuff in the waistband of my black jeans.
My head is still aching from the mickey Horde slipped me. I open the closet door and look at the padlocked minifridge next to the gun safe. Last pint I had was Saturday. Usually I would have had a drink on Monday, but Evie was with me, and then I had to run out to see Horde and then someone stole my stash.
Maybe I missed something in the fridge.
I could open the fridge and look inside, but I know it's empty. It's just that the Vyrus is talking to me, reminding me how I'm gonna start feeling in the next twenty-four when it starts eating me.
I turn around and go up the stairs.
It's early and it's a Tuesday; St. Marks isn't in full freakshow mode, but it's summertime so you still get an eyeful. Squatters sucking on forties bought with the change they panhandled this afternoon, aged hippies who live in the same rent-controlled apartments they had in the sixties, Jersey kids clogging the sidewalk booths to buy cheap sunglasses and get shitty tattoos. More than anything else it's depressing. This street used to be dangerous, now it's a mall.
Sounds is on St. Marks between Second and Third Avenues on the first floor of an old brownstone. It's one big room filled with bins of CDs, and vinyl for the classicists. Just inside the door a guy is standing in front of a bunch of cubbyholes where they keep customer's bags. He's a white kid wearing unlaced Nikes, baggy jeans, a Kobe jersey, and a Lakers cap turned sideways on his head. He's standing on a milk crate so he can keep an eye on the dozen or so customers browsing the stock. I go up to him and stand there while he checks out a chick in a camo micro-skirt who's digging through the trance bin.
—Excuse me.
His eyes flick to me and then back to the chick's legs.
—Yo?
—Manager around?
He shakes his head.
—Know when he might be around?
He shrugs.
—Anyone around I could talk to?
He shakes his head.
—Not hirin'.
—Uh-huh. You worked here long?
The chick walks up to the counter with a CD and the guy uses his position on the high ground to try and get a look down her top while the college student at the register rings her up.
—I asked if you worked here long.
The chick turns from the register and hands the guy a beat-up playing card. He turns to the cubbyholes and finds a Tibetan-style handbag with a matching card clothespinned to it. He hands her the bag, openly leering at the tops of her tits sticking out of her middy tank top.
—Whadcha buy?
She takes her bag, sticks her CD in and heads for the door.
—Music, asshole.
He watches her as she goes out.
—Yeah, fuck you, too, bee-atch.
He looks at me.
—Whaddaya want?
—Like I was saying, you work here long?
—Fuck do you care?
—I don't, I just thought you might know Whitney Vale.
He grins.
—Oh shit, man.
He turns to the kid behind the counter.
—G, fool wants ta know about Whitney.
The college kid doesn't look up from the Skinny Puppy liner notes he's reading.
—Tell him to get in line.
The box guy looks down at me, still grinning.
—Hear that, fool? Get in line.
—Yeah, I heard. You ever get to take a break in this place?
—Yeah, whatsit to ya?
—Nothing, just wanted to make sure they aren't abusing their workers.
I turn to leave.
—Yeah, fuck off, freak. Go hang with the rest of the ghouls been coming around.
I walk out.
The nice thing about St. Marks, it's easy to loiter. You can just hang out and drift up and down the same couple yards of pavement and nobody will pay you any mind. I cross the street to the deli and buy a couple packs of Luckys in case this takes awhile. Then I stand on the corner and smoke and wait.
He comes out a couple times to stand on the steps and have a
cigarette himself, but it's over two hours before he takes his break. He crosses the street and heads toward my corner. I turn around and get fascinated by the beats the guy there sells out of his little stall. The box guy walks past me. He slaps hands with the doorman outside the Continental, then goes into the McDonald's next door. I walk past and watch him through the window as he gets his order to go. He comes out and turns to head back to the store and I come up behind him and take him by the arm.
—Hey, man!
—What?
I turn him around and start leading him toward 9th. I grin.
—Damn, G, it's great to see you! What you been up to?
—Wha the fuck?
He tries to pull his arm free. I squeeze it tight and put my mouth close to his ear.
—Fuck with me and I'll take you back to the store, stuff you in a cubbyhole and flush the card so no one can claim your ass.
He comes with me. I steer him around the corner and halfway down the block before I let him go. He's gone scared and babbly on me now.
—Hey, hey, man, I didn't mean anything back there, you don't gotta be a dick about it. I mean, you're not a dick.
—I could give a fuck what you said.
—So whadaya want, G? I gotta get back to the store an' shit.
I stare at him. He starts nodding.
—Right, G, right, you wanna know about Whitney.
—When was the last time you saw her?
—Got me, G. Like, maybe two, three weeks back we worked together.
—She quit?
—Naw, G, ya don't quit that job, ya jus stop goin' in.
—She have any boyfriends, anyone hanging around her?
He smiles.
—G. That chick wasn't straight enough for no boyfriends. She a mad freak. Super freakin'.
—You ever see her with a guy, fifties, a guy with money?
—Hell no. Chick never had no money, always be bummin'.
—You seen the pictures in the paper, of the guys she was with?
—Shit yeah, who ain't?
—You ever see her hanging out with them?
—Got me. Anything else, G? My McNuggets be gettin' cold.
—Yeah, that's it.
I take a twenty out of my pocket.
—Here, dinner's on me.
—Sweet.
He grabs the bill. I think of something and hold onto it.
—You know anything about a guy selling nude pics of her on the Net?
—Shiiit, I don't know 'bout that, but like I say, chick a freak. Know she most definitely picked up some change on the side doin' some freaky shit for a guy.
—What guy?
He tugs on the twenty. I let it go.
—Guy name Chubby Freeze. An'you can't find Chubby, you don' deserve to be comin' on all detective-like.
I stand there thinking as he walks away. At the corner, a good twenty yards away, he turns and points at me.
—Th
at's right, bitch! An' done let me see your ass in the shop again or I'll buss a cap init.
He throws me the bird and turns the corner to go tell his pal outside the Continental how I tried to lean on him and how he hardcased me. I walk the other way, toward Chubby Freeze's place. Because he's right, I don't deserve to be all detective-like if I don't know where to find Chubby Freeze.
—Hey, Chubbs.
—Joe! What brings you?
Chubby Freeze isn't chubby. He may have been chubby once for a few minutes right after he was born, but now he's corpulent. A very short, very fat black man who is literally almost as wide as he is tall. He sits behind a grand but beaten mahogany desk, he and his fat sprawled on a threadbare red velvet love seat in lieu of an office chair that he would doubtlessly crush.
I point at the pretty boy perched on the arm of the love seat.
—Think he could take a walk?
Chubby smiles.
—Of course, Joe. Walking is one of the things Dallas does best. Isn't that right, Dallas?
The boy shrugs and shoots me a couple eye daggers.
—Show him, Dallas. Show the nice man how you walk.
Dallas sighs, pushes himself up and sashays past me to the door. The Chelsea gym-boy looks and booth tan don't fool me. If Chubby keeps him in his office, he's not just in here to move the desk out of the way when Chubby wants to get up; the boy is dangerous. I watch him till he's out of the room. Chubby watches, too.
—Lovely, isn't he?
—If that's how you like em.
—Well, Joe, I like them every which way, but the pretty ones are a particular weakness. The pretty ones and the grotesque.
He points at the cracked red leather wingback in front of his desk.
—Sit, Joe. Relax. It's ages since we had a chat.
I sit in the chair.
—What's on your mind, Joe?
—Whitney Vale.
He bows his head, closes his eyes and pats his chest with a well-manicured hand. Fat ripples beneath his three-piece suit. He lifts his head, looks at me.
—Joe, that was a sad waste.