—And so. Here we are again. But with a variation. Where is the girl, and where are the teeth?
I think about making a break for it, but I'm done. So I take a drag instead and say what's on my mind.
—Predo, you're a dick.
The uppercut catches me under the jaw and dislocates it. I fly into the air, across the bed, crash into the wall and tumble onto the mattress. He's stronger than the enforcer was.
The giant scoops me up and full nelsons me in front of Predo. Predo squares up.
—Where?
I try to say something smart, but can't get my jaw to move, so I just shake my head. Predo cocks his fist. He'll knock my jaw clear off this time.
—'Lo, Joe.
We all look up to the top of the little circular stair that leads down to this room. I grind my jaw and it pops into place.
—Hurley. How you doing?
He stands at the top of the stairs looking down at us, a huge hammerlike .45 held casually in either hand, neither of them pointing at anything, yet.
—OK. Door's unlocked up 'ere.
—Yeah?
—Tought I'd come in. Ya don't mind?
—Naw.
He nods at Predo.
—Mr. Predo.
Predo lowers his fist.
—Hurley. It has been a long time. How is Terry?
—Same. But he won't like yer bein' down 'ere none, Mr. Predo.
—He'll be understanding on this occasion. Trust me.
The giant is eyeing Hurley, wearing the unmistakable expression of a big man who wants to prove he's the most dangerous guy in the room. Hurley keeps his eyes on Predo, wearing the expression of a man who knows who the most dangerous guy in the room is. Predo's face shows nothing.
Hurley lets the barrel of one of the forty-fives wave in my direction.
—Terry sent me over. Wants ta see ya.
—He's back?
—Yeah, wants ta see ya.
—Well, I'm busy, but I think I can get away.
I look at Predo. He lifts his chin at the giant, and the giant releases my arms.
—Let me just go to the can.
I walk into the bathroom, pick up the case and stuff it in my back pocket. The tableau in my bedroom remains in place. I stand at the foot of the stairs.
—Don't worry, Mr. Predo, I'll take care of what we were talking about. Get it to someone who can handle the responsibility like you suggested. And you look after my friend. OK?
He doesn't say anything.
—OK, Mr. Predo?
He nods, begins stripping the gloves from his hands.
—Yes, I suppose that will have to do.
—Yeah, I suppose it will.
Halfway up the stairs I get hit with a last piece. I pause and look back down.
—I took care of business, didn't I, Mr. Predo? Did that job you wanted done?
He rolls his sleeves back into place and begins to fit the cuff links to their holes.
—Yes, you did.
I'm thinking fast, trying to make it fit, trying to get something out of this.
—I killed Horde?
—Yes.
He is straightening the knot in his tie and pauses to look at me.
—Rather esoterically, I am told. How did you go about freezing his blood?
I'm watching him close.
—Figure you know more about that than me.
He looks down at his tie.
—I assure you, I do not.
I play it as it lies.
—However I did it, I figure I'm owed.
He smoothes the tie down his shirtfront.
—You were thinking?
—I'd like my stash replaced.
He picks up his jacket.
—Replaced?
I dangle it one more time.
—Yeah, from when your guy without a smell snatched it.
A spark of interest flares across his face, and dies in the same instant as he snuffs it.
—I don't employ such things, Pitt.
I leave it there. He slides his arms into the jacket.
—You are correct however, you did provide a service. I will arrange delivery of compensation.
He tugs on the lapels of his jacket, seating it firmly on his shoulders.
—But the Coalition is a progressive entity, Pitt. We do not deal in superstition.
He flicks a loose strand of hair into place.
—If it is the paranormal that you are concerned with?
I wait.
—You should try talking with Daniel. He is the only one who traffics in such things.
I open my mouth. Hurley taps me with one of his sledgehammer guns.
—Terry's waitin' on ya, Joe.
II look at Predo. He tilts his head.
—I look forward to seeing you again, Pitt. I touch my sore jaw.
—Yeah. Do me a favor. Lock up on your way out.
I follow Hurley up the stairs and out onto the street. He tucks his guns into his waistband and buttons his jacket over them. We walk side by side toward Tompkins Square.
—Didn't know you knew Predo, Hurley.
He shrugs.
—Yer around long enough, Joe, ya get ta know everyone.
—Not only is he an agent provocateur, but he's an escapee and I want to know what the fuck has been going on!
—Sure, sure, Tom, we all want to know what's been going on, man. But you don't get knowledge by screaming, you get it by listening. So let's just, you know, try to cool it and listen to the man. —Fuck that shit. You heard Hurley. Dexter Predo was in his apartment. Fucking Predo! He's their fucking spy master! What more evidence do you want?
—Well, if we're supposed to execute a man, as you suggest, then I want a whole lot of evidence, Tom.
It's just like old times.
—Fine. Fucking fine. Then I want to call a tribunal! I want a fucking court of enquiry.
This time I didn't have to be coldcocked by Hurley to get to Society headquarters. But here I am all the same.
—Hey, Tom, if it comes to that, it comes to that. No problem. But let's just get the ball rolling with a few simple questions, OK?
—Fuck questions! I want a full interrogation into this right fucking now.
Terry walks over to Tom, nodding his head.
—Tom. I think I need you to take a walk.
—What? No fucking.
—Hurley.
--Yeah.
—Take Tom for a walk.
Tom stares at him.
—No fucking.
Terry holds up his hand, index and middle fingers spread in a peace sign.
—Cool it, Tom. Take a walk. Now.
—This is fucking.
Terry puts the hand on Tom's shoulder.
—What, Tom? This is fucking what?
He gazes into Tom's eyes, and Tom shuts up.
—That's it, right, man? You're done? You're cool?
Tom nods.
—Yeah. I'm cool, Terry.
—Good. So take a walk.
He pats him on the shoulder and watches as Hurley leads him up the steps.
—Lydia.
Lydia looks up from the cup of coffee she's been staring into since I came in.
—You mind taking a walk with the boys?
—Nope.
She follows them up the stairs without looking at me. Terry Waits until they are gone and the door closes. Then he comes over to the old card table and sits down across from me.
—He's a firebrand that one, very passionate in his beliefs.
I play with my Zippo.
—That must help.
—I don't follow, Joe.
—Well, I sometimes get the feeling you're grooming him for my old spot. He'll do a good job. He likes cracking the whip.
Terry shakes his head.
—Nobody will ever do that job as good as you, Joe. You were the best.
—Yeah, well, those days are over.
—They don't have to be.
You could always come back.
I don't need to answer that, so I light a smoke instead. Terry holds up his hand.
—I'd rather you didn't.
—Right.
I put the smoke out.
—See you got back OK.
—Yes.
—How'd it go up there?
He sighs.
—It's not like the old days, Joe. Digga is a much different man than Luther was. Luther was from my school, a revolutionary, not a reactionary. He was there in the sixties, saw how change can really happen. Luther made some of that change. It's hard now to explain how big a change that was, getting the Coalition to give up the top of the island. Man, truth be told, I don't know if we could have ever gotten our independence down here if it hadn't been for Luther X. Kid like Grave Digga, history doesn't mean much to him. But I think I got him to see some light. He knows he can't go making war by himself, and he knows we aren't about to join in with his hostilities, even if the Coalition did assassinate Luther. You can't change the world if your motive is revenge. Vibes like that just aren't productive.
—Uh-huh. So how'd you get back down?
—I was able to make an arrangement. You can always make an arrangement if you're patient and flexible.
—That arrangement have anything to do with giving Predo passage down here so he could pop in on me?
Terry shrugs.
—Well, I did grant a transit. But I didn't ask questions about how they would use it.
—That was part of the arrangement?
—One must bend to avoid breaking, Joe.
—Thought you didn't look too concerned about Predo being at my place and all.
—That's not fair. I'm always concerned about you. You're a friend.
—Sure. That why I'm here? Friendship?
He leans forward in his chair.
—I'd like to think that all our arrangements are made on the basis of friendship. But Tom is right. There has been a great deal going on. And I am very interested in hearing your side of it.
—Fair enough.
I take a moment to get my story together.
—So it's like this, Terr, there was some trouble.
I stop. Terry nods encouragingly.
—And I took care of it.
Terry waits. And waits some more. And smiles.
—Is that really the way you want to handle this, Joe?
—Yeah, it really is.
—OK, OK, man. That's fair. But it raises other issues.
—Like?
—Well, you know how I feel about capitalism, no fan of the WTO am I. But there are advantages to doing things on a quid pro quo basis. Like a barter economy. So let's put this on a goods and services level.
—How so?
—Well, like the Dusters. That cost something, asking them to go uptown and pick you up. Not to mention that it aggravated an already sensitive relationship with the Coalition. So that's one, I don't know, call it one unit.
He holds up a finger.
—On a less tangible level, there's just the general bad vibes you've been stirring up around here that last couple days.
He holds up a second finger.
—You're also asking us to kind of, I don't know, take it on faith that whatever's been in the air is cool. That's trust, Joe. That's, and I hate to put it in these terms, but that's an expensive commodity. So that might need a little extra compensation.
Two more fingers.
—And then there's the cleanup I hear Tom did on that Leprosy kid and his dog. Now that's a big service, but I know you liked that kid and whatever went down must have been tough on you. So.
He sticks up his thumb, shows me his open hand.
—I'm not sure how to assign value to all of that. So maybe you have an idea of how to make us even on this deal. Because otherwise, I just don't see any way around it, we're going to have to insist on getting a little more information, a little more than just your say-so that things are gonna be cool. You get me?
—I get you. I come across with something worth something or you're gonna put me in a room with Tom and Hurley.
He puts his hand on the table.
—Don't be like that, Joe. The Society is a collective, man, I have to keep everybody happy. If it was up to me, I'd just take your word, shake hands and maybe ask you to buy me a beer. You know how I work.
—I know how you work, Terry.
He grins.
—Sure you do. So.
The grin goes away.
—What you got, Joe?
I pull the case out of my back pocket and set it on the table. The hinge creaks open. He looks at the teeth. Looks at me and
raises his eyebrows.
—It's a bomb, Terry. Set it off and all hell will break loose.
I don't tell him everything. But I tell him enough. And he likes it.
-What the fuck?
Tom is standing on the sidewalk with Hurley when Terry brings me out.
—Easy, Tom.
—Where the fuck does he think he's going?
—He's going his own way, Tom, just like all of us have to.
—Fuck his way! You can't just.
—Cool it, OK? You want to be security chief, you have to learn that it sometimes involves some subtlety, some grace.
—Fuck subtlety. You can't make a decision like this on your own.
There needs to be a hearing and a vote.
I get out a smoke.
—You know, Tom ...
I light it.
—You are one lousy anarchist.
His hand goes in his pocket and comes out with the revolver he took off me. Before he can point it at me it's in Terry's hand and Tom is on the ground. Terry looks down at him.
—Joe is gonna take off, Tom. He's walking clean. That's the way it's gonna be and there's not going to be a vote. Hurley, take him back in.
Hurley helps Tom off the sidewalk and they head for the door.
Tom stares at the sidewalk the whole way, tears of rage boiling down his cheeks.
I watch till he's inside, then shoot a look at Terry.
—Still got the moves.
He tilts his head and shrugs.
—The tools of the oppressor have to be used sometimes.
—Sure.
I point at his hand.
—That's my gun.
Terry looks at the revolver, then holds it out to me.
—Be careful with it.
I take the gun and drop it in my pocket.
—Always am.
I start down the street, he calls after me.
—By the way, you ever find out who it was that was poking around? The no-scent thing?
—Gonna go look into that.
—Let me know.
I stop and turn around.
—I almost forgot, Predo was asking after you. Didn't know you
guys had a personal history.
Terry takes off his glasses and polishes them on his Grateful Dead T-shirt.
—Well, live long enough, and you get to know everyone.
—So I hear.
He puts his glasses back on, waves and goes inside.
Lydia stops me at the corner.
—She wants to see you. I rub my head.
—Later. I have to go somewhere.
—How much later?
—Not much.
She nods, gives me the address.
—She's a peach, you know.
—Whatever.
—Sure, whatever you say.
I head west toward A, where I know I can flag a cab.
—Joe.
I keep walking.
—Yeah?
—No lie, Joe, I don't like men much.
Still walking, letting her talk at my back as much as she wants to.
—And I like straight men even less.
Walking, thinking about what I have to do next.
—But you might be OK with me one of these days.
Calling back over my shoul
der.
—Then I got something to look forward to.
She laughs.
—If you can keep alive that long, Joe.
—Come in, Simon.
I do. I sit on the floor of Daniel's cubicle and watch him eat. He sits cross-legged and holds a tiny bowl between his thumb and index finger. The bowl can't hold more than a generous tablespoon. As we speak he brings it to his lips, wetting them with drops of blood that he then licks away with the tip of a tongue as pale as his skin. He gestures to me with the bowl.
—Would you like some?
I look at the meager brass vessel in his hand.
—Why not, it's probably from my stash anyway.
He puts his nose close to the bowl and inhales.
—Yes, I think it is.
He offers the bowl to me.
—Please, finish it. I've had my fill.
I take the bare thimble of blood, then toss it down my throat. It's good.
—You gonna tell me why, Daniel?
He nods.
—But I would like to ask you a question first.
I run a finger through the gloss of blood left in the cup, lick it clean, and set the bowl on the floor between us.
—Shoot.
—How did it feel?
I watch the empty bowl.
—What?
—Please, Simon. Be coy with others, but not with me. That's not for us. How did it feel?
I think about starving. I think about the cramps and the burning that followed. I think about being helpless. And I think about the shimmering brightness of the world when I was at the naked edge of death.
—It felt good.
—And?
—Dangerous.
His hand spiders over his skull.
—Apt as usual. Good and dangerous. You have just summed up the existence of Enclave. Thank you. And your question now. Why?
—Yeah.
—Because you are Enclave, Simon.
—No, I'm not.
He shakes his hand in the air.
—We don't need to have this debate again. You are what you are and nothing can change that. You simply need to become aware of it.
—So you decide it's time for me to find out about myself, and you pitch that. . . whatever the fuck it was at me? That Wraith? Have that thing come into my place and strip my stash. I almost got
killed.
—But you didn't. And tell me, if you hadn't been so close to the Vyrus, so close to your true nature, would you have survived your encounter? Would you have been strong enough to face down your enemies?
I think about the enforcer and his strength, and Horde's bullets ripping into me.
—No. But I don't think I would have been there in the first place.