Half the Blood of Brooklyn

  It will save her.

  No more puking. No more hair loss. No more oral ulcers. No more loose teeth. No more chemo. No more Kaposi. No more AIDS.

  No more cold showers. No more hand jobs. No more dry humping like the high school kid I never was.

  Just me and her and all the time you could want, as healthy as a human being can be. Healthier. As healthy as something not quite human and not quite alive can be. For just as long as we can keep it together. For just as long as we can score and lay low and live with the constant scrabble to find the next hit. For as long as we can stay out of the sun.

  It’s a life.

  And who am I to bitch. I may not have asked to be infected, but I haven’t hurried to get out of the deal. Been over thirty years now, and I can bow out anytime. A bullet is still a bullet, whether it goes through your brainpan or mine. And dead is still dead. Or so I’m told. I’ll know for sure soon enough. Just like everyone else.

  We’re all going the same place.

  I’m just taking a different road.

  If the scenery sucks, I can drive into a ditch whenever I want.

  And I can take Evie with me. All I got to do is one simple thing. I just got to do what she’s begging me for. I just got to save her.

  I get off the bed, stub my smoke out in the tray on the nightstand and throw down the last swallow of Old Grand-Dad in the water glass there. I take Solomon’s hogleg from my dresser and put it and the shells in my gun safe with a couple other pieces I’ve acquired in the last year. Used to be I had a pair of handguns that suited me more or less to a tee. The work I’ve been doing lately, I’ve found I go through them in a hurry. It pays to collect an extra or two when you get the chance.

  The phone rings and I answer it and talk to someone and hang up.

  I head for the door, in a hurry to be somewhere else, to be doing something else. To be thinking about anything else. I go fast and I leave the guns behind.

  I won’t need one where I’m headed.

  Unless I plan on shooting my boss.

  God knows I’ve had worse ideas.

  Organ courier.

  I wish.

  Freelance. My own boss. The way I used to have it.

  That was cherry.

  It was a scrabble being a Rogue, not having a Clan to look out for you and keep you in the drink, but no one looks over your shoulder and tells you what to do. You fuck up, someone’s gonna put you down. Nothing but blood, sweat and tears. And damn little blood.

  Hell, I pine for it.

  —The Candy Man? That’s a real bummer.

  I get out of my own head and look at Terry, the man whose dime I’ve been on for the last year. Not that he’d put it that way. He’d say I’m simply a pledged member of the Society, serving the greater good. But I know better. After all, it may be a dog’s life, and I may be the dog, but I know whose hand is holding the leash.

  —Yeah, whole bunch of SoHo ragtags are gonna have to find a new hookup.

  He holds his index finger and thumb an inch apart.

  —You’re still taking the short view.

  He spreads his arms wide.

  —What I’m trying to get you to see is the big picture. Expand your vision, get into your peripherals, man. See the vistas. The trees, they’re beautiful. But the forest, when you see the whole thing? That’s a mindblower.

  He shades his eyes with a flat hand, gazing into the distances beyond the walls of this tenement kitchen.

  —When you really open your perceptions and take it all in, the view is breathtaking.

  I look at Lydia. She’s got her eyes squeezed shut, fingers rubbing her temples.

  I tilt my chin at her.

  —Got a headache?

  She peels her eyes open and flips her hand in Terry’s direction.

  —You don’t?

  I check out Terry, his eyes still shaded, smiling at us.

  —I’ve been listening to it for a long time. Guess I’m building an immunity.

  Terry drops his hand.

  —An immunity to truth, Joe? I hope not, man. I hope not.

  I fiddle with the unlit smoke in my hand. Terry and Lydia don’t like me to smoke in Society headquarters. Like secondhand smoke is gonna kill them. The principle of the thing, they’d say. Like there’s any principle involved in breathing smoke other than it tastes good.

  —The big picture, Ter, I’m missing it, so fill me in.

  He lowers himself to the floor, slowly bending his legs till he’s folded into a full lotus.

  —The Candy Man is dead.

  —Got that.

  —Sure, sure you do, that’s basic. The Candy Man is dead. Which, you know, he was a guy in a high-risk market. The blood, I mean, not the candy. So getting murdered isn’t like a statistical improbability or anything. But, and this is the down the rabbit hole part, he’s killed in a fashion that suggests a pretty well-versed Van Helsing was involved. A Van Helsing with enough, I don’t know, foresight, savvy, whatever, to poison the Candy Man’s stock so no one could scavenge it. And then the final tree in this, well, not really forest, but grove, maybe, or copse is a better word. The final tree in this copse is the really relevant fact that Solomon wasn’t what a Van Helsing would call a, you know, a vampire. So that’s our copse, our thicket of trees within the forest. The question is, What’s out of place here? What tree, or shrub even, doesn’t belong in the thicket?

  I light my cigarette.

  —You lost me at copse.

  Lydia points at the NO SMOKING sign above the door.

  —You mind?

  I take another drag.

  —Sister, if you can get through this without a smoke or a drink, more power to you. Me, I’m made of weaker stuff.

  She crosses to a black-painted window over the sink, pinches the heads of the thirty penny nails driven through the frame into the sill, draws them out with a squeak, the upside-down pink triangle tattooed on her shoulder jumping as her muscles flex, and shoves the window open.

  —I’m not your sister. My sisters share my values and concerns. They don’t put money into the pockets of death merchants.

  She drops the nails on the sill.

  —And, Terry, a little support on the no-smoking policy would be appreciated.

  He rests his hands palms up on the points of his knees.

  —Trees, guys. Forest. Copse.

  Lydia folds her arms.

  —The Candy Man wasn’t infected. The Van Helsing killed him like he was infected. He or she knew all this other stuff, but didn’t know Solomon was a civilian. That’s your odd tree.

  He snaps his fingers.

  —That’s it, that’s what I’m talking about. That particular piece of foliage seen on its own is just another fragment of the ecosystem, just another link in the chain of life. But in context of our forest? It stands out like a sequoia in the Amazon. An uninfected dealer in the forest of the Vyrus. Solomon has always been an exotic, yeah? So now, now something happens, someone yanks that tree, uproots it and salts the earth. But the way they go about it, it looks like they got a handle on the terrain, like they should maybe know better. So why kill that tree like it’s a, and I don’t like this analogy any better than you will, Lydia, but I’m talking here from this gardener’s point of view, why kill this tree like it’s a weed? Seeing as you know the difference. The Van Helsing I’m talking here.

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

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

  Lydia is pointing at the window.

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

  I pull out a fresh smoke.

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

  —I swear, Jo
e, sometimes I think Tom was right about you, sometimes I think you’re working for the Coalition, trying to subvert everything we do down here.

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

  She comes away from the window.

  —That a threat?

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

  Fucking no, I am not.

  But I have shit manners.

  —Fuck you, Lydia.

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

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

  Terry looks at the ceiling.

  —Forest! Forest! Forest!

  I crush the cigarette in my hand.

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

  Terry smiles.

  —See, you do have wider vision, man. That’s great.

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

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

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

  Terry untangles his legs, straightening them, rising erect.

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

  Lydia coughs.

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

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

  The phone rings.

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

  The phone rings.

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

  The phone rings.

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

  The phone rings.

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

  The phone rings.

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

  The phone rings.

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

  The phone rings.

  —Maybe it’s someone fucking with us.

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

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

  He holds the phone out to me.

  —It’s for you.

  I take the phone and put it to my ear.

  —Yeah.

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

  Fucker.

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

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

  —Uh-uh.

  I look at the giant behind the reception desk.

  —Uh-uh what?

  He waves his pen back and forth.

  —Not in here.

  I take out my Zippo.

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

  I snap the lighter open.

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

  —Don’t even think about it.

  I tap the tip of the unlit cigarette.

  —Buddy, it’s too fucking late for that, I’m thinking about it.

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

  —Then you best find something new to think about.

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

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

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

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

  —Gotta rule against this?

  He slits his eyes.

  —Sooner or later.

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

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

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

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

  Wish I had that gun.

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

  —Yes. I’ll send him up. Yes, Mr. Predo.

  He closes his eyes, frowns.

  —Yes, I will, sir. Unforgivable. It won’t happen again.

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

  —Mr. Predo will see you now.

  I get up.

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

  He looks me in the eye.

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

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

  I walk to his desk and stand there.

  He looks up.

  —Yes?

  —I never heard the actual words I’m sorry.

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

  —I’m sorry.

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

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

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

  Like I ever gave a shit about her.

  —I’m wondering, Pitt.

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

  —I’m wondering, is there anything you care about at all?

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

  I stop picking at the knot tangling my bootlace.

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

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

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

  I point at the pen.

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

  —I wouldn’t know.

  —Hunh.

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

  —Any other random thoughts, Pitt?

  I give up on the knot and uncross my legs.

  —Nothing just now. Why don’t we get to your thing.

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