—Shoot him!
Yeah, she knows about pain, she knows what it takes. She’s ready for a few bullets.
I bring up the syringe and show it to her.
Her remaining eye rolls around and fixes on the syringe. The boys are circling, looking for the shot that will harm her the least.
I stick the needle in her empty eye socket, my thumb on the plunger.
And apparently some things are worse than pain.
—Don’t! Don’t shoot!
They don’t.
The room is quiet. We can all hear each other breathing too hard. Some of Vandewater’s blood drips off her face and hits the floor. The guy by the window hisses and gurgles like a pot of something viscous boiling over. The room stinks of his cancer and the lingering tang of the anathema.
I put my mouth close to her ear.
—Tell them to drop their guns and fuck off out of my way.
—Allow him to—
I clamp my arm tight.
—That’s not what I said.
She gets it right this time.
—Drop your guns and fuck off out of his way.
They drop their guns and fuck off out of my way.
I glance at my possessions scattered on the floor. The .32, the broken switchblade, the gutted Zippo, the broken poker chip, and the spilled bowl of tobacco and shredded cigarette paper. I’ll miss that Zippo, but more than anything, I wish I could have those cigarettes back.
The service elevator’s just off the kitchen. There are also a couple plastic wrapped corpses and more of the boys. The boys drop their guns and fuck off just as well as the others.
I frog-walk Vandewater to the elevator, watched by the boys.
There’s a keyhole just above the call button.
—You got the key?
She nods.
—Use it.
She takes a key ring from her pocket, sorts the proper one, twists it in the keyhole and pushes the button. We all wait a moment. The blood in her eye socket congeals a little more. The boys have brief wet dreams about what they’ll do to me when they get the chance. The elevator creaks in the shaft. If we weren’t all otherwise occupied, we’d be staring at the numbers above the door, watching them light up one by one.
—How long this thing take?
She twists her neck a little, getting some air. Her voice rasps.
—It’s old.
—No shit.
More creaking.
I remember something important.
—Who’s your dealer downtown?
The muscles of her neck tighten slightly. She’s smiling.
I give her throat a squeeze.
—Something funny?
She coughs.
—I thought you’d forgotten.
—Yeah. Well.
I uncurl my index finger from the syringe and point at the boys.
—All this ruckus, it slipped my mind for the nonce.
The elevator creaks closer.
She smiles again. But keeps her mouth shut.
I push the needle a little deeper into her eye socket.
—Who?
Knowing the name, wanting to hear it.
She’s still smiling.
—You won’t believe me.
—Try me.
Smiling. Croaking.
—Tom Nolan.
OK. Not the name I was expecting.
I squeeze her tighter.
—Bullshit.
The elevator clanks into place.
—Tell me the truth.
The words rasp out of her mouth.
—That is the truth.
The door clicks. The boys aren’t looking at me anymore.
Fuck.
I step to the side as the door slides open and the boy inside sprays his buddies instead of me, some of them hitting the deck, some of them riddled before they can react. I slam Vandewater against the wall, forearm across her throat, syringe in front of her face.
—Who?
She laughs.
—Tom Nolan! Tom Nolan!
The boy in the elevator stops shooting. I shove the plunger down, spurting the anathema into the old lady’s dead eyehole.
She screams and I shove her in front of the elevator. Bullets tear up her belly and she’s blown back into the uninjured boys who are getting up from the floor. The boy in the box stops shooting. I reach in and get a fistful of his jacket and drag him out.
Vandewater is freaking out like the enforcer did in the pool. The boys forget about me, trying to get a handle on her, trying to keep her from killing herself as she trashes the room. I throw the boy from the elevator at her and she latches on to him. I grab the key from its slot, step inside and hit the button for the garage.
As the door slides closed I see Mrs. Vandewater with the boy from the elevator in her clutches, dealing with him as the enforcer dealt with the dogs, the rest of the boys trying to bring her down.
I have the key stuck in the elevator control panel, turned to express. The boy’s machine pistol is on the floor. I pick it up. The elevator hits bottom and the door opens. No one is waiting. I flip the key over to hold, leave it there and get out. The garage is small, a dozen very expensive cars for the very expensive tenants of this building. The entrance is gated, a dull gray glow filtering through it. I turn away. There’s no attendant. I look at the cars. Really, it’s no contest, the Range Rover with the all-around tint job wins hands down.
I walk over and press my face against the glass to get a look inside at how serious the alarm is. I get my look. I jump back and bring up the machine pistol. Nothing happens. I take another look.
Mother fucker. You can’t be serious.
I try the door. It’s unlocked. I open it. His head is hanging to one side, mouth slack, one sleeve rolled up, syringe still in his hand. Couldn’t wait to fix, could you? I shove him to the passenger’s seat, climb in and check the back. The briefcase of anathema is right there. I look at his sorry ass.
—Dealers should never use, asshole.
But Shades doesn’t say anything, not nearly as talkative as he was when he was working the door at the Jack. He just stays right there in dreamland.
I put the machine pistol on the floor, close the door and give Shades a pat down. I find his gun and phone, gloves, and a ski mask. I put on his gear, turn the key and the engine rumbles up. I pull the Rover over to the gate. As the light gets brighter, the tinting gets darker. Still, my eyes water and burn. An electric eye triggers the gate and it slides open. I scoot as low as possible in the seat, sun visor dropped, and drive like hell.
There’s a reason they call it Morningside Park. That cliff is actually a part of the Manhattan schist, a long rift that runs along the upper end of the island. West is high ground, east is low. And the park? That’s facing east. I come out of the garage headed into the sun. But the tinting was worth every dime Shades paid for it. I know this because my eyes don’t turn to steam. I head north on Morningside Avenue, the sun on my right, hidden by the clouds. I follow the avenue around the block and it drops down a slope to Amsterdam. Another right, and the slope grows steeper as the buildings grow taller. I’m driving in shade. A right on MLK Boulevard and I’m dropping down to the Harlem Plain. Back in the Hood.
Frying pan?
Fire?
Who’s keeping track anymore? They both burn. And tinting or no, I’m gonna do the same if I stay out here. A blast down the West Side Highway is tempting, but it’ll most likely be gridlocked this time of morning. Traffic jam? With the sun climbing? No thanks. Across Hancock Square I see the big mall they built a few years back, part of the economic recovery in Harlem. It already looks shabby, but it has a public garage. I swing in, roll the window down, stick out my gloved hand, snatch a ticket from the dispenser and pull into the deep darkness. It takes a few minutes to find a space big enough for the Rover, but I don’t mind.
The backs of my hands are blistered. They caught a few rays when I had that boy under the drapes. The burn runs up
my forearms. I’ll live. For the moment. Getting to the moments after this one, that’s the trick now.
I look at Shades. A muscle in his cheek twitches. If he’s dosed like the girls at The Count’s place, he should be rousing pretty soon. I give him another pat to make sure he’s not packing any other weapons. I give the interior of the car a once over. Just me, Shades, and the briefcase full of anathema.
I wonder what the expiration date is on that shit. If this stooge was taking a break to fix, it must be at least several hours. He probably wasn’t gonna be driving all over the Hood making drops in the sun. It might be as many as twelve hours. I take one of the bags and slip it inside my jacket.
Time to call Digga.
The anathema, that’s the evidence he wants. Shades alive and available for questioning, that’s a bonus. Play it cool, there should be something in it for me. Blood or money. Skin in the game.
I flip open Shades’ phone and make a call.
—Chubby.
—Grand to hear from you, Joe.
—Good to hear your voice, too, Chubs.
—Something I can do for you?
—Well, kind of embarrassing, seeing as you already did me a solid recently.
He grunts.
—Vouching for you, Joe? That’s wasn’t a solid, that was merely good business. Someone calls asking me for a reference, it’s only good business that I tell them the truth. That is all I did. Happy to do it. Happy to. But there’s something more?
—I need a number.
—Mmhmm?
—On account.
—Mnn.
—But I’ll cover it when I get back.
—Get back? Still in the northern latitudes, my friend?
—For the time being.
—Well then, if I can be of assistance in bringing you homeward, I must do so.
He gives me the number.
—Thanks, Chubs.
—A pleasure. As always.
—By the way.
—Yes?
—Never knew you were quite so connected.
—Caution, Joe, use it in liberal amounts.
He hangs up.
I dial.
—What up?
—The sun.
He’s thrown.
—Get it, Digga? What up? The sun.
He gets it.
I tell him where. I tell him to come alone. He’s says it’ll take him a couple hours. I tell him he has fifteen minutes before I risk the commute. And I hang up.
I set the phone on the dash just as Shades moans. I look at him. He brings a hand to his face and rubs it around. Moans again. Shit, that stuff must be good. He opens his eyes. Blinks. Sees me.
I wave.
—Peek-a-boo.
He makes a move for his piece. It’s not there. I show him the machine pistol in my hand.
—Best thing for both of us, you should maybe just fix again and take another nap.
Seeing how thoroughly fucked he is, he seems pretty happy to oblige.
—Muthafucka!
—It’s a bitch, ain’t it?
—Mutha!
—Got to hate finding a Judas in the house.
—Fucka!
—Makes you want to lash out at people who got nothing to do with the problem.
—Muthafuckingfucka!
—Otherwise I wouldn’t be pointing this thing at you.
—Shit.
He looks from Shades slouched in the passenger seat and across the Rover’s cab to me. He sees the gun in my hand. Shakes his head.
—Shit. Put that thing away. Like I give a fuck.
I keep it where it is.
—You cool?
He points at Shades.
—Cool? You think I’m cool with this shit? Muthafucka, nothin’ ever gonna be cool again. This some serious shit. I knew Papa was playin’ games. But this? This gonna have repercussions.
—Yep.
—Wave the fuckin’ gat ’round all you like. I got bigger fuckin’ problems.
I put the gun down.
He slams the passenger door. Opens the rear and climbs in.
He looks at the briefcase.
—This the shit?
—That’s it.
—Tell me.
So I tell him.
—That some crazy shit.
—Uh-huh.
—Old crazy lady on the hill goin’ off Predo’s talkin’ points. That is some crazy shit.
—Uh-huh.
—Uh-huh. Pitt, anyone ever tell you you got this gift for some fuckin’ understatement?
—Uh-huh.
—Sheeit.
We sit there. Digga still in the back, me in the front. He’s gone casual today: beige boots, baggie camos, silver Ecko parka. Once he pulls on his ski mask, gloves and sunglasses, he can go for a little walk.
He points at Shades.
—How long he gonna be on the nod?
—Don’t know for sure. Been down for about fifteen. Maybe fifteen more. Maybe less. What the lady says, the more you hit from one batch, the less you get from it.
He grunts.
—A’ight. You see my ride?
He points at a silver Lexus parked a few slots away.
—We gonna get this punk-ass mutha sequestered. Take him up to Percy’s shack and let the barber put the razor to him. Percy starts quizzin’ muthafucka’s ass, ain’t no stone gonna be unturned. Once we have all the details, we’ll go to work on Papa. Sort out his ass good.
He puts his hand on the door.
—Follow the Lex. Stay close. We gonna be at Percy’s lickity-split.
—Uh-uh.
—What?
—Uh-uh.
He leans forward.
—That don’t sound right. Before, you was all, uh-huh, like in the affirmative. That there, that sounded like, uh-uh, like in the negative. That what I heard?
—Uh-huh.
A sharp line draws itself between his eyebrows.
—You best start findin’ some extra fuckin’ syllables to ’splain yo-self, muthafucka.
—No.
He makes a move.
I bring up the machine pistol.
—Digga, we’re not in your barbershop. We’re not in The Jake. We’re not at Percy’s. You don’t have a gun in your hand. And I do. Sit back and relax.
He sits back, but he doesn’t relax.
—You wanted proof. You got it. In abundance. You want to take jerkoff here and cut him to ribbons, be my guest. You’re planning a big unveiling, gonna show up Papa Doc in public, put him in his place? My blessings. Me, I’m going home. All I need from you is you call off the dogs and get me my passage.
He looks out the window, shakes his head.
—Call off the dogs. Get me my passage. You take a look outside? You see the time of day? Call off the dogs? Muthafucka, they ain’t my dogs. Peeps out there spottin’ for you, sittin’ behind shaded glass with an eye on the street, they all Papa’s. A passage? Where to? Gonna go home now? Want me to arrange a passage for yo ass ’cross Coalition turf? That what you want? Shit. That takes time. ’Specially seein’ how Predo all on the warpath for yo ass. What you think been happenin’ all night an’ all that time you been up on that hill. Phone been ringin’ off the damn hook. Check this shit out.
He pulls out his phone, flips it open and scrolls to the incoming calls screen.
—Look at this shit.
I look.
PREDO
PREDO
PREDO
—The fat is in the fire. The man knows you crossed his yard. Says you went runnin’ through his flower bed, trampled some prize shit. Says one of his gardeners went MIA, last seen heading in this direction. Has an APB out. Here. There. Everywhere. An’ now you tell me you just laid a smackdown on that crazy witch up on the hill? You know who that grandma is? That is one of the truly last of the old-old skool. She an original piece of work. Word from the X, she the one used ta wipe Predo’s ass when he was little. Now, things X told me, things you just sh
ared, sounds like they had something of a fallin’ out, but that doan mean he gonna be pleased ’bout you makin’ a mess up there. You want to go home? Muthafucka, there ain’t no home for you. Not now. Terry Bird gonna want nothin’ to do with yo ass down there. Not till this shit gets sorted fully out.
He leans back, runs a finger over his moustache.
—You come with me. Kick it up at Percy’s place. Nobody gonna mess in Percy’s shit. Not Papa. All the shit in the world can rain from the sky, not a drop gonna land on Percy’s roof. That’s truth. Kick up there for a few days. I need it, maybe you bear a little witness to some of the shit been going on. Predo gonna kick and scream, but when I drop the knowledge on him, he’s gonna have to back down. Gonna give up some shit. An’ I tell him so, he gonna lay off yo ass. Once that happen, yo boy Bird gonna welcome you back with open arms. Hail the conquering hero an’ all that shit. All you gotta do? Sit tight. Give this shit some air to breathe. It all gonna sort out just fine. Cool?
He puts out his hand.
I don’t take it.
—Yeah. Trouble is. I got a date tonight.
He raises his eyebrows.
—Got a date.
I shrug.
He keeps his hand out.
—Know, Pitt, that shit ain’t funny. Man’s here in front of you offerin’ his hand, offerin’ a way out of some shit you in, offerin’ to pull you up out of it, an’ you makin’ jokes. Best thing you can do here, stop bein’ a fuckin’ comedian an’ take what’s bein’ put yo way. Kiss this shit off twice, it doan come back around.
I look at his hand. I think about the sun and all the hours of daylight between right now and sunset. I think about those couple pints I drank before I came up here and the one left at home and the punishment I’ve been taking. I run my tongue around the inside of my mouth, feel the last traces of the cuts Vandewater’s boys put in there when they tried to make me eat that poker chip. I look at the man who sent me up that hill, the hand he’s holding out to me. I think about pulling the trigger on the machine pistol in my hand and watching the bullets disintegrate his face.
He sees my eyes.
Not a stupid man, he sees I don’t like him. He takes his hand back.
—Have it yo own damn way, Pitt.
I put the gun down.