No Dominion

  He turns his eyes on Tom.

  —You fucking sadist! You sick son of a bitch! That shit you did to me! You fucking! You die! I don’t care anymore! Burn me! Burn me! Just burn him next to me so I can watch!

  It’s more than a guy like Tom can take.

  Terry takes care of him this time, has him on the ground almost as quickly as Hurley did. The partisans want to help their leader, but what are you supposed to do with Hurley and Lydia in your face?

  The Count sobs.

  —I’ll burn. Ungh, God. I’ll, Jesus, I’ll, hngh, hngh, hngh, I’ll burn just to watch.

  Tom raves.

  —Off me! That fucking spy. Both of them. Don’t think this is gonna get you off the hook. You know it’s bullshit. Everyone in here can smell it.

  I clear my throat.

  —Um, I don’t want to stick my nose in family business, but that is pretty much what the old lady told me.

  Terry swings around.

  —Old lady?

  —Vandewater. She said her name was Vandewater. Lives Uptown. Ever hear of her?

  First, things come to a halt as Terry tries to get Digga on the phone. That takes awhile. Seems he’s been pretty busy smacking some ass up there. But once he does, once Digga confirms that I did some muthafuckin’ fine recognizance for him up on Morningside Heights, once it is confirmed that I was up there and met the old lady and came down with the anathema and a witness, once that all gets said? The shoe gets on the other foot in a hurry. Figure some of that speed has to do with a sense of justice needing to be done in a hurry. Figure some of it’s because Terry doesn’t want me talking too much about some of the things Vandewater had to say. Figure six of one, a half dozen of the other. But mostly, figure it’s the other: Terry being the private sort and all.

  The partisans get to stay. Once they see the new wind that’s blown through the room, they opt for roles as official witnesses to a hastily called tribunal. Terry and Lydia sit. Under normal circumstances Tom would have sat next to them as head of security, loving a good tribunal as he does, but things being a bit out of joint, Hurley sits in for him.

  It’s an intimate affair. The Count gives testimony. I give testimony. The partisans give testimony as to what they just heard in this room. Tom tries to give testimony, but the tape Hurley wrapped around his face keeps it to a minimum.

  The verdict comes in fast.

  Terry, Lydia and Hurley each write a word on a scrap of paper and show them to each other.

  Terry does the honors.

  —Tom Nolan, on charges of treason, espionage, distribution of poisons, murder, corruption of the principles of the Society, abuse of office, and any and all additional charges that might accrue to you posthumously, you are found guilty and will be executed.

  He shuffles the scraps of paper.

  —Further.

  He takes off his glasses, blinks.

  —Further, due to the nature and, well, the extent of your crimes. We’ve decided. Hell. You’re going out in the sun. You have to burn.

  He puts his glasses back on.

  —You sorry son of a bitch.

  —There’s gonna be some fallout.

  Terry comes back from the fridge and hands me a beer.

  I take it, set it down.

  —Figures.

  He offers one to Lydia.

  She shakes her head.

  —Beer companies peddle male domination fantasies to twelve-year-old boys.

  Terry sets the beer on the table.

  —My bad.

  He sits next to me.

  —Some of Tom’s people won’t accept it. You know. So. We’re gonna have to work fast. Make sure things don’t get out of hand. Get our ducks in a row.

  Lydia grabs the beer.

  —Fuck it.

  She opens the can and takes a long drink.

  —We’re going to have to kill some people, Terry.

  He shrugs.

  —Yeah. Yeah. I guess, I guess that’s what I’m getting at. And we’re gonna have to kill them now. Today. Before, you know, before word gets out.

  He looks at me.

  —Before word gets out about what was said and, you know, by who.

  I look at my own unopened beer.

  It’s not like it’s a shock. Situation like this, guy like Tom with all those fanatics behind him? Execute a guy like that after a kangaroo court, some people will get up in arms.

  Terry drinks.

  —I’m not big on covert operations, but we gotta be quick, I think. And quiet. On this one? The less people know, the better. Not gonna increase anyone’s confidence in the Society knowing the head of security was a spy.

  Lydia frowns at her own beer.

  —I’m more worried if the other Clans find out. Some of the smaller Clans, some of those guys below Houston could take it as a sign, start picking at our turf. The Bulls and the Bears, those money grubbing pigs, they’d love to move their turf closer to the Coalition, get hooked back up. We need to keep it in-house. Make sure everybody knows we can clean our own mess. And we need to send a message Uptown. Let Predo and that Vandewater woman know they can’t get away with this shit.

  Terry nods.

  —Yeah. Yeah.

  He looks at me.

  —That’s why, what we’re doing with Tom, that’s why we felt we needed to do that. Make sure people know we’re serious.

  I take out a smoke.

  —I know you’re serious, Terry.

  He takes a drink of his beer.

  —Well, OK, if you say so.

  I go to light my smoke.

  Lydia puts a hand on my arm.

  —No smoking in Society buildings, Joe.

  I look at her, look at Terry, one on either side of me.

  Figure it was gonna come to this. Figure I don’t like it. Figure it’s this or the other. Figure it’s take care of the list, or end up on it.

  I move Lydia’s hand and light my smoke.

  —Guys, stop fucking around and tell me who you want me to kill.

  They start me with Tom.

  —A case like dis? Da hardest part is just knowin’ da poor fooker. Ever seen it bifore, Joe?

  —Nope.

  —Ain’t fookin’ pretty. It’s not dat hard, mind. It’s easier if ya start at night. Stake ’em out an’ let da sun rise and take care of ’em. Dis way is harder. But it’s still not dat hard.

  I drive Tom’s van while Hurley lectures me on the logistics of burning someone.

  —What we’ll do, when we get ta da spot, we’ll unwrap him here in da van. In da back der. One ah us, you or me, don’t matter none to me, one of us will open dat back door, da udder’ll shove da fooker out. After dat it don’t take too fookin’ long. Once he’s done, I got a snow shovel.

  Way at the end of 14th, past the power station there, away from the projects and the playing field of the park, we find a square of asphalt littered with broken bottles, tiny, empty glassine envelopes, and used condoms.

  We climb into the windowless back of the Econoline. My hands have been getting too much sun, wrapped around the wheel, exposed to the rays. The blisters that had been soothed by the pint I drank are starting to bubble back up under my gloves. We take off our shades and look at the writhing log of black Hefty bags.

  Hurley grunts.

  —T’aint no use puttin’ it off. Got lots more ta do after dis.

  He grabs the plastic and heaves, ripping it open, revealing Tom, bound and gagged in rolls of duct tape and spools of wire.

  —Futchkthers!

  Somehow he’s managed to bite through most of the tape over his mouth.

  —Futchking futchkthers!

  Hurley shakes his head.

  —Jaysuz yer a sad fook, Tom. Look at ya. Ta tink I called ya a friend. Ya sad, sorry fook. Well, ya got no one ta blame but yerself. Fer da sake a our histry, I’d put ya out before tossin’ ya, but Terry said ya need ta be awake. An I got ta say, I’m not feelin’ dat charitable just now after da way ya called me a r
etard an’ all. Just cuz a fella’s not da brightest in da bunch, dat don’t mean ya gotta…Well, fook me anyway, ya don’t wanna hear dis shite.

  He looks at me.

  —Ya want da doors or da shove?

  I look at Tom, he’s chewing at that gag, clearly hoping to get in a last word before it’s over. I think about all the grief he’s caused me. That time he had me in chains.

  —I’ll do the shove if it’s all the same to you, Hurley.

  —Taught ya might. Taught ya might.

  He moves over by the doors.

  We put our shades back on.

  —Fuchkers!

  He’s almost through the tape.

  —Futchking! Pitt! Pitt!

  Hurley puts his hand on the door.

  —Ready, Joe?

  —You’re an asshole, Pitt!

  I take a seat on the floor, just above Tom’s head.

  —Just a sec, Hurl.

  —But you’re not a complete fucking idiot!

  I plant my feet on his shoulders.

  —Hurley’s an idiot! But not you.

  I look at Hurley.

  —Think about it! Fucking me a spy?

  I nod.

  —You’re a tool, Pitt!

  He pushes the doors open.

  —You’re being used!

  Sunlight claws at us.

  —He’s using you!

  I shove, putting everything I have into it, my legs pistoning and sending him sliding across the floor of the van and out into the day.

  —You’re Terry’s fucking tool!

  Hurley grabs the lengths of rope he’s tied to the door handles and gives them a yank.

  —You fucking asshole!

  The door slams shut. The screams quickly cut off as tumors fill Tom’s throat.

  There’s a hole drilled in the door, a circle of steel the size of a quarter hangs from a single rivet above it. Hurley swings it aside and looks out.

  —Jaysus.

  He lets the cover swing back into place and looks at me.

  —Ya want ta see dis?

  I crawl over and take a look. One is more than enough.

  I smoke while we wait.

  I think while I smoke. I think about how I got here, how I got to be in this van with Hurley, doing exactly the kind of job for Terry that I told myself I’d never do again. I think about how this got started.

  I think about The Spaz at Doc Holiday’s, one of my regular hangouts. That kid spazzing on Evie’s night off, a night I could be expected to be there. I think about hotshots and how easy it is to slip one to a junkie. About how the jobs had all dried up, how I couldn’t score a gig to save my life, how the only place to go looking for a job was Terry. And that little confrontation between Tom and Terry the day Terry gave me the gig. The hostility in the air. The smell of the young wolf circling the old. The threat to Terry sprayed in the air. I think about the job Terry offered me, looking into the shit that was going around. A job like that, sooner or later I’m going to be squeezing Phil for scraps. And everyone knows Phil is my snitch. And Phil, I think about how he knew The Count, already. How that slimy Renfield had been let inside the biggest secret on the street. Like maybe someone wanted him to see it.

  I think.

  I think about how I ended up with Tom’s name. Tom the zealot. Tom the patriot. Tom the Coalition-hating fanatic. I try to square that up with Tom the spy. I think about setups and betrayals and backstabbing and power plays, and being a tool.

  I think, and the back of the van fills with smoke.

  And then Hurley flips a coin to see who has to use the shovel. I lose.

  The sun is bad. I’ve gotten far too much of it today. It’s gonna age me. Getting sun, it always sticks another year or two on your face. But that’s not the bad part. The bad part is what I shovel off the ground and dump in a pile on top of the shredded Hefty bags.

  What I would have done to die without seeing that, it’s a long list.

  Hurley has another list.

  Seven names. It could have been worse. It could have been longer. Or some of them could have been friends. That’s happened. Back in the day, working for Terry, I’ve had a piece of paper in my hands with friends’ names on it. But not this time. Could have something to do with my not keeping friends anymore. Whatever. We still have to go to work.

  None of them are expecting anything. Middle of the day. Sun in the sky. They’re all fully pledged members of the Clan and they’re in tight with the head of security. What do folks like these got to worry about? Except folks like me and Hurley. And really, nobody’s expecting folks like me and Hurley.

  It’s all pretty easy and clean. As these things go. Double park the van a few times, run across the sidewalk, get into whatever squat or tenement these guys are jungled up in. The ones who even have their eyes open, the ones who see us coming, they wish they hadn’t. No one wants to take the last trip seeing the two of us coming for them. But we don’t make it any worse than it has to be. Say that for Hurley, he’s a professional. And me, I just don’t see any sense in making a mess that you’re gonna have to clean up yourself.

  When it’s over, we make one last stop. We wheel over to Tom’s favorite safe house, the old Society headquarters on C, the basement he still used for meetings of his Anarchists.

  And we leave him there. In the middle of the floor. For them to find. For them to see should any of them meet down here to talk about options and retaliations. A look at that, they’ll be lining up to stop by Terry’s one by one and pay their respects. One look at that, they’ll be A-OK with anything Terry Bird has to say.

  How nice for Terry, the way things turned out.

  It’s well after sundown by the time we’ve finished the last of it. Every name is checked off the list, Hurley licking the tip of a pencil as he draws a line through each one, one by one. They’ve all been gotten rid of, mortal, or not so mortal, remains tucked away.

  Hurley’s behind the wheel now. He bums one of my smokes and takes a huge drag.

  —Keerist, but dat is lovely.

  I nod, smoke my own.

  —Got some place you want ta be, Joe?

  —Just drop me back at headquarters. I should have a quick word with Terry.

  —Sure, sure.

  He drives me over.

  —Say, Joe.

  —Un-huh?

  —A little like old times, eh? Me an you deliverin’ da mail, like.

  —Uh-huh.

  —Fer da record.

  —Yeah?

  —It ain’t true what some people say.

  —What’s that?

  —Ya ain’t gone soft. Shite, ya ain’t no softer dan a fookin’ stone.

  —Thanks.

  —Cheers.

  And off he drives.

  Me, I go up the steps and hit the buzzer.

  Terry answers the door himself.

  —Hey, Joe. Everything go alright?

  He’s not surprised at all when I punch him in the mouth. Just gets off the floor and wipes the blood from his lips and walks down the hall away from me.

  —Come on in, Joe. If we’re going to talk personal, we should do it inside.

  —Everybody needs something at some time or another. That’s just the way it is. And, you know, sometimes, you can’t always get what you want, but you can get what you need. So we may work at cross-purposes, some of the Clans. You know, especially when it comes to the majors, the Society, the Hood, the Coalition. We all have different mission statements, opposing philosophies. So there’s conflict. But, you know, everybody knows it’s no good for anybody if the balance is agitated. What I’m trying to do down here, what we’re trying to achieve, that’s very long term, man. It requires some finesse. I truly believe in radicalism, we wouldn’t have broken free of the Coalition without it, but it has its place and time. A guy like Tom, an avowed Anarchist, he doesn’t necessarily have the right attitude for the times. That was my bad, I thought he did. I thought he was a natural for security. I was wrong. Hey, po
wer corrupts. The guy didn’t take to it. He started seeing some things he didn’t like, started thinking he could do better. Next thing you know, he’s got all these new faces turning up under his wing. New fish. Too many of them. I mean, can you imagine, Joe, the guy was infecting them on his own? When I realized what he was doing, I was, man, I was blown away. Unthinkable. To hell with the threat it posed, you know, to me. Predo or Digga or any of the Clans finds out about that, we would have all been in the shit. That could have started an all out arms race. Clans infecting left and right to keep the balance of power. Man, something had to be done. But it had to be done, you know…with finesse. So. I started putting out feelers. Just kind of looking to see if I could catch the vibe. There are, I don’t know, back channels for this kind of thing. Ways for Clans to communicate without it being a big deal. Just rapping, kind of. Seeing how things are, checking the weather. And the vibe I was getting? It was unhealthy, man. Things were agitated all over. And, you know, like I say, sometimes, everybody needs something.

  He takes off his glasses, sets them aside.

  —Safety. Stability. Security. That’s what was needed. I, we, the Society, needed Tom discredited. And, when you get down to it, killed. And we needed it to happen before he could start making trouble with all his new fish. Digga, as Luther X’s handpicked successor and the voice of the Hood, needed Papa Doc off his ass so he could continue to consolidate his position. Dexter Predo, acting for the Secretariat of the Coalition, needed Mrs. Vandewater’s secret campaign to destabilize and invade the Hood crushed. All the major Clans needed to remove a threat to their integrity and the integrity of their members. Not to mention the infected population at large. Any one of those threats could have started open hostilities like we haven’t seen since the sixties and seventies. Back then, we had protests and riots and high crime rates to kind of disguise what was going on. If it happened again? We would all be at risk. The climate out there in the world today? The distrust and hostility between peoples? Imagine if they found out there were people they might be able to claim weren’t really people at all. People who feed on other people. That ground needs to be seeded with great care, man. I mean, that’s what I’m all about. War between the Clans is unthinkable today. Revolutions like the one we had, never gonna happen again. So once we had a chance to talk, once we got it out there in front, we all put something in to make it happen. We needed a, I don’t know, man, we needed a catalyst. All these people, Tom, Papa, Mrs. Vandewater, they all have followers. That’s why they’re a threat in the first place. So it has to look like the weather, like something that just happened. And, this time out, you were the weather, man.