Every Last Drop (10 page)

She tucks the hair behind her ear. —Yeah. I started over there.

She cocks a hip, rests a hand on it and leans against the bureau, flashes some attitude.

—But I didn't like the way he ran things. —So you cut a deal.

She works a cigarette from her pack on the bureau top and puts it between her lips. —I cut a deal.

I watch her look for a match, and take mine out of my pocket. —Having seen his operation, that sounds like it was a wise move.

I flip her the matchbook. —What kind of deal did you cut?

She lights a match and puts the flame to her smoke.

—I cut the kind of deal where I dragged him out of the sun when the Mungiki would have let him burn.

She crosses and drops the match in the ashtray.

—Deal was, he was too fucked up at that point to do anything but whine while I kicked him in the face before I left.

She drives her bare heel into the floor a couple times. —I was smarter, I would have left him in the sun.

—What stopped you?

The tip of her tongue appears between her lips, slips back inside. —I was afraid. Stupid. Afraid he'd be able to do something if I killed him.

She knocks some ash. —He has a talent for that.

She takes a drag and smoke rides her words. —A real gift for making kids afraid.

The tips of our cigarettes flare a few times.

I stub mine out. —Never too late to make up for past mistakes.

She nods.

—Yeah, I've thought about it. Every time I hear another kid went missing up here, I think about going over and finishing that deal. —Something holding you back?

She walks back to the bureau. —Yeah.

She rests her smoke on the edge of the bureau and starts digging again.

—I'm still afraid of him. How funny is that?

I think about my parents, about urine running down my leg as they came at me.

I watch her, and try to read the dark tattoos on her dark skin in the dark room. —Nothing funny about that at all.

She takes a pair of big geriatric sunglasses and a compact from the drawer, crosses to me and slides them on my face.

She tilts her head and gives me a once-over. —Just like you just went to the eye doctor.

She palms the compact open and holds it in front of my face.

I take a look at myself in the huge black goggles. —Oh yeah, very inconspicuous.

She clicks the compact closed. —Better than walking around with that hamburger showing.

She takes the glasses. —It gonna grow back?

—No. But it'll heal some. Part of the eyelid might grow back. Probably skin will just seal it up.

She sets the sunglasses and the compact on the top of her boom box next to the ashtray.

—Gonna be light in a few hours. —Yeah. —Just saying, you may as well stay here.

I shift in the chair. —No, I gotta—

She holds up a hand.

—Don't tell me what you gotta, Pitt. I didn't ask. I don't need to hear your excuse. And, for the record, I didn't mean anything by the invitation.

She goes to the bureau for her smoke.

—You've made it plenty clear you re not interested. I've made it plenty clear I am, and that there's no strings attached. I don't need to be turned down twice in one night. When I say, You may as well stay, I'm picturing me in my cot and you on the floor. Not that I'd suddenly play hard to get if you climbed under my blanket, but you've let me know that's not the way it's gonna be.

She crosses her arms over her cutoff WNBA tank. —So you staying or going? Cuz I'm ready to get some sleep.

I look around her little bunker room. Knicks posters, the scratched bureau, boom box and a stack of hip-hop and reggaeton CDs, small collection of basketball shoes, microwave, few groceries stacked on milk crates, chem-toilet in the corner, pile of books in both English and Spanish, that little cot.

The chambers of the Queen of the South Bronx.

The idea of climbing off that floor and into her cot, well, a man would have to be flat-out dumb as mud to pass on a chance like that.

But two people would break that cot. —I cant stay.

She heads for the cot. —No problems. Door is right there. —I need to go.

She lies down. —Don't tell me your plans, Pitt, just get going.

I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees.

—I need to go across the river.

She looks at me.

I look back. —And I need help.

I rub my chin. —Tonight.

She laughs.

I nod. —Yeah, funny, right?

She laughs some more, stops, looks at me. —No. Not funny. Just I get it now.

She puts her hands behind her head. —Man I was freaking out on it. —What's that?

She laughs again.

—Why you kept saying no. I mean, I've been turned down, shit happens to any girl. And I don't usually offer twice. You, I've put it out there a bunch of times. I

mean, a girl thinks, What's wrong with me? I didn't know if it was the whole jock thing, like you like your chicks more feminine, or maybe you don't like Latinas. I could not figure that shit out. I mean, Pitt, there ain't that much up here to choose from if we want to stay in our own kind. You don't look so bad, you can talk when you get the urge, and you're not some freak running round gnawing on anything with blood in it. And I know I got something that works. I could not figure this shit out. Why the fuck we never hooked up.

She rolls on her side and points at me. —You got yourself a girl over there.

She laughs.

Women. You tell me they're not all witches, and III tell you you haven't been paying attention.

—It's not that easy. —You do it all the time.

She raises a finger and wags it at me.

—OK, first, I do not do it all the time. I do it every chance I get, but that is far from all the time. Second, what I do on my own, and what you need, those are two very different things.

I look at the clock.

—Its the same damn river, Esperanza.

—It may be the same damn river, Pitt, but we are two very different people. —Which means?

She points at her skin then points at mine. —That need to be spelled out any clearer?

It doesn't. —I still need to get over.

She taps a bare toe on the shotgun lying next to her cot. —I hear that. But they don't want you over there. I mean.

She raises her hands over her head. —You came up here, you had to know that was like a one-way ticket.

I walk to the bureau and look at the high school basketball trophies lined on the top. —I need to get over.

She jabs a finger at me. —They. Don't. Want. You. I cross over, it's one thing. Mean, I been hitting

Rucker since I was a kid. Before Lament ever got his hands on me, I was a face over the river. Once I got infected and then got clear of Lament, I started going back. Didn't take long before one of Diggas rhinos saw me play. He sniffed there was something extra in my game. But they're cool with me. Digga called a sit-down, spelled out the rules: As long as I tithe over a percentage of what I take from the boys I school playing one-on-one at Rucker, I can come and go.

She gets up and comes over and takes one of the trophies from my hands. —Don't fuck with those.

She puts it back in place.

—You can't just go back, man. That ain't the way this works. You got sense, you know this. Shit, you're from over there. You know damn well they don't want any of us outer-borough trash coming over. I wanted to pledge Hood, Digga might have me, but that's as much because I'm an earner as it is I'm brown. They don't want no more mouths to feed over there.

She rubs her thumbs on the chipped leg of a gilded ball player. —Why I stay here. We want anything, we got to make it better over here. Fuck their Island. Shit cant be sustained. How you going to keep the population down? Think on that. It's a goddamn virus, no way to keep it from spreading. Mean, I barely stayed in school enough to play ball, but even I can read

enough to get that straight. Island cant last.  Future is over here. Where there's room to spread.

She lifts her chin.

—Wait and see. Years go by, it's gonna be the other way around. Gonna be their asses trying to cross over. Get to this side.

I take one of my custom-cut smokes from the pack. —No argument. But it don't change things.

I light up. —I need to get over.

She throws her hands up and walks away. —Like you're not even listening.

I study the scratches on the cement floor. —I'm listening. I'm just not hearing anything that helps me.

She turns. —If that's what you're waiting for, you should get moving.

I look up from the floor and study her young face.

—I'm not asking you to hold my hand. I'm not asking you to carry me across. Way I figure, chances are no one will even see me. How many subway

platforms can they cover? How many trains can they ride looking for refugees? Coalition cant keep everybody from crossing their turf, someone always slips through the cracks. Coalition has cracks, the Hood has to have holes you can walk through. All I'm asking is, Where are the holes? I get snatched, I get taken to Digga, I got a history with the man. Maybe he cuts me loose. Doesn't matter. Time is an issue. Sides, I don't want anyone to know I'm over there. I don't want anyone to know I'm back.

She touches her earlobe. —What's that about?

I smile. —I'm hoping to surprise a couple people.

I hold out my pack and she comes over and takes a smoke.

She leans in to the lit match and looks at me. —That's a nasty smile you got, Pitt.

The smile stays where it is.

She blows out the match. —I like it.

She takes a deep drag and exhales.

—That girl you got over there. Turns out she don't know what she has in you, you bring that smile back over to this side of the river. We could get some things done here.

I put the smile away.

She lifts her shoulders. —And there it goes.

She reaches past me and pulls open a drawer and takes out a pair of knee-length cutoff jeans. —They move around.

She puts the smoke between her lips and pulls the cutoffs on. —Only got so many people to watch their border, so they move them around. Got apartments they move in and out of with views of the bridges. Shift others from station to station and line to line, sniffing for refugees. Buses and trains. Got some guys work the graveyard in the toll booths. Hows that for security? Others got MTA jobs, down in the tunnels. Conductors. Motormen. Maintenance. Only the Hood can do that. What's the last time you saw someone white working the subways? First of never, that's when. Coalition tried to put one of theirs in a job underground, everyoned be like, What the fuck?

She points at a Starks jersey on the back of the chair. —Toss me that.

I toss it to her and she peels off her WNBA top. —Don't be staring at my tits. You had your chance.

I take a drag and look away as she pulls on the jersey.

She's right, I had my chance.

And I passed on the best the Bronx has to offer.

So.

Back to the fire.

I stand at the foot of the Macombs Dam Bridge, leaning against one of the Tudor abutments, smoking, looking down the length of the swing bridge at the Island, a little over two thousand feet away.

Esperanza watches the approach. —Should be a gypsy around anytime. —They don't like to stop for me. —Why not? —Why do you think? I'm white. They think I'm a transit cop or something.

Looking to bust them for hacking without a medallion. —I can flag one for you.

I flick my butt over the rail of the bridge. The wind off the Harlem grabs it and spins it away. —III walk.

I take the cash Predo gave me out of my pocket. —How much?

She shrugs. —Guy I called, he'll need a couple bills.

I peel off two hundred. —And you?

She points over the river at the FDR. —That stretch of road, just that couple blocks, know what it's called?

I look at it. —Nope.

—Three Hundred Sixty-ninth Harlem Hellfighter's Drive. Black regiment. First fought in World War I. Spent one hundred and ninety-one days under fire. Suffered over fifteen hundred casualties. Guy named Private Henry Lincoln

Johnson, and his buddy Private Needham Roberts, they fought off twenty-four Germans. Just the two of them. When Roberts was shot, Johnson used his bolo knife and rifle butt to hold off the krauts.