Every Last Drop (17 page)

I light up, shake out my match, nod at Terry. —Sure, Terry, I follow. From someone she can trust.

He looks at the slash of light that's crept to the wall. —Guess there's nothing for it but to wait. —Guess so.

I flick the extinguished match into the piled mess on the floor.

Now all I got to do to survive the day is listen to a few more hours of Terry's bullshit. I touch my neck.

Maybe I should have let Hurley break it.

I get an escort.

—Ya ought ta do sumptin bout dat eye, Joe.

—What do you recommend, Hurley, a contact lens?

I point at the smoke shop on Second and St. Mark's. —Mind?

He looks at the scratched face of his ancient wristwatch. —Naw, don' mind. Just ya be quick bout it. Terry said nae fookin' bout.

He waits by the door, casting his eyes about for sudden moves on my part while I buy a couple packs of Luckys. Down here in civilization, they actually have the ones without filters.

The guy slides them to me and I knock the plastic case next to the register. —And I need a lighter.

He sticks his hand inside the case —Want one with the titties?

His hand hovers over a Zippo with a bare-chested pinup girl enameled on the side.

—No. And I don't want one with a Jack Daniels label either. Just give me the plain one.

He takes one of the plain ones out, sets it next to the smokes. —Anything else? —Flints and some fuel.

He takes a yellow plastic tab, laddered with tiny red flints, from a hanging rack of them behind the counter, reaches below the counter and sets a yellow and blue Ronsonol squirt bottle with the rest of the stuff.

I give him some cash and fill my pockets.

On the street Hurley steers us north. —Naw, ain't contact lenses I'm talkin1 'bout, Joe.

I look up from the delicate work I'm doing in my hands, unscrewing the little shaft in the bottom of the lighter to slip in a flint. —Huh?

He points at his own eye.

—Yer eye. It's a bit what dey call conspicuous.  Doesn't do fer us, ta be standin' out ina crowd.

I drop the flint in the shaft and use my thumbnail to screw the cap back into place, reflecting on the idea of this semi-retarded Irish behemoth in the double-breasted overcoat and fedora lecturing me on the topic of standing out in a crowd.

I flip open the nozzle on the Ronsonol bottle and send a stream of fluid into the exposed wick folded into the body of the lighter.

—Well, I tell ya, Hurley, I had a pair of sunglasses that hid it pretty well, but they got crushed when you grabbed me and yanked me into Phils room. —Ach.

He shakes his head.

—I'm sorry bout dat, Joe, truly I am.

I close the bottle, drop it back in my coat pocket and slip the lighter into its brushed-chrome sleeve.

—Not a problem, Hurl, you've done worse by me and it's never interfered with our relationship.

He touches the brim of his hat. —Sure an dafs true. Dat's true.

I thumb the lighters wheel, a spark jumps and a large flame trails greasy black smoke from the new wick. I touch the flame to a cigarette and inhale the mixed flavors of smoke and burning cotton and lighter fuel. I snap the lighter shut, bounce it on my palm once, feeling the warmth of the just-extinguished flame, and drop it in my pocket to clink against my arsenal of brass and sharp steel.

He stops as we reach the south side of Fourteenth. —Well, dis is it fer me. On yer own from here.

I linger, looking south down Second. The marquee at Twelfth Street advertises a midnight double bill of The Killer Elite and Soylent Green.

Date night at the old Jewish vaudeville theater.

Hurley taps my shoulder.

—C'mon, Joe, no time ta reminisce, yu'v got miles ta go till ya sleep n all dat. —Yeah, miles to go.

I look at him. —By the way, Hurl, you're looking a lot better than the last time I saw you.

He rubs his stomach.

—Sure, an why wouldn't I be? Tell ya, only ting hurts worse den all dem bullets goin' in is pickin out da ones dint come out da udder side. —Yeah, well, sorry about that.

Jeo Pitt 4 - Every Last Drop

He waves a hand, shakes his head.

—Come now, wasn't yer doin'. Ya didn't pull da trigger. An like ya say, me an you, we always bin professional wit one nother. —Yeah. Sure.

I look north. —Know something? —What's dat?

I look over my shoulder at him.

—People down here who thought I was the badass, they must never have met you.

He smiles, showing me horse teeth. —Well an1 its nice o1 you ta say so. —Ta, Hurl. —Ta yerself, Joseph.

I start across the street. —An, Joe.

I look back.

Hurley covers his left eye. —Tink bout a patch. It'd suit ya, it would.

How you know if you've successfully ditched a tail by going where you were supposed to and then where you were not supposed to, is you show up someplace where you really don't fucking belong. If they're there, your ruse has failed. The best way to avoid having your ruse busted in this fashion is to never reappear where your tail can follow you.

Figure Hurley marching me right to the Coalition border at Fourteenth, and

standing there watching until I cross over, effectively blows that part of my plan.

I need a cab.

I need to get my distinctively one-eyed face into a fucking cab right away before the Coalition spotters that roost about Fourteenth make me. Naturally, my need being desperate, there's not a fucking cab in sight.

I start trotting, making for Union Square. I should be able to score a cab. Worst case, I can jump the L train to Eighth Avenue.

Border of no-man s-land.

All I need is a little shard of luck and I can cross back over the border and onto turf where no one goes, before Predos tails pick me back up.

Unfortunately, God has no luck to spare tonight.

So when the limo pulls to the curb in the middle of the block and the back door swings open, I don't wait for anyone to point a gun at me before I climb

—Was I unclear about both the urgency of this assignment and the need for utter discretion? Did I in some way fail to communicate to you that your only

option was to go directly to the Horde girl? Did I leave any room for confusion as to what the consequences would be if you failed to execute precisely as I told you?

—No, you were actually very fucking clear about all of that. Did I do something that suggests otherwise?

Predo makes a gesture taking in the downtown streets were leaving behind. —Does this detour not suggest otherwise?

I lean forward from the rear-facing seat.

—No. What it suggests to me is that I'm doing my fucking job. And, for the record, almost getting throttled in the fucking process.

My shaking hand spills more cigarettes into my lap than even I can smoke at once. —Fuck.

I shove them back in the pack, breaking several. —Fuck.

Predo observes. —Nerves, Pitt?

I get an intact cigarette in my mouth and light it.

—Nerves? Hell yes. You ever had Hurleys paws around your neck? —I cannot say that I have.

I spew smoke. —Well count yourself well fucking blessed.

He leans forward, touches a slightly depressed square of leather on the bar to my right, it eases open, revealing a gleaming and perfectly unblemished ashtray. —Perhaps you should explain.

I blemish the ashtray.

—Ill explain. Ill explain that Horde is as nutty as her father. Ill explain that as nutty as she is, she knows to listen to Sela. III explain that only a fucking moron would see me on their doorstep and not have some questions about my loyalties.

He looks out the window, watches as we glide past snarled taxis and buses, the limo apparently obeying some other set of traffic and physical laws. —Did you tell them about my mole?

—How do I do that? How do I walk in the door and expose a mole in the first hour? How do I know something like that unless I'm around for a while to

poke? No. What I did was tell them to put me to the test.

—And?

—And.

I lean back. —And Amanda Horde told me to go downtown and talk to Terry Bird.

Night outside.

His face is doubled by the dark glass.

Does he know the nervous beat of my heart is telling a story different from the one my mouth is? —And?

I rub my forehead.

—She's looking for an alliance. She's looking for one of the Clans to acknowledge her. She's looking for legitimacy. So where's the first place she's gonna look?

It's possible that we turn a corner, but It's impossible to say for sure from within the infinite smoothness of the car.

Predo's hands are folded in his lap, he unfolds them, looks at his manicure. —And you saw him?

—Yes.

—And he let you go?

I wave a hand at all the expensive leather and wood. —Well here I am, right? —Yes.

His eyes flick to my face and away. —Here you are.

He touches the glass, leaving a fingerprint on his reflection, where a good Catholic would receive a smear of ash before Easter. —Tell me what you told Bird. —I told him the truth.

His mouth opens as if to laugh, and closes without making a sound.

I shrug.

—Yeah, funny. But its what I did. I told him Horde wants a sit-down. —What else? —That's it.

He studies the reflected set of his own blue eyes.

—He wasn't curious as to how you effected your escape from the Bronx?

—He didn't ask. And why should he? Far as he knows, I'm with Horde now.

She's got the cash to get anyone out of anywhere.

A slight nod allows this point. —And so.

He blinks slowly. —What is it he wants?

He looks away from his own reflection. —Hurley had his hands on your throat.

He indicates the fading marks on my neck.

—I can see that much is true. But what was it that compelled Bird to release you? I know him well enough to know he would not seriously consider formally acknowledging the girls organization. So what offer did you make to secure your freedom? Why are you not dead, Pitt? You did not, by any chance, sell me out?

He tilts his head. —Did you?

I stub out my smoke.

—He wants money.

I light a new one. —Your enemy is in the red, Predo.

He makes a sound, could be amusement. —And you are to get it from Horde.

—Yeah, funny how everybody's needs always seem to dovetail. —Funny.

He watches me smoke. —Very well. Things shall proceed. Only.

I let him watch me smoke, not trying to hide the sweat or the slight tremble in my hand, knowing I have ample reasons to fear. Not knowing which reasons he may be able to read, but incapable of hiding any of them. —I am curious.

He leans forward. —What are you after, Pitt?

We both watch smoke tremble from the end of my cigarette.

He squints.

—Something. A return to the Island, certainly.

He leans back into his seat. —But why so desperate?

Returns his gaze to the brightly lit night outside the dark glass. —I should like to know that. But, of course.

He smiles at his face in the glass. —Of course I will know.

He closes his eyes. —Before this is over.

Dropped into the masses in Times Square, where my appearance is least likely to be noticed, I feel gravity's pull, again from downtown.

Turning north, I strain away from it.

Too many forces in play now. Too many tiny uncharted objects flying on random trajectories. An obscure path is best. Travel by the course others have plotted.

Look for the chance to veer back to your own.

My return is hardly unexpected. —Back so soon?

I go to the liquor cabinet and get a glass and the bottle I'd started emptying during our last chat. —Looks like I'm a little more persona non grata than I thought I was.

Amanda joins me at the bar. —That come as some kind of surprise?

I raise my chin, display the almost faded bruises on my neck. —Didn't expect the fatted calf to be slaughtered. But I also wasn't figuring on having to face down Hurley my first hour back on the turf.

Sela juts her jaw. —How's he look?

I pour myself a drink.

—Hurley? You know, looks like a guy you should have shot in the head when you had the chance.

I raise my glass in her direction. —Seeing how happy he was to see me, I'd say you're best staying off his

beat.

She puts her hands on her hips. —Hurley never scared me. —Then, lady, you re a better man than me.

I take a drink.

Amanda scoops some ice into a glass of her own and pours vodka over it.

Sela frowns. —You shouldn't be drinking. You're worn to the bone.

Amanda clinks her glass against mine. —Joe's come home. I have to drink to that.

She drinks to that.

I drink, but not to anything at all.

She crosses to Sela and gives her hand a squeeze. —Just chill a little bit, baby.

Sela keeps a grip on the girls hand. —I'm trying to look out for you.

Amada touches her cheek.

—And you're doing a great job. But right now I need a drink. And I need you to be my girlfriend for a few minutes and not my fucking nanny.

Sela takes a step back, removing her face from the girls touch. —It doesn't switch on and off. I do not work like that. I don't go from one to the other. Being your lover, that's not separate from being your bodyguard. And I can only keep you safe and healthy if you listen to me.

Amanda sighs. —OK, I'm listening.

She pulls on an attentive face. —What am I doing wrong now?

Sela bares her teeth, covers them.

—Aside from running your body down with stress and lack of sleep and too much booze and not enough exercise, aside from putting everything were working for at risk, putting all these people here who believe in you at risk by not taking care of yourself, aside from all that, you are inviting a major security risk into your confidence.

She points at me. —He. Cannot. Be. Trusted.

She points at Amanda. —And that is more true now than ever.

She looks at me, shakes her head.

—He just skipped down to see Terry Bird? Just went down there, had a little run-in with Hurley, and skipped back up here? How's that compute? Ill tell you how. It does not. First he's spying for Predo. Drops that gem on us and then, fa-fa, and he's gone.

I raise my hand. —I never said ta-ta.

She shakes her head.

—Uh-uh, hold that shit in, Pitt. Don't get cute with my ass. You say I should do the smart thing and kill one of our own, kill that poor, starving, desperate son of a bitch in the basement? OK. Tell you what sounds like a smart move to me.

Her long muscled arm extends and she points her fist at me. —Killing you sounds like a smart move to me.

Amanda looks into her glass. —Don't say that, Sela.

Sela slowly uncurls her index finger from her fist, taking a bead on my face.

—He is dangerous. I said it before, He gets people dead. He's working both fucking sides. We don't know what they really want. We don't know what he really wants. And there's no way to be sure anything he tells us is the truth.

I clear my throat and pick up the bottle. —Predo, he says he wants to know what your research plan is.

I start pouring bourbon, decide I got no reason to stop, so I pour till my glass is full.

—Wants to know, are you going to go public with the Vyrus, ask for help finding a cure? Or are you going to do like you said to me, keep it in-house? Says he wants numbers of members, security, layouts. Stuff he'd need if he decides he needs to send a crew in here. That's what he says.

I drink.

—What he doesn't say is that all he's really interested in knowing is if you can do It. What he really wants to know is if you're making any progress. He wants to know if a cure is possible. He wants to know if you can actually find it in this century.

I get a smoke up and running.

—Terry Bird, he let me go, said he'd let me back on Society turf if I came up here and poked around. Said he wanted me to arrange some back-channel