Joe Pitt 1 - Already Dead (14 page)

--What did she do?

Ê--Nothing too outre.

--Outre? --It means--

--I know what it means, Chubbs, I'm just impressed at the way your vocabulary is growing.

--One cannot wallow in one's past, Joe, or one will stagnate.

--Nice.

He gestures to a beat-up dictionary on his desk.

--A word a day, that's my rule. What did you think, that I would spend the rest of my life
calling people
mah nigga?
Self-improvement is one of the few strategies a black man can use to advance in America.
And I am advancing, Joe.

--Sorry I asked.

--My apologies, I didn't mean to lecture.

--Whitney Vale.

--Yes, Whitney. Nothing too outre. As it was she was heavily pierced and tattooed, to put
her in leather would have been redundant. In her first session we tried two styles: the
Catholic schoolgirl, and the ravishing romantic. The contrasts with her natural esthetic
were striking in both costumes, but, unsurprisingly, she soon developed a following for
the schoolgirl look. We found some counterparts for her, male and female, and shot a few
videos.

--What was her demographic?

--A young, troubled-looking girl in a plaid skirt? I assume it will come as no surprise
that most of her fans had
daddy
as part of their screen names.

--Could you get me a list?

--As I said, I thought it best to delete her files and records.

He pats his slightly graying fro.

--I could perhaps put together a list of similarly inclined customers? No doubt some of
them were amongst her adoring public.

I think about weeding through a list of middle-aged pervs, trying to cull something
useful, being eaten from the inside by the Vyrus all the while.

--Never mind.

--Anything else, Joe?

--Know anything about the guy selling nudies of Vale over the Internet?

He shakes his head.

--I expect it is one of her fans who had downloaded her images and now wants to turn a
profit off of tragedy. I of course had all of her material purged along with her records.
Only prudent.

I take out the picture of the Horde girl and toss it on the desk, making sure it lands
close enough to him that he won't have to stretch for it.

--Know her?

He picks it up. Looks.

--I'd say not.

--Maybe without the makeup?

He looks again, squints. Tosses the picture back.

--I'd still say not. That said?

--Yeah?

--This is a high-turnover business and I see a great many waifs looking for a career or
extra income. The ones clearly too young, such as this child, are politely rejected at the
door. It is possible she crossed the threshold without my knowing.

I take the picture from his desktop and slip it back in my jacket.

--Got it.

He glances at his watch.

--If that's all, Joe?

--Yeah. Thanks.

He leans forward, extending his hand across the desk, sweating from the effort. I take his
hand.

--You know, Whitney went out awfully hard for such a young thing, Joe.

I take my hand back.

--What I hear, Chubbs, it had to be that way. What I hear, she was a sick girl and she's
better off the way it went.

His hand flies to his mouth.

--Oh, Joe, not that.

--That's just what I hear.

I head for the door.

--You take care of this, Joe, take care of it for good and well.

I stop, the door half open.

--I'm workin' on it.

He puts his eyes on mine.

--Mah nigga.

Dallas is sitting on an old vinyl couch in the reception area. I point toward the office.

--You can go back in.

He tosses aside the magazine he's reading and sniffs into the office. I walk past the girl
at the reception desk.

--Hi, Mr. Pitt.

It's Missy. One of the girls from the bondage guy's house. She wasn't out here when I came
in.

She's looking better. That ear is never gonna grow back and the smile will never be
straight, but she's growing her hair out and it looks like Chubby must have popped for
some good bridge-work. Not that he's an altruist or anything, he just knows what's good
for business. Take Missy. The other girl disappeared soon after. Maybe she split back to
wherever she came from. Maybe she's in a dark apartment right now with a bottle and a
handful of pills. But Missy stuck around. The way she looks, there's a market for that,
Chubby could have made some nice coin off that. But it would have drawn attention, and
Chubby doesn't need attention. But she still wanted a job, so he put her on the phones.
Better that than having her turn sour and maybe go talking to the cops. Just business,
that's all.

I nod at her.

--Hey, Missy.

Her left hand strays to the side of her head. She tugs absently at the hair, trying to
pull it down over the still livid scar where her ear had been.

--Anything I can do for you, Mr. Pitt?

She looks at my face.

I remember the Staten Island house. He'd cut them both, but it looked like he'd taken a
special shine to Missy. She would have died soon. Would it be so bad now to tell her
Sure you can do something for me. You can let me hook you up to my works and let me tap
you for a pint or two of that blood I saved.
Hell, she'd probably say yes.

--Tell me, Chubby says any chicken that comes through the door gets sent away?

--That's right.

--You take care of that?

--Sometimes.

I hand her the picture.

--Seen her?

She looks.

--Oh, yeah, sure.

I'm already reaching to take the picture back from her. My hand freezes.

--What?

--Not coming in for work. Just hanging out, waiting for her friend.

--Her friend?

--Yeah, the one that. . . you know. Whitney.

I ask a couple questions and then I head for the door that will take me to the freight
elevator that will take me to the street.

Behind me.

--If you ever need anything else, Mr. Pitt, I'm always here.

I go out the door without saying anything, and I try not to think about how good she
smells. Just like food.

Outside I smoke a cigarette.

They knew each other. Of course they knew each other. That's exactly how fucked up this
whole thing is.

Missy doesn't know much. She says the Horde girl would come in pretty much every time
Whitney had a session. Says she'd wait in the reception area there, read magazines or
maybe talk on her cell phone. Says she knew Chubby would be pissed if he knew a little
girl was in the building, but she let her stay 'cause she figured the girl was Whitney's
little sister. Later she realized they were just friends, but she says they acted like
sisters. Like the girl was Whitney's little sister, a little sister who worshipped her big
sister.

I smoke a cigarette and look at my watch. Midnight. Early yet.

Chester Dobbs's office is on 14th at First Ave. I get the address out of the Yellow Pages
I borrow from a liquor store owner when I slip into his place to buy a pint of Old Crow. I
walk over, taking sips from my whiskey in its obligatory brown paper bag. The booze is
medicinal. The bite of alcohol and a slight buzz can sometimes take the edge off my
hunger. Say in the same way that candy bars help a junkie when he starts to jones.

I cut through Tompkins. Going past the dog run, a girl squatter starts walking alongside
me.

--Hey?

I don't look at her.

--I ain't got no change.

--Didn't ask for no fuckin' change.

--Can't have any of my booze.

--Didn't fuckin' ask.

Still walking next to me.

--So?

--You seen Leprosy?

I look at her. She's dirty, ragged, plump with baby fat, wearing combat boots, cutoff
fatigues, a Rollins for President T-shirt, a heavy chain runs from one ear to a ring in
her upper lip. Sixteen, tops.

--No.

--Hector said he saw you an him talkin' the other day.

--Don't know Hector.

Ê--He says--

--Don't know him.

--Only, me an' Lep been hookin' up most nights an I ain't fuckin' seen him since Sunday.
Mean, I don't give a shit cept he has some of my stuff an' if he gonna fuck some other
chick I want it back.

But she does care. I can smell it in the salty tears at the edges of her eyes.

--Haven't seen him.

--Well if you--

--I won't.

--OK, fuckin' whatever.

She's still walking next to me.

--What?

--So can I have a drink?

I give her the mostly full bottle. She can use it more than I can.

I could have called Dobbs, Pis keep odd hours, but I plan on tossing his office whether
he's in or not, so why bother. The street door is a cheap piece of crap without a dead
bolt. I lean my shoulder into it and the lock pops. There's no lobby or elevator, just a
dirty hallway with a hand-printed directory at the bottom of the stairs. His office is on
the third floor along with American Flag Travel Inc., and DBT Theatrical Agency. Looks
like the Hordes spared no expense when they hired a dick to look for their daughter.

I walk up the stairs and try to listen to the building. It sounds dead empty, but that's
not right. I should be able to hear things, the whir of hibernating computers, a fan left
on, the scratch of a pencil on paper from someone working late in their office, rats in
the walls. But all I hear is someone coughing in an office on the second floor and the
creaks of the building. It's not that the sounds aren't there, it's that I haven't been
taking care of the Vyrus, and now it's starting to not take care of me. My senses are
starting to fade. Another day and I'll be just like normal people, a day after that, I'll
be worse. Some time after that the Vyrus will give me the last boost that will send my
entire system into overdrive. Then I'll be going Jorge's route. I need some blood.

There's no light coming from under Dobbs's door. I knock to be polite. Nothing. I put my
ear against the door. Just the sound of an old air conditioner, as loud and wheezy as an
iron lung. I sniff the air. Dust, floral air freshener, stale farts. The door is solid and
has a dead bolt. At full strength I could bust it in, but not tonight. I take out my
picks. I don't have any special talent for this, I usually rely on my hearing and sense of
touch to get me through. Not so much tonight. I shove the tension wrench in the keyhole
and then the pick, and rake the pins. It's not locked. I try the knob, the door swings
open. I put the picks away and take out my piece.

No one is in the tiny office except for Dobbs. He's on the floor behind his desk. He's ice
cold, a dead man with dead blood. No use to me. Then I see the other door. I stand next to
it, take a sniff, but I don't need any special sense of smell. Dobbs didn't want to share
the hall bathroom with his floor mates and had his own put in. Sharp bleach with an earthy
tang underneath. And? And something else. I sniff. Someone is in there. Someone I know.

I kick the door and the top hinge rips from the frame. It bangs open and hangs skewed from
the lower hinge. He's sitting on the can, his hands in the air.

--I didn't do it.

--We got to stop meeting in bathrooms, Philip. People will talk.

I make him sit in Dobbs's chair while I go over the body. He was strangled. It's not
exotic, but neither is it as easy as it sounds. Nothing's been kicked around in here, so
it wasn't a fight that got out of hand. Someone did him. Someone got behind him in his own
office. Figure it was someone he knew or someone he took at face value. He let them in the
office, turned to go to his desk and got a forearm around his neck. Looks like a forearm
job, lots of bruises. Someone strong and quick.

I try to get the scent, and have a bad moment when I can't find anything, but it's there,
the smell of whoever did Dobbs. It's not much, someone well scrubbed, but not scented.
It's not Daniel's Wraith or whoever it is that's trying to freak me out. Heck, no reason
this has to have anything to do with me. Could have been Joe Blow who was screwing
someone's wife and didn't want Dobbs to show the husband the keyhole pictures he'd been
taking. Could have been Dobbs was working a shakedown on someone that didn't like being
shook. But figure that's not likely. I toss the body. Keys, half a roll of Rolaids, lip
balm, wallet with ID, couple credit cards, a few ATM receipts. No bank card.

--Where's his bank card, Phil?

--Uh, jeez, Joe, got me. I mean, I just came by to talk to the guy about a piece of work
and--

--Didn't ask for your story yet, we'll get to that line of bull. I asked where's his card?

--Like I was sayin', Joe, I just came in 'cause the door was open and there he was and I
turned to get the hell out, 'cause, hey, a guy like me in a room with a dead body? You got
to know that ain't gonna go over well with no one. But before I could split I hear someone
on the stairs, and I guess now that was you, but not knowing that, I just thought I better
go hole up in the commode, and then you bust the door in and I ain't even barely looked at
the guy let alone touched, I mean, rollin' a corpse is pretty low and not somethin' I'm
apt to do seein' as dead people give me the heebie-jeebies.

I shift Dobbs's head to get a better look at the bruises on his neck, and a toupee slips
from his head. Dobbs, you just get sadder and sadder.

--Phil. You make me come over there, turn you upside down and shake you by the ankles, and
I'm gonna get sore.

He stands up and starts to dump junk onto the desk.

--Turn 'em all inside out.

On the desk is a pile much like the one he made on the floor of the Niagara's bathroom a
few nights ago: baggie of pills, some scraps of paper covered in phone numbers, a creased
discount admission card for New York Dolls, his tin of Nu Nile, some change and about ten
bucks.

--See, Joe? Nothin'.