Joe Pitt 1 - Already Dead (9 page)

“Bela Lugosi's Dead.” It's like their theme song. I'm hip-deep in Realm, watching crowds
of black-garbed teenagers with pasty faces “dance” to Bauhaus. Back in my day goths were
all these mopey, alienated, semi-suicidal kids. Pretty much your average teenagers, just
dressed in black. Back then they were mostly hooked into the music: The Cure, The Smiths,
Bauhaus, The Damned, a little Depeche Mode. Now it's gotten all tangled up in fetishism
and S&M. So here's what it's like inside Realm. Over here you got your video screens
showing clips from
Nosferatu
intercut with scenes from some tape of people getting their genitals pierced. Over there
you got your brass chandeliers scavenged from junk shops around the Tri-State area, draped
in black cheesecloth and illuminated with red lightbulbs. Along the walls you got your
innumerable mirrors, brass framed and also draped in black cheesecloth. In point of fact,
most everything here is draped in black cheesecloth, including half the patrons. Up on
that stage you got your fetishist couple performing a rather tame S&M act. He's strapped
to a big rusty steel X, wearing nothing but a black leather G-string. She's in the
obligatory thigh-high boots and corset, and is sticking alligator clips connected to a car
battery onto his nipples, shocking him when he fails to call her “mistress.” Which is most
of the time. Hot, right? Could be, except they're both middle-aged, seriously overweight
and balding. Nonetheless, they're drawing a pretty big crowd, so who's to say their
booking agent doesn't know what he's doing.

Over by the stage you got most of the new school goths favoring latex and studs. On the
other side of the room, grooving on the music and the bootleg bottles of absinthe they
scored from some guy that just got back from Brazil, are the old-school crowd. These folks
lean more toward velvet and lace with a healthy dose of leather thrown in. And worn close
to the heart of each, you'll no doubt find a treasured, autographed copy of
Interview with the Vampire.
This is the vampire crowd, the ones who really get into the whole undead experience. Half
of them have their own coffins and the other half are saving up. These are the ones who
think getting turned into a vampire will be just like
The Hunger.
Lots of hot sex with Catherine Denueve, Susan Sarandon and David Bowie followed by a
centuries long, lingering, tragic, but ultimately poetic death, which is also filled with
lots of hot sex with Catherine Deneuve, Susan Sarandon and David Bowie. And that's what
makes these people such easy pickings for your average bottom-feeding Vampyre, because so
many of them dream of being
turned.
But they don't know shit about the Vampyre, and what a pain in the ass it is to be one.

I grab a beer and eyeball the crowd. If Lep is right, Amanda Horde may have dropped the
goth look. I push away from the bar and take a pass through the room. A couple chicks in
full goth

Kabuki-face have the right build, but a closer look tells me they're not my girl. I hang
out for another half hour, keeping a close eye on the door. No dice. This is a waste of
time. It's not like I can flash the girl's picture around or hang up flyers. That would
pretty much go in the face of the discreet job Predo and Marilee Horde want. I'll check
the basement and blow.

Realm's basement is a dark warren of small rooms, each with its own ambience, as it were.
There's the Victorian Room, crammed with old sofas and cast-off end tables, all of it
illuminated by oil lamps. Next to that is the Murder Room, decorated like a suburban
kitchen, but with fake blood splattered across the walls and ceiling, and body outlines
taped on the floor. There's the Dungeon Room and the Padded Cell and the Mad Scientist
Room. I stick my head into each, take a quick look at the inhabitants and move on.
Suburban goths from Long Island are sitting around the Formica-topped table in the Murder
Room playing quarters. The Dungeon Room is hosting an impromptu panel discussion on
spanking. And so on. I duck out of the Padded Cell, where a guy is being strapped into a
straitjacket by one of his buddies, and head for the stairs. Time to get out of here.

I catch a flash of white out of the corner of my eye, turn to see what it is, see nothing,
turn, and then he's right in front of me, blocking the stairs.

He squints through the grimy lenses of his glasses.

--Are you alright, Simon?

I grunt.

--I asked if you were alright, Simon?

--Yeah, I'm fine.

Christ I hate it when people use my real name.

I size him up. He's just a bit shorter than me, but more pale and skinnier than a cancer
patient with AIDS and a heavy speed habit. He's wearing baggy white clothes, sporting a
shaved head, and I don't know his name. I don't know him at all. But I know where he's
from and who he belongs to because he knows my real name. These fuckers always know your
real name. I step around him and start up the stairs. He follows.

--Are you alright, Simon?

--I said yes, for Christ's sake. Now will you stop calling me that?

--My apologies, Joe.

I get to the top and make a beeline out the front door. The skeleton stays on my heels as
I walk down the sidewalk away from Realm.

--Perhaps you have a moment, Joe?

--Perhaps I have a whole shitload of moments. Perhaps I have moments squirreled away all
over the place, and perhaps I plan to keep them for myself. What of it?

He laughs.

--What are you laughing at?

--I've been told about your sense of humor, Joe, how you stumble over wisdom even as you
mock it.
Moments squirreled away.
Indeed, that is how so many treat time, as if it is something to be hoarded rather than a
phenomenon to be experienced.

--Are you fucking serious? Is this what you have planned for me tonight? Can I just give
you a donation or volunteer at a soup kitchen or something and get you off my back, or do
I have to listen to this shit?

--No, Joe, you don't have to listen to anything. You don't have to do anything. But die,
Joe, we all have to die. Except one of us.

--Yeah, well I already did that so maybe you can fuck off now.

--There's trouble about, Joe Pitt.

--There's always trouble around. Way I figure it, trouble just runs around this town doing
what it wants.

--You are in danger and in need of allies.

--Not as far as I know.

--You do know. You know about the one you cannot smell or see.

I stop.

--Who is
it?

--
It
is not a who.

Oh, Jesus. It's gonna be a ghost story.

--Bullshit.

--It watches you.

Screw this. I start to walk. He doesn't follow.

--Give them my regards then.

--Daniel wants to talk with you.

--You tell Daniel to stay out of my business.

--You are being watched, Simon. Have a care.

--I told you not to call me that.

I turn back around, but he's disappeared. Of course. That's how these Enclave guys are,
dramatic entrance, dramatic exit, and a bunch of crap in between. I start walking again,
and try not to feel the little tingles on the back of my neck that make me feel I'm being
watched.

Evie loves me. I know she loves me because she buys all my drinks for me. I know for lots
of other reasons, too, but right now this is the most important one because I want to get
drunk. I took a walk around the neighborhood, looking for any indication of the carrier
and coming up empty. I cruised back through the park to check on Leprosy, but the other
squatters said he had split right after I did. So I heaved a sigh, said fuck it and came
over here to see Evie and have a drink.

It's after midnight on a Sunday and the place is just starting to pick up. There's a late
night hoedown-jam going on on the tiny stage and a few couples trying to two-step between
the tables. Folks that work in the bars and restaurants in the neighborhood are getting
off shift and coming in here to blow off steam. Evie likes working Sundays. She says it's
the pros' night out. It's not as busy as Friday and Saturday, but she makes more money
because these people know how to tip and most of them have Monday off so they're getting
good and fucked up. And trust me, these people know a thing or two about getting fucked
up.

Right now Evie is setting them up for the midget deadbeat I shook down the night we met.
His name is Dixon and he turned out to be a pretty good guy other than being a degenerate
gambler. I put another shot of Old Crow down my neck and take a sip off my Lone Star.

I can get drunk. It takes some seriously hard work because the Vyrus treats alcohol like
any other poison and works quickly to neutralize it, but if I drink enough and I drink
fast, I can get something resembling a buzz. And hey, no hangovers! The virtues of
Vampyrism. Evie sidles back over to my side of the bar and refills my glass. She doesn't
really need to do that since the bottle is right in front of me, but it's a nice gesture.

Every gesture Evie makes is a nice gesture because she's just that kind of girl. The kind
I like to look at, but can't touch. I take another drink. She fills me back up. From the
ground up she's wearing cowboy boots, low-cut jeans, a baby-doll T-shirt with the word
TITS stretching tight as a drum across hers, and a smile that's all for me. I look her up
and down and take another drink.

She fills my glass, takes a pull from the bottle and gives me the smile.

--So, can I come over tonight?

I bob my head up and down.

--Could be, could be.

She leans on the bar and puts her hand alongside my face.

--We could watch a movie maybe. Maybe play a little.

--A movie, hmm?

--Yeah.

She leans closer, puts her cheek against mine and flicks a tongue at my ear. I shiver. I
almost cry. But I don't. Someone calls for a drink. Evie smiles at me and walks away down
the bar. I watch her ass and take another drink.

This is what we do. This is what we do instead of sex. Not all the time, but some nights
this is what we do. We flirt and tease. We slap and tickle. We go home and watch porn and
make out. We jerk each other off through our clothes or sometimes we take them off and
jerk off ourselves in front of each other. This is what we do because Evie will never take
the chance of giving me her sickness, and it makes her feel guilty as hell that she won't
fuck me, but that's just because she doesn't know that I'm afraid of giving her mine.

I don't know how to make a Vampyre. As far as I know, nobody really does. The Vyrus is
certainly carried in the blood, but like HIV it might be in my come as well. I can't have
sex with Evie because I might turn her into one of me, which would cure her, which would
mean we could be together for ... I take another drink.

Evie finishes up with her customer and wanders back over to me.

--So am I coming over tonight?

--I guess you are, babe, I guess you are.

--Cool. And maybe in the morning I can take you out for breakfast.

--Funny, you're a funny girl tonight.

Evie thinks I'm allergic to the sun. She thinks that because I told her I'm photosensitive
and suffer from solar urticaria that would make my skin erupt in boils if I were exposed
to sunlight. For that matter, that's what anyone who knows me well enough to know I don't
go out during the day thinks. For that matter, I am allergic to the sun when you get right
down to it.

She taps the tip of her index finger against the tip of my nose.

--I could
make
breakfast.

--And I could choke on it and die.

--Fuck you.

--You want breakfast I'll call someone and have it delivered.

--Well that's what I meant when I said I could make it.

--Silly me.

The phone rings and she grabs it off the back-bar. She talks to someone for a second then
brings the phone over to me.

--It's for you.

It's Leprosy.

--What?

--Pitt?

--Yeah, what's up?

--I got something.

--What?

--Just come meet me.

--Is it the girl?

--No. I. Just meet me.

--Where?

--That garden on B.

--With the tower?

--Yeah.

--Don't fuck with me here, Lep. Is this solid?

--I'm not. Just meet me. Now.

He hangs up. I hand the phone back to Evie.

--Leprosy?

--Yeah. I got to go.

I stand up and realize I'm not packing. Not even a knife.

--You got that bat you keep behind the bar?

--Sure.

She reaches under the ice bin and comes up with a Frank Thomas edition Louisville Slugger.
It's a big bat. She passes it to me.

--What's the matter?

--He didn't call me fuck face.

I walk away. She calls after me.

--I'm still coming over.

I stop and take a practice cut with the bat.

--Goddamn right you are.

And I walk out the door.

I'm pretty sure the guy who built the tower is crazy. At the very least he is amazingly
skilled at being a pain in the ass. Used to be there were these little public gardens all
over Alphabet City, a bunch of empty lots that people in the neighborhood split up into
tiny plots for their flowers or vegetables or whatever. Nice if you're into that kind of
thing. So these gardens were on land owned by the city, but Alphabet City was just a pit
full of spies, niggers, junkies, queers, squatters, gangbangers and artists, so who gave a
fuck. Then came the real estate boom. Pretty soon the city sells off all these lots and
the gardens are paved over and another couple dozen yuppies have new condos. And once
again, who really gives a fuck. But this garden on B is still there and so is the tower
and the nut job who built it.

When they set up this garden they split it up into the tiny plots and everybody started
growing geraniums and basil. Except this one guy was a sculptor and he didn't want to grow
things on his plot, he wanted to build things. Pretty soon his little area is spilling
tools and wood and mess all over the place and the gardeners are all getting pissed and
want to kick him out. People are starting to threaten lawsuits and everything. Then they
hit on a pretty reasonable compromise. They agreed that anyone who has a plot can do
anything they want in that plot, as long as it doesn't reach anywhere
outside
of the plot. Everybody shakes on it. And then the crazy fucker builds the tower.