Joe Pitt 5 - My Dead Body (6 page)

Digga shakes his head.

--Fuckin’ YouTube. Muthafucka caught it with his phone an shit. Had it posted in minutes. See the title? Crazy PCP Bitch Won’t Die.

--What’s YouTube?

He looks at me, shakes his head.

--Muthafuckin’ Joe Pitt.

He points at the screen.

--This your fuckin’ fault, this shit is.

I lean forward and look at the screen, shake my head.

--Never saw the crazy bitch before.

He has me by the back of the neck, bounces my forehead off the screen, the picture fractures, screen goes black. I don’t see anything else for the moment because of the gun stuck up against my remaining eye.

--Tell you about that crazy bitch. She a lady. Good lady. Got a high school diploma. College degree. She a pillar of our community. Works with young people new to the life. Helps with they get adjusted to how things is. Loves them kids. Loves them kids so much, when shit gets tight up here last few months an I got no choice but to institute rationing and a strict policy of no more killing the normal muthafuckas till further fuckin’ notice, she lays off her rations on some of her kids. So that they be more comfortable an shit. That who that bitch is. Was. Cuz now that bitch put down with a bullet I had to lodge in her fuckin’ skull on account of this crazy shit we see here. Muthafucka! Muthafucka!

He pistol-whips me a few times. My nose breaks. Again.

He stops. Looks at his gun. Reaches over and wipes the blood onto my jeans.

--Shit.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and force it into place.

--Hey, Digga.

He doesn’t say anything.

I go in my pocket for my tobacco and start rolling a smoke.

--Just like old times, huh?

Digga’s suit is black. Trousers, jacket, shirt, tie, socks, shoes and cuff links. Solid black. Just that much blacker than himself. A good color for hiding the blood that sprinkled him when my nose broke. Still he doesn’t like it.

He dabs at a blood spot with a damp paper napkin.

--Had to make noise, didn’t ya, Pitt? Keepin’ yo mouth shut just a lost art where your ass comes from, is it?

I keep my mouth shut.

He looks at me.

--You bein’ cute?

I shrug.

He shakes his head.

--Cute. Know what happened? You went off half-cocked last year? Know what the result of that action came to be?

He balls some used napkins and throws them into the footwell.

--Society emissary comes up here. Lydia Miles. Comes up here, secret communiqué from the Society. My ears only. Whisper-whisper. Some shit about how they finally found where Coalition gets they blood. How it is they asses always got enough. How they supply the masses between Fourteen and One Ten. Do tell, says I. Thinkin’ this is gonna be some valuable shit to know. Years now we been relyin’ on Coalition to supplement what we got up here. Years we have to put up with they asses holdin’ top of the rock. Payin’ what price they set. Market monopoly. Twistin’ my tits. Then this chick, she leans to my ear and she tells me where they get it.

He’s stopped blotting, scrubbing now, little white bits of paper tearing off a napkin and sticking to his jacket.

--Says some shit about Queens. Says some shit about a hole in the ground. Asks me, all drama like, Know what’s in that hole, Digga? Shit!

He throws the napkin into the front seat.

--Like I’m supposed to know that shit. Asks like maybe I know. Muthafucka! Like she’s checking my shit out to see how I jump. Thinkin’, Did he know or didn’t he? Like it’s a fuckin’ question if I knew or not.

His hands are fists now, he shakes them in front of his face.

--Like there was a question what I’d have to say on that shit.

He pounds the fists into his thighs.

--War! War, I say, muthafucka! War on they asses! War! War! War!

I’ve got a cigarette rolled. I put it in my mouth and light it and inhale some smoke, then blow it back out.

--Yeah, well, that was kind of the point.

• • •

That hole.

About that hole in Queens. Not trying to be coy or anything. Just some things I don’t feel like talking about much. And some people, they get uncomfortable thinking about some things.

Veal.

Veal makes some people uncomfortable to think about it. Baby calves in pens so tight they can’t turn around. Milk-fed, tender-muscled, raised to young slaughter and the table. Put a plate full of it in front of someone, don’t say a word, most folks tuck right in, rub their tummies and say mmm. Same plate, same person, tell them a little about those big-eyed calves and their short and miserable existence, and they’re like as not to go off their appetite.

I go into too much detail on this, I’m liable to get distracted. Start thinking about things I can’t change. So take the above as context, and see what kind of picture gets painted when I mention the following:

Hole in the ground.

Chains.

Breeding cells.

Anticoagulants.

Incubators.

I.V. hose.

Truncheons.

Vampyres.

Veal ranch.

Rape factory.

Paints a vivid picture don’t it? Illuminates some of the strong feelings people might display. But, yeah, guess I kind of buried the lead at the beginning of the story.

• • •

We’re only human. At least that’s what I think. Just people got infected with this thing that needs blood to survive. We’re not evil. No more than other folks. We’re not soulless creatures of the night. Sure, yeah, mostly anyone can get used to mostly anything if that’s what it takes to survive. And sure, tap enough veins and you start to get a little casual about the process. Still, when I look at the people around me, I don’t feel like I’m looking at cattle. They’re people, sure enough. The fact that I’m looking for a person who’s an easy mark doesn’t mean I think any less of them.

Pretty damn hard for me to think any less of humanity than I already do.

Digga, he’s plenty human himself. He’s a vicious thug, but he likes dogs and children and all that usual stuff. No wonder he took it hard when he found out what he’d been drinking hadn’t been given up by Vampyre-loving volunteers or bled off packs of kiddy-fondling Klansmen.

Sensitive boy.

What he’s got to be sensitive about could be debated. Me, I was in that hole. I saw. I got through it without blinding my remaining eye, and you don’t hear me complaining. But Digga’s his own man with his own concerns.

--What color?

--Not sure I follow.

He puts a finger in my face.

--Don’t pull that ignorant white bullshit with me, muthafucka. You know what I’m askin’. What color them kids down there in that damn hole?

I pick a flake of loose tobacco from my lip.

--I only saw a few.

--Give a shit how many, give a shit what color.

I flick the tobacco flake from between my fingers.

--Color of naked rats raised underground. That color.

He takes his finger from my face, looks me over, leans back into his seat.

--Muthafucka. An you ran away.

I know what I did, so I don’t contradict him.

He looks out his window, up the slope of the park.

--Uh-huh. Joe muthafuckin’ Pitt. Uh-huh.

I smoke.

He fiddles his cuffs.

--People lookin’ for your ass. Be happy to find you in the open. Where they can get a clean shot off. Wrap your ass up, sell it to the highest bidder. Rake some much needed coin for up here.

I nod.

--Maybe swap me for some of that Coalition blood.

He makes fists again, but doesn’t use them.

--Muthafucka always got to be pushin’ shit. Can’t let it alone. Try to tell a muthafucka a thing and he’s got to open his mouth and let out whatever stupid smart-ass shit in his head. Make a man want to pummel. Paste your ass right on the sidewalk. Smear you all over for the dogs to lick up. Damn!

I nod again.

--Yeah, sounds like me.

He opens his fists.

--Shit. Predo and the Coalition. Terry and Society. Every other muthafucka wants to get they hands on your ass. Fuck ‘em.

He looks at me.

--Did alright by me. Alright by the Hood. Last time you were up, did what you said you would. Played your part in complicated business. I don’t like you, that’s beside the point of this shit. You did alright by me. And I don’t pawn the asses of people do alright by me. Mamma didn’t raise me like that.

He squints.

--Just tell me what your ass is doing up here and get that shit over with.

I adjust the strap of my eyepatch.

--I’m looking for a girl.

His eyebrows go up.

--Shee-at. A girl. Joe fucking Pitt looking for a girl. What a girl got to have to get your ass interested?

I hold a hand in front of my stomach.

--This one has a baby.

His lips go thin. He shakes his head.

--Shit. That chick. Should have known.

His head shake shifts to a nod.

--Cuz don’t trouble just like to run around with trouble.

--Could use you in this.

--Negotiation isn’t my strength.

--Like I want you openin’ your ass to talk. Could use you to fill in for muthafucka with his throat tore out.

I turn my head to look at the small group of young men and women on the sidewalk. Pacing, bouncing on toes, chain-smoking Kools. Black Ecco down jackets. Timberland boots. Baggy jeans. Informal uniform of the Hood rhinos.

I look back at Digga.

--Seems like you have an escort already.

He looks at his people.

--Escort. Gonna be me escorting their asses is what it’s gonna be. Soldiers got to feed an I keep em fed. But not all what they need. An they all cherry anyway. Hardly a one done the deed. Frontline rhinos almost all takin’ dirt naps already. We staked our position, said straight up we were standing with the Society, and Coalition dropped hammers on us. Went all tense on the border down at Fourteen, but they didn’t cross the line, not in any fuckin’ force. But us? Like they was ready. Jumped One Ten and muthafuckas was all up in our shit before we turned around. Had our shit scouted deep. Safe houses. Doors busted in, enforcers came through. We were flat fuckin’ pants down for almost a week. The smoke cleared, all we had time for was to get the bodies in the river before they could start to stink. Keep from attracting too much attention. Some gun killin’ uptown, the law doesn’t pay too much mind. Lets that shit settle itself out. Think it’s all drugs anyhow. But some of the shit enforcers were layin’ down, that would have drawn some long looks those corpses had turned up. Had to go whole hog after that shit. They had addresses, we had some of our own. Sent some heavies down. See how they like gunplay on the Upper East. See how Predo bags that shit an keeps it out of the paper an off the police blotter. How long his payola keeps a lid when some muthafuckin’ co-op boards and neighborhood commissions start they bitchin’.

I rub my bad knee.

--How’d that go?

He smiles.

--Not too bad. Lost some boys I couldn’t spare, but sometimes you need to sacrifice a knight to knock off some pawns an shit. Get the other player’s attention. Let his ass know good an well you ain’t above doin’ some foolish shit if it means you can draw a little of his blood. Predo got busy hisself, dealing with some community relations, ditchin’ some stiffs. Eased off on those incursions. Mean, we still light the shit up, but ain’t no nightly event like it was for a while.

The knee is stiffening up, too much time sitting.

--And downtown?

He doesn’t smile at that.

--Downtown. Fuckin’ Terry Bird. Sends that Miles chick up here, gets me all riled an shit. Then what? Sits on his ass and says, Actions need to be coordinated and timed for maximum effect. Shit like that. We’re getting our asses starved, an he’s fuckin’ coordinatin’ an shit. Muthafucka. If I didn’t have issues with the man before this shit, I got them now.

I flex the knee and it feels like gravel.

--Lydia has a tendency to rile shit up more than Bird wants.

He bats the air with the back of his hand.

--Lydia muthafucka and her systemic misogynism of the African American male bullshit. Give me that, no judgments, but the fact of alternative lifestyle intolerance in your community is indisputable. Make a man want to shoot. An bullshit anyway. We got the gay up here, no doubt.

The knee doesn’t feel any better. I need to walk it around.

I put my hand on the door.

--Not that I don’t enjoy catching up and all, but I was asking about the pregnant girl.

He’s looking out at his people.

--Yeah, yeah. Got your own griefs, huh? Pregnant girl. Pregnant with what is the issue. Shit we don’t know an don’t understand about ourselves, any wonder we’re still fightin’ each other? Vampyre on Vampyre violence, whatever the color, it just makes shit sense.

He tugs at his lower lip.

--Somethin’ like this comes out of the woodwork, bound to stir up feeling. Uninfected girl with an infected baby daddy. I’d already heard the nonsense being talked downtown about them. Nothing like a baby to make people see visions of the future. See salvation or new Armageddon. Me, I don’t read it that way. See just plain trouble. Horny kids got themselves a baby they didn’t plan on. Everyday trouble up here. Least the boy seem like he wants to stick it out. They always do till the first diaper. But those two, living in a fantasy land. Feedin’ the noise. Bird may think he can use ‘em as a symbol, but they got their own damn ideas. Come up here talkin ‘bout how that baby is a bridge to the future. Saw them, the look in their eyes, like they just got out of church, full of the Lord, said, Aw no, fuck this shit.

He lifts his hand, drops it.

--I told Percy to keep ‘em wrapped. Too hot to have that shit at my elbow. People all worked up about that shit. People lookin’ for signs and portents, all they need is to hear that girl talk about her baby being The Uniter. No chance. Told Percy they could stay, but keep ‘em down low.

--Percy was with them?

--That’s where they started. Found Percy, he brought them to me, I told him to keep ‘em quiet while more pressing issues get resolved. Percy the man to keep a lid on shit. Meditate on it and drop wisdom regarding the affair. Counselor to the king, that’s his deal.