Gooch laughs.
– A job? Hope you get paid through the nose, havin’ to live in the middle of this freak show.
I stop at the front-room door, rest my hand on the knob.
– What you gonna do, it’s all I know.
– Too bad for you.
– If you say so.
I open the door and stand aside to let the Docks Boss step into the room ahead of me.
Stupid fuck that he is, he goes right in and only stops when he sees the headless bodies of his boys on the floor, and Hurley swinging a fire axe at his face. I got to give it to him, he does manage to get his arm in front of his head before the blade comes down.
As his arm is hitting the floor and Hurley is going into his backswing, the Boss has got his remaining hand in his jacket, going for the iron bulging at his side. Hurley takes his hack Lou Gehrig style and the other arm comes off and slaps into the wall, the gun dropping.
The Boss stomps, splinters the floorboards beneath the sheets of plastic Hurley spread before he went to work. He kicks the body of one of his headless bodyguards.
– Fucker! Useless faggot!
He stands in the middle of the room, the spray from his stumps slowing to a steady trickle as the Vyrus clots the blood, scabs visibly forming over the wounds.
He looks at Hurley, spits blood at him.
– That all you good for, pussy, a fuckin’ ambush? Come on! I can take it.
He sets his feet, turns his face upward, eyes wide open.
– Come on, pussy!
Hurley hefts the axe over his head.
– Just as ya say, den.
The Docks Boss screams as the blade drops. He stops when it splits his head down the middle.
Stupid fucker.
All those cigars, they kept him from smelling anything else. Otherwise he’d have whiffed the reek of blood the second I opened the kitchen door; he would have known there was a problem. In that tight hallway, he could have taken me apart. Another reason to like smoking.
Gooch leans into the room and looks at his boss flopping on the floor. He ducks back as a last jet of arterial blood sprays the ceiling and the dead thing goes still.
– Jesus, that’s gonna be hell to clean up.
Hurley gives the axe a jerk and pulls it from the Docks Boss’ face.
– Ayuh.
Gooch points at the mess.
– I ain’t helpin’ ta clean this. That wasn’t part of the deal.
Hurley wipes the blade of the axe on the Boss’ shirtfront, sees the cigars and pulls one from the dead man’s pocket.
– No one said ya gotta clean nuttin’.
– Just so it’s clear.
Hurley finds a match, thumbs a flame from it and puts it to the cigar.
– It’s plenty clear, boyo.
Gooch points his baseball bat at the corpses.
– So you guys clean up your mess and I’ll round up the rest of the Docks and let them know we’re joinin’ with ya.
Hurley looks at the cigar, wrinkles his nose, and drops it to hiss in the Boss’ blood.
– Boyo, the way ya fellas sell one ’nother out, we would nae have ya ta clean our privies.
Gooch is about as quick as Boss was. He gets the bat up in a hurry to block Hurley’s axe. But the axe never leaves Hurley’s shoulder.
I tickle Gooch’s earlobe with the barrel of his dead boss’ revolver.
– Hey, Gooch.
He doesn’t move.
– Yeah?
– I like this freak show.
I put a bullet in his ear. And when he’s on the floor, I put a couple more in.
Hurley shakes his head.
– What’s da point a dat, Joe?
– No point. Just that he was an asshole.
Terry comes down the hall and looks at the mess.
He takes off his glasses and bows his head.
– What a waste.
I put a Lucky in my mouth.
– If you say so.
– Labor should be our natural ally. They could have been a big help.
– A big help fucking things up. If this is the best Brooklyn has to offer, we don’t have much to worry about.
Terry slips the glasses up his nose and gives me a look.
– The best isn’t the problem, Joe.
He heads back down the hall toward the kitchen.
– The worst is what we have to worry about. The worst is still over the bridge.
He turns in the doorway.
– But they’ll be coming.
I don’t got enough problems.
I don’t got enough problems dealing with the day-to-day shit that rains from the sky in Manhattan, now I got to start worrying about it being shipped in from Brooklyn. That’s what happens when you get a regular job, other people’s shit becomes your problem. ’Course, by the time you got that figured, it’s up around your ears and you’re just trying to keep your fucking mouth shut.
– Cat got your tongue?
I look up from the square of linoleum between my shoes and try a smile. It doesn’t work.
– No, babe, just tired.
– You didn’t have to come by.
– Sure I did. What else am I gonna do?
– You know how to flatter a girl, Joe.
– Not what I meant.
– I know. Just kidding.
Evie reaches out and takes my hand. The IV hose hooks around her pinkie and I pull it free so it won’t get tangled.
– The one on your cheek looks better.
She pokes the tip of her tongue into the pocket of her cheek, pushing out the spot where the first of her Kaposi lesions appeared.
– Yeah. Pretty cool. Now if I can just get rid of the other thirty-six I’ll be in business.
A nurse comes in, looks at the IV, checks the cunna in Evie’s arm, fakes something that might have looked like a smile when she started this job and walks back out.
Evie shows me her teeth.
– I love that one, she’s so sweet. Not a bitch like the others.
– A real Florence Nightingale.
– Yep, she’s the one told me how to use the diuretic suppositories, used visual aids and everything.
She makes a fist with one hand and forces the index finger of her other hand into its grip.
