He reams out his ear with a fingertip.
– Aw, well, not, not just this moment. But, sure, from time to time Mr. Bird passes me something to bring up here. Not that I know how he comes by the stuff.
–
I size him up. A pasty jumble of limbs in latex-tight sharkskin slacks with three inches of white socks showing at the ankles above two-tone patent leather, a jacket matching the slacks stretched over narrow shoulders and an embroidered cowboy shirt with silver caps on the points of the collar, a bolo tie featuring a cockroach frozen in amber snug around his throat.
He fidgets with the bleach-blond pompadour that crests his head and adds eight inches to his height.
– So, long as you’re here to, you know, make sure he’s OK and all, I should get going.
He jitters toward the door.
I clear my throat.
– Phil, you got any idea how many times tonight I’ve wished I had a gun and didn’t?
He flashes eyes at the door and back to me.
– Uh, no, no, got me.
– A lot. Know what else?
– Um, no.
– If you piss me off and make me start wishing I had a gun in my hand so I can shoot you in the knee just because it will make me feel better, my wish will come true.
He chews a fingernail.
– So, um, you’re saying you’re packing, right?
I nod.
– That’s what I’m saying.
– And I’m supposed to stay here, right?
– Yeah, that’s it.
He swallows a piece of cuticle.
– Well, just threaten a man, why can’t you? You make it all complicated like that and I sometimes don’t know what I gotta do to keep from getting slapped around.
I walk toward the Count where he’s pressed naked into the corner of the loft, his lips moving, a jumble of syllables pouring out between them.
– My bad, I figured it’d just be an instinct for you by now.
Phil follows behind.
– Hey, I appreciate the benefit of the doubt and all, Joe, but really, man, unless I’m high you really shouldn’t count on me thinking too straight.
I stop outside the circle of symbols the Count has scrawled in his own blood and feces.
I point with the toe of my boot.
– Any idea what this shit is?
Phil gives a little sniff.
– Just regular old shit, yeah?
– The pictures, Phil, not what they’re drawn in.
– Right, uh, no, no clue. Just crazy stuff, right?
Crazy stuff. Sounds about right.
I squat and put myself on eye level with the Count. His eyes keep spinning, dancing around the patterns on the floor and walls and ceiling, resting for a beat of every orbit on the blade of the knife pressed to his wrist.
– Count.
His eyes flick over me, pass back, continue on their way.
– Count.
No reaction at all this time.
I look at the maul of flesh where his right foot used to be. The knob of half-healed meat, nubbins of bone poking out of it where the Vyrus tried to sprout new toes. But it was too much damage, shattered bone and muscle and skin ripped away, the kind of wound even the Vyrus can’t make entirely right.
I wonder if putting a bullet in his other foot will get him to pay attention to me like it did when I shot that one off.
Instead, I poke in a pile of trash on the floor and find a rat-gnawed chopstick.
I hold it in the air before my face.
– Count.
Nothing.
I whip it down and drag it through the circle of nonsense on the floor.
– No! Nononononono!
He draws the blade of the knife across his wrist, blood runs free as he scuttles forward on all fours and starts painting fresh the lines I’ve broken.
– No, no, no, no, Joe! Joe, Joe, Joe, Joe, no!
He freezes, studies the repairs, holds his wrist over the floor to drip the last drops as the Vyrus draws the wound closed.
I tap the chopstick on the floor.
– You’re not looking too good, Count.
He points his gaze at me. His mouth falls open and he tilts his head back and laughs.
– No, not looking too good. Hunh, hunh, hunh! Not too good, Joe.
His teeth snap closed and his head drops down and he points the knife at me.
– Hey, hey, Joe, Joe, Joe Pitt. Know what?
– What?
He cups a hand at his mouth, sharing a secret.
– You gotta rep.
– No kidding?
– Know, know, know what it is, is?
– Nope.
He glances at Phil, leans closer, keeping his body within the lines of his circle.
– You gotta rep, says you kill people.
– Huh, go figure.
He slaps the flat of the blade to his cheek, presses the steel against his filthy skin.
– Wanna do me a favor, Joe Pitt?
I shrug.
– Won’t know till you ask me.
He puts the point of the blade in his left nostril, the handle angled toward me.
– Kill me, would ya? Please, Joe. Pretty please?
I do think about it. About slapping my open palm against the knife and driving it through his sinus and up into his brain. But it wouldn’t kill him, not right away. The angle is wrong. It’d hurt like a fucker and turn him into a retard, but it wouldn’t cut the medulla.
Of course, looking at him, it’s hard to say he’d be worse off.
– Count, I need some information.
His eyebrows jump.
– Sure, great, a swap! Kill me and I’ll tell ya anything you want to know, huh?
I rub my chin.
– How ’bout a compromise?
His eyes narrow, looking for a trick.
– Like what?
– How ’bout you tell me what I need to know and then I kill you, sound good?
His eyes close. They open. He takes the knife out of his nose.
– OK, OK, OK, but no funny stuff. None of your trickery, Mr. Joseph Pitt. If that is your real name.
