Half the Blood of Brooklyn

Ethos.

Lydia has her hands on her hips.

– Make a joke out of it, make a joke out of it, but this is not the way we do things. If you plan on joining the Society, there’s going to be a whole new set of behaviors to learn. Because behavior like that?

She points at the corpse flopped across the table they used in the Glasseater’s act, the chump they snatched and slashed during the finale blackout. The Strongman, still in his hood, pumps the dead guy’s chest, the last of his blood sputtering from the hole gnawed in his neck and filling the mason jar Harm holds against it.

– Behavior like that will not be tolerated. A random act of violence, an outright murder that begs for attention, that will not be condoned in any way, shape or form by any Clan in Manhattan, let alone by the Society. The waste of blood aside, the moral issues aside, there’s just the practical question of exposure. A display like that? In public? You can make it look as fake as you like, but it’s going to draw attention. And what about the legal implications? This is an unlicensed operation. You’re only a half mile from the amusement park. What about the police?

He drains his beer and grabs another.

– Cops we got no problem with. Coney cops, you pitch them a C-note they could give a shit what you do. As for attention, well, that’s the whole point isn’t it? No attention, no audience. We do things the freak show up on the boardwalk can only dream about. Funny thing is, they get up on their high horse ’bout what we do. Talk ’bout how faking is counter to the freak way of life. They only knew, they’d shit little purple HoHos.

– Uh-huh, and what about other kinds of attention? You know we have a Van Helsing in Lower Manhattan right now? What happens if a Van Helsing hears about your act? Do you think he or she will have trouble telling the difference between pig intestine, Karo syrup and red food coloring, and the real thing? What you’re doing, it puts all infecteds at risk. Utterly without sanction. With no mandate at all. With no aim at all. Simple willfulness. Unconscionable.

– Sister, ain’t no such thing as a Van Helsing.

Her eyes bug.

– No such thing?

– You ever seen one? I never seen one. Urban legend. Stuff to scare kiddies with. Trust me, work in this game long as I have, you know a fake when you hear ’bout it.

Lydia looks at me.

– Joe?

I look at my watch, the second hand sweeps around, shaving another sliver from the edge of the night.

I look at the midget.

– Got a guy on Rivington, in chunks.

He looks down at his beer.

– Cut up? How many pieces?

– Fuck do I know, didn’t bother counting.

He swirls the beer in his can and takes a swig.

– Didn’t count ’em, or don’t know how?

I look to Lydia.

– These guys are assholes. We should go before they waste any more of our time.

The midget points at me.

– Watch who you’re calling asshole, shorty.

I tap my watch.

– Terry said there were supposed to be a couple dozen of them. What have we seen? Six assholes. There ain’t no more. They’re carneys. Professional liars. And they’re spastic. C’mon, we both know we’re not taking any of these losers to Manhattan. Let’s blow.

He looks at Lydia.

– Best put a muzzle on your hound, lady.

– Joe’s not a dog, he’s a person. And I am not a lady, I am a woman.

The midget runs a fingertip over the fresh seam of blisters that crosses his stomach. The white tips are already fading, pinking, healing; the Vyrus is putting the blood he sucked from the dead guy to good use.

He sips some beer.

– Hatter, look up woman in that dictionary, tell me if that’s some other way of saying girl.

Lydia folds her arms and looks at the ground. -Girl?

The midget purses his lips and covers his mouth with a finger.

– Oopsy. Did I say a no-no? Did I let slip with a term that doesn’t fit with your lifestyle choices? Honey.

A little snicker runs around the tent. Only the Strongman doesn’t laugh.

A thin stream of air slides between Lydia’s lips. She looks at the midget.

– What did you say your name was?

The midget points at one of the faded blue tattoos on his neck.

– Like it says right here. Stretch. Name’s Stretch.

She squints at the tattoo.

– Yeah. Stretch. OK, clearly I’m not going to be able to make my point with you the way I’d like to. Let me put it another way.

She pauses, looks at the top of the tent’s center-pole, where smoke from the torches and the brazier slips out through a large hole, and looks back at him.

– You are fucked.

He raises his eyebrows.

– Fucked?

She nods.

– Raw. You had a chance not to be, but you are now officially fucked raw.

He blows out his lips, reaches back and rubs a buttock.

– Hell, fucked raw and I didn’t even get a reach-around.

The snicker goes around the tent again, but not as far.

Lydia nods again.

– Yeah, no reach-around. See, here you are, you and your Clan, and you need something. You need something so bad, you have to go outside of your inbred little comfort zone and look for help.

– Help? Ain’t no one asking for help around here. We’re the ones making offers.

She gives him a look up and another back down.

– Like. Hell.

He stands, grimaces as skin around his wound stretches.

– You want to start watching your lip, woman.

Lydia looks at me.

– Finally, he calls me what I am, and he thinks it’s an insult.

She looks at Vendetta and Harm.

– How can the two of you put up with being exploited by this piece of crap?

Vendetta grabs her crotch.

– Exploit this, cunt.

Lydia waves a hand.

– You’re not my type.

Stretch puts himself in front of Lydia.

– You leave them girls out of this.

Lydia squats slowly, puts herself on eye level with him.

– Gladly.

His lips peel from his gleaming teeth, a bit of pink gristle caught between two of them.

– You best start treading softly.

Lydia purses her lips and covers them with a finger.