Half the Blood of Brooklyn

He sticks a thumb in his own chest.

– All I know is, they have to bury their dead, and they got to do it in one of their own cemeteries, and this is the cemetery they use.

Long shavings of wood curl from the stick I’m working on.

– And what if they do it tomorrow night?

He hooks his thumbs in the straps of his overalls.

– They won’t.

– We know that because?

– Because they won’t.

He looks at the stick I’m honing.

– Is that a stake you’re making?

I run my blade along it.

– Yeah.

He lets his arms hang at his sides.

– That like supposed to be humorous or something?

I hold the safe end of the stake to my eye and sight down it.

– Not to me.

– Why you making it, then?

I test the point with my thumb.

– Because I may need to kill more people than I have shells for if your shitty plan gets us that far.

He grunts and turns and goes back front with Vendetta.

– Telling you, this is the place.

I flick the blade across the tip of the stake, wondering if this is the worst play I’ve ever made. The competition is stiff. Sitting, waiting to get lucky. Lucky enough to throw down on guys that favor bows and arrows and fuck knows what else. Hoping to get lucky that they have Lydia with them or know where she is. Lucky enough to cruise over their turf to wherever she may be and get her out. Because I owe her.

But I owe Evie more. For what, I don’t know. But there it is.

I owe her.

I stop carving. I fold the knife away and tuck it in my boot. I feel in my coat pocket for the keys. Finally getting smart.

– Fuck this.

I come forward, drop the stake on the dash and get behind the wheel.

Stretch puts out a hand.

– Whoa, whoa. We drive in there, someone’s gonna see us. We gotta wait till they come and start the service. They start chantin’ and rockin’ back and forth and sayin’ kaddish, we can get the jump on them, take a couple hostages.

I turn in the seat.

– We aren’t going in there. We’re getting the hell to Manhattan. Way to handle this is, we let Terry Bird handle it. He’s a fucking politician. Lydia’s with them, he’ll get her out.

Vendetta rises a little.

– Papa.

He touches her.

– Don’t worry, pumpkin.

I start the van.

– You guys, you can hop out and get killed here or you can ride with me as originally planned.

Vendetta takes his hand.

– Get her back, Papa, we got to get Harm back.

I put the van in gear.

– Bird’ll do what he can. He loves that stuff. Helping out. He can get Lydia back, he can get your chick back.

Stretch puts a hand on my arm.

– You’re not thinkin’ straight. Harm is with them. I’m getting my girl back. Your woman? Who knows she’s even alive?

I look at his hand. -You know she’s alive.

He moves the hand.

– Well, yeah.

I put my hand on the hogleg.

– You said you saw her alive.

He wipes his mouth, smiles.

– Well, it was awful chaotic with the blood and the fire and the killin’ and all that was goin’ on. Could be I confused things a bit.

Vendetta jumps and flops her body across my lap and hits my gun hand and the hogleg falls into the step well and she starts flailing her hands and flicking the headlights on and off and slapping the horn. I put my left elbow in the back of her neck and reach for the stake on the dash and Stretch’s teeth go into my right thigh. I kick and grab his head with both hands and wrench it to the side and he comes off with a mouthful of my leg, spitting it and hissing and vomiting from the taste of the Vyrus and I throw him in the back of the van as headlights shoot through the windshield and something huge and heavy barrels into us and the door next to me crumples and Vendetta is tossed from my lap across the cab into the other door. I reach down into the step well and Stretch slams into the back of my seat and crawls over the top of it and drops on my bent back. People are piling out of the big cars that have us boxed at the curb. I stand and the hole in my leg is jammed into the steering wheel and I pound Stretch into the roof and reach and my fingers find the stake on the dash and I shove it into the meat between Vendetta’s shoulder and neck as she flies back across the cab at me. Her velocity carries her into me and I fall back into the crushed door and Stretch is slashed on the shards of glass that are all that’s left of the driver’s side window. I still have hold of the stake and I twist it and wrench it down and Vendetta’s collarbone snaps and the ends tear through her skin as I pull the stake out and her blood sprays the windshield red, the headlights glowing through it.

Then they’re in the van. In through the rear. In through the passenger door. Pulling Stretch out the window behind me and dragging the ruined door open. Piling on top of me, cutting, pulling, hammering.

Then leather straps go around my arms, keeping me from punching; and around my legs, keeping me from kicking; more around my head and between my teeth, keeping me from biting.

One of them runs at me, screaming, waving a small axe.

– Chaim! Chaim!

Others grab him and take him to the ground, all of them losing their fedoras in the struggle, but not the yarmulkes pinned to the tops of their heads.

Stretch pulls free and runs to where Vendetta is sprawled on the curb trying to push her bones back inside her skin.

– I got you, pumpkin.

A tall one gets up, dusts his fedora, returns it to his head, straightens his vest and the long threads that dangle from beneath it.

– Someone get him away from the girl.

Stretch cradles bleeding Vendetta, my flesh still on his lips.

– To hell with you, Axler. Your cousin is bleeding-out here and you fuck with her father. Now take me to your dad. I want my other daughter back.

I miss the rest of the reunion when the lid of a car trunk slams shut on me.

– Kill them.

– We will, Selig.

– Kill them now.

– Your brother, Selig, think of your brother.