Half the Blood of Brooklyn

I open my hand and spill tobacco and shredded bits of white paper on the tabletop.

– Great, now we got that sorted out, can I blow?

Terry untangles his legs, straightening them, rising erect.

– Joe. Lydia. Just as we are negotiating possible alliances with these, I guess they have to be called pseudo Clans at this point, just as we’re initiating talks, a Van Helsing appears. On our back porch. An apparently seasoned and knowledgeable Van Helsing who kills in a, you know, potent style. But he does this-

Lydia coughs.

– We don’t know it’s a man. Can we please not assume the male pronoun for a change?

– Right. So the Van Helsing, he or she, kills an uninfected guy like the guy was infected. If he or she does it out of ignorance, it’s kind of, well, incongruous, to use a five-dollar word. So maybe it’s an accident. Or maybe it’s a message that even an uninfected isn’t safe if he’s trucking with the likes of us. Or maybe, maybe, it’s done just to stir up some shit.

The phone rings.

– I mean, these are delicate times. New faces coming over the bridge. Elements no one has had contact with in, like, decades, man. Talking complex ramifications here. Talking old growth forests getting new seedlings. Talking shifts in the balance of power.

The phone rings.

– And the Candy Man, for all his, no pun here, all his sweetness, he was a hard-core businessman. He was a stone reliable dealer below Houston. The only one down there all those Rogues and odd bits of Clans could rely on in a pinch.

The phone rings.

– Think that’s not gonna stir concern down there? I mean, Christian finds out about this, what’s he do? He doesn’t burn the store like would have maybe been the easy thing, he comes and gets Joe. He looks north. He sees a potentially troubling situation near his club’s turf and reaches out for some Clan involvement.

The phone rings.

– He looks for some people who can stabilize a situation and bring a little balance before things can get knocked off kilter. He knows. His riders relied on the Candy Man. So he knows what this could mean.

The phone rings.

– And, yeah, maybe it’s all as simple and screwed up as a Van Helsing. Maybe we can get him, or her, before a little panic takes place. And then, well, market forces will take over and someone will fill Solomon’s void and it’ll all be cool.

The phone rings.

– But maybe, and I’m not talking from any secret well of knowledge here, I’m just saying, maybe.

The phone rings.

– Maybe it’s someone fucking with us.

The phone rings again and Terry grabs it from its cradle on the wall.

– Hello? Hey. Hello. Yeah. How ’bout that? Been a while. OK, OK, the usual. Yeah? Wow. That was fast. Sure. Hey, we all got our ways. Who? No. Not them. Sure the Freaks did. No surprise, but not them. Uh-huh. I know. Old times, kind of. Well, sure, you know, that was different. Yeah. Uh-huh. Hang on.

He holds the phone out to me.

– It’s for you.

I take the phone and put it to my ear.

– Yeah.

– Pitt, it’s Predo. I understand there is a Van Helsing in your midst. We will need to address this. Come see me.

Fucker.

Little fucking fucker Predo is, he keeps me waiting in the lobby with nothing but back issues of The New Yorker and Town amp; Country to read.

I fiddle a Lucky out of the pack and stick it in my mouth.

– Uh-uh.

I look at the giant behind the reception desk.

– Uh-uh what?

He waves his pen back and forth.

– Not in here.

I take out my Zippo.

– What’s with everybody? It’s smoke. It doesn’t hurt us. It’s like the best part about the Vyrus. Look, Ma, no cancer.

I snap the lighter open.

He places the pen on his desk, aligning it perfectly with the vertical edge of his blotter.

– Don’t even think about it.

I tap the tip of the unlit cigarette.

– Buddy, it’s too fucking late for that, I’m thinking about it.

He smiles, no doubt dying for me to light up so he can stop dicking around with the boss’ PowerPoint presentation and go to work on me instead.

– Then you best find something new to think about.

I size him up. It doesn’t take long. A guy built like that, you’d have to be blind not to be able to size him up from about half a mile out. I’m a big guy, but one of his suits, the jacket would make a nice overcoat for me. Still, I long to try it, see if I could put a couple in his face before he tears the desk in two, jumps across the room, digs his finger into my sternum and pulls my rib cage out.

Not that I got anything to prove, but the fucker pisses me off. Way he backed up Predo that time they broke into my place and tossed me around, that made me not like him. Not that I ever did in the first place. Piece of Coalition enforcer shit that he is.

But I didn’t bring a gun. And I don’t have the stones to try it even if I was packing.

I drop the Zippo back in my pocket, take a big drag off the unlit cigarette, pull it from my mouth, blow a huge cloud of no smoke in his direction.

– Gotta rule against this?

He slits his eyes.

– Sooner or later.

– What? Sooner or later you’re gonna sprout something from the brain stem that keeps your lungs pumping?

He rises. If we were outside, if it was daytime, he’d blot out the sun.

– Sooner or later you are going to fuck up and be back on the street again. Sooner or later you won’t have Clan protection anymore. Sooner or later you’re going to be a Rogue again. And nobody will care what happens to you. Nobody will care when I pick you up by the ankles and wishbone you.

What’s a guy gonna say to that? Especially seeing as it’s likely true.

Wish I had that gun.

The phone on his desk buzzes. He presses a button on it and picks up the handset.

– Yes. I’ll send him up. Yes, Mr. Predo.

He closes his eyes, frowns.

– Yes, I will, sir. Unforgivable. It won’t happen again.

He puts the phone down, opens his eyes, keeps the frown.

– Mr. Predo will see you now.

I get up.

– And we were just getting to know each other so well.

He looks me in the eye.