An uncomplicated life in the Bronx. By which a man means a predator’s life. No job. No prospects. No permanent place of residence. No prospects. Prized possessions are best carried on one’s person, as running may be required at any moment. And needs of the moment are the tasks of the moment.
So, after having Esperanza cloud my thinking, I work my way south. Toward a certain dead-end block of Carroll Place, just behind the Bronx Museum, where I recently clocked a rotating cast of young men receiving calls on their cells, soon after followed by slow-cruising cars that swept into the cul-de-sac, paused to pass handshakes out the window, and rolled back out the way they came in.
Blood. Money. Bullets.
I feel in my bones that the guy hanging on the stoop with his cell will have all three.
How fortunate, that vacant lot at Carroll and One Sixty-six. It invites privacy. Limits distractions. While I tend to business.
I should have broken into a couple cars on the way, scrounged a few bucks for a pack of smokes. That would have passed the time. Better, I should have done something to scratch Bullets off my to-do list before running this particular errand.
Who’d have thought the modern crack dealer went unarmed these days? Not that I expected his bullets to fit my gun. I’d assumed he’d be carrying the standard 9mm that’s been all the rage for decades now. My own sidearm is a fusty .38. But, not being too attached to these things, I’d have happily tossed mine in favor of his. Seeing as I used mine to commit a homicide earlier this evening, I’d planned on leaving it on this guy after I knocked him out, took his cash and tapped him for a couple pints. With a bit of luck he might have kept it, at least that mugger left me with a gun, and gotten busted while it was in his possession. A long-odds bet, but worth putting some chips on.
But no gun.
Pity.
A gun would come in very handy when the hornet buzz of furious engines bounces from the sides of the buildings lining Carroll and I find myself pinned in four crossing headlight beams.
The engines drop to idles.
—What up with white guy?
—Yo, what up, white guy?
—He a funky-lookin’ white guy.
—Like that jacket.
—You like that jacket, niggah?
—Like that jacket.
—Gonna bite off white guy’s style?
—Just I like that jacket.
I shake my head.
—Kid, this jacket won’t fit you.
The one who snagged the cop’s cap outside the Stadium pulls the bill of that cap to the side.
—White guy talks.
The one with eyes for my jacket runs a finger over the thin shadow of a moustache that rims his upper lip.
—Don’t worry, white guy, I grow into it.
The smallest one guns a bike forward into the light from the streetlamp, and I see she’s a girl
She snaps her bubble gum.
—Don’t know why you want that funky-lookin’ jacket. Look stinky.
The last one, the one with the Dominican flag do-rag, drags on a Newport.
—Too hot for a jacket. He don’t need no jacket.
Moustache holds out his hand.
—Gimme the fuckin’ jacket, white guy.
The unconscious drug dealer in the dirt at my feet groans. I was just getting ready to slip the business end of an I.V. needle in his arm when the kids rode by and one of them caught a whiff of me and they veered onto the sidewalk and into the shadows behind the abandoned shed at the back of the vacant lot. With just me to worry about, the dealer would have been in pretty good shape. I’d have taken his bankroll, sure, that and whatever rock he’s carrying, to make it look like a straight robbery. Other than his arm being a little sore and his head being a bit woozy, he might never have known about the blood I would have siphoned off.
But now it looks like he’s gonna have a few more mouths to feed.
I look down at him as his eyes flutter open.
—Trust me, buddy, you don’t want to see any of this.
I kick him in the head and he goes back to sleep.
—Said, Gimme the fuckin’ jacket, white guy. Didn’t say kick niggah in the head.
I look at him.
—Told you it’s too big for you.
He rolls his shoulders.
—Told you I grow into it.
I stuff my hands in my jacket pockets. Gun, switchblade, blood works, lock picks, Zippo, last few dollar bills and some change fill those pockets. Those things I’m most reluctant to leave behind when the running starts.
Prized possessions?
Not really.
But the jacket itself.
That was a gift.
I take my hands out of my pockets; one holds the switchblade, the other the empty gun.
—Touch my jacket, you won’t grow any more at all.
Gum Snapper pulls a gun as big as her head from the waistband of her skintight low riders and shoots me in the stomach. The clear advantage of having actual bullets being that you get to shoot people instead of just empty-threat them.
I fall on top of the dealer and bleed on him and point my gun at the four kids as they duck-walk their bikes over and look down at me. Moustache reaches for the gun and I pull the trigger a few times, hoping my math is off and that maybe there’s a bullet in there I forgot about. But there isn’t.
He takes the gun and looks at it.
—This a nappy fuckin’ gun.
He chucks it over the fence behind the lot, down into the bushes at the back of the Museum.
Do-rag flicks ash from his Newport.
—You gonna rock his jacket, or what?
—Jacket got blood all over it now.
Gum Snapper climbs off her bike, tucks the massive piece back in her pants and comes over to me. I wave the switchblade at her and she kicks it from my hand.
—Bitch, don’t even think ’bout cuttin’ my ass. I stick that thing in you fuckin’ dick.
She grabs the shoulders of my jacket and pulls me off the dealer.
I could make it harder for her. The pain is pretty bad, but I could definitely make it harder for her. Except that gun she shot me with, it was really, really fucking big. And just now I need to focus on holding the guts that want to spill out of my belly in their proper place. Right now I need to focus on not moving too much so the Vyrus can use all its energy to close up this goddamn hole and put my intestines back together. Whatever attention I can spare from that task, I can maybe use hoping the bullet didn’t fragment inside me and rip up my liver and kidneys and spleen and such. Cause that much damage, I don’t know if I can get better from that.
So I’m gonna lie here quiet in the dirt and try to bleed as little as possible while Gum Snapper breaks out a set of homemade works that consist of the sharpened needle from a bicycle pump, a length of junkie’s rubber hose, and a few heavy-duty Ziploc freezer bags. She goes to work on the dealer, and Police Cap comes and looks at me.
—Think this him?
Do-rag takes a wire cutter from the pocket of the jeans that sag down past the top of his boxers.
—It him.
He climbs the fence and starts clipping lengths of barbwire, handing them to Moustache. When they have four long ones he climbs down and comes over.
—Got it all?
Gum Snapper pulls the needle from the dealer’s neck and licks it.
—I got it.
Moustache kneels at my feet and starts wrapping barbwire around my ankles while Do-rag runs the ends to the bikes, twisting one strand each around the bikes’ rear forks.
Police Cap helps Gum Snapper with the blood bags and they all saddle up.
Moustache looks over his shoulder at me.
—Fuck I want you shitty jacket anyway, white guy? Fuck you jacket.
Gum Snapper rises up on her pegs.
—Roll. Get this white guy to lament.
And they gun hard, rear tires roostertailing dirt all over me until they grab traction and burn
out of the vacant lot and onto the street. Dragging me behind them, trailing blood and wondering why they think they need to take me to lament someplace special.
I can lament just fine here.
—Miserable. Pathetic. Meager. Low.
The four kids stop what they’re doing and look at the man.
He bends a twisted finger at the bags of blood set on the rusted TV tray beside him.
—What is this?
The girl snaps her gum.
—S’blood.
He leans forward and peers at her.
—What is that in your mouth, Meager?
She shuffles her feet, looks elsewhere.
—Nothin’.
Something like a tongue snakes out from his mouth and leaves a slimy trace over dry lips.
—Is it? Is it nothing?
His arm snaps out and long spider fingers clutch her round cheeks and squeeze.
—Then you shall not mind opening wide for me to see.
Her throat works, trying to swallow, and he squeezes harder.
—Now, now, dear. Open wide.
He wrenches and her mouth opens and he thrusts the fingers of his other hand inside and comes out with the gnawed wad of gum.
—Nothing.
He grips her by the jaw, three fingers inside her mouth, his thumb digging under the chin, and pulls her close, holding the gum in front of her eyes.
—This is nothing, is it?
She makes a grunting noise.
He clacks his teeth twice.
—Chewing chewing chewing. Grotesque. Perhaps I will change your name. Grotesque. Would you like that? It would suit you.
Her throat hitches again, tears are coming out of her eyes.
The hand holding the gum is shaking.
—No? You would not like to be Grotesque? Well, to keep your name there will be a price. This, this is nothing? Then the price will be easily paid.
He shoves the gum into her left nostril, yanking her head down as she tries to pull back.
—This is nothing, child, nothing at all. Be still.
A long whine comes from her throat as he forces the gum farther inside, his index finger pushed in past the second knuckle, blood trickling out.
—Don’t fret so, child, but a little farther and it will be back in your mouth.
She coughs and gags and he shoves her onto the floor.
—Nothing.
He holds out his saliva and mucous covered hands.
—Pathetic.
The boy with the police cap steps forward with a box of tissues, and the man plucks several and wipes his fingers.
—The ends I went to, the sacrifices I made, the labors endured to bring you here for your betterment. And yet here you are, even now, defying my most basic edicts and commands.
The girl hacks loud three times and the gum coughs out of her mouth, elongated and glossy.
He mashes the tissues and throws them at her.
—Wipe your spittle, child.
She takes the tissues, still hacking, picks up the gum and wipes her phlegm and spit and tears, creating wet trails in the grime on the filthy linoleum.
He lifts his chin high, looks down his nose.
—Disgusting. Foul. Those names, too, would be apt.
—You know, next time he sticks his fingers in your mouth, you should really bite them off.
The girl and the man and the three boys look at me in my dark corner of the room where I lie in my own blood, bound in the twisted lengths of barbwire.
—Seriously. You snap off a couple of those digits, I guarantee he’ll be thinking twice before he goes mining for your gum again. Those things don’t grow back too well. Makes a real impression when you bite one off.
—Low!
Moustache pushes the man’s wheelchair forward, into the overhead light.
—Closer, boy, closer.
He rolls until his feet are inches from my face, the long gnarled nails almost poking me, reeking of toe jam and rot.
—A biter, are you? Like something to chew on, would you?
His foot lashes and the nail of his big toe cuts into my lips and he forces it inside.
—There. Tasty? How you most like it, is it?
I bare my teeth, the toe between them.
And he pulls a cap-and-ball .44 from the greasy bathrobe draped over his shoulders and puts it against my head.
—Yes, now bite. It will please me if you do.
So I bite.
But I don’t think it pleases him much at all.
He doesn’t shoot me. He just watches as I rip his toe off and spit it onto the floor. And he laughs as he has the three boys work together to keep me from thrashing too much while they take one of my boots off and the girl lifts my foot to the man and he shares with me just what it feels like to have a toe bitten off.
Me, if I had the gun, I’d definitely shoot him. A lot.
—You see, yes, you see how they task me, yes? This, this is what they bring me. This paltry offering. This soupçon. And out of this I am to feed us all? How, I ask you, how?
He takes one of the bags of blood from the TV tray and unzips the top a little, places his mouth over the opening and tilts his head back and sucks and swallows and the blood runs too fast and wells over his cheeks and down his chin and onto the collar of the robe and the pleated front of his wilted tuxedo shirt.
He finishes and tosses the bag aside and lifts his chin.
—Miserable.
Do-rag takes a crusted square of linen from the TV tray and wipes the man’s mouth and chin and neck, careful not to pull on any of the long strands of oily reddish hair that hang to the man’s shoulders.
—Yes, good, enough.
The boy steps back.
The man lifts the second swollen bag of blood.
—And this to last for how long? How long until they can find some other feeble and crippled runt that they might manage to bring down? Barely worth keeping. Pathetic.
Police Cap takes the bag from him, to a fridge wheezing in the corner, and slips it inside onto shelves loaded with bags of pig trotters and chicken feet.
The man picks up the last and smallest of the bags, the dregs of the dealer the girl drained in the vacant lot.
—Since you still resist the concept of industry, this will have to serve for all of you.
He holds the bag out at arm’s length and the girl reaches for it.
—Not you, Meager.
He points at the empty bag on the floor.
—Scraps will serve for you.
He offers the bag to Moustache, a grin cracking around the teeth that still trap a bit of my toe between them.
—For you, Low, to share with Miserable and Pathetic.
The boy reaches for the bag and the man pulls it back.
—And you say what?
Low touches his moustache.
—Thanks, Mr. Lament.
Lament smiles again.
—Such a good boy.
He gives him the bag.
—And all of you?
The kids chorus.
—Thanks, Mr. Lament.
He nods.
—Yes, manners. When prompted, I know, but some manners, nonetheless.
He flicks his fingers at them.
—Away now. Go feed your disgusting faces away from me.
They scramble for the door, the boys clustered with their half-full bag, the girl trailing, looking at the red residue inside hers.
The door closes.
Lament’s kinked neck bends toward me.
—Children. One can do little with them short of stuffing them in a sack and tossing them into the river like kittens.
I bleed, eyeing his scalp.
—It was a misstep on my part. I will admit to that much. But the blame is not entirely my own. If I had been listened to, left unmolested in my methodology, I might have avoided the conflict utterly. As it was I had no choice but to confront the rabble.
He wheels himself to the fridge an
d takes out one of the bags of trotters.
—I had operated in admirable discretion.
A gnarled finger pokes into the bag and comes out with a trotter. He holds it before milky eyes and studies it.
—Until they manifested.
He digs a bit of meat from between the pig toes and sucks it from his yellow nails.
—Mungiki savages.
He rotates the trotter, finds more sinew, tears it loose with his teeth.
—It would be almost comical. Their pretensions. That is to say, not only are they not from Kenya, but most of them are not even negroid.
He licks the trotter, sucks a last twist of gristle from it, and tosses it aside, plucking another from the bag.
—Skag Baron Menace.
He spits on the floor.
—Filthy child. He read about the Mungiki in a magazine article.
He waves the fresh trotter at the moldy magazines and newspapers heaped along the walls, barricading the windows.
—An article from my library, no less. Yes, this is ironic.
He pops the whole trotter in his mouth, rolls it about, the sound of cracking cartilage loud, then opens his mouth, dribbling the stripped foot onto his hand then dropping it to the floor.
—Kenyan gangs that thrive on kidnappings and protection rackets. Political party enforcers that cultivate legends of their own brutality. They keep oil drums of blood. And drink it. So the stories go in backwater Kenya. If it is not redundant to use the words backwater and Kenya together in a sentence.
He holds the bag up, shakes it, doesn’t find what he wants and puts it back inside the fridge.
—Menace thought it was clever, naming his little litter of hyenas after the blood-drinking gangsters. Clever? As if cleverness is a thing that ever happened inside Menace’s feeble head.
He rolls to a small shelf of books, pulls down a moisture-swollen Webster’s and flaps it open in his lap.
—Not even his own name is his. Menace. Something that threatens to cause evil, harm, injury, etc. I gave him that name. I had hoped it might instill some sense of pride in him, some modicum of self-respect. Something for him to aspire to. Better if I had done as I originally planned and named him Insipid.
He slaps the dictionary closed.
—Perhaps it did inspire him. Sent him off to new territories. Queens. Indeed. As if that was my fault. They act as if it was my fault. His adventurism of my making. But it was meddling in my methods that caused the problems. They have bred their own complications, not I. Little hairy monkey with dreams of his own empire. Skag Baron. The pretension of it. That little scrap of half-nigger and his delusions of nobility.
Every Last Drop Page 3