No Dominion

by Charlie Huston

—The one you were supposed to hook me up with.

  He shows me a speck stuck to the tip of his index finger.

  —What’s that look like to you?

  I grab his finger.

  —Phil, where’s The Count?

  He pulls his finger free and points it over my shoulder.

  —He’s right there, man. The Count’s right there.

  I look at the guys playing pool.

  —The one taking his shot.

  I look at the one taking his shot: twenty to twenty-five, skinny, mop of blond hair, little fringe of blond goatee, and a faded brown Count Chocula T-shirt.

  Philip wipes the speck from his finger onto the thigh of his jeans.

  —I mean, jeez, how’d you miss the guy? Told you he’s called The Count.

  Philip makes the introductions.

  —Hey, hey, Count. This is my man Joe. Joe, this is The Count.

  The Count flips his fingers at me, not offering to shake.

  —Hey, Joe. ’S up?

  —Wanted to have a word.

  He looks over his shoulder at the guy racking the balls on the pool table.

  —I got another game.

  —I can wait.

  He smiles, points at my watch.

  —But not too long, right?

  —No, not too long.

  He twirls his pool cue.

  —Yeah, got the same condition. Let me knock this guy off and we’ll go someplace.

  I watch him play. He’s sharp on the table. Smooth. Keeps up a patter with a couple girls sitting on one of the couches. Between shots he takes a clove cigarette from one of their mouths without asking. He drags on it and passes it back, steps to the table and casually sinks the eight. The loser comes over to shake and The Count passes him his cue.

  —Take the table, man. I got to go.

  He looks over at me, flashes a finger, asking for another second, and chats up the girls as he puts on his fake fur–lined cord jacket, plaid scarf and furry Russian hat. Before he comes over to me he’s flipped open his phone and entered both girls’ numbers into it.

  —Thanks for waiting, man.

  I get up. Phil gets up.

  —So cool, where to, guys?

  I put a hand on Philip’s shoulder and press him back into his chair.

  —Stay, Phil.

  He starts to rise again.

  —But.

  I point a finger.

  —Stay.

  He stays. We go.

  —Hey, girlie. No, I’m up. Yeah, right, as if. I don’t know, just heading for my crib. Right now? Girlie, you know I want to, but I got a thing I got to do. That ain’t right. That ain’t right. Girlie, you know I don’t rock like that. No doubt. There was any way, I’d be there. Yeah? Yeah? You are such a bad girlie. You know you are. Yeah. Sure. That’s it. Later.

  The Count snaps his cell phone closed.

  —Sorry about that. She’s not my regular thing, but she likes to think she is. I could shine her on, but the girl is just so damn dirty, I don’t want to lose the hookup. Know what I mean?

  —Sure, I know.

  —Right you do. This is the place.

  It’s an old brick building, right next to the El Iglesia de Dios Church on 6th between B and C. The place is turreted. Oxidized copper plating details the roofs and gables.

  —You live here?

  —Yeah, I know, all castlelike and such. Didn’t plan it that way.

  I eye the renovated lobby through the glass door.

  —I was thinking about the money.

  He takes out a set of keys.

  —Oh, that. Well, I got like a trust fund I draw on. Money’s no thing.

  I look at my watch: almost five forty-five. Mid-January: sunrise just after seven. I look at the sky. There’s a heavy overcast. Even if I’m out right at seven, there shouldn’t be enough UVs hitting the street to do me any real harm. The Count catches my eye.

  —Don’t sweat the sun. You get stuck here, you can hang. I got some chicks staying with me. All like to party.

  —No thanks. We’ll talk. I’ll go home.

  —Cool by me.

  He opens the door.

  We take the elevator. The Count looks down from the numbers as they light up.

  —Thanks for getting rid of Philip, man. That guy, he starts tagging after you and there’s just no way to lose him.

  —You hang out with him much?

  —No chance. He just always shows up. Something’s going on and he hears about it. One of those guys. Nothing wrong with him. He’s just, he’s such a…

  —Renfield.

  —Yeah, he is. Didn’t want to say. Thought he might be your friend or something.

  —He’s not my friend.

  The elevator stops, the doors open and he leads me down the landing on the fourth floor. A door at the end of the hall opens while he’s still fiddling the key into the lock. A twenty-something girl in a pink leather miniskirt and black camisole top, her blond hair done up in pigtails, jumps into his arms.

  —Hey, baby.

  She wraps her legs around his waist and plants her mouth on his. They make out for a couple seconds, then The Count pulls his face away.

  —Brought a friend.

  She looks at me.

  —Hey, friend.

  I nod.

  She jumps down.

  —Well, don’t stand around, come join the party.

  She spins and skips back inside.

  The Count goes to lead the way and his phone rings. He looks at the number.

  —Got to take this. You go in.

  He opens the phone and starts talking. I go in, the door shuts behind me.

  The apartment is a loft. An assortment of partitions have been used to separate sleeping areas. One defined by two Chinese screens collaged with pictures clipped from fashion magazines, one by roll-down bamboo blinds, and the last by an assortment of cast-off doors clearly rescued from the street. The communal space is about one-third disaster-area kitchen and two-thirds disaster-area couches, beanbags, TV and stereo.

  The girl with the pigtails drops into one of the beanbags and a handful of Styrofoam pellets squirts out of a splitting seam in its side.

  —Careful!

  Another girl, this one a brunette, in nothing but beige Ugg boots, panties and a scarlet poncho, comes out from behind the wall of doors.

  —You’ll pop it.

  Pigtails stretches her foot toward the TV and starts changing channels with her big toe.

  —It’s already popped.

  Poncho kneels next to the beanbag and presses on a piece of silver duct tape that’s peeled away from the seam.

  —It’s not popped all the way. You keep bouncing on it and it’s gonna pop all the way.

  —So what?

  —So I’m not gonna clean up all the fucking foam BBs.

  —So what?

  —So they stick to everything and they’re a pain in the ass.

  —So what?

  —So stop jumping on it.

  —OK. Where’s the remote?

  Poncho stands.

  —Don’t know.

  She looks around for the remote and sees me.

  —Hello.

  I stand there.

  —Hi.

  She takes a long look.

  —Do I know you?

  —No.

  —Uh-huh.

  She nudges Pigtails with her foot.

  —Darlin’, who’s he?

  Pigtails glances at me, but keeps flipping channels with her toe.

  —Don’t know.

  —Uh-huh. And where’d he come from?

  Pigtails finds something she likes and tries to adjust the volume with the heel of her foot.

  —Came with The Count.

  Poncho looks at her.

  —The Count’s here?

  —Yeah.

  —Where?

  —Here.

  I point at the door.

  —He’s in the hall. On the phone.

 
The door opens and he comes in. Poncho smiles at him. He smiles back. She walks slowly past me and plasters her body against his.

  —You’re cold.

  —It’s cold out.

  —You got something for me?

  He kisses her.

  —Nice. You got something else?

  He holds up the phone.

  —Just got the call. It’s on its way.

  She melts against him. Pigtails springs up and starts jumping on the beanbag and squealing.

  —It’s on its way! It’s on its way!

  A redhead in Sleeping Beauty PJs lifts the bottom of one of the bamboo blinds and ducks out.

  —We scored?

  Pigtails jumps higher.

  —The Count is here and it’s on its way!

  Poncho points at me.

  —And who’s your friend?

  The Count wraps an arm around her and leads her toward a couch.

  —Baby, don’t you know? That’s Joe Pitt.

  The beanbag explodes and a cloud of Styrofoam BBs covers the room. Pigtails falls on her ass.

  I brush BBs from my shoulder and try to figure what the hell this is all about. These four living here. Under the same roof. It doesn’t make sense. Why? Because the whole place reeks from the Vyrus. They’ve all got it, every one of them. Four new fish under one roof.

  —You know how it is. It’s a small world out there. You hear about people.

  —How come I never heard about you?

  The Count sits on a tired gold velvet couch, Poncho leaning against him, rolling Drum cigarettes in her lap.

  —Why would you? Me, I’m just a new fish. You, you got a rep.

  A rep I’ve got.

  —Say I wanted to know about you. What would be the story?

  Poncho places a cigarette between The Count’s lips, strikes a wooden kitchen match on one of the buttons of his fly and lights the smoke.

  He takes a drag, pecks her on the cheek, and exhales.

  —The story would be pretty boring, man.

  —I’m easily amused.

  He laughs.

  —OK. OK, man. Well. Until recently I was a student at Columbia. That was like a mom and dad thing, made them happy that I went Ivy League. But my life is down here. Got this place, got my bars, got my ladies, all of it down here. So by day, I’m Mr. Pre-Med to keep my moms and dads happy, keep the trust fund flowing and the lifestyle living and all. By night, I’m doing my thing. I mean, my thing before things changed.

  I pull out my Luckys and find the pack empty. The Count pokes Poncho.

  —Offer the man a smoke, babe.

  She licks the seal on another Drum, walks over to me and puts it in my mouth. I catch her wrist as she’s reaching toward my crotch and take the Ohio Blue Tip from her fingers.

  —Thanks, I can light it myself.

  She shrugs and settles back in next to The Count. I light up.

  —So when did things change?

  —A year ago, little less than that.

  —How’d it go down?

  He took off his coat earlier, but he’s still wearing the big Russian hat. He takes it off now, sets it on Poncho’s head and taps it. It falls down to her nose.

  —I’m not too clear on the details.

  —How’s that?

  He frees the grinning Poncho from the enormous hat.

  —Cuz I was mad drunk.

  —So tell me what parts you are clear on.

  He tosses the hat to the end of the couch.

  —Is this what you wanted to ask me about, man? My origin story?

  —I just like to know who I’m talking to.

  —Not like I know that much about you.

  —Said I have a rep.

  —A rep, sure.

  —What is it?

  —Depends who you talk to. Out on the street, in the bars, they say steer clear. But they also say if a person’s in real trouble, you’re someone who can take care of things. Course…

  He chuckles.

  —Course, that’s not what Tom Nolan says.

  I blow smoke.

  —What’s he got to do with it?

  —Tom? He’s my sponsor.

  Pigtails and PJs have been doing something in the kitchen. Now they come over with a tarnished silver tray loaded with a battered coffee service and several mismatched china cups and napkins. They set it on the floor and start filling cups.

  I take a last drag off my Drum and drop the butt in an empty wine bottle. It hisses in the lees at the bottom.

  —So you’re one of Tom’s?

  —You were asking origins, man. Well, Tom’s the one who sponsored me to the Society. He didn’t infect me, but he found me after I got sucked. I’d been at the Mercury Lounge. Got mad drunk on Hennessy and Cokes, went outside and stumbled around and got latched by a sucker. Tom found me. Took me to a safe house, got me nursed up, gave me the 411 on what was going down. Saved my life.

  —Hell of a guy.

  He stirs sugar into his coffee.

  —Well, let’s not exaggerate, man. I mean, he got me pledged and all, and I’m indebted, you know. But he’s, man, he’s…uptight.

  —He’s an asshole.

  He shakes his head.

  —Not for me to say. I haven’t been around long enough to be passing judgment on guys who’ve been doing all the heavy lifting for years.

  Pigtails walks over to me on her knees, carrying a cup and the coffeepot.

  —Coffee?

  —Sure.

  I take the cup and she pours.

  —Milk and sugar?

  —No thanks.

  She stays there in front of me, on her knees, holding the pot.

  —You really Joe Pitt?

  —Yeah.

  —Funny.

  —What’s that?

  —I thought you’d look younger.

  —Sorry about that.

  She blows at a strand of hair that’s come loose from one of her pigtails and settled on her forehead.

  —No, that’s OK. I still think you’re hot.

  I sip my coffee.

  Poncho leans forward and snags the back of Pigtails’ miniskirt with her index finger.

  —Settle down, girl. The man doesn’t want to play with you.

  Pigtails scoots backward on her knees, smiling at me.

  —But he can. He can play with me anytime he wants.

  She sets the coffeepot on the tray and starts whispering in PJs’ ear. The two of them burst out giggling, scramble into the bathroom and close the door.

  The Count waves his hand at the door.

  —Sorry about them.

  —No problem. So, Tom found you.

  —Found me, schooled me, sponsored me, pledged me to the Society.

  —But you’re not one of his boys?

  He finishes his coffee and takes another cigarette offered by Poncho.

  —Look, bro, what is it you want to know? Tom my buddy? I already told you not. You mean, am I one of his partisans? Also not. Exercising authority is not my thing. If there’s a referendum at-large in the Society, do I vote how Tom thinks I should? Yep. Guy brought me in, he’s entitled. He needs some cash, wants me to donate to the Clan coffers, do I go the extra mile? Sure. I can afford it. Do I have him up to my place, let him sit in my favorite chair, have my ladies make him some coffee, put those ladies at his disposal? No. Never done that. But here you are. So what’s that tell you?

  —Tells me you want something.

  He points his cigarette at me.

  —That, now that, bro, you ask what your rep is? That is your rep right there. Your rep is, don’t take nothing from nobody no how. Surprised you took the coffee and the smoke.

  —Didn’t want to be rude.

  He laughs, slaps his knee.

  —Yeah, that’s it, that’s the shit. That Slick Willie lone-wolf style. That’s the rep. See, see, me, me? I couldn’t do that. I’m not saying I’m a mama’s boy or anything, but I am, you know, used to having some comforts. In terms of l
ifestyle, I’d just as soon be like you, Roguing it. But the truth is, I’m not cut out for it.

  Poncho strokes his cheek.

  —Poor, soft baby.

  He nods.

  —Pretty much. As it is, I got my Society membership to keep me safe down here. And I got my trust fund to keep me comfortable. ’Course, don’t know how long I can make that last. Told my moms and dads I needed to take a year off. Hard to go pre-med when you can’t take classes during the day. Pretty soon they’re gonna want to know my plans. What am I gonna tell them? Uh, I don’t know, hang out, drink blood, party. So, no, bro, I don’t want anything from you. I just heard about you, thought maybe you were cool. Philip introduced you, I played it easy and all, but, hey, I was kinda starstruck. Truth. So, my crib, my smoke, my girls. Whatever. You don’t want to hang, just want to ask your questions and take off, that’s cool. It’s all good.

  I set my half full coffee cup on the floor at my feet.

  —What about drugs?

  —Love ’em. But they don’t really work anymore.

  —Uh-huh. What about this new thing?

  He fiddles with his cigarette, licking the tip of his finger and rubbing the saliva on the side of the smoke where the cherry has started to burn unevenly.

  —This new thing?

  —A new high. Something the new fish are into.

  The intercom buzzes. The bathroom door bangs open as Pigtails runs out and presses the button to buzz whoever it is into the building.

  The Count stands up.

  —You cool if I take a sec?

  —Sure. Visitor?

  He grins.

  —Delivery.

  Pigtails is jumping up and down again.

  —Delivery! Delivery! Delivery!

  The Count steps into the hall and closes the door behind him.

  I stand up, look at Poncho.

  —Can I get another of those?

  —Sure.

  She holds out the cigarette. I take it and she offers me a match. I shake my head and light it with my Zippo.

  —So what about you, how long you been on the scene?

  —Less than a year.

  I snap my Zippo open and closed against my thigh.

  —Society?

  —Oh yeah.

  She holds out her hands to the other girls and they run over and jump on the couch with her.

  —We’re all Society here. Not a Rogue in the house. ’Cept you.

  —Yeah. Except me. Who brought you in? You don’t mind me asking?

  —We don’t mind.

  —So who was it?

  She puts her arms around the girls’ shoulders.