—Tom.
—Uh-huh.
I point at Pigtails and PJs, who have put their heads together behind Poncho’s and are once again whispering.
—And them? Tom?
—Oh yeah. Tom. We’re all Tom’s in here. ’Cept you.
—Yeah. Except me. Guess I must just be the lucky one.
The door opens and The Count comes back in. Pigtails bounces off the couch and runs to him.
—Score! Score! Score!
Figure a score for me, too. Figure I get to see firsthand what the shit is and then I can go fill Terry in and that will make this about the easiest job I ever had.
The Count returns to the couch, Pigtails riding on his back. He shrugs her off and she plops onto the cushions. He’s carrying a large, padded manila envelope. He opens it with a little flourish and produces a pint IV bag of blood.
Shit. No score. Just a late snack.
He sits. Poncho takes an IV needle and hose from beneath one of the napkins on the coffee tray and hands them to him. He carefully inserts the needle into the valve. A drop wells up and leaks out at the opening. And I smell it. Even in this loft, stinking of the three of them, I smell it.
—Don’t drink that.
The Count looks up.
—What?
—Don’t drink it. It’ll kill you. It’s infected. Can’t you smell it?
He tilts his head to the side.
—Drink it? We’re not going to drink it.
Poncho pulls a napkin from the tray, revealing four paper-wrapped syringes beneath.
The Count picks one of them up.
—Don’t worry, there’s enough to go around. If you’re still curious about the new shit, I mean.
The Vyrus will kill you. It will eat you alive from the inside out. There is nothing you can do; sooner or later, it will get you. But no matter how desperate you may be, you will never latch onto another infected. I’ve had infected blood in my mouth; it was acid. And while the Vyrus can’t survive outside the human body, blood taken from a Vampyre will make you sick as hell, and then kill you. The Vyrus may be dead in there, but some remnant of it will remain, some husk that will twist your insides and make you wish you were dying.
But this is different, altogether something else.
—The Vyrus can’t survive outside a living body.
The Count stays focused on what he’s doing, inserting the needle of one of the sterile syringes into the IV valve on the hose.
—If you say so.
—The Vyrus dies outside a human host.
Poncho and Pigtails are sitting on either side of PJs, who is reclining on the remaining beanbag. She has her sleeve rolled up and Poncho is swabbing her arm as Pigtails holds a piece of rubber surgical tubing at the ready.
The Count draws the corrupted blood from the hose into the syringe.
—So?
—The Vyrus is alive in that.
He pulls the syringe free, holds it upright and gently taps an air bubble to the top.
—That’s kind of the point.
He presses slightly on the plunger and blood squirts out of the needle and dribbles down its length. He takes a cotton ball from the coffee tray and wipes the dribble away.
The dribble emits a thick stink of Vyrus. PJs moans in response, her eyes fixed on the needle as The Count kneels between her spread legs.
—OK, baby?
She nods, breath short.
He puts the tip of his index finger to the tip of her upturned nose.
—Here we go.
Pigtails ties off PJs’ arm with the tubing and slaps a vein to the surface. It’s a nice dark vein, thick and purple under her pale skin. He braces the vein with his thumb and slides the needle in.
A bead of PJs’ own blood rises to the surface of her skin. She squeals softly from the back of her throat. The Count presses the plunger, forcing the poison into her vein. Poncho holds PJs’ head between her hands. The syringe empty, the Count draws it free, places a cotton ball over the hole in PJs’ arm, and releases the tubing. Instantly, PJs jerks. Pigtails leans over her and grabs hold of both her arms. The Count places the used syringe back on the coffee tray and wraps his fingers around her legs just below the knees. PJs shivers, her mouth goes wide, the sound in her throat grows louder. She starts to tremor and the three of them hold her limbs and head firmly as she shakes. The sound rises in pitch, peaks, stops, her eyes roll back in her head and her muscles go limp. The Count and Pigtails release her and Poncho strokes her cheek and kisses her brow.
Pigtails claps.
—Now me!
—How does it work?
—Really, really well.
—Not what I meant.
—I know.
The girls have all had theirs, Pigtails shaking only the slightest bit and Poncho not at all. The three of them are sprawled on the thick, white synthetic fur rug next to the couch. An occasional moan comes from their lips, a muscle twitching here or there, as they stare blindly at the ceiling.
The Count goes from one to the other, checking their pulses. Satisfied, he looks at me.
—What do you know about blood?
—It tastes good.
He starts stripping the paper from the last syringe.
—What do you know about the Vyrus?
—It tastes bad.
He rolls up his sleeve.
—Yeah, that’s what I hear. OK, so I’m pre-med, yeah? But that doesn’t really mean shit. All it means is that pops is a doctor and he and moms want me to be a doctor and I scored well on my SATs and went to the right prep school and got into Columbia and declared myself a biology major and I’m taking the classes I’m supposed to. But that doesn’t mean I’m very good at it or anything.
—I’ll take your word for it.
—You should, bro, you should. So, I got what you said. I heard the same thing, the Vyrus can’t survive outside a body.
He picks up the IV bag, still more than half full.
—But here it is.
He holds the bag close to his nose, an expression on his face like a man smelling a piece of really stinky cheese.
—And it’s alive in there.
—How?
—Don’t know. But it doesn’t last.
He fits the needle to the valve.
—We get the stuff and we need to hit it right away. When the Vyrus in there dies, it’s over. So you do the math, process of elimination and all, and you know where the high lives. It lives in the Vyrus.
He draws the blood into the syringe.
—But you got to get it right. Too much, you will freak fucking out. Wait too long, ’til the Vyrus peters out: sick as shit or worse. Could be someone out there has developed a preservative, a medium that keeps the Vyrus together for a limited amount of time. How they got the idea to stick it in their arm is beyond me, but I’m sure glad they did.
—Where do you get it?
—A guy.
—What guy?
PJs is slowly coming out of it, stretching, rubbing her face, touching her skin. The Count goes to the kitchen and comes back with a bottle of water. He holds her head up as she takes a tiny sip. It’s been no more than a half hour since she went down.
—What guy?
He presses his fingers to PJs lips and she kisses them. He chucks her under the chin and goes back to the couch.
—Look, bro, we got a good thing going here. This.
He holds up the syringe.
—This is so good. You have no idea. And our hookup is solid. But he’s a hookup. That means all I have is a pager number. He either calls me back or he doesn’t. And when he does call me back, if he’s holding, he just sends a delivery guy. Some guy who doesn’t even know what he’s carrying. The delivery guy, he’s a civilian, not infected, not even a Renfield. He just thinks he’s carrying dope. Different guy every time.
—How did you get the hookup?
He swabs his arm with an alcohol-drenched cotton ball.
—All this ste
rilization, not really necessary. Not like we can get infected, right? Just makes it better, part of the ritual.
—The hookup.
He picks up the tubing.
—From another fish. Look, can we talk about this later?
—Who was the fish gave you the hookup?
He slaps a vein.
—I heard you were at Doc’s last night.
—So?
—I hear a kid freaked out. A fish.
—Yeah.
—You see that?
—Yeah.
—He probably hit too much. Or waited too long and the Vyrus was dead.
—What of it?
—Well, that was the kid who got me the hookup.
He holds the tip of the needle at the vein.
—I don’t want to be a bad host or anything, but I’m gonna hit this shit now. You don’t have to go. Stick around. The girls come out of it, they’ll set you up. You can see what it’s all about.
I look at my watch. If I stay any longer I’ll be here all day. He’s pressing the tip of the needle to his vein. I reach over and grab his wrist.
—Any idea where the hookup is? Where it comes from?
He looks at my hand on his wrist, up at my eyes.
—Hey, man. I been a good host, right? You mind moving that?
I take my hand away.
He nods, smiles again.
—Thanks. All I hear, the only rumor I ever hear, is that it comes from Uptown.
I’m standing up, slipping on my jacket. I freeze.
—Uptown. The Coalition?
He shakes his head.
—No, no. Up. Town. Above One-ten. All the way up. The Hood, bro. And that’s what I know. Now, you can stay, go, whatever, but I’m gonna zone out here.
He puts the needle in, pushes the plunger, and unties the tubing. Before he can pull the needle free, he’s out.
PJs squirms over to him and removes the syringe from his arm. She leans her head against his thigh, looks at me and holds up the syringe.
—Do me again.
I walk out the door.
How you die, one of the easiest ways, one of the very easiest ways, you go off your reservation. Go outside the territory you know and you may as well be cutting your way through the Amazon. Sun comes up, you got no safe house. Run into the local Clan, and you will, they’ll chop you down, a Rogue on their turf. Go to ground, find some hole to hide in, get caught without blood and try to poach something, you won’t just be chopped, you’ll be put out in the sun. Do not go off the reservation. You’re a Rogue lucky enough to have an arrangement with a Clan, do not leave that turf.
Above One-ten. That’s way off the reservation. That’s Hood turf. Haven’t been up there since I was a kid. Since I was a kid from the Bronx. Since I was something you might consider human.
—Hey, Lydia.
—Pitt?
—Yeah.
Silence on the other end. Then.
—Where’d you get this number?
—You gave it to me.
—That was awhile back.
—Guess I’m lucky it still works.
—Yeah, you are.
I sit at my desk, spinning my Zippo around and around on my heavily doodled blotter.
—You still there, Pitt?
—Yeah.
I spin some more.
—You called me, Pitt.
—Yeah, I did.
Spinning.
—Just wanted to say hi, or something on your mind?
I stop spinning.
—You still have people in the straight world?
She grunts.
—Straight’s not really my thing.
—Not like sex-straight. Uninfected. I hear you still have a public face.
—Yeah. Heard that, did you?
I tap a Lucky on my thumbnail.
—You used to do gay rights and stuff.
—I used to fight against ignorance. I still do.
—Sure, sure. I know you got that covered in the Society, but out there, in the world, you still do that?
—Yeah. I still got a face. Me, some of the other members of the Lesbian, Gay and Other Gendered Alliance still have faces. We still work out there.
—AIDS?
—What?
—You work with AIDS people?
—AIDS people?
—People who are sick. HIV positive.
—I do some needle exchange. Talk to sex workers sometimes.
I balance the Lucky on top of the Zippo.
—Got a destination with this, Pitt?
I pick up the cigarette and light it.
—Say I had a friend who was sick.
—You got a friend?
—Use your imagination.
—OK.
—This friend is HIV-positive, medication isn’t working, could be trouble with her insurance company, that kind of stuff.
—OK.
—There other options? This person needed to get meds and whatever, there other options?
—Well, there are exchanges, mostly run online. People with meds they don’t use anymore, or they have understanding doctors who write them scrips for whatever, they swap meds. Try things the HMOs would never allow. But it’s all pretty catch as catch can, you know.
A flake of tobacco gets stuck to my tongue; I spit it on the floor.
—So you want a number? Some web addresses for your friend?
—Sure.
I find a pen. She rattles off numbers and letters. I draw a series of boxes on the blotter, one inside another.
—Anything else my friend could try?
—Depends.
—On what?
—Your friend got money?
—Why?
—There’s a black market for meds. You have the money, you can get anything. Experimental stuff that’s not even approved yet. Anything.
—No, no money.
—Hunh. You know…
—Yeah?
—You could ask the girl. For money.
The girl.
—No.
—She’d give it to you. The girl would give you anything you needed. You know she would.
—Not the girl.
—Sela says she asks about you all the time.
I look at the butt end of my smoke, watch as the cherry consumes the little LUCKY printed on the paper.
—Sela talks to her?
—All the time, she’s like her personal trainer now. The girl got her to move up there, wanted her close.
—That’s Coalition turf.
—I know. Sela renounced the Society.
—She renounced?
—Had to. She would have Rogued-it up there, but you know the Coalition: No dogs allowed. Pledged the Coalition.
—Jesus.
—She loves the girl. Only way she could stay close to her. Figured better to join the Coalition so she could keep an eye on her.
—Terry must have shit.
She laughs.
—Not half as much as Tom.
—Fuck him.
—You fuck him, Pitt. He’s not my type. Fucking fascist.
—Still not getting along?
—It’s not just me anymore. I hear you were around to see Terry.
—Yeah.
—I hear you didn’t have an appointment.
—Yeah.
—Picture how that kind of stuff goes over with the members. Terry’s always been open-door. You need to talk to him, he’s there. Part of his appeal. Part of why so many of us trust him. Now Tom wants all contact to go through his security desk. Not popular at all.
—So how’s he keep the job?
—He’s got his supporters. Younger members mostly, guys mostly, machos that like the idea of a strong and independent Society.
—Younger members. I hear there’s been a lot of that going around lately.
I hang on the line while she doesn’t say anything. I hear a clicking sound, like maybe she’s flicking her thumbnail against her fron
t teeth. The sound stops.
—We got a little off the subject, Pitt.
—Just saying, seems there’s a lot of new fish in the pond.
—Hadn’t noticed. Anyway. You have a friend who’s sick and needs help, I’m happy to give you some advice; that’s something I do anyway. Society politics, that’s for members only.
—Just passing the time.
—I know what you’re doing. I may have helped you out once, done something that wasn’t strictly by the book, but don’t think I’m not a believer. I’m Society, Pitt, through and through. Got it?
—Sure.
—Good. So. You want me to talk to Sela, have her talk to the girl?
—No.
—It’s your business, but if you’ve got a friend who’s HIV-positive, money always helps. The girl would love to do something for you. This isn’t the time to get stuck on your pride, Joe.
—Thanks for the advice, Lydia.
—I’m just saying. If you want to help your friend, then help.
—Like I say, thanks, for the numbers and such. I owe you one.
—Right. Whatever you say, Pitt.
Lydia’s alright. She may have fallen for the Society line, she may be a pain in the ass PC crusader dyke, but she’s alright. She helped me with that Coalition mess last year. She helped me with the girl. The girl and her fucking sick-ass father and…
I need to stop thinking about this stuff. I think about this stuff, that means thinking about the thing that took out the girl’s father. The thing that shouldn’t exist. The thing that was in the same room with the girl, that got a look at her. Don’t think about it. The girl’s OK. She’s got Sela as her angel. Sela, the baddest pre-op Vampyre on the Island. Anyone tries to mess with the girl, Sela’s gonna improvise a sex change on their ass. The girl’s OK.
And I got other problems now.
I manage a couple hours’ sleep. I don’t dream about the girl, so that’s good. But I do dream about Evie. Normally dreaming about Evie is as good as it gets, but these aren’t those kind of dreams. These are the other kind. When I wake up I have hours to go to sundown. And still no idea how I’m gonna get my ass above One-ten.
Figure I call Terry, tell him the trail leads Uptown, he’ll have some way of getting me across Coalition territory. I go to the Hood with Terry’s blessing, things won’t be so bad. The Society and the Hood have a relationship. Both Clans were born out of the same revolution, both were snapped off from the Coalition. So yeah, figure that’s how to go about this. Except for the way Lydia got all touchy at the end there. She’s Society, sure. But she’s not rank and file. That queer alliance she put together within the Society has some pull, and she often pulls it her own direction, has her own ideas about how things should be done. She clammed up tight when I started talking new fish. Figure that means something’s up. As if I hadn’t already got that. But now I figure it’s something to do with Terry and Tom. Something to do with the way Tom is trying to put a wall around Terry. And this thing with the new high? Figure that’s Terry’s angle, figure it has something to do with his play, whatever it turns out to be. Fine. But if that’s the case, if this is an angle, if it’s Terry’s angle, it’s worth something. And not just whatever he’s planning to slip me. So figure I don’t want to go to Terry for help getting Uptown. I got time before I need to fill him in on my findings. Let him wait. I work this alone? I could end up with the angle, make it pay out, get me some serious money maybe. Money I can use not just for fucking rent, but for Evie.
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