The doors slide open for a moment, but rather than stepping through them the homeless guy adjusts his grip on the bag and gets caught again as the doors slide shut.
—STOP BLOCKING THE DOORS BACK THERE!
They open again and a couple people on the platform take advantage of the opportunity to squeeze in around the homeless guy, who gets stuck again.
—GET OUT OF THE WAY OF THE DOORS BACK THERE! YOU’RE HOLDING EVERYBODY UP! THE TRAIN WILL NOT MOVE UNTIL YOU STOP BLOCKING THE DOORS!
A young guy gets off his seat and tries to help the homeless guy with his bags. The homeless guy jerks away from him, cursing, and the doors close on him again.
—STOP BLOCKING THE DOORS! STOP BLOCKING THE DOORS! STOP BLOCKING THE DOORS!
The kid throws up his hands and goes to sit back down, but someone has already grabbed his seat. The doors open and the homeless guy hefts his bags and lets a businessman on the train. Then he steps clear of the doors as they finally close all the way. Just before they close, just before they seal us in here nice and tight, I finally notice the fresh red stain on the side of one of his bags: the spot of blood from his pricked fingertip. And as the train begins to move, I smell something new in the car, something that smells like me, and I catch the eye of the businessman the homeless guy stepped so easily aside for at that last moment. He’s staring at me, not bothering to hide it. And why shouldn’t we stare at each other? We’re stuck together in here all the way up.
Fucking Coalition. Got a Renfield riding the line doing the homeless thing. I try to remember if he got on at 14th or if he was already on the train at 4th. That would be like the Coalition, to have the sap riding the whole line, dangling out there to get picked off. I wonder if he did the finger-prick trick because he spotted me. Does Predo have that big a hard-on for me? Does he have my photo circulating through his Renfields? Maybe not, maybe it’s just standard for them: Let a little blood before Columbus Circle and see if anyone bites. If they do, you block the door long enough for an enforcer patrolling the platform to get on the train. Well, whether he had me from the get-go or not, he must have picked me up when I started sniffing around. Good Renfield, that one. Ever see him again, I’ll find out what his blood tastes like. But this guy here giving me the eyeball? He’s another matter entirely.
Enforcer. Coalition Gestapo. He’ll be well fed. He’ll be armed. He’ll have some moves. He stands in the middle of the car, glancing at me every now and then to see that I don’t do anything rash. Don’t know what that would be. My back is resting against the rear of the train. I suppose I could smash the glass on the emergency exit and dive out of the speeding train onto the tracks and hope I don’t break my neck or tumble into the third rail. But I’ll save that as a final option.
The train is still full, the line dead ends at 207th. I can either get off in the middle of Hood turf with the enforcer on my ass, or ride the line all the way to the end and transfer to a downtown train. Of course, that will mean crossing back over Coalition turf. I don’t know if this guy’s got any backup on board, but if I’m still on this thing with him and we go back down to 59th, he’s bound to pick up some help. At some point before 14th, they’ll make a move to drag me off. That or see how far I want to ride. Into no-man’s? Lower Manhattan? I don’t even want to think about Lower Manhattan and all the tiny, crazy Clans down there. Across the river and into the bush? Who the fuck knows what goes on once you cross the water. Nice choices.
I give him a good once-over. Looks late twenties. Not that that means anything. Got on one of those nice suits Predo has them all wear. Hair slicked back. Not as big as me, but there’s a build under the suit.
The train’s been racing the line, cutting through the local stations and leaving them behind. The driver’s got the pedal down, making up for the time he lost when the Renfield blocked the doors. I see a sign for 110th flicker past. That’s it, we’re gone, above the line and in the Hood.
The enforcer is staring into my eyes now, trying to put the voodoo on me; give me the willies with his undead badassness. I give it back to him. Fat fucking enforcer. Overfed. Pampered. Coalition paying all his bills, doing all his hunting for him. Sitting tight until Dexter Predo says jump. How high, Mr. Predo, how high? I know this fucker. I know what he’s got. Fuck this guy. He wants to play eye–kung fu, wants to try and put the fear in me? We can play. We can play.
The train stops at 125th. He keeps his stare on, shooting me all his fantasies about how big the world of hurt’s gonna be when he lays his hands on me. I nod my head at him and walk off the train, into the station in the heart of the Hood. Right underneath the intersection of Martin Luther King and Frederick Douglass Boulevards. He hesitates, then jumps off between the doors before they can close. That’s right, motherfucker, made you blink.
—OK, guy.
I take the stairs up from the platform one at a time.
—All right, you showed your stones. Now let’s go back to the platform and wait for a downtown train.
I come to the top of the stairs and take a look around. They’re doing a ton of construction in the station and the whole Uptown half is sealed off behind sheets of plywood painted bright MTA blue. If I want to exit that way, I’ll have to go back to the platform and take the stairs at the far end.
—I’m not gonna fuck around with you here, guy. You come back down or I’ll haul you down.
The enforcer is still at my shoulder, still talking.
—No shit, guy, you don’t want to fuck with me. Just turn around and let’s get on a train.
Right next to the bank of MetroCard entrances, they got one of those old-fashioned turnstiles. One of the big steel exits that spin like threshers, the tines of the turnstile passing through the bars of the gate.
—Seriously, guy, you don’t want to leave this station. You got yourself in enough trouble crossing our turf.
Some kids are fucking around at the MetroCard entrance, a boy outside and his girl inside, making out until she hears her train and has to run to catch it. People bunch up at the other two entrances. I head for the old turnstile.
The enforcer keeps yapping.
—Down here they might not do anything. But you go up those stairs and it will be different. The niggers spot you up there and they will take you apart.
An old lady tries to spin through the turnstile and snags the handle of her shopping bag on one of the bars. I tug it free and she smiles at me. I smile back.
—I’m telling you now, fucker, do not leave this station. Do not leave this station or you will be in a world of shit.
I give him my smile.
—Who you trying to convince, me or you?
I step through the spinning bars. He stays inside.
—Guy, you are fucking up in a big way.
I stand with the gate between us.
—Just come on out and drag me back. Or is there a treaty or something? You step outside that gate, you gonna be abusing the peace between the Coalition and the Hood? That it?
—This is it, you walk over to that entrance and get your ass back in here and get on a fucking train with me now.
I shrug.
—No money left on my MetroCard. Sorry.
He starts to push through the turnstile.
—You stupid fuck.
As he comes through I put out my hand.
—Look, take it easy, man, no need for a scene. I’ll go quietly.
—Too late for that, you piece of shit Rogue.
He makes to slap my hand away. I grab his sleeve, yank him forward, grab the bars of the turnstile with my free hand, push him into the set-bars of the gate, and swing the turnstile around, smashing the square steel bars into his back. A few of his ribs make a nice cracking sound. I slam the turnstile against him two more times, trying to force his face through the gate bars. No dice. Then I run for the exit, out the tunnel, and up the stairs.
That was stupid. That was fucking stupid. Making war on a Coalition enforcer on Hood turf was fucking stupid
.
But fuck him.
He got what he asked for. Trying to mad-dog me. Trying to make me show yellow and climb back on that train. I look back at the station entrance to see if he’s bouncing up the stairs after me. Not yet. Must have given him a good shot to the head. But he’ll be up and running. Unless the stationmaster calls the cops from his booth. Could be with an MTA cop right now. That’d be sweet. Let him deal with cops and EMTs and shit. But figure it’s best not to count on it. Figure it’s best to move.
I’m walking fast. I look up at a street sign and see I’m pointed the wrong way, heading down. I need to turn around, get moving up toward 150th and this Percy guy. I turn the corner onto 123rd. I’ll circle the block before I head up so I don’t have to go back by that subway entrance.
I turn the corner and two guys wearing huge black parkas with Ecko rhinos embroidered on the breast grab me and shove me against a wall. A black Humvee bounces over the curb, stops next to us and the rear door flies open. The two guys throw me inside and someone shoves the soles of both his Timberlands into my neck, pats me down, pulls my .32 out of my pants and sticks the barrel in my eye.
—That was some stupid shit back there. Some seriously stupid shit.
—What Predo thinkin’? Muthafucka out his brain? Insane in the membrane?
—Who?
—Doan who me, muthafucka. Predo. Dexta mothafuckin’ Predo.
—Never heard of him.
—Never heard of him. That what he said, Never heard of him, that what muthafucka said?
The one armed barber nods.
—Sounded like it, Digga.
DJ Grave Digga nods and looks back in the mirror.
—Never heard of him. Mutha. Fucka.
He shifts his eyes and looks at my face reflected just behind his, pinned between the two Ecko rhinos.
—Beat on that muthafucka a little.
They beat on me a little and then they stand me back up.
—I ax you again, what Predo thinkin’ sendin’ you an’ one them fuckin’ enforcers up here?
I wipe the blood out of my eyes with the back of my hand.
—What was that name again?
—Shit. Sheeit.
He snaps his fingers and points at the chair next to his.
—Sit his ass down.
The rhinos pull me over and push me into the barber chair.
Digga looks at the barber.
—You done yet?
The barber taps Digga’s upper lip and Digga slides his tongue under it, pushing it out. The barber scratches his straight razor over the raised spot, sculpting the edge of Digga’s pencil moustache a little sharper. Then he sets the razor aside, squirts some oil from a dispenser into his palm and slaps it onto Digga’s face before he whips the smock off his chest, snapping it once to shake loose the hair clinging to its folds.
Digga gets out of the chair and leans close to the mirror, inspecting his face. The barber stands behind him with a hand mirror, angling it so Digga can see the back of his head.
—Nice.
He looks at my reflection again.
—You want a cut? Muthafucka knows his bizniz. Best damn barber in the Hood.
—No, thanks.
—No, you have a cut. Lookin’ a little bedraggled, a little raggedy.
He gestures to the barber.
—Clean the man up. Shave and a cut. On me.
The barber comes behind me, rolls down my collar, tucks a piece of tissue inside, snaps the smock and lays it over me.
—Hows you like it?
I run a hand through my hair.
—Just off the ears maybe. Natural in back.
He cuts the air once or twice with his scissors.
—White hair ain’t my thing.
I shrug.
—It grows back.
He starts clipping.
Digga leans his ass on the counter in front of me.
—It grows back. Hear that? Muthafucka says his hair grows back. Ain’t the only shit grown back, huh? Folks like you and us all in here.
He points around the barbershop, taking in the rhinos, the one-armed barber, and the guy in the Timberlands sitting in a chair by the door reading a copy of The Source. Timberlands there is wearing my hide, the nice black leather jacket that Evie gave me.
Digga takes them all in.
—We all grow shit back.
—If you say so.
He laughs.
—If I say so. Muthafucka. Give it to you, you cool. You busted out in the wrong place at the wrong time, you got yo ass dragged up in my shop, got us Hoodies all about yo ass, an you still cool. Give you that. Give you that.
—Thanks.
—Don’t be thankin’ me. Shit. Want to do somethin’ might help with this situation, you start tellin’me what the fuck Predo thinkin’. Start talking ’bout that ’fore you get somethin’ cut off don’t grow back.
—Sorry. I missed that name again. What was it?
He crosses his arms and drops his head.
—Mutha. Fucka.
He looks up.
—Cool-ass mutha. What yo name, cool-ass?
I look at the barber.
—Leave as much length as you can on top.
I look at Digga.
—Pitt.
—Oh! Snap!
He claps his hands.
—Pitt. Joe muthafuckin’ Pitt. You Terry Bird’s bitch. You his pet Rogue bitch, ain’t you? This shit gettin’ curiouser an’ curiouser. What Bird send you up here for? His hippie ass know better than to send no Rogue agent up here without no transit agreement.
—He didn’t send me.
—Uh-huh. You jus wand’rin’ up here all by yo lonesome. Sight-seein’ like.
—Heard the fried chicken and waffles can’t be beat.
The barber stops cutting.
Digga puckers his lips.
—What that you just say?
—Heard about the fried chicken and waffles.
—That’s thin ice, bitch. That fried chicken talk is some thin ass ice for a muthafucka to be treadin’ on.
—Sorry.
—That right you sorry.
—Not like I said I was here for the watermelon season.
His eyes open wide.
—Uh-uh. You did not. You did not.
He points at the barber.
—You done with that shit?
The barber looks at my head.
—Doan look no worse none than when I started.
Digga flaps his hand at him.
—Leave it, leave it. Lather muthafucka up and give him a scrape.
The barber sets his scissors aside, stirs a brush around in an old coffee cup and starts lathering my cheeks and neck.
Digga turns his back to me and faces the mirror again. He flicks his pinkie over the tips of his moustache.
—Watermelon season. That some classic shit. That some good, old-skool, stereotypin’, racist humor that is. You a racist, Pitt?
The barber puts his index finger on the point of my chin and tilts my head back.
—Not really. I just don’t like assholes.
—Muthafucka!
He grabs the razor from the barber, pushes him aside and tucks the blade up under my jaw.
—Asshole this, muthafucka. You tell me what you doin’ up here. Now, muthafucka. Want to know what you doin’ comin’ up here trailin’ a fuckin’ enforcer behind you. You on Predo’s tip or whorin’ for Bird, I doan care, you just talk, muthafucka, talk. And doan move yo mouth too much or you slit yo own damn throat ’fore I can.
—Not here for Predo.
—Oh, you know that name now, do ya?
—Not here for Bird.
—Who for?
—I’m here on my own, on my own business.
He adds an ounce of pressure to the blade and the skin splits and I feel the blood start to run.
—On your own bizniz. A Rogue out traipsin’ ’cross Coalition turf, takin’ a spin up ta the Hood on his own bizniz
. Bullshit.
—It’s my own thing.
—You got someone gonna vouch that shit? You got someone gonna throw down for you on that? You got a brotha gonna back you?
I don’t say anything. Got nothing to say.
—That your answer, son? Got no names for me?
The blade slices deeper, the edge raking the cartilage sheath around my esophagus.
I throw the only name I have.
—Chubby Freeze.
He eases slightly on the razor.
—Chubby Freeze. That downtown niggah. He vouch you?
—He might.
—Hunh.
He lets go of my head and snaps at Timberlands.
—Chubby Freeze. You got that niggah’s digits?
—Ya-huh.
—Blow ’im up. Get that niggah on the phone.
Digga turns to the mirror and adjusts his collar and tie.
—Lucky I di’nt get no blood on this tie.
Timberlands waves his arm.
—Got ’im.
—What he say?
The guy talks quietly into the phone, nods a couple times and then flips it closed.
Digga snaps his fingers.
—Well, niggah?
—Chubby say he cool.
—He vouch?
—Chubby Freeze say he vouch for the man. Say the man righteous to a fault. Say they do bizniz and it always come out right.
—Hunh. Well. Well, well.
He looks me over.
—A vouch from Chubby Freeze. Ah’ite, that somethin’. So, Mr. Pitt, what you doin’ up here all by yo’self? What’s this bizniz?
—No big deal.
—Uh-huh?
—Just looking for the son of a bitch who’s sending bags of Vyrus downtown for the new fish to shoot.
—Huh. No shit.
He holds out his hand and one of the rhinos passes him his Armani jacket. He pulls it on and does the buttons.
—Lookin’ for the son of a bitch.
He picks up the razor.
—That is some in-ter-es-tin’ shit.
He hands the razor to the barber.
—Finish the man up.
He starts for the door, talking to Timberlands as he goes.
—When he done with his shave, toss him in the Hummer and haul his ass up to the Jack. We gonna show muthafucka some shit.
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