My Dead Body

by Charlie Huston

  He makes fists again, but doesn’t use them.

  —Muthafucka always got to be pushin’ shit. Can’t let it alone. Try to tell a muthafucka a thing and he’s got to open his mouth and let out whatever stupid smart-ass shit in his head. Make a man want to pummel. Paste your ass right on the sidewalk. Smear you all over for the dogs to lick up. Damn!

  I nod again.

  —Yeah, sounds like me.

  He opens his fists.

  —Shit. Predo and the Coalition. Terry and Society. Every other muthafucka wants to get they hands on your ass. Fuck ‘em.

  He looks at me.

  —Did alright by me. Alright by the Hood. Last time you were up, did what you said you would. Played your part in complicated business. I don’t like you, that’s beside the point of this shit. You did alright by me. And I don’t pawn the asses of people do alright by me. Mamma didn’t raise me like that.

  He squints.

  —Just tell me what your ass is doing up here and get that shit over with.

  I adjust the strap of my eyepatch.

  —I’m looking for a girl.

  His eyebrows go up.

  —Shee-at. A girl. Joe fucking Pitt looking for a girl. What a girl got to have to get your ass interested?

  I hold a hand in front of my stomach.

  —This one has a baby.

  His lips go thin. He shakes his head.

  —Shit. That chick. Should have known.

  His head shake shifts to a nod.

  —Cuz don’t trouble just like to run around with trouble.

  —Could use you in this.

  —Negotiation isn’t my strength.

  —Like I want you openin’ your ass to talk. Could use you to fill in for muthafucka with his throat tore out.

  I turn my head to look at the small group of young men and women on the sidewalk. Pacing, bouncing on toes, chain-smoking Kools. Black Ecco down jackets. Timberland boots. Baggy jeans. Informal uniform of the Hood rhinos.

  I look back at Digga.

  —Seems like you have an escort already.

  He looks at his people.

  —Escort. Gonna be me escorting their asses is what it’s gonna be. Soldiers got to feed an I keep em fed. But not all what they need. An they all cherry anyway. Hardly a one done the deed. Frontline rhinos almost all takin’ dirt naps already. We staked our position, said straight up we were standing with the Society, and Coalition dropped hammers on us. Went all tense on the border down at Fourteen, but they didn’t cross the line, not in any fuckin’ force. But us? Like they was ready. Jumped One Ten and muthafuckas was all up in our shit before we turned around. Had our shit scouted deep. Safe houses. Doors busted in, enforcers came through. We were flat fuckin’ pants down for almost a week. The smoke cleared, all we had time for was to get the bodies in the river before they could start to stink. Keep from attracting too much attention. Some gun killin’ uptown, the law doesn’t pay too much mind. Lets that shit settle itself out. Think it’s all drugs anyhow. But some of the shit enforcers were layin’ down, that would have drawn some long looks those corpses had turned up. Had to go whole hog after that shit. They had addresses, we had some of our own. Sent some heavies down. See how they like gunplay on the Upper East. See how Predo bags that shit an keeps it out of the paper an off the police blotter. How long his payola keeps a lid when some muthafuckin’ co-op boards and neighborhood commissions start they bitchin’.

  I rub my bad knee.

  —How’d that go?

  He smiles.

  —Not too bad. Lost some boys I couldn’t spare, but sometimes you need to sacrifice a knight to knock off some pawns an shit. Get the other player’s attention. Let his ass know good an well you ain’t above doin’ some foolish shit if it means you can draw a little of his blood. Predo got busy hisself, dealing with some community relations, ditchin’ some stiffs. Eased off on those incursions. Mean, we still light the shit up, but ain’t no nightly event like it was for a while.

  The knee is stiffening up, too much time sitting.

  —And downtown?

  He doesn’t smile at that.

  —Downtown. Fuckin’ Terry Bird. Sends that Miles chick up here, gets me all riled an shit. Then what? Sits on his ass and says, Actions need to be coordinated and timed for maximum effect. Shit like that. We’re getting our asses starved, an he’s fuckin’ coordinatin’ an shit. Muthafucka. If I didn’t have issues with the man before this shit, I got them now.

  I flex the knee and it feels like gravel.

  —Lydia has a tendency to rile shit up more than Bird wants.

  He bats the air with the back of his hand.

  —Lydia muthafucka and her systemic misogynism of the African American male bullshit. Give me that, no judgments, but the fact of alternative lifestyle intolerance in your community is indisputable. Make a man want to shoot. An bullshit anyway. We got the gay up here, no doubt.

  The knee doesn’t feel any better. I need to walk it around.

  I put my hand on the door.

  —Not that I don’t enjoy catching up and all, but I was asking about the pregnant girl.

  He’s looking out at his people.

  —Yeah, yeah. Got your own griefs, huh? Pregnant girl. Pregnant with what is the issue. Shit we don’t know an don’t understand about ourselves, any wonder we’re still fightin’ each other? Vampyre on Vampyre violence, whatever the color, it just makes shit sense.

  He tugs at his lower lip.

  —Somethin’ like this comes out of the woodwork, bound to stir up feeling. Uninfected girl with an infected baby daddy. I’d already heard the nonsense being talked downtown about them. Nothing like a baby to make people see visions of the future. See salvation or new Armageddon. Me, I don’t read it that way. See just plain trouble. Horny kids got themselves a baby they didn’t plan on. Everyday trouble up here. Least the boy seem like he wants to stick it out. They always do till the first diaper. But those two, living in a fantasy land. Feedin’ the noise. Bird may think he can use ‘em as a symbol, but they got their own damn ideas. Come up here talkin ‘bout how that baby is a bridge to the future. Saw them, the look in their eyes, like they just got out of church, full of the Lord, said, Aw no, fuck this shit.

  He lifts his hand, drops it.

  —I told Percy to keep ‘em wrapped. Too hot to have that shit at my elbow. People all worked up about that shit. People lookin’ for signs and portents, all they need is to hear that girl talk about her baby being The Uniter. No chance. Told Percy they could stay, but keep ‘em down low.

  —Percy was with them?

  —That’s where they started. Found Percy, he brought them to me, I told him to keep ‘em quiet while more pressing issues get resolved. Percy the man to keep a lid on shit. Meditate on it and drop wisdom regarding the affair. Counselor to the king, that’s his deal.

  I open the door and step out.

  —Thanks.

  He’s still looking out the other side of the Caddy, studying his people.

  —Not sure where your ass thinks it’s going.

  He never shook me down. Didn’t bother looking for my weapons. Didn’t care what I was holding. He doesn’t have to. He’s a badass. But I’m out of the car now, space to work with. Never got that pistol where I wanted it, but I think I can whip it out before he digs his from the floor where he set it.

  I don’t touch the gun, not yet.

  —My ass is going to see Percy.

  He’s still looking out that other window.

  —Uh-huh. You know the way?

  —Been there before.

  —Mhmm. Assuming he ain’t moved.

  A fish, when the hook is set, does he feel it?

  I sure as hell do.

  I felt it when Chubby told me Evie wanted me to find his daughter. And I’m feeling it again right now. And I’m wondering how many more barbs are gonna fill my mouth and snag my gills before this deal is done.

  —If he’s moved, I guess I’ll have to depend on the kindne
ss of strangers to point the way.

  I watch the back of his head nod, see a flash of white teeth in the glass where his face is reflected, as he presses the tip of a finger to that glass, pointing up at the top of the park.

  —I ain’t no stranger to you, Joe, an it sure as shit ain’t no kindness, but his ass is right up there.

  The rhinos ride herd on the three people with black bags on their heads, while me and Digga bring up the rear.

  —Funny how shit works itself out.

  I’m not laughing.

  Digga observes this fact.

  —You not laughin’, Pitt.

  I pause in the midst of sucking the life out of another cigarette.

  —Just wondering.

  —Do tell.

  I toss the butt into some frost-dead weeds at the side of the path.

  —Just wondering how I come out from under my rock after a year, try to mind my own business, and still find myself doing exactly what someone else wants me to do. He shrugs under his topcoat.

  —Like I say, some shit just funny as a muthafucka.

  He flips up the collar of the coat.

  —Ain’t that big a big anyhow. We got what-who they want. They got what-who we want. It’s Friday fucking evening before prime-time TV. No one wants to cause a ruckus. Why we do it out here. Lessen the itch in a muthafucka’s trigger finger.

  I hook a thumb at the cars at the bottom of the park.

  —That why Jenks tried to drop me?

  —Our half of the park down there. Figure they ass come that far, they get what all they got comin’.

  My new smoke is ready, so I put it to work.

  —How’d they get Percy?

  He grunts from his chest.

  —By bein’ scumbags is how. Percy come up here under a truce flag. Negotiate some shit about how and when we can engage. Rule of law in war and shit like that. Shit right up Predo’s alley. War on the Q.T. But this muthafucka up here.

  He makes that same grunt, deeper.

  —This mutha is crazy. Rule of pay no mind to nuthin’.

  He casts his eyes my way.

  —Which is why, open-air meeting an all aside, I can use a cruel gunsel like yourself this fine evening. Cuz this is a muthafucka jumps eccentricwise.

  The cigarette is working.

  —Who they got up here now?

  —Old lady Vandewater went missing ‘bout a year back. Know anything on that?

  I know. I know the word missing is a good enough metaphor for beheaded, but I don’t feel like covering the details for the man, so I keep the cigarette busy.

  He doesn’t need a map.

  —Yeah, thought so. Thought that might have involved you.

  I don’t tell him it wasn’t me made her gone. Hate to ruin his good impression of me.

  He tilts his chin up the hill.

  —Since she got lost somewhere, Coalition decided to dig deep in the crazy hole. Came up with something must have been stuck at the bottom for a lot of years.

  I try to picture someone crazier than Vandewater.

  Digga points to where the path levels on a bend just ahead.

  —And here we go.

  I look up.

  Fate laughs at me again.

  Half a dozen enforcers. Large to extra large, the only sizes the Coalition goes for. Black suits that would get them past any wardrobe check in the city. Small flat black firearms of the type that like to empty themselves when the trigger is breathed on. I get that much of an impression of the overall scene before a voice drags my eyes to a slightly lower plane.

  The bottom of the crazy barrel. Or maybe the thing that lives in the mud under it.

  Looks like he’s wearing the same crusted bathrobe and pleated tux shirt as the last time I saw him. Bent nearly double in his rusting wheelchair, tufts of long greasy hair springing from his scabbed scalp.

  Spittle flies off his lips as he opens them.

  —You, I know you. Shiftless, yes. That’s your name.

  He spits a thick wad of yellow mucus at me.

  —Shiftless.

  He points at Digga.

  —It resonates so naturally with nigger.

  Digga takes it in stride.

  —Fuck you, Lament. Where the fuck’s Percy?

  Seeing Lament, lots of things start to itch. My missing eye. The stump of my toe. Places in my memory. But mostly my trigger finger.

  And it turns out I have the gun in the exact right place after all. I get it out and put it to use before anyone can stop me.

  Once the first three bullets are in Lament’s chest, Digga knows the score and doesn’t waste time scolding me. His hands come out of his pockets, each with their own ebony-handled revolver, and he starts plugging. The enforcers are the next to catch up, but we’re already dropping bodies. Digga and I are splitting wide of each other, laying down fire, running low on bullets. The enforcers fire at the middle of our group, cutting down two rhinos and two of the guys with bags on their heads. I’m dropping my gun now, closing on an enforcer with a shotgun, no time to go under my jacket for the blade, free hand comes out of my pocket with the cosh and I swing it uppercut and it splits as it hits his jaw, teeth spraying with sand. Digga’s got himself a new gun. The revolvers haven’t hit the ground before he’s scooped a machine pistol from the dead hands of a dropping enforcer. I go for the ground myself as bullets fill the air. Facedown, I miss the guy coming at my back, turn only when he grunts as Jenks drops from the tree, lands on the guy’s back and uses one of those short samurai swords to stab the guy in the mouth, down his throat. And then Digga’s cleaning up. Putting bullets in the heads of the ones that are just grievously wounded. Making sure they don’t get back up.

  I’m busy myself, putting my blade to work on Lament. I have his scalp halfway down his throat before Digga kicks me and points out the bastard is already dead. I keep at it anyway. It’s something I promised myself I’d do when I got the chance. And you don’t get second shots at these things.

  • • •

  Percy’s not dead, but he’s gonna be.

  —Fuck, Percy.

  —Where’s Lament?

  Digga looks at me.

  —Pitt went all Geronimo on his coif.

  —He dead then.

  Digga widens his eyes and nods.

  —Oh, muthafucka dead ah’ite.

  Percy tries to nod himself, but too much of the muscle on his neck has been flayed away with his skin.

  —Almost die a happy man, hearin’ that.

  He looks at me. He’s still got his arm, but only the ring finger hasn’t been mashed by pliers. He points it at me.

  —Pitt. ‘Member what I say when we last spent some time together, ‘bout cigarettes?

  I’m standing a ways away, outside the van we found him in at the top of the park. Black windowless van, we didn’t exactly need a treasure map. We haven’t moved him from the back. Digga started to rip off the razor wire that was wrapped around him, but Percy told him to stop. He’d healed a little, skin had grown back around the wire in a couple patches. And it wasn’t like it was going to change things. It hurt less to just be still, I guess.

  Now the younger man is huddled in the back of the van with his dying vizier.

  I step a little closer so I can hear him better.

  —Yeah, I remember.

  His lips part, broken teeth inside, broken smile.

  —Look at me.

  I’m looking.

  —Look at me, set up ta leave it all behind. An dyin’ just as much ta have a damn smoke.

  I start rolling one.

  His eyes close. Open. He looks at Digga.

  —Lament layin’ ta hang yo ass. Literal like. Sonofabitch had it in mind ta off yo rhinos, take you in charge. Lynch you. Highest tree. Top of the rock.

  Digga frowns.

  —Don’t care. Don’t matter.

  —Lissen yo ass.

  Digga listens.

  —I came up for to do some talkin’. Not like I stepped
outta line. He just made up his mind his own self. Take me down. Cuz what I figured.

  He looks at me.

  —You got that ratty ass thing spun yet?

  I lick it closed, lean in, put it between his lips and strike a match.

  He inhales.

  —Give half my immortal soul for a damn Pall Mall. He exhales.

  —But this’ll do. Take it from me so’s I can talk some.

  Digga takes the cigarette from his mouth.

  —What’d you figure, Perce?

  His chest starts working like a bellows. We can see the bones of his rib cage, gaps in the cartilage and muscle between them, expanding, contracting. Air whistles around his broken teeth.

  —Damn. Damn. Damn. Ah hell. What I figured. They done up here. I went in, he had his boys and girls runnin’ they’s asses in and out all about. Tryin’ to make it look like they’s in they’s dozens. But they not. Got one arm, not one eye.

  He looks at me.

  —Speakin’ on which, you seen better days, Pitt.

  I look him over.

  —Look who’s talking.

  We all have a little laugh. Percy’s laugh hurts. Hurts him to make it, hurts some to hear it. No use lying about it.

  He smokes a little more.

  —Saw the same faces runnin’ in an out. An Lament, he crazy, but not stupid. Not like that. Saw me size it up. Done deal after that. Can’t let me come back to you. Say, We got ‘em, Dig, let loose the hounds. ‘Stead, he had hisself a good old timey time. Chained me behind one of they’s cars, dragged me around circles in a parkin’ garage. An some other stuff. Oh, they brought back some memories they did.

  Smoke floats into his eyes, he squints through it at me.

  —Geronimo?

  I shrug.

  —I scalped him.

  —Particular reason?

  —You met the man, I need any other reason than he was breathing?

  —No. No you did not. Sure as hell, he had it comin’.

  Something cracks deep in him, he coughs, bile sprays from his mouth.

  —Ah damn.

  He curls the one good finger around Digga’s thumb.

  —He was gonna string you up. Take off the head of the Hood an see if the body would die. How ‘bout that. But over now. They got no one up here. Left me all alone in this van. Top of the rock, an no one home but us black folks. Got to read somethin’ in that, my liege.