Charlie Huston - My Dead Body

I’m draggin’ my bad leg along through the water. Now the cold’s in my stomach deep and it doesn’t feel better at all. Feels like ice water and acid in my bowels.

– You’re making it come alive for me, Hurl.

– Well, an it was a time. So an all. Montaigne. He ran one o dese gangs. Run ‘em inta a place, come in wit maybe just a little rabble rouse ta start it off. Just loud. Boisterous like. Ya know what da word means?

– Heard it before, yeah.

– Lovely word. Remember da nun who taught it to me. Cracked my knuckles a hundred times wit a ruler before I had it right. An I never did get it spelled proper.

He sighs.

– A true bitch of a woman she was. I killed her, I did. Fer her sins of cruelty on children.

He shoots an elbow at my ribs. Doesn’t break any new ones, but leaves me gasping.

– Yeah, an ain’t dat a laugh, Joe.

He laughs.

– Killed her fer her sins . Oh, if dere’s a god, he’s gonna be upset wit me over dat bit o humor.

His laugh winds down.

– So, boisterous and all, Montaigne and his fellas would come in, draw a little ire perhaps, an tings would get a little messy from dere. What stared as a tussle would soon become a brawl, and den a riot.

He shakes his head.

– An den a slaughter.

With the butt of the hammer he pushes up the brim of his fedora.

– Ah da yella press in dem days, dey went fer it so. Gangland Slayings in Den of Sin. Oh an dey loved it. Had dey just but known the headlines dey mighta had wit just a wee little diggin’. But no, dey were happy wit da obvious, da low-hangin’ fruit o dat vile profession. Montaigne had naught ta fear from dem or da police. Worse dey could come cross would be a couple o real gangsters in one o dem places. Couple fellas wit dere.45s in dere pants an maybe a violin case under da table. If ya follow me.

He holds the sledgehammer like a machine gun and waves it back and forth.

– Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat.

He rubs his stomach.

– Serious stuff, a belly full of lead. Such a ting had happened, would have saved Montaigne some weepin’.

He frowns.

– Instead of which it came down ta me an Terry lookin’ him up at a place he kept off Mott Street. Little lay-by he had wit a fluff I recall was named Eileen.

He winks.

– I always remember da purdy ones, Joe. No matter how far back.

He lifts his shoulders and drops them.

– Shame we had ta put her in da ground wit Montaigne an all. As part of makin’ it look right.

He drapes the hammer over his shoulder, trudging along with me.

– He’d just made one splash too many is what he’d done. Could have moderated himself a bit, he might still be about. Not likely, but possible. But even if no one sussed to what he an his fellas was really about, still they were makin’ far too much of a ruckus. Too many o dem yella press stories. Too many o dem gangland headlines. Coppers had to make a move sooner or later. Dey started pokin’ ‘bout, it wasn’t gonna do no good fer no one. Me an Terry, we had our own business concerns to worry on. Montaigne, he just served no purpose a’tall. Good ting ‘bout dem times, ya just put a few bullets in a fella, dropped him in a gutter. Yella press had dem another headline, an da story came to a close.

He kicks a few gallons of water out of his way.

– Now, Joe, da story ain’t never come to an end.

He points the hammer at me.

– Ya ask what I hear? Well I tell ya, I hear tell on da TV dat dere’s maybe a serial killer on da loose in Manhattan. Not no normal serial killer, but like a team o dem. A gang o serial killers. Dat’s what da story is dey like to tell. In da absence of any sense comin’ from the police on da matter. I won’t tell ya what da headlines in da Post look like.

He waves the hammer at the arched roof of the tunnel.

– All dis conflict and bad feelins, it’s makin’ fer more dan a man’s fair share o sloppiness in tings. Not all bodies get hid, not all witnesses get taken care of. Just makes fer a mess. An a story today, it never dies, not till dere’s a better one. An tell me, Joe.

He bumps my shoulder with the hammer.

– Where are dey gonna find a better story den Serial Killer Gangs? Unless it’s us, Joe, I don’t tink dat’s a story dat’s like to die soon. Not o natural causes anyhow.

He swats the air with his hand.

– An dat’s what I hear. Trouble an woe. Maybe, Joe.

He nods to himself.

– Maybe an so dere’s nothin’ better to do now but to make a big cannonball and go out wit a splash.

He wags a finger at me.

– Not dat I’m one fer despair, mind. Not, leastways, not while Terry is still about ta mind the store fer us all.

I grab a fistful of my stomach and squeeze, trying to distract myself with a different kind of pain.

– Yeah, Hurley, I hear you. Be a terrible thing to find out Terry wasn’t in there doing it like it should be done.

– Shake a man’s faith to lose Terry.

– Yeah.

I give another squeeze to my gut.

– What else you hear, Hurl?

– How so, Joe?

He chuckles at the rhyme.

I glance at the compass, still bearing north, still on the path.

– What’s the word on how it splits up? Coalition’s got the Bulls and the Bears, the Wall, the Family. Society and the Hood together. Any word on how the others jump?

– Others, Joe? An who would dose be? Dat rabble in Brooklyn, we don’t make truck wit dem no more.

I look into the dark water ahead.

– Any word on Enclave picking a side?

He holds up a second.

– Enclave, Joe.

He carries on with me.

– Dey don’t have no side but dere own mad selves.

– Sure, I know that, but what do you hear?

I sidle close, drop my voice.

– Come on, Hurl, you catch a little of everything. Must be rumors.

He looks both ways over his shoulders.

– Well, I don’t like to talk on what I’m no expert ‘bout, but a man hears a ting or two.

He drops his own voice.

– Generally, dough, tis a sore spot for Terry. What wit how you took da Count over dere, him an all his money an all. Dat was a dissatisfaction. A real blow. Terry now, he always had a patience wit da Enclave dat I could never muster myself. Dem religious types, remind me too much o da nuns. But Terry, he likes ta say dat what a man believes is his own damn business. An I can’t argue. Dough I find it hard to ignore dat dem Enclave believe dat anyone what ain’t wit dem is just due to be laid low when da time comes. Makes a man tink he’d be better off if dey was done wit.

– Ever fight one, Hurl?

He shakes his head.

– Much to my consternation, no. I hear dey are fierce in battle. An dat fires my imagination, it does. Course, I’ve fought some udders who was starvin’ like, in dat old Vyrus madness. I’d show you da scars, but dey healed.

He laughs again.

– Healed. Anyhow, I’ve tussled my fair bit wit da starved and savage, but I hear tis not da same wit Enclave. Hear dey can control it like. Not just berserk, but remember who dey is and what dey’s about.

He smacks the hammer into his palm.

– To a brawler like myself, Joe, dat sounds a challenge.

He shrugs.

– Someday perhaps.

He hooks a thumbs in his suspenders.

– But you were askin’ what I heard. An’ I’ll tell ya, I hear it’s no good over dere. Da rumor is, da rumor is dey got some kind of troubles o dere own. Sign o da times it is. Squabbles inside. Da Count, we knew he took da reigns over dere when Daniel croaked it, but we hear he got himself competition. What it is, I hear, is.

He looks back at some of the Bulls trailing us, leans closer, whispers in my ear.

– I hear tis a girl.