Charlie Huston - Every Last Drop

— She's a ball breaker. -Not how I would put it myself.

He blows out his cheeks. -But I wouldn't argue too much over it.

I wave a hand.

— Yeah, Lydia, always a stickler for procedure and due course and all that crap. Woman like that, she just has a way of screwing up a good old-fashioned political assassination.

The tiredness leaves his face, replaced by something a bit sharper and less inclined to take my shit.

— True is true, Joe, and we've made a deal here and all that, but this is a bit of a sensitive subject. So you might want to put a sock in it. -Sure, man. Just sorry to hear the two of you aren't getting along.

He touches his thigh, where I drove the nail into his flesh. -I'm not a fool. You know that. And I know Lydia was involved. And it hurt, Joe. In more ways than one. -I know you re not a fool, Ter. And it wasn't supposed to tickle.

He taps the edge of the left lens of his glasses. -What happened to the eye?

I shake my head.

— Peeped one too many keyholes. -Well, bound to happen the way you get around. Speaking of which.

He goes to the door to let Hurley back in.

— While you re working on getting some money out of the girl, you might, I don't know, take a look around her operation. I hear they're having some tough times over there. Dealing with some crisis management issues.

— Where you hear that?

He shrugs.

— Just something I hear. But I'd be curious to know how she's going about things. How she's handling keeping things, I don't know, keeping things afloat. Idealistic causes always take a hit when there's not enough loaves and fishes to go around. After all, not like I'm against what she has to say. The idea of a Clan that supports all its members equally, that's not far from our charter, I'm just concerned about her larger goals. The whole idea of a cure is outstanding in theory, but it's a real disruption. That kind of thing has to be planned, coordinated, not just dropped like a bomb. What I'd really like.

He puts his hand on the knob.

— Is for her to know she has more of a friend down here than she maybe thinks she does. Certainly, you know, more of a friend here than she has in the Coalition. That kind of thing, Joe, she should hear that.

He looks at me over the tops of his glasses.

— She should hear it from someone she trusts. Someone not in any kind of official Clan hierarchy.

I take the penultimate smoke from my pack, regretting that Terry already cut Phil loose and that I can't send him out for more.

I light up, shake out my match, nod at Terry. -Sure, Terry, I follow. From someone she can trust.

He looks at the slash of light that's crept to the wall. -Guess there's nothing for it but to wait. -Guess so.

I flick the extinguished match into the piled mess on the floor.

Now all I got to do to survive the day is listen to a few more hours of Terry's bullshit. I touch my neck.

Maybe I should have let Hurley break it.

I get an escort.

— Ya ought ta do sumptin bout dat eye, Joe.

— What do you recommend, Hurley, a contact lens?

I point at the smoke shop on Second and St. Mark's. -Mind?

He looks at the scratched face of his ancient wristwatch. -Naw, don' mind. Just ya be quick bout it. Terry said nae fookin' bout.

He waits by the door, casting his eyes about for sudden moves on my part while I buy a couple packs of Luckys. Down here in civilization, they actually have the ones without filters.

The guy slides them to me and I knock the plastic case next to the register. -And I need a lighter.

He sticks his hand inside the case — Want one with the titties?

His hand hovers over a Zippo with a bare-chested pinup girl enameled on the side.

— No. And I don't want one with a Jack Daniels label either. Just give me the plain one.

He takes one of the plain ones out, sets it next to the smokes. -Anything else? — Flints and some fuel.

He takes a yellow plastic tab, laddered with tiny red flints, from a hanging rack of them behind the counter, reaches below the counter and sets a yellow and blue Ronsonol squirt bottle with the rest of the stuff.

I give him some cash and fill my pockets.

On the street Hurley steers us north. -Naw, ain't contact lenses I'm talkin1 'bout, Joe.

I look up from the delicate work I'm doing in my hands, unscrewing the little shaft in the bottom of the lighter to slip in a flint. -Huh?

He points at his own eye.

— Yer eye. It's a bit what dey call conspicuous. Doesn't do fer us, ta be standin' out ina crowd.

I drop the flint in the shaft and use my thumbnail to screw the cap back into place, reflecting on the idea of this semi-retarded Irish behemoth in the double-breasted overcoat and fedora lecturing me on the topic of standing out in a crowd.

I flip open the nozzle on the Ronsonol bottle and send a stream of fluid into the exposed wick folded into the body of the lighter.

— Well, I tell ya, Hurley, I had a pair of sunglasses that hid it pretty well, but they got crushed when you grabbed me and yanked me into Phils room. -Ach.

He shakes his head.

— I'm sorry bout dat, Joe, truly I am.

I close the bottle, drop it back in my coat pocket and slip the lighter into its brushed-chrome sleeve.

— Not a problem, Hurl, you've done worse by me and it's never interfered with our relationship.

He touches the brim of his hat. -Sure an dafs true. Dat's true.

I thumb the lighters wheel, a spark jumps and a large flame trails greasy black smoke from the new wick. I touch the flame to a cigarette and inhale the mixed flavors of smoke and burning cotton and lighter fuel. I snap the lighter shut, bounce it on my palm once, feeling the warmth of the just-extinguished flame, and drop it in my pocket to clink against my arsenal of brass and sharp steel.

He stops as we reach the south side of Fourteenth. -Well, dis is it fer me. On yer own from here.

I linger, looking south down Second. The marquee at Twelfth Street advertises a midnight double bill of The Killer Elite and Soylent Green.

Date night at the old Jewish vaudeville theater.

Hurley taps my shoulder.

— C'mon, Joe, no time ta reminisce, yu'v got miles ta go till ya sleep n all dat. -Yeah, miles to go.

I look at him. -By the way, Hurl, you're looking a lot better than the last time I saw you.

He rubs his stomach.

— Sure, an why wouldn't I be? Tell ya, only ting hurts worse den all dem bullets goin' in is pickin out da ones dint come out da udder side. -Yeah, well, sorry about that.

Jeo Pitt 4 — Every Last Drop

He waves a hand, shakes his head.

— Come now, wasn't yer doin'. Ya didn't pull da trigger. An like ya say, me an you, we always bin professional wit one nother. -Yeah. Sure.

I look north. -Know something? — What's dat?

I look over my shoulder at him.

— People down here who thought I was the badass, they must never have met you.

He smiles, showing me horse teeth. -Well an1 its nice o1 you ta say so. -Ta, Hurl. -Ta yerself, Joseph.

I start across the street. -An, Joe.

I look back.

Hurley covers his left eye. -Tink bout a patch. It'd suit ya, it would.

How you know if you've successfully ditched a tail by going where you were supposed to and then where you were not supposed to, is you show up someplace where you really don't fucking belong. If they're there, your ruse has failed. The best way to avoid having your ruse busted in this fashion is to never reappear where your tail can follow you.

Figure Hurley marching me right to the Coalition border at Fourteenth, and

standing there watching until I cross over, effectively blows that part of my plan.

I need a cab.

I need to get my distinctively one-eyed face into a fucking cab right away before the Coalition spotters that roost about Fourteenth make me. Naturally, my need being desperate, there's not a fucking cab in sight.