Charlie Huston: Every Last Drop

Not on her turf.

Our cigarettes go out and, in the interest of lighting new ones, we end our staring.

I inhale smoke, blow it out. -OK. III stay away from the kids.

She looks me over, nods. -That out of the way.

The tip of her finger touches the corner of her mouth. -You got plans the rest of the night?

I wave my cigarette. -Smoke this. Steal some money so I can get more cigarettes. Go hide from

everybody.

— Very nice.

— Yeah, and I got a good book and a lovely bottle of chardonnay to curl up

with later.

— Feel like company?

I look at her. I try to do it from the corner of my eye, but why bother? She knows I'm looking.

This one, pure hell on wheels, asking me if I want some company.

Do I.

I take a drag, chew on it, let it loose, and climb out of the car. -I want company, III find a dog.

She keys the ignition and the wagon grinds to life. -If that's what floats your boat, Joe, you have a good time.

She puts the car in gear, rolls to the drive, exhaust pouring from her tailpipe.

I stand there and watch till her lights are lost in traffic.

It ain't the first time she's asked. Not that I'm bragging. I'm just saying she's the kind of woman knows how to complicate a mans thinking.

A place like the South Bronx has a way of narrowing a persons focus. So you'd think my thinking would be pretty uncomplicated all the way around these days. That would be smart.

People having a conversation about me, that word, smart, it doesn't come up often. And I'm just smart enough to know there's a reason why.

But not smart enough to do anything about it.

What can I say? This old dog, he's still too busy chasing his own tail to bother learning any new tricks.

Across the river I had a life. Or a thing that I'd shaped into a semblance of a life. Had a face in the straight community. Folks downtown, citizens without know-how of this other life of ours, they knew me as a local fixer and rough hand. A guy could take some shifts when your bouncer got picked up by the cops for armed robbery and you needed a quick replacement. Guy you could come to when that deadbeat boyfriend still hadn't gotten out of your apartment four months after you dumped him. Guy you could slip a few bucks to escort said boyfriend to the curb. Trace a skip. Kick the vig loose from a welcher. No office, mind you, but a guy around that if you knew the right person I might get pointed out as the type could solve your problem.

Not what you d call steady work, but I made my own hours. Kind of a key

point, all things considered.

And some gigs for the Clans. Do some deeds in the cracks, unofficial and off the books. And toward the end, a real job with the Society. But that didn't go so well. Low job satisfaction. Engagement terminated by agreement between both parties. No references forthcoming from previous employer.

Guess it was that nail in the artery thing. That and maybe that I didn't give two weeks' notice. Not really sure which it was that queered the deal.

Any case, on the Island I was a face, and a face can make some money. Make moves. Get his hands on the necessities of life.

Food. Shelter. Clothing.

Blood. Bullets. Money.

Those kinds of things.

Blood is tricky. But blood is always tricky. Money can help you lay hands on blood but its always tricky. No doubt it's trickier up here, you expect that. No local organization means no hustlers, no infrastructure to support a dealer who might be able to buy pints off the local junkies or something, act as a clearinghouse. Means no friendly faces at Bronx-Lebanon or St. Barnabas who you might slip some cash to and come away with a bag.

No, it's all pretty much smash and grab up here.

An uncomplicated life in the Bronx. By which a man means a predators life. No job. No prospects. No permanent place of residence. No prospects. Prized possessions are best carried on ones person, as running may be required at any moment. And needs of the moment are the tasks of the moment.

So, after having Esperanza cloud my thinking, I work my way south. Toward a certain dead-end block of Carroll Place, just behind the Bronx Museum, where I recently clocked a rotating cast of young men receiving calls on their cells, soon after followed by slow-cruising cars that swept into the cul-de-sac, paused to pass handshakes out the window, and rolled back out the way they came in.

Blood. Money. Bullets.

I feel in my bones that the guy hanging on the stoop with his cell will have all three.

How fortunate, that vacant lot at Carroll and One Sixty-six. It invites privacy. Limits distractions. While I tend to business.

I should have broken into a couple cars on the way, scrounged a few bucks for a pack of smokes. That would have passed the time. Better, I should have done something to scratch Bullets off my to-do list before running this particular errand.

Who'd have thought the modern crack dealer went unarmed these days? Not that I expected his bullets to fit my gun. Id assumed he'd be carrying the standard 9mm that's been all the rage for decades now. My own sidearm is a fusty.38. But, not being too attached to these things, I'd have happily tossed mine in favor of his. Seeing as I used mine to commit a homicide earlier this evening, I'd planned on leaving it on this guy after I knocked him out, took his cash and tapped him for a couple pints. With a bit of luck he might have kept it, at least that mugger left me with a gun, and gotten busted while it was in his possession. A long-odds bet, but worth putting some chips on.

But no gun.

Pity.

A gun would come in very handy when the hornet buzz of furious engines bounces from the sides of the buildings lining Carroll and I find myself pinned in four crossing headlight beams.

The engines drop to idles. -What up with white guy? — Yo, what up, white guy? — He a funky-lookin' white guy. -Like that jacket.

— You like that jacket, niggah? — Like that jacket. -Gonna bite off white guys style? — Just I like that jacket.

I shake my head. -Kid, this jacket won't fit you.

The one who snagged the cop's cap outside the Stadium pulls the bill of that cap to the side. -White guy talks.

The one with eyes for my jacket runs a finger over the thin shadow of a moustache that rims his upper lip. -Don't worry, white guy, I grow into it.

The smallest one guns a bike forward into the light from the streetlamp, and I see she's a girl

She snaps her bubble gum. -Don't know why you want that funky-lookin jacket. Look stinky.

The last one, the one with the Dominican flag do-rag, drags on a Newport.

— Too hot for a jacket. He don't need no jacket.

Moustache holds out his hand. -Gimme the fuckin' jacket, white guy.

The unconscious drug dealer in the dirt at my feet groans. I was just getting ready to slip the business end of an I.V. needle in his arm when the kids rode by and one of them caught a whiff of me and they veered onto the sidewalk and into the shadows behind the abandoned shed at the back of the vacant lot. With just me to worry about, the dealer would have been in pretty good shape. I'd have taken his bankroll, sure, that and whatever rock he's carrying, to make it look like a straight robbery. Other than his arm being a little sore and his head being a bit woozy, he might never have known about the blood I would have siphoned off.

But now it looks like he's gonna have a few more mouths to feed.

I look down at him as his eyes flutter open. -Trust me, buddy, you don't want to see any of this.

I kick him in the head and he goes back to sleep. -Said, Gimme the fuckin'jacket, white guy. Didn't say kick niggah in the head.

I look at him.

— Told you it's too big for you.

He rolls his shoulders. -Told you I grow into it.