Charlie Huston - Already Dead - A Novel

— Uh-huh. So how'd you get back down?

— I was able to make an arrangement. You can always make an arrangement if you're patient and flexible.

— That arrangement have anything to do with giving Predo passage down here so he could pop in on me?

Terry shrugs.

— Well, I did grant a transit. But I didn't ask questions about how they would use it.

— That was part of the arrangement?

— One must bend to avoid breaking, Joe.

— Thought you didn't look too concerned about Predo being at my place and all.

— That's not fair. I'm always concerned about you. You're a friend.

— Sure. That why I'm here? Friendship?

He leans forward in his chair.

— I'd like to think that all our arrangements are made on the basis of friendship. But Tom is right. There has been a great deal going on. And I am very interested in hearing your side of it.

— Fair enough.

I take a moment to get my story together.

— So it's like this, Terr, there was some trouble.

I stop. Terry nods encouragingly.

— And I took care of it.

Terry waits. And waits some more. And smiles.

— Is that really the way you want to handle this, Joe?

— Yeah, it really is.

— OK, OK, man. That's fair. But it raises other issues.

— Like?

— Well, you know how I feel about capitalism, no fan of the WTO am I. But there are advantages to doing things on a quid pro quo basis. Like a barter economy. So let's put this on a goods and services level.

— How so?

— Well, like the Dusters. That cost something, asking them to go uptown and pick you up. Not to mention that it aggravated an already sensitive relationship with the Coalition. So that's one, I don't know, call it one unit.

He holds up a finger.

— On a less tangible level, there's just the general bad vibes you've been stirring up around here that last couple days.

He holds up a second finger.

— You're also asking us to kind of, I don't know, take it on faith that whatever's been in the air is cool. That's trust, Joe. That's, and I hate to put it in these terms, but that's an expensive commodity. So that might need a little extra compensation.

Two more fingers.

— And then there's the cleanup I hear Tom did on that Leprosy kid and his dog. Now that's a big service, but I know you liked that kid and whatever went down must have been tough on you. So.

He sticks up his thumb, shows me his open hand.

— I'm not sure how to assign value to all of that. So maybe you have an idea of how to make us even on this deal. Because otherwise, I just don't see any way around it, we're going to have to insist on getting a little more information, a little more than just your say-so that things are gonna be cool. You get me?

— I get you. I come across with something worth something or you're gonna put me in a room with Tom and Hurley.

He puts his hand on the table.

— Don't be like that, Joe. The Society is a collective, man, I have to keep everybody happy. If it was up to me, I'd just take your word, shake hands and maybe ask you to buy me a beer. You know how I work.

— I know how you work, Terry.

He grins.

— Sure you do. So.

The grin goes away.

— What you got, Joe?

I pull the case out of my back pocket and set it on the table. The hinge creaks open. He looks at the teeth. Looks at me and

raises his eyebrows.

— It's a bomb, Terry. Set it off and all hell will break loose.

I don't tell him everything. But I tell him enough. And he likes it.

— What the fuck?

Tom is standing on the sidewalk with Hurley when Terry brings me out.

— Easy, Tom.

— Where the fuck does he think he's going?

— He's going his own way, Tom, just like all of us have to.

— Fuck his way! You can't just.

— Cool it, OK? You want to be security chief, you have to learn that it sometimes involves some subtlety, some grace.

— Fuck subtlety. You can't make a decision like this on your own.

There needs to be a hearing and a vote.

I get out a smoke.

— You know, Tom…

I light it.

— You are one lousy anarchist.

His hand goes in his pocket and comes out with the revolver he took off me. Before he can point it at me it's in Terry's hand and Tom is on the ground. Terry looks down at him.

— Joe is gonna take off, Tom. He's walking clean. That's the way it's gonna be and there's not going to be a vote. Hurley, take him back in.

Hurley helps Tom off the sidewalk and they head for the door.

Tom stares at the sidewalk the whole way, tears of rage boiling down his cheeks.

I watch till he's inside, then shoot a look at Terry.

— Still got the moves.

He tilts his head and shrugs.

— The tools of the oppressor have to be used sometimes.

— Sure.

I point at his hand.

— That's my gun.

Terry looks at the revolver, then holds it out to me.

— Be careful with it.

I take the gun and drop it in my pocket.

— Always am.

I start down the street, he calls after me.

— By the way, you ever find out who it was that was poking around? The no-scent thing?

— Gonna go look into that.

— Let me know.

I stop and turn around.

— I almost forgot, Predo was asking after you. Didn't know you

guys had a personal history.

Terry takes off his glasses and polishes them on his Grateful Dead T-shirt.

— Well, live long enough, and you get to know everyone.

— So I hear.

He puts his glasses back on, waves and goes inside.

Lydia stops me at the corner.

— She wants to see you. I rub my head.

— Later. I have to go somewhere.

— How much later?

— Not much.

She nods, gives me the address.

— She's a peach, you know.

— Whatever.

— Sure, whatever you say.

I head west toward A, where I know I can flag a cab.

— Joe.

I keep walking.

— Yeah?

— No lie, Joe, I don't like men much.

Still walking, letting her talk at my back as much as she wants to.

— And I like straight men even less.

Walking, thinking about what I have to do next.

— But you might be OK with me one of these days.

Calling back over my shoulder.

— Then I got something to look forward to.

She laughs.

— If you can keep alive that long, Joe.

— Come in, Simon.

I do. I sit on the floor of Daniel's cubicle and watch him eat. He sits cross-legged and holds a tiny bowl between his thumb and index finger. The bowl can't hold more than a generous tablespoon. As we speak he brings it to his lips, wetting them with drops of blood that he then licks away with the tip of a tongue as pale as his skin. He gestures to me with the bowl.

— Would you like some?

I look at the meager brass vessel in his hand.

— Why not, it's probably from my stash anyway.

He puts his nose close to the bowl and inhales.

— Yes, I think it is.

He offers the bowl to me.

— Please, finish it. I've had my fill.

I take the bare thimble of blood, then toss it down my throat. It's good.

— You gonna tell me why, Daniel?

He nods.

— But I would like to ask you a question first.

I run a finger through the gloss of blood left in the cup, lick it clean, and set the bowl on the floor between us.

— Shoot.

— How did it feel?

I watch the empty bowl.

— What?

— Please, Simon. Be coy with others, but not with me. That's not for us. How did it feel?

I think about starving. I think about the cramps and the burning that followed. I think about being helpless. And I think about the shimmering brightness of the world when I was at the naked edge of death.