Charlie Huston - Already Dead - A Novel

— Nothing worth the price.

— Good un. Drink?

— Yeah.

He hits me with a double bourbon.

I take a drink.

— Philip?

He jerks a thumb at the back room.

— Saw 'im weasel in past me while I was weeded back here.

— He ever get ya with the rest of what he owes?

— Naw.

Someone down the bar hollers at Billy's back. He flips the bird over his shoulder.

— Fuck ya, ya fucker! Shut up or I'll pound yer fuckin' head.

The guy at the end of the bar shuts up. I toss down the rest of my drink and Billy fills it again and knocks on the bar. I lift the glass to him.

— Thanks. I'll go get the rest of your money.

— Sure, Joe, but you don' gotta.

— Be a pleasure.

I walk to the back room, telling myself I'm gonna do this cool. Keep it easy. This is Billy's shift and I don't need to cause a scene. Then I see him. He's chatting to a girl. She's staring at the wall, trying to ignore him.

I try to keep it cool, but I don't.

I walk up behind him and kick his chair out from under his ass. He goes to the floor. The girl gives a little yelp. I grab the back of Philip's collar and drag him to the bathroom. I kick the door closed behind us, lift the toilet seat and shove him down on the can. His skinny ass slips all the way down into the water and his legs fly up off the floor. He tries to struggle out and I shove him in deeper.

— Want to see if I can fit you down the pipe, Phil?

— No.

— Then stay the fuck put.

— Sure, Joe. Whatever you say, Joe.

— Shut it.

I pick up half a roll of toilet paper that's sitting on the sink.

— You say a fucking word, I will stuff this ass-wipe down your throat.

He nods.

I drop the toilet paper and punch him in the face and his nose breaks.

— I told you to get Billy his money.

I punch him in the face and his jaw cracks.

— Or I was gonna fuck you up.

I punch him in the face and his cheek splits open.

— And now you're fucked up.

I grab his hair and yank his dazed face up so he can see me.

— You do as I tell you from now on, Phil. You go against me again and I will feed you to a fucking shambler. No lie, Phil. I will stick you in a tiny box with a fucking shambler and eat popcorn and watch while it eats your fucking face. Got it?

He jerks his head up and down.

— Now give me your money.

He tries to get in his pockets, but he's too fucked up. I pull him out of the can and rip his pockets open and grab the wad of bills I find inside and shove him back into the pot.

— I'm the badass down here, Phil. I'm the big bad fucking wolf and Predo is all the way up on the Upper East Side. Remember that next time you think about doing a little spying for the Coalition. You be afraid of me from now on. I ever start thinking you're not afraid enough, I'll give you a reason to be.

I walk out and drop the cash on the bar. Billy picks it up,

— Joe, this is more than he owed.

I walk to the door, my heart still pounding.

— Keep it. And there's a clog in the toilet.

She sees me when I come in, but she ignores me. She sees me sit at the bar, but she keeps working the other side. I wait. She lets it go for about twenty minutes. Then someone right next to me orders a beer and she has to come around to this side. She gives the other guy his bottle, then looks at me.

— Yeah?

— Got a beer?

She pulls one out of the ice, pops the top and puts it in front of me. I take a drink.

— Thanks.

She nods.

— Four bucks.

I dig out a five and drop it on the bar. She takes it and goes to the register and brings back a buck and puts it in front of me. Then she stands there and stares at the Sunday night band and pretends that she's listening to the bluegrass.

— Baby.

She stares at the band.

— Baby.

She turns her face to me, keeping her arms folded over her chest.

— Yeah?

— You busy after work?

She looks down into the beer bin.

— Fucking-A, Joe.

— Baby, nothing happened.

Her head snaps back up.

— Did I ask? That's not my business. I told you, you want to fuck someone, fuck 'em. I shouldn't be surprised if you do.

— I didn't.

— I. Don't. Care.

I take a drink.

— Yeah. Right.

She puts her hands on the bar.

— Joe. I don't care.

She leans closer, not to be heard.

— I can't fuck you. I won't fuck you. So you want to fuck someone? I won't ask you not to. But.

She crosses her arms again and looks back at the band.

— But what, baby?

She doesn't look at me.

— But Tuesday night is date night and you told me you were fucking busy and you were just fucking another fucking girl, a girl with a fucking limo. Fucker!

She yanks her bar rag from her studded leather belt and throws it at me. I let it hit my face and drop to the bar, where it tents over my beer. Someone calls for some margaritas and she goes off to mix them. I pull the towel off my beer and light a smoke. She comes back a minute later and takes up her position staring at the band.

— That was work, baby. I know it sounds like crap, but that woman was the job.

She faces me again.

— And what's that, Joe? I don't even know what the job is. I don't know what keeps you out and why you get beat up and where you get money and why you have guns or what you keep locked in that little fridge. Is it drugs, Joe?

She leans in to whisper.

— Is it drugs? That's fine, you know I don't care. I just want to know. So what is it, what's the fucking job?

I twist the tip of my cigarette against the edge of the tray, lathing away the ash.

— It's hard, baby. The job is hard.

She turns back to the band.

— Great. Thanks. That's a big help.

I keep playing with my smoke.

— The job is hard. But you're harder, baby.

She keeps looking at the band.

— You're the real work.

Still looking at the band.

— And you're worth it.

She tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear.

— Give me that.

She plucks the cigarette from my hand, takes a drag.

— I changed my mind.

She holds the cigarette out to me and I take it.

— Yeah?

— Yeah. It's not OK for you to fuck other women. Or men. Or fucking anybody.

I look at the faint print of her lipstick on the smoke, and put my lips around it.

— No problem.

— And I want to go to dinner.

— No problem.

— Tonight, after work. I want a late dinner. And not diner food. I want to go to Blue Ribbon for oysters.

— No problem.

— And I want to sleep over.

— No problem.

She narrows her eyes.

— You sure you didn't fuck that bitch?

— Yeah.

— OK.

She grabs a beer from the ice and gives it to me.

— I've got to work.

— No problem.

She goes to work, taking care of all her regulars who have been patiently waiting while she fights with her boyfriend.

I drink beer and smoke and use the time until she gets off work. I use it keeping my promise to Daniel. Thinking about my life.

I think about it.

I think about what I do and how much longer I can keep it up. How much longer Predo is gonna let me hang around now that I've finally spat in his face. When Terry's gonna get tired of having me on his turf. How long it might be before Tom slips the leash and lays for me in an alley with a gang of his anarchists. I think about what Daniel said, about digging in.

I could go back to Terry, tell him I'll take my old job back. Tom would have to go. Terry'd make that happen. Kill two birds that way. But then I'd be back where I was twenty-odd years ago, the lash in my hands. And sooner or later Terry is going to get itchy about someone else knowing he has the teeth. No, I've been with the Society, and that hole's not for me.