Charlie Huston - Already Dead

Evie comes by. She sees the blood and I tell her it's not mine before she can freak out. She makes me take a shower. I want a bath, but hadn't realized just how much of Leprosy's blood I have on me. She takes my clothes and stuffs them in a plastic sack while I rinse off, then she runs the tub and we sit in it naked, facing one another. I tell her Lep is dead, that some guys that have a beef with me killed him. She doesn't ask questions, just rubs soap on a washcloth and scrubs my feet.

The Cole is just the same, same oak, same mural, same high-priced clientele, but this time there's someone new.

– What I'd like to make clear to you, the one most important piece of information that you should walk away from this conversation with, is that I'd like you never to be seen with my fucking wife ever again.

I nod. And Dale Edward Horde nods back.

He's older than his wife, early fifties, but just as groomed. I doubt that there are designer tags on any of his clothes, but discrete, hand-sewn labels from a bespoke shop on the Upper East Side. His haircut is flawless, a flop of graying black bangs sweeping across his forehead. He's fit and ready for the cover of Men's Health, but his eyes are subtly ringed and his lean muscularity speaks more of stress and intensity than of a gym.

He takes another sip of his Talisker, then leans back in his chair and taps his wedding ring against the rim of the glass.

– As public places go, this one is less public than most. It's the prices, the prices make it unlikely that you will find very many tourists popping in to gawp at the well-to-do. But they're \not really the problem, tourists. The problem is the people with money, people my wife and I associate with. The problem with those people is that so few of them work, they have too much time on their hands and they like to keep up on what one another are doing. Your coming in here with my wife raised more than a few eyebrows. Honestly, I don't particularly care if they think the two of you are intimate. You wouldn't be the first roughneck from downtown with whom she's taken up. But it is something for people to talk about, and so talk they will. That talk is what concerns me. Talk circulates and becomes gossip and rumor, and gossip and rumor have wings that carry them very far indeed. No, my concern is not that I should be known as a cuckold, but rather that word of your involvement with my wife might reach the wrong ears; ears, that is, which might know about who and what you are. Ears such as those would be greatly interested in knowing that my wife and I were having dealings with you and your… what is the word? Brethren?

I look at my lap some more.

– Not brethren. Let's just say you and your kind. I know it smacks of racism, but there it is.

He swallows the last of his Scotch and sets down the empty glass. A waiter sweeps it away.

– Suffice it to say that you are here now because I need the gossips to see us together, speaking amiably. It will muffle any talk of my wife having an affair with you, and the gossips will quickly find some other tidbit to dwell upon. And thus our association with you will fade from common discourse. You understand my concern, yes?

I nod.

– Good. Now that we have that out of the way, you can join me in a drink.

The waiter returns with a fresh Talisker for Horde and he orders the same for me.

– Is that alright?

I nod. The drink comes and I hold it. Horde points at the glass in my hand.

– Take a drink, it will help with the facade of our knowing one another.

I lift the glass to my lips and take a sip.

– Good, yes?

I nod.

– Then business. My daughter.

I take another drink, a big one this time. It's a heavy Scotch. Wood-smoke and peat fill my nostrils, and for a moment I can't smell the odor of Leprosy's blood that clings to my hair.

– What do you want to know?

– Have you found her?

– No.

He waits for more. I don't give it to him. He tires of waiting.

– A more detailed report perhaps?

– In detail.

I gulp the rest of the whiskey in my glass.

– It looks like your daughter may be in a world of shit. It looks like she's been hanging with her squatter pals in Alphabet City. It also looks like there's some sick shit going on down there that could be very dangerous to anyone living on the street.

He grimaces and nods his head.

– As I understand it, sick shit is what my daughter goes down there seeking. I think it may be safe to assume that if it is about she will find it.

– No, Mr. Horde, it'll find her.

He raises his eyebrows.

– Well, in that case, and seeing as your drink is empty, you'd best go find her.

He stands. I stand.

– My demeanor can be off-putting, Mr. Pitt. People consider me cold. You might perhaps interpret this as an indication that I am less than fond of my daughter. That would be a mistake. Be assured, I love my daughter and I want her back. Unharmed. Get her, and you will be suitably rewarded. Fail, and you will be sorted out accordingly. Which brings me to my final point. I want her delivered into my arms and my arms only. You are not to hand over Amanda to her mother.

- Any special reason?

The waiter comes over with a bill, offers it to Horde, and Horde flicks a pen across it without looking. The waiter walks away.

– Yes. For the reason that my wife is a philandering lush and is becoming a singularly unhealthy influence on her daughter. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to shake your hand. It will help to cement our deception for the audience.

I take his hand. It's just as soft as I expect it to be, but strong. He smiles broadly and claps me on the shoulder.

– Unharmed and to my arms. Understood?

He's still holding my hand, his other hand resting on my shoulder, everything about his body language and tone of voice telling the room that I am a trusted and valuable employee. I pull my hand free of his.

– Yeah, sure.

I walk out of the Cole and into the St. James lobby and don't see the stairs in front of me and trip down the first few and have to grab the banister to keep from falling. Sweat breaks out on my face. I feel drunk; very suddenly very drunk. I wipe my hand across the sweat on my face. I smell something, something on my hand, something I've smelled before.

I walk past the front entrance and only realize it when I find myself standing at the elevators. I go back to the entrance and have to watch the revolving door swirl past twice before I can step into it without being crushed.

One of the uniformed doormen helps me down the steps and asks me if I'd like a cab. I shake my head and his face blurs in front of me. I lurch down the sidewalk to the corner of Fifth and 55th and walk right into the moving traffic. Drivers blast their horns and curse at me as I weave my way across the street.

I lean against a pole at the bus stop and look around. The world is made of blurs. I should have let the doorman get me a cab, I'll never make it home like this. I don't even know where home is right now. I need to sit down. Across 55th, people are setting up tents and sleeping bags against the wall of a building. People start crossing the street and I stagger among them and don't stop until I am clutching the wall of the building on the other side. I find an empty patch of sidewalk between a beat-up dome tent and a large cardboard box covered in sheets of plastic. I slump down between them.

The world is riding a Tilt-A-Whirl. I fall onto my side and curl into a hall, my back pressed against the side of the building, against the bars covering a basement window. I ball myself tighter, my hands close to my face, and I smell something again. Something on my hands.

I know that smell.