Charlie Huston: Half the Blood of Brooklyn

– Jesus, that’s gonna be hell to clean up.

Hurley gives the axe a jerk and pulls it from the Docks Boss’ face.

– Ayuh.

Gooch points at the mess.

– I ain’t helpin’ ta clean this. That wasn’t part of the deal.

Hurley wipes the blade of the axe on the Boss’ shirtfront, sees the cigars and pulls one from the dead man’s pocket.

– No one said ya gotta clean nuttin’.

– Just so it’s clear.

Hurley finds a match, thumbs a flame from it and puts it to the cigar.

– It’s plenty clear, boyo.

Gooch points his baseball bat at the corpses.

– So you guys clean up your mess and I’ll round up the rest of the Docks and let them know we’re joinin’ with ya.

Hurley looks at the cigar, wrinkles his nose, and drops it to hiss in the Boss’ blood.

– Boyo, the way ya fellas sell one ’nother out, we would nae have ya ta clean our privies.

Gooch is about as quick as Boss was. He gets the bat up in a hurry to block Hurley’s axe. But the axe never leaves Hurley’s shoulder.

I tickle Gooch’s earlobe with the barrel of his dead boss’ revolver.

– Hey, Gooch.

He doesn’t move.

– Yeah?

– I like this freak show.

I put a bullet in his ear. And when he’s on the floor, I put a couple more in.

Hurley shakes his head.

– What’s da point a dat, Joe?

– No point. Just that he was an asshole.

Terry comes down the hall and looks at the mess.

He takes off his glasses and bows his head.

– What a waste.

I put a Lucky in my mouth.

– If you say so.

– Labor should be our natural ally. They could have been a big help.

– A big help fucking things up. If this is the best Brooklyn has to offer, we don’t have much to worry about.

Terry slips the glasses up his nose and gives me a look.

– The best isn’t the problem, Joe.

He heads back down the hall toward the kitchen.

– The worst is what we have to worry about. The worst is still over the bridge.

He turns in the doorway.

– But they’ll be coming.

I don’t got enough problems.

I don’t got enough problems dealing with the day-to-day shit that rains from the sky in Manhattan, now I got to start worrying about it being shipped in from Brooklyn. That’s what happens when you get a regular job, other people’s shit becomes your problem. ’Course, by the time you got that figured, it’s up around your ears and you’re just trying to keep your fucking mouth shut.

– Cat got your tongue?

I look up from the square of linoleum between my shoes and try a smile. It doesn’t work.

– No, babe, just tired.

– You didn’t have to come by.

– Sure I did. What else am I gonna do?

– You know how to flatter a girl, Joe.

– Not what I meant.

– I know. Just kidding.

Evie reaches out and takes my hand. The IV hose hooks around her pinkie and I pull it free so it won’t get tangled.

– The one on your cheek looks better.

She pokes the tip of her tongue into the pocket of her cheek, pushing out the spot where the first of her Kaposi lesions appeared.

– Yeah. Pretty cool. Now if I can just get rid of the other thirty-six I’ll be in business.

A nurse comes in, looks at the IV, checks the cunna in Evie’s arm, fakes something that might have looked like a smile when she started this job and walks back out.

Evie shows me her teeth.

– I love that one, she’s so sweet. Not a bitch like the others.

– A real Florence Nightingale.

– Yep, she’s the one told me how to use the diuretic suppositories, used visual aids and everything.

She makes a fist with one hand and forces the index finger of her other hand into its grip.

– Very helpful.

She runs a hand through what’s left of her red hair, dozens of strands coming loose, clinging to her fingers.

– Fuck. Fucking hell.

I look at the old lady on the other side of the tiny room, reading her Women’s Wear Daily, sucking down her own chemo, head rolled up in a turban, trying to ignore Evie’s curses, wondering how much longer she’s going to have to stay in this room before they find her another. Just like the two others before her.

– Fucking, fuck, fuck. Hair. My goddamn hair.

– Babe.

– My hair, Joe.

– I know.

– Do I got to lose my hair?-They said it’ll grow back.

She shakes her hand over the edge of the bed, the strands of bright red floating free.

– Fuck them. They said the vinblastine would help. They said the mouth ulcers would stop after the first couple treatments. They said fewer than one in ten had constipation. They said my white count was plenty high to start the chemo. They said not to worry about the anemia, we’d just do more transfusions. They said I was a healthy girl and properly treated HIV didn’t have to become AIDS at all. Fuck them and what they say. They know shit.

She waves at the old lady.

– Hey, I look like I got no AIDS to you, lady? What’d they tell you? What line of shit they feed you before they started in?

The old lady has the magazine out of her lap and in front of her face, blocking Evie out; blocking out the bright purple tumors, the patchy hair, the graying teeth.

– Babe.

– What? Am I making a scene? Am I embarrassing you, Joe? Don’t want to be seen with me? All you gotta do is go.

I stand, bend and put my mouth against hers.

She kisses back for a moment, then moves away.

– Don’t.

I lay a fingertip on one of the sores that rim her mouth.

– Hurts?

– No. It’s just. It’s so gross. I’m so gross. I’m a fucking monster.

– Baby, you’re not even close.

And I kiss her again.

She coughs and I taste the bile from her empty stomach and the blood from the ulcers inside her lungs.

She pulls back again.

– Bowl. Bowl.

I get the plastic bowl and hold it in front of her and she heaves a couple times and nothing comes out.

– Fuck. Goddamn fuck.

I put the bowl aside.

– It’s cool, baby.

She turns from me.

– Bullshit. It’s not. It’s not cool. I’m sick. I’m so sick of this.

– You can take it, baby.

– Are you? I can take it? You have no fucking.

She rolls on her back, talks to the ceiling.

– Go away, Joe.

I don’t go away.

She looks at me.

– Goddamn it, if you can’t do something to help me, go away! You think this helps? Standing there, looking at me like that? You think I feel better about what’s happening, having your sorry ass here moping over me? Do something! Fucking do something!

I reach out to touch her.

She slaps my hand.

– Don’t touch me. You said you wanted to take care of me. Then fucking take care of me. Fucker! Fucker! What use are you? I’m sick. I’m fucking dying and you’re standing there. You, you. Always doing things. Your fucking job. Your job, and you can’t help me. All you can do is put more blood in me for this fucking disease to live in. You don’t help. You.

She’s sitting up now, her pajama top slipping off her boney shoulder, showing the pale skin and freckles.

I stand there.

She yanks on the hose in her arm.

– Fuck this. This can’t make me better. Nothing can make me better. You can’t. You can’t.

She throws the dripping needle at me.

– Go do something! Save me, goddamn it! Fucking save me!

The nurse comes in, sees the mess, shakes her head, gets to work.

Evie flops back into the pillows.

– See, this bitch, at least she can do something. She cleans up after me. She brings me crap food I can’t eat. If I could take a shit, she’d wipe my ass for me.