Charlie Huston - Half the Blood of Brooklyn

I uncurl from the ball I’ve twisted into on the floor and my knee snaps loud twice and I wince and put my hands behind my head.

– Lydia. Do me a favor, go whine somewhere else.

She doesn’t go.

– I already saved your life once, Joe.

– Sure. Why else would I come back for you?

– Right. Was there ever any question. So, debt’s all paid up? All square up? The way you like it?

– Far as I’m concerned.

– Except maybe I owe you a bullet.

I shift, try to find a position where something on me doesn’t hurt.

– You’re gonna have to hurry if you want to get that in.

She stands over me.

– They would have used me. They would have raped me and made me have babies they could bleed.

– Yeah, so what?

– Never occurred to you?

– Just evening accounts.

– And now they’re even.

– Yeah. You’re doing nothing wrong. So stop wringing your hands and let me get some sleep.

I roll back onto my side.

She stands there for a minute, then I hear her walking to the door. Stopping. Turning back.

– I saved you once already. I don’t owe you anything.

I tug my shit-stained jacket closer.

– Lydia.

– Yeah?

– You’re an alright chick. Too bad about the whole dyke thing.

– Fuck off and die, Joe.

– Sure. In the morning, babe. In the morning.

When she’s gone I think about getting up and going to the window over the sink. The nails she pulled out when I was smoking are still on the sill. I think about pushing it open and rattling the security gate accordioned across it.

Then I try to get up. And I can’t. I try again. Terry did a new number on my knee when he threw me. And the ribs. And everything else.

I look at the door.

I drag myself over to it and try the knob. It’s unlocked. I ease it open.

Hurley is on a chair in the hall, reading the funny pages.

– Joe.

– Hurl.

– Ya wanta be gettin’ back in der?

– Not really.

He pulls a.45 from inside his jacket and points it at my hand.

– Bang.

I close the door a little.

– Got a smoke, Hurl?

– I said, Bang.

I close the door.

I look at the nails way up there on the sill. I get a grip on the counter and pull myself up and snatch the nails and fall back to the floor. I wrap my fingers around the nails. When they come for me I might get lucky. I might get to put someone’s eye out before Hurley shoots me in the legs and drags me in the sun.

I think about the usual.

I sit in the dark kitchen and think about killing things.

Evie.

Oh, baby. I’m sorry.

An hour later there’s gunfire and screaming in the hall and then silence and then Hurley backs through the door and drops his.45s on the floor and puts his hands in the air and looks over his shoulder at me.

– Someone ta see ya, I tink.

And Sela walks in with a machine gun.

I look at the machine gun.

– Jesus, where the hell did you get that?

– You coming?

I get to my feet. And I fall back down.

Sela waves the gun.

– I’m gonna pick him up, Hurley. Don’t move.

I point at him.

– Fuck, just shoot him.

She looks at me, and Hurley makes his move, and she jerks the trigger and rakes him with bullets and sidesteps and he hits the floor bleeding from a dozen holes.

– Fook, ah fook. Not again.

Sela grabs my hand and hauls me up and I wrap an arm around her and she gets me in a hip carry and we make for the door.

Hurley writhes.

– Gah, shite. Mither. Ah, mither, does it got ta hurt so?

I drag my feet.

– You should kill him.

Sela looks out the door into the hall, looks back at Hurley.

– He’ll die soon enough.

– No he won’t.

But we’re in the hall, passing the ripped-open bodies of three dead Society partisans, and Terry is stepping out of the room where we slaughtered the Docks Boss.

– Stop, Sela.

Sela doesn’t stop.

– Get out of the way, Terry.

I try to pull free of her.

– Shoot him.

He holds up one hand, the other is hidden by the edge of the doorway.

– Let’s just all, you know, cool it here before this goes too far.

Sela doesn’t stop.

– Back off.

I point.

– His hand, what’s he got in that hand? Shoot him!

He starts to bring the other hand out.

– It’s all cool.

Sela shakes her head.

– Don’t bring the hand out.

I wrap my fingers around her gun hand and squeeze and she mashes the trigger and bullets rip the hall to splinters as we fight over the gun and Terry dives back into the room and the door slams shut.

Sela pulls the gun away.

– Hell. Hell. Hell.

She drops me and ejects the empty clip and takes a full one from her pocket and snaps it home and opens up on the door and Terry comes through the wall next to the door in a cloud of plaster and lathe and Sela turns toward him, but it’s too late as he brings up the fire axe Hurley used on the Boss and I’m still on the floor so I shove one nail in his inner thigh and rip open the artery and I put the other one in his foot and the axe swings wide and hits the wall and Terry goes down with empty hands and Sela has me again and makes for the door as Terry pulls his foot free of the floor and tries to stop the jet of blood from his leg and she takes me out and down the steps and throws me in the waiting white-on-white ’78 Thunderbird, ignoring my screams.

– Killhimkillhimkillhimkillhim!

– Joseph, you look like you could use something to drink.

Amanda scoots across the huge rear bench seat.

– Of course, you also look like you could use a bath.

She opens the compartment built into the middle of the seat back and takes out a glass and pours bourbon into it from a full bottle of Wild Turkey and puts it into my hand and wraps my fingers around it.

I try to bring it to my lips and the glass slips from my fingers and spills over my lap.

Amanda picks it up.

– Light weight.

She refills the glass and holds it to my mouth and I drink and the alcohol burns the cuts in my lips and tastes good.

Sela opens the driver’s door and climbs back into the car.

– No one coming after us.

– Good job, baby.

Amanda takes the empty glass from my lips.

– More?

But she’s already put the glass aside.

– Not what you really need, is it?

She eases closer, her thigh against mine.

– No, not what you need at all.

She reaches a hand into the front seat and Sela places a butterfly knife in her palm.

I shove myself into the corner of the seat.

Amanda puts a hand on my wounded knee.

– No, it’s OK, Joe. It’s really OK.

She flips the knife and twirls it and the blade and the handles flutter and she snaps the handles tight under her fingers and shows me the blade.

– Sela taught me that. Cool, huh?

She looks at Sela.

– Is there time?

– There’s time.

Amanda lifts a black denim-wrapped leg and swings it over my lap and settles there.

– That OK? Hurt anywhere?

I pull my face back, away from her and her smell.

She twirls the knife and stabs it into the white leather upholstery I’ve already smeared filth over. She grabs the bottom of her sweater and pulls it off and tosses it aside and draws the knife free of the seat back.

She adjusts the strap of her black tank top and looks down at the knife.

– It’s not that weird, Joe. It isn’t. You did something for me once. I just want to do something for you. I just want. Well. Just let me do this for you. Please.

She puts the blade to the palm of her hand and slices across it and the blood comes and she puts it in front of my face.