Charlie Huston - No Dominion

I nod.

She jumps down.

– Well, don’t stand around, come join the party.

She spins and skips back inside.

The Count goes to lead the way and his phone rings. He looks at the number.

– Got to take this. You go in.

He opens the phone and starts talking. I go in, the door shuts behind me.

The apartment is a loft. An assortment of partitions have been used to separate sleeping areas. One defined by two Chinese screens collaged with pictures clipped from fashion magazines, one by roll-down bamboo blinds, and the last by an assortment of cast-off doors clearly rescued from the street. The communal space is about one-third disaster-area kitchen and two-thirds disaster-area couches, beanbags, TV and stereo.

The girl with the pigtails drops into one of the beanbags and a handful of Styrofoam pellets squirts out of a splitting seam in its side.

– Careful!

Another girl, this one a brunette, in nothing but beige Ugg boots, panties and a scarlet poncho, comes out from behind the wall of doors.

– You’ll pop it.

Pigtails stretches her foot toward the TV and starts changing channels with her big toe.

– It’s already popped.

Poncho kneels next to the beanbag and presses on a piece of silver duct tape that’s peeled away from the seam.

– It’s not popped all the way. You keep bouncing on it and it’s gonna pop all the way.

– So what?

– So I’m not gonna clean up all the fucking foam BBs.

– So what?

– So they stick to everything and they’re a pain in the ass.

– So what?

– So stop jumping on it.

– OK. Where’s the remote?

Poncho stands.

– Don’t know.

She looks around for the remote and sees me.

– Hello.

I stand there.

– Hi.

She takes a long look.

– Do I know you?

– No.

– Uh-huh.

She nudges Pigtails with her foot.

– Darlin’, who’s he?

Pigtails glances at me, but keeps flipping channels with her toe.

– Don’t know.

– Uh-huh. And where’d he come from?

Pigtails finds something she likes and tries to adjust the volume with the heel of her foot.

– Came with The Count.

Poncho looks at her.

– The Count’s here?

– Yeah.

– Where?

– Here.

I point at the door.

– He’s in the hall. On the phone.

The door opens and he comes in. Poncho smiles at him. He smiles back. She walks slowly past me and plasters her body against his.

– You’re cold.

– It’s cold out.

– You got something for me?

He kisses her.

– Nice. You got something else?

He holds up the phone.

– Just got the call. It’s on its way.

She melts against him. Pigtails springs up and starts jumping on the beanbag and squealing.

– It’s on its way! It’s on its way!

A redhead in Sleeping Beauty PJs lifts the bottom of one of the bamboo blinds and ducks out.

– We scored?

Pigtails jumps higher.

– The Count is here and it’s on its way!

Poncho points at me.

– And who’s your friend?

The Count wraps an arm around her and leads her toward a couch.

– Baby, don’t you know? That’s Joe Pitt.

The beanbag explodes and a cloud of Styrofoam BBs covers the room. Pigtails falls on her ass.

I brush BBs from my shoulder and try to figure what the hell this is all about. These four living here. Under the same roof. It doesn’t make sense. Why? Because the whole place reeks from the Vyrus. They’ve all got it, every one of them. Four new fish under one roof.

– You know how it is. It’s a small world out there. You hear about people.

– How come I never heard about you?

The Count sits on a tired gold velvet couch, Poncho leaning against him, rolling Drum cigarettes in her lap.

– Why would you? Me, I’m just a new fish. You, you got a rep.

A rep I’ve got.

– Say I wanted to know about you. What would be the story?

Poncho places a cigarette between The Count’s lips, strikes a wooden kitchen match on one of the buttons of his fly and lights the smoke.

He takes a drag, pecks her on the cheek, and exhales.

– The story would be pretty boring, man.

– I’m easily amused.

He laughs.

– OK. OK, man. Well. Until recently I was a student at Columbia. That was like a mom and dad thing, made them happy that I went Ivy League. But my life is down here. Got this place, got my bars, got my ladies, all of it down here. So by day, I’m Mr. Pre-Med to keep my moms and dads happy, keep the trust fund flowing and the lifestyle living and all. By night, I’m doing my thing. I mean, my thing before things changed.

I pull out my Luckys and find the pack empty. The Count pokes Poncho.

– Offer the man a smoke, babe.

She licks the seal on another Drum, walks over to me and puts it in my mouth. I catch her wrist as she’s reaching toward my crotch and take the Ohio Blue Tip from her fingers.

– Thanks, I can light it myself.

She shrugs and settles back in next to The Count. I light up.

– So when did things change?

– A year ago, little less than that.

– How’d it go down?

He took off his coat earlier, but he’s still wearing the big Russian hat. He takes it off now, sets it on Poncho’s head and taps it. It falls down to her nose.

– I’m not too clear on the details.

– How’s that?

He frees the grinning Poncho from the enormous hat.

– Cuz I was mad drunk.

– So tell me what parts you are clear on.

He tosses the hat to the end of the couch.

– Is this what you wanted to ask me about, man? My origin story?

– I just like to know who I’m talking to.

– Not like I know that much about you.

– Said I have a rep.

– A rep, sure.

– What is it?

– Depends who you talk to. Out on the street, in the bars, they say steer clear. But they also say if a person’s in real trouble, you’re someone who can take care of things. Course…

He chuckles.

– Course, that’s not what Tom Nolan says.

I blow smoke.

– What’s he got to do with it?

– Tom? He’s my sponsor.

Pigtails and PJs have been doing something in the kitchen. Now they come over with a tarnished silver tray loaded with a battered coffee service and several mismatched china cups and napkins. They set it on the floor and start filling cups.

I take a last drag off my Drum and drop the butt in an empty wine bottle. It hisses in the lees at the bottom.

– So you’re one of Tom’s?

– You were asking origins, man. Well, Tom’s the one who sponsored me to the Society. He didn’t infect me, but he found me after I got sucked. I’d been at the Mercury Lounge. Got mad drunk on Hennessy and Cokes, went outside and stumbled around and got latched by a sucker. Tom found me. Took me to a safe house, got me nursed up, gave me the 411 on what was going down. Saved my life.

– Hell of a guy.

He stirs sugar into his coffee.

– Well, let’s not exaggerate, man. I mean, he got me pledged and all, and I’m indebted, you know. But he’s, man, he’s… uptight.

– He’s an asshole.

He shakes his head.

– Not for me to say. I haven’t been around long enough to be passing judgment on guys who’ve been doing all the heavy lifting for years.

Pigtails walks over to me on her knees, carrying a cup and the coffeepot.

– Coffee?

– Sure.

I take the cup and she pours.

– Milk and sugar?

– No thanks.

She stays there in front of me, on her knees, holding the pot.

– You really Joe Pitt?

– Yeah.

– Funny.

– What’s that?