Charlie Huston - No Dominion

I look at Shades. A muscle in his cheek twitches. If he’s dosed like the girls at The Count’s place, he should be rousing pretty soon. I give him another pat to make sure he’s not packing any other weapons. I give the interior of the car a once over. Just me, Shades, and the briefcase full of anathema.

I wonder what the expiration date is on that shit. If this stooge was taking a break to fix, it must be at least several hours. He probably wasn’t gonna be driving all over the Hood making drops in the sun. It might be as many as twelve hours. I take one of the bags and slip it inside my jacket.

Time to call Digga.

The anathema, that’s the evidence he wants. Shades alive and available for questioning, that’s a bonus. Play it cool, there should be something in it for me. Blood or money. Skin in the game.

I flip open Shades’ phone and make a call.

– Chubby.

– Grand to hear from you, Joe.

– Good to hear your voice, too, Chubs.

– Something I can do for you?

– Well, kind of embarrassing, seeing as you already did me a solid recently.

He grunts.

– Vouching for you, Joe? That’s wasn’t a solid, that was merely good business. Someone calls asking me for a reference, it’s only good business that I tell them the truth. That is all I did. Happy to do it. Happy to. But there’s something more?

– I need a number.

– Mmhmm?

– On account.

– Mnn.

– But I’ll cover it when I get back.

– Get back? Still in the northern latitudes, my friend?

– For the time being.

– Well then, if I can be of assistance in bringing you homeward, I must do so.

He gives me the number.

– Thanks, Chubs.

– A pleasure. As always.

– By the way.

– Yes?

– Never knew you were quite so connected.

– Caution, Joe, use it in liberal amounts.

He hangs up.

I dial.

– What up?

– The sun.

He’s thrown.

– Get it, Digga? What up? The sun.

He gets it.

I tell him where. I tell him to come alone. He’s says it’ll take him a couple hours. I tell him he has fifteen minutes before I risk the commute. And I hang up.

I set the phone on the dash just as Shades moans. I look at him. He brings a hand to his face and rubs it around. Moans again. Shit, that stuff must be good. He opens his eyes. Blinks. Sees me.

I wave.

– Peek-a-boo.

He makes a move for his piece. It’s not there. I show him the machine pistol in my hand.

– Best thing for both of us, you should maybe just fix again and take another nap.

Seeing how thoroughly fucked he is, he seems pretty happy to oblige.

– Muthafucka!

– It’s a bitch, ain’t it?

– Mutha!

– Got to hate finding a Judas in the house.

– Fucka!

– Makes you want to lash out at people who got nothing to do with the problem.

– Muthafuckingfucka!

– Otherwise I wouldn’t be pointing this thing at you.

– Shit.

He looks from Shades slouched in the passenger seat and across the Rover’s cab to me. He sees the gun in my hand. Shakes his head.

– Shit. Put that thing away. Like I give a fuck.

I keep it where it is.

– You cool?

He points at Shades.

– Cool? You think I’m cool with this shit? Muthafucka, nothin’ ever gonna be cool again. This some serious shit. I knew Papa was playin’ games. But this? This gonna have repercussions.

– Yep.

– Wave the fuckin’ gat ’round all you like. I got bigger fuckin’ problems.

I put the gun down.

He slams the passenger door. Opens the rear and climbs in.

He looks at the briefcase.

– This the shit?

– That’s it.

– Tell me.

So I tell him.

– That some crazy shit.

– Uh-huh.

– Old crazy lady on the hill goin’ off Predo’s talkin’ points. That is some crazy shit.

– Uh-huh.

– Uh-huh. Pitt, anyone ever tell you you got this gift for some fuckin’ understatement?

– Uh-huh.

– Sheeit.

We sit there. Digga still in the back, me in the front. He’s gone casual today: beige boots, baggie camos, silver Ecko parka. Once he pulls on his ski mask, gloves and sunglasses, he can go for a little walk.

He points at Shades.

– How long he gonna be on the nod?

– Don’t know for sure. Been down for about fifteen. Maybe fifteen more. Maybe less. What the lady says, the more you hit from one batch, the less you get from it.

He grunts.

– A’ight. You see my ride?

He points at a silver Lexus parked a few slots away.

– We gonna get this punk-ass mutha sequestered. Take him up to Percy’s shack and let the barber put the razor to him. Percy starts quizzin’ muthafucka’s ass, ain’t no stone gonna be unturned. Once we have all the details, we’ll go to work on Papa. Sort out his ass good.

He puts his hand on the door.

– Follow the Lex. Stay close. We gonna be at Percy’s lickity-split.

– Uh-uh.

– What?

– Uh-uh.

He leans forward.

– That don’t sound right. Before, you was all, uh-huh, like in the affirmative. That there, that sounded like, uh-uh, like in the negative. That what I heard?

– Uh-huh.

A sharp line draws itself between his eyebrows.

– You best start findin’ some extra fuckin’ syllables to ’splain yo-self, muthafucka.

– No.

He makes a move.

I bring up the machine pistol.

– Digga, we’re not in your barbershop. We’re not in The Jake. We’re not at Percy’s. You don’t have a gun in your hand. And I do. Sit back and relax.

He sits back, but he doesn’t relax.

– You wanted proof. You got it. In abundance. You want to take jerkoff here and cut him to ribbons, be my guest. You’re planning a big unveiling, gonna show up Papa Doc in public, put him in his place? My blessings. Me, I’m going home. All I need from you is you call off the dogs and get me my passage.

He looks out the window, shakes his head.

– Call off the dogs. Get me my passage. You take a look outside? You see the time of day? Call off the dogs? Muthafucka, they ain’t my dogs. Peeps out there spottin’ for you, sittin’ behind shaded glass with an eye on the street, they all Papa’s. A passage? Where to? Gonna go home now? Want me to arrange a passage for yo ass ’cross Coalition turf? That what you want? Shit. That takes time. ’Specially seein’ how Predo all on the warpath for yo ass. What you think been happenin’ all night an’ all that time you been up on that hill. Phone been ringin’ off the damn hook. Check this shit out.

He pulls out his phone, flips it open and scrolls to the incoming calls screen.

– Look at this shit.

I look.

PREDO

PREDO

PREDO

– The fat is in the fire. The man knows you crossed his yard. Says you went runnin’ through his flower bed, trampled some prize shit. Says one of his gardeners went MIA, last seen heading in this direction. Has an APB out. Here. There. Everywhere. An’ now you tell me you just laid a smackdown on that crazy witch up on the hill? You know who that grandma is? That is one of the truly last of the old-old skool. She an original piece of work. Word from the X, she the one used ta wipe Predo’s ass when he was little. Now, things X told me, things you just shared, sounds like they had something of a fallin’ out, but that doan mean he gonna be pleased ’bout you makin’ a mess up there. You want to go home? Muthafucka, there ain’t no home for you. Not now. Terry Bird gonna want nothin’ to do with yo ass down there. Not till this shit gets sorted fully out.