Charlie Huston - No Dominion

The partisans get to stay. Once they see the new wind that’s blown through the room, they opt for roles as official witnesses to a hastily called tribunal. Terry and Lydia sit. Under normal circumstances Tom would have sat next to them as head of security, loving a good tribunal as he does, but things being a bit out of joint, Hurley sits in for him.

It’s an intimate affair. The Count gives testimony. I give testimony. The partisans give testimony as to what they just heard in this room. Tom tries to give testimony, but the tape Hurley wrapped around his face keeps it to a minimum.

The verdict comes in fast.

Terry, Lydia and Hurley each write a word on a scrap of paper and show them to each other.

Terry does the honors.

– Tom Nolan, on charges of treason, espionage, distribution of poisons, murder, corruption of the principles of the Society, abuse of office, and any and all additional charges that might accrue to you posthumously, you are found guilty and will be executed.

He shuffles the scraps of paper.

– Further.

He takes off his glasses, blinks.

– Further, due to the nature and, well, the extent of your crimes. We’ve decided. Hell. You’re going out in the sun. You have to burn.

He puts his glasses back on.

– You sorry son of a bitch.

– There’s gonna be some fallout.

Terry comes back from the fridge and hands me a beer.

I take it, set it down.

– Figures.

He offers one to Lydia.

She shakes her head.

– Beer companies peddle male domination fantasies to twelve-year-old boys.

Terry sets the beer on the table.

– My bad.

He sits next to me.

– Some of Tom’s people won’t accept it. You know. So. We’re gonna have to work fast. Make sure things don’t get out of hand. Get our ducks in a row.

Lydia grabs the beer.

– Fuck it.

She opens the can and takes a long drink.

– We’re going to have to kill some people, Terry.

He shrugs.

– Yeah. Yeah. I guess, I guess that’s what I’m getting at. And we’re gonna have to kill them now. Today. Before, you know, before word gets out.

He looks at me.

– Before word gets out about what was said and, you know, by who.

I look at my own unopened beer.

It’s not like it’s a shock. Situation like this, guy like Tom with all those fanatics behind him? Execute a guy like that after a kangaroo court, some people will get up in arms.

Terry drinks.

– I’m not big on covert operations, but we gotta be quick, I think. And quiet. On this one? The less people know, the better. Not gonna increase anyone’s confidence in the Society knowing the head of security was a spy.

Lydia frowns at her own beer.

– I’m more worried if the other Clans find out. Some of the smaller Clans, some of those guys below Houston could take it as a sign, start picking at our turf. The Bulls and the Bears, those money grubbing pigs, they’d love to move their turf closer to the Coalition, get hooked back up. We need to keep it in-house. Make sure everybody knows we can clean our own mess. And we need to send a message Uptown. Let Predo and that Vandewater woman know they can’t get away with this shit.

Terry nods.

– Yeah. Yeah.

He looks at me.

– That’s why, what we’re doing with Tom, that’s why we felt we needed to do that. Make sure people know we’re serious.

I take out a smoke.

– I know you’re serious, Terry.

He takes a drink of his beer.

– Well, OK, if you say so.

I go to light my smoke.

Lydia puts a hand on my arm.

– No smoking in Society buildings, Joe.

I look at her, look at Terry, one on either side of me.

Figure it was gonna come to this. Figure I don’t like it. Figure it’s this or the other. Figure it’s take care of the list, or end up on it.

I move Lydia’s hand and light my smoke.

– Guys, stop fucking around and tell me who you want me to kill.

They start me with Tom.

– A case like dis? Da hardest part is just knowin’ da poor fooker. Ever seen it bifore, Joe?

– Nope.

– Ain’t fookin’ pretty. It’s not dat hard, mind. It’s easier if ya start at night. Stake ’em out an’ let da sun rise and take care of ’em. Dis way is harder. But it’s still not dat hard.

I drive Tom’s van while Hurley lectures me on the logistics of burning someone.

– What we’ll do, when we get ta da spot, we’ll unwrap him here in da van. In da back der. One ah us, you or me, don’t matter none to me, one of us will open dat back door, da udder’ll shove da fooker out. After dat it don’t take too fookin’ long. Once he’s done, I got a snow shovel.

Way at the end of 14th, past the power station there, away from the projects and the playing field of the park, we find a square of asphalt littered with broken bottles, tiny, empty glassine envelopes, and used condoms.

We climb into the windowless back of the Econoline. My hands have been getting too much sun, wrapped around the wheel, exposed to the rays. The blisters that had been soothed by the pint I drank are starting to bubble back up under my gloves. We take off our shades and look at the writhing log of black Hefty bags.

Hurley grunts.

– T’aint no use puttin’ it off. Got lots more ta do after dis.

He grabs the plastic and heaves, ripping it open, revealing Tom, bound and gagged in rolls of duct tape and spools of wire.

– Futchkthers!

Somehow he’s managed to bite through most of the tape over his mouth.

– Futchking futchkthers!

Hurley shakes his head.

– Jaysuz yer a sad fook, Tom. Look at ya. Ta tink I called ya a friend. Ya sad, sorry fook. Well, ya got no one ta blame but yerself. Fer da sake a our histry, I’d put ya out before tossin’ ya, but Terry said ya need ta be awake. An I got ta say, I’m not feelin’ dat charitable just now after da way ya called me a retard an’ all. Just cuz a fella’s not da brightest in da bunch, dat don’t mean ya gotta…Well, fook me anyway, ya don’t wanna hear dis shite.

He looks at me.

– Ya want da doors or da shove?

I look at Tom, he’s chewing at that gag, clearly hoping to get in a last word before it’s over. I think about all the grief he’s caused me. That time he had me in chains.

– I’ll do the shove if it’s all the same to you, Hurley.

– Taught ya might. Taught ya might.

He moves over by the doors.

We put our shades back on.

– Fuchkers!

He’s almost through the tape.

– Futchking! Pitt! Pitt!

Hurley puts his hand on the door.

– Ready, Joe?

– You’re an asshole, Pitt!

I take a seat on the floor, just above Tom’s head.

– Just a sec, Hurl.

– But you’re not a complete fucking idiot!

I plant my feet on his shoulders.

– Hurley’s an idiot! But not you.

I look at Hurley.

– Think about it! Fucking me a spy?

I nod.

– You’re a tool, Pitt!

He pushes the doors open.

– You’re being used!

Sunlight claws at us.

– He’s using you!

I shove, putting everything I have into it, my legs pistoning and sending him sliding across the floor of the van and out into the day.

– You’re Terry’s fucking tool!

Hurley grabs the lengths of rope he’s tied to the door handles and gives them a yank.

– You fucking asshole!

The door slams shut. The screams quickly cut off as tumors fill Tom’s throat.

There’s a hole drilled in the door, a circle of steel the size of a quarter hangs from a single rivet above it. Hurley swings it aside and looks out.

– Jaysus.

He lets the cover swing back into place and looks at me.

– Ya want ta see dis?