Joe Pitt 2 - No Dominion (4 page)

But the man dreams on. And he keeps a tight watch on anything that surfaces down here,
anything that might upset his long-term plans. Plans that I sometimes think have nothing
at all to do with all that Society party-line BS.

--So everyone saw you ride off with the guy?

--Yeah.

--And the cops were on their way?

--Yeah, but it won't make a difference. The bartenders know they owe me one for getting The
Spaz out of there. Anyone else who maybe knows my name knows better than to mention it to
the cops.

--What about the citizens?

--What do they know? Big guy dealt with The Spaz. Took him away in a cab. What the cops
gonna do with that?

He stares into his cup, looking at the sludge that's settled at the bottom.

--Yeah, yeah, I can see that. Still, I wish you hadn't dealt with him so harshly.

--Harshly? Guy was a troublemaker. Figured you'd be happy to have him off your turf.

--In principle, yes. But he was a pledged Society member. That makes it, you know, just a
little more complicated. I mean, sure, we're completely opposed to any overt acts of
violence against the noninfected population. Any behavior that will increase anti-Vyral
bias when we go public is an issue. But he was pledged, and we have a protocol for dealing
with these things. Ideally, we would have, you know, liked to have seen him subdued and
brought to us. We could have maybe gotten him down, mellowed him out, found out what was
up. Then, you know, depending on the circumstances, there might have been a tribunal kind
of a thing, to determine if he had acted irresponsibly. After that, sure, there might have
been a punishment phase. But, you know, vigilantismÉthat's never been a tactic we've
endorsed.

--Funny, I seem to remember you endorsing plenty of my vigilantism when I worked for you.

He looks at me over the tops of his lenses.

--Be fair, Joe. Technically, that wasn't vigilantism. You were enforcing Society doctrine
back then. That's just worlds different from this case.

--I don't remember too many tribunals, Terry. I just remember you taking me aside and
whispering names in my ear.

--Well. Well, that's true.

He gets up, walks to the sink and dumps his dregs down the drain.

--But that was a different era. Due process wasn't a luxury we could really afford back
then. And we do things differently now.

--Uh-huh. Not whispering in Tom's ear, Terry? That what you telling me? Murder by decree
out of style?

He rinses his cup, puts it on the dish rack, leans his hip against the sink and looks at
me.

--Look, Joe, let's not dig into some irresolvable past issues. There's no benefit to anyone
in going that route. Did we have a different way of doing things back then? Sure we did.
But that has no bearing on things today. Living in the past. That's not healthy, that's
not how you get things done. And the Society is all about getting things done. Anyone can
talk, but it takes action to change the world.

I think about the building around us, the tenement that he has managed to legally purchase
through whatever series of blinds and cutouts. I think about the other properties the
Society has locked up down here. I think about the partisans he has bunked out in the
barracks upstairs, the soldiers he can mobilize. And I think about the way it used to be,
back in the seventies when I came on the scene, just ten years after the Society was born,
after Terry's little Downtown revolution had forced the Coalition to concede this
territory.

It
was
different back then: Coalition spooks everywhere; scrapping with the smaller Clans to
keep the turf intact; trying to build our own major Clan out of the fringe elements: the
socialists, the women's libbers, the anarchists, whoever else would listen. Terry had the
numbers when I got infected, but he had a hell of a time keeping them all pointed in the
same direction. I did more than my share in getting them all unified, had more than my
share of names whispered in my ear. I know what kind of action it takes to change the
world, all right.

--Sure thing, Terry. I got no interest in talking old times. So why don't you cut to the
chase? Tell me what you want.

He pushes away from the sink and comes back to the table.

--That's it, man, that's it, right on. Let's get grounded in the now.

He sits down.

--So here's the deal. Let's just say that no one really knows much about this particular
situation right now and we can kind of talk about it in pretty simple terms. OK? Talk
about it more as a social concern than as a Society security issue.

--Fine by me.

--Great, that's great. So that guy last night, and
spaz
isn't really the term I'd like to use, but, in any case, he was, you know, pretty much a
kid. In all senses, I mean. Young in years and also just very recently infected.

--So he was a new fish.

--That's right. And you know how they are, the new ones, they need lots of supervision. I
mean, sure, some people, you, for instance, some people take to it right away. Others,
they need some help adapting. This one, he was still in the adapting phase. Not even
supposed to be out on his own yet.

--OK.

--But he slipped out a couple days back.

--How many days?

--Three.

--He stayed low for three days?

--Yeah, yeah, I know. Doesn't seem like a new fish should be able to keep such a low
profile, does it?

--OK. So, what, you want me to find out where he went to ground? Make sure that crack is
sealed up? Doesn't sound like a gig that's gonna pay out the way I need.

--Well, thing is, yeah, I'd like to know where the fish was, but that's not really the gig.

--What is?

--That scene you described at Doc's? The way he spazzed out? He wasn't the first.

--Say what?

He runs a hand over the top of his head, smoothing loose strands of his long hair.

--We had another case just like it earlier this week. A new fish went kind of haywire. This
one had gone through his, you know, adjustment period, but he was only out in the
population about a month. Then he just wentÉwell, I guess spastic
is
the word.

--What'd you do with him?

--Hurley was there.

--Oh.

--So that was that.

--It'd have to be.

He pulls his hair free of the rubber band that holds it in a ponytail.

--Yeah. But that's not the whole deal.

He collects his hair, pulls it back.

--What I'm hearing, there's been others.

He redoes the rubber band and fiddles with the new ponytail until it sits the way he wants
it to.

--So when I say that I don't think we have to deal with this as a security problem, but as
a social issue? I mean social with a lowercase s. 'Cause I think what we may have here is,
I don't know for sure, but it looks like kind of a drug problem in the community.

Junkies. They get infected, they go one of two ways. First way, they couldn't be happier
to be off the junk. Second way, they can't believe how hard it is to get high.

Sure, the blood is a rush, it's a rush like no other. But it's not the kind of thing you
can do recreationally. There's too much demand and not nearly enough supply. With a few
thousand of us trying to make it on the island, and all of us needing at least a pint a
week to get by, there's just no way to get your hands on enough blood to keep a steady
natural high going. You might get your hands on enough to gorge for a week or two, but the
havoc you're going to wreak doing it is gonna beat a path to your door. And someone's
gonna follow that path. Could be the local Clan looking to get rid of a troublemaker,
could be a Rogue looking to get what you've stocked up, or it could be a Van Helsing. Any
way you slice it, that kind of deal won't last. So a junkie who wants to keep getting
high? It's gonna be a problem.

You pump enough junk, crack, crank, x, morphine, special K, LSD, or whatever else into
your veins and you'll get high. But soon the Vyrus is gonna clean it right out. Your
everyday junkie has enough trouble keeping himself in dime bags. Now what if that same
junkie needs a week's worth of skag just to put him on the nod for a half hour?

Bleach, Sterno, gasoline, formaldehyde, glue, cleaning products of all types; all those
standard alternative highs get a run for their money. I've seen a junkie with the Vyrus so
desperate for a good old-fashioned high, he shot Prestone into his eye. Didn't give him a
buzz, but it sure as shit distracted him for awhile. These types tend to weed themselves
out of the population.

But if it was out there, if there was a readily available substance out there that could
cut its way through the Vyrus and get you dependably high? Everybody would be trying it at
some point.

Lot of time on your hands in this life. Hard to punch in on a nine to five. Hard to make a
regular living that lets you go take in a movie or grab a bite out. Hard to fill the hours
when the sun is up. Something that could make the time pass a little more quickly, I'd
give it a shot. And Terry, he's no prude. Check out the aging hippie look he's sporting
and you got to figure he tried it all back in the day. But he has other concerns.

Terry's trying to change the world. That takes time. And it takes subtlety; so he says.
Not only is a bunch of guys spazzing out in public bad for the cause, it's also more than
a bit perplexing. These are new fish, for Christ sake. How the hell are they tapping into
this shit? There's some new way of banging DMT, or some new cocktail of industrial
solvents out there, word should have gotten to Terry before the fish stumbled across it.

--So you want to know what it is and who cooked it up.

--That's it. Just, you know, the skinny on where these kids are getting it.

--And that's it, just the info?

--Well, yeah, what else would there be?

I fiddle with my Zippo, snap it open and closed.

--I just don't want you thinking that I'm gonna be
dealing
with anyone who might be making this stuff.

He strokes his chin.

--I'm not sure I follow. What's your point?

--The point being, I don't kill for you anymore, Terry.

He scratches the back of his neck.

--Wow. That hadn't really occurred to me. Like I said, Joe, I see this as a social issue.
That's why I feel comfortable asking you, as an associate in the community, to look into
it. Because I know we share many of the same concerns.

He stops scratching.

--If it turns into a security issue, well, we'll deal with it in-house at that point.

--Fine by me.

I stand up.

--Guess I'll get to it.

He stands.

--All right. All right, Joe. That's good to hear. It'll be good having you doing some work
with us again.

--Yeah, sure.

He walks me to the door.

--And, you know, like I say: a
social
issue. Just between us for the moment. Till we know what we're dealing with.

--Any way you want it. You're paying.

--Great. Great.

He leads me down the hall to the tenement's entrance and opens the door.

--So, hear from you in a couple days?

--Sure.

--All right.

He slaps me on the shoulder.

--Good to see you, Joe.

--Yeah, you too, Terry.

I go down the steps and cross the street. On the opposite sidewalk I look back and Terry
is still standing there in the open doorway. He gives me a big smile and a wave.

--Keep the faith, Joe.

I lift my hand slightly and he pops back inside and closes the door.

At the end of the block I turn the corner and see Tom and Hurley coming in the opposite
direction. We walk toward each other, Tom pretending like he doesn't see me. Hurley takes
up three-quarters of the sidewalk, and I know Tom ain't gonna budge off the rest of it. I
step into the gutter to let them by.

A little smirk creases Tom's face.

--That's right, asshole, better make some room.

I let them go past.

--How's that perimeter, Tom?

They keep walking.

--Everything secure?

Walking.

--You pick up Terry's dry cleaning while you were out?

He keeps walking, but throws me the bird over his shoulder.

Tom's got it in for me about as bad as Predo does. Those guys ever came across me dying in
the streets, they'd kill each other fighting over who got to sit closer to watch me go.
Whatever, doesn't change the fact that he's a world class punk. And about as easy to get a
rise out of as a thirteen-year-old's prick. But I keep doing it anyway. Man's gotta have
hobbies.

Terry can social me this and security me that, but what it boils down to is he doesn't
want anyone to know I'm looking into this. Not even his own people. Especially not his own
people. Fair enough. Terry wants this done quiet, he knows what that costs. He knows me
digging around on Society turf without an explicit license from the council could get
hairy. And he'll pay for that. Slippery as he may be, Terry always comes across when the
bill is due.

So me, I'm feeling pretty good about things. A gig that should take care of my rent and
empty fridge at the same time? What's not to feel good about? I even got a couple leads. I
can go poke around Doc's, see if anyone noticed if The Spaz had company that night, do a
little sniffing around in that vicinity. Might turn something up. But I'll save that for
later. Right now I got another idea. Someone in this town's figured out a new way to get
high. And if getting high is involved, I know the man to talk to.

--Hey, Phil.

--Aw shit. Aw fuck.

He tries to duck off into the crowd. I hook the collar of his shirt and tug him back.

--I said,
hey Phil.

He turns around, adjusting his collar, flipping it back up James Dean style.

--Oh, hey, Joe. Didn't see ya there.

--Yeah, well, it's dark in here, so I see how that might happen.

--Yeah, dark in here. Couldn't see ya cuz of all the dark.

He smiles at me, lifts his drink to his mouth and tilts the glass just enough to wet his
lips. He'll drink like that all night. Has to, he'll only buy the one drink. When no one's
looking he'll snatch up any glasses left unattended and suck them dry before the owners
can turn from the jukebox. But that one drink he paid for, he'll nurse that all night.
It's like a badge of honor he can show a bartender or doorman if they question his right
to be here.
Hey, man, I paid for my drink and I got a right ta finish it.
Only way he'll toss that thing down is if someone offers to buy him another.

--Buy ya a drink, Phil.

He brings the glass up, vacuums the contents and nods.

--Yeah, that'd be great. I was about to offer, but sure, thanks.

A waitress bustles past and I lift my chin. She gives me a harried half smile, too busy
right now to work the charm for a tip.

--What? What?

--Double bourbon, rocks. AndÉ

I look at Phil. He glances at the bar, cataloging the bottles on the top shelf.

--Oban neat.

She starts to leave. Phil grabs her arm.

--And a water back.

She nods and starts to leave again, but he still has her arm.

--And no ice in the water.

--You don't let go my arm I'm gonna piss in the glass.

He lets go of her arm.

--Jeez, what a bitch. What crawled up her cooz?

--You, Phil.

He giggles.

--Yeah, yeah. Sure like to, Joe. She's a piece.

He brings up his glass again, tilts it, lowers it, and looks into it sadly, having
forgotten already that he emptied it. He reaches between a couple sitting at the table
next to us and sets the glass down. He looks at me.

--Sure could use a drink.

He's trying to sad-puppy-eye me. Problem is his eyes are betraying him. The pupils are
screwed up to the size of pinheads, the whites marbled red, his irises, usually muddy
green to start with, are a sickly diarrhea shade, and I'd swear there's sweat breaking out
across the damn things.

--Jesus, Phil, what the fuck you on?

He bounces up and down on his toes, his enormous blond pompadour swaying.

--A bender.

--Of what?

--Uh, the usual, man.

His eyes scan the ceiling, searching for the contents of his bloodstream.

--Bennies, couple bumps of crank, little freebase.

The cocktail waitress appears with our drinks. She hands me my whiskey.

--Double bourbon, rocks.

And offers Phil his.

--Oban neat, water back, no ice.

Phil looks at the glasses.

--I didn't order those, I ain't paying for those.

I hand the waitress some cash.

--I got it, Phil.

He smiles and takes the glasses.

--Thanks, Joe. I was about to offer, but thanks.

The waitress takes off. Phil guzzles the water.

--Jeez, needed that.

He squeezes between the couple again to set the empty on their table.

--Well, see ya 'round.

He turns to go and I snag him again.

--What's the hurry, I just got here?

--Sure, sure ya did, Joe, but I got a thing I got to get to.

--What's that?

--A, you know, a thing.

--No problem, Phil. We'll have a little talk, then you can go to your thing.

--Sure, sure. Um, hey, but I gotta hit the can first. Take a leak.

--Fine by me.

He just about sighs with relief. I put my hand on his shoulder.

--In fact, why don't I go with you? We can talk in private. Long time since we had a
private chat.

His free hand goes to his face, covering the crooked nose and the scarred cheek I gave him
last time we had a private chat in a bathroom.

--Hey, no, that's OK, I can hold it.

The couple at the table are collecting their coats.

--Here, we can sit here, let's talk here, Joe.

--Sure.

We sit at the little table. I stare at him and he stares down into his expensive Scotch,
turning the glass around and around with his fingertips.

--How many days you been on the bender?

He jumps.

--Uh, what? Oh, uhÉ

He starts counting on his fingers. Finds them inadequate to the task.

--Couple weeks maybe.

--Not too healthy.

He carefully weaves the fingers of his right hand into his pomp and scratches his scalp.

--Well, healthy, you know? I mean, healthy? Not really my MO.

I smile.

--Nah, guess not.

He draws his fingers clear of his hairdo and wipes greasy pomade on his tight black jeans.

--So?

--Yeah, Phil?

--So, ya got something to ask, Joe? Cuz if you're just looking to break my chops or bounce
me off the walls I, not that I'm looking forward to it or anything, but if that's the
plan, I kinda wish ya'd just get it over with cuz I really want ta get on with my evening
and see if I can't maybe score a little something to keep me going a little longer.

--Going for the record or something?

--No, no, just, you know me, just that I got my hands on this bag of bennies and I, you
know, don't have such great self-control so I kind of just did 'em 'til they were gone and
by then I'd been up however long and I thought I'd keep the party going, but, jeez, I been
up so long now, when I come down the crash is gonna be murder and I really don't want to
deal with it if I can, like, put it off.

--Sound reasoning.

--Yeah, that's what I thought.

--Speaking of drugs, Phil, you hear of anything new?

--Anything new?

--Like a new product going around?

His ears literally prick up.

--New? Something new going 'round? Ya on to something new? What's the deal? It like an up?
There a new up out there, Joe?

--Settle down. This'll be something for people like me only.

He screws up his eyes, trying to focus.

--People like you? Like what, like nonusers? Shit, man, I'm not into the light stuff. You
know me.

I lean across the table.

--Focus for a second here, Phil. I'm asking if you've heard about a new drug out there.

I point my finger at my own chest.

--Something for people like
me.

I point the finger at his chest.

--As opposed to people like
you.

He concentrates, looking from my finger to me to his own chest, then back at me.

--Oh! Oh, shit! Oh, yeah! Oh, I get it.

He points his finger at me.

--Some shit for people like
you.