Every Last Drop Page 8

  She heads for the cot.

  —No problems. Door is right there.

  —I need to go.

  She lies down.

  —Don’t tell me your plans, Pitt, just get going.

  I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees.

  —I need to go across the river.

  She looks at me.

  I look back.

  —And I need help.

  I rub my chin.

  —Tonight.

  She laughs.

  I nod.

  —Yeah, funny, right?

  She laughs some more, stops, looks at me.

  —No. Not funny. Just I get it now.

  She puts her hands behind her head.

  —Man I was freaking out on it.

  —What’s that?

  She laughs again.

  —Why you kept saying no. I mean, I’ve been turned down, shit happens to any girl. And I don’t usually offer twice. You, I’ve put it out there a bunch of times. I mean, a girl thinks, What’s wrong with me? I didn’t know if it was the whole jock thing, like you like your chicks more feminine, or maybe you don’t like Latinas. I could not figure that shit out. I mean, Pitt, there ain’t that much up here to choose from if we want to stay in our own kind. You don’t look so bad, you can talk when you get the urge, and you’re not some freak running ’round gnawing on anything with blood in it. And I know I got something that works. I could not figure this shit out. Why the fuck we never hooked up.

  She rolls on her side and points at me.

  —You got yourself a girl over there.

  She laughs.

  Women. You tell me they’re not all witches, and I’ll tell you you haven’t been paying attention.

  —It’s not that easy.

  —You do it all the time.

  She raises a finger and wags it at me.

  —OK, first, I do not do it all the time. I do it every chance I get, but that is far from all the time. Second, what I do on my own, and what you need, those are two very different things.

  I look at the clock.

  —It’s the same damn river, Esperanza.

  —It may be the same damn river, Pitt, but we are two very different people.

  —Which means?

  She points at her skin then points at mine.

  —That need to be spelled out any clearer?

  It doesn’t.

  —I still need to get over.

  She taps a bare toe on the shotgun lying next to her cot.

  —I hear that. But they don’t want you over there. I mean.

  She raises her hands over her head.

  —You came up here, you had to know that was like a one-way ticket.

  I walk to the bureau and look at the high school basketball trophies lined on the top.

  —I need to get over.

  She jabs a finger at me.

  —They. Don’t. Want. You. I cross over, it’s one thing. Mean, I been hitting Rucker since I was a kid. Before Lament ever got his hands on me, I was a face over the river. Once I got infected and then got clear of Lament, I started going back. Didn’t take long before one of Digga’s rhinos saw me play. He sniffed there was something extra in my game. But they’re cool with me. Digga called a sit-down, spelled out the rules: As long as I tithe over a percentage of what I take from the boys I school playing one-on-one at Rucker, I can come and go.

  She gets up and comes over and takes one of the trophies from my hands.

  —Don’t fuck with those.

  She puts it back in place.

  —You can’t just go back, man. That ain’t the way this works. You got sense, you know this. Shit, you’re from over there. You know damn well they don’t want any of us outer-borough trash coming over. I wanted to pledge Hood, Digga might have me, but that’s as much because I’m an earner as it is I’m brown. They don’t want no more mouths to feed over there.

  She rubs her thumbs on the chipped leg of a gilded ball player.

  —Why I stay here. We want anything, we got to make it better over here. Fuck their Island. Shit can’t be sustained. How you going to keep the population down? Think on that. It’s a goddamn virus, no way to keep it from spreading. Mean, I barely stayed in school enough to play ball, but even I can read enough to get that straight. Island can’t last. Future is over here. Where there’s room to spread.

  She lifts her chin.

  —Wait and see. Years go by, it’s gonna be the other way around. Gonna be their asses trying to cross over. Get to this side.

  I take one of my custom-cut smokes from the pack.

  —No argument. But it don’t change things.

  I light up.

  —I need to get over.

  She throws her hands up and walks away.

  —Like you’re not even listening.

  I study the scratches on the cement floor.

  —I’m listening. I’m just not hearing anything that helps me.

  She turns.

  —If that’s what you’re waiting for, you should get moving.

  I look up from the floor and study her young face.

  —I’m not asking you to hold my hand. I’m not asking you to carry me across. Way I figure, chances are no one will even see me. How many subway platforms can they cover? How many trains can they ride looking for refugees? Coalition can’t keep everybody from crossing their turf, someone always slips through the cracks. Coalition has cracks, the Hood has to have holes you can walk through. All I’m asking is, Where are the holes? I get snatched, I get taken to Digga, I got a history with the man. Maybe he cuts me loose. Doesn’t matter. Time is an issue. ’Sides, I don’t want anyone to know I’m over there. I don’t want anyone to know I’m back.

  She touches her earlobe.

  —What’s that about?

  I smile.

  —I’m hoping to surprise a couple people.

  I hold out my pack and she comes over and takes a smoke.

  She leans in to the lit match and looks at me.

  —That’s a nasty smile you got, Pitt.

  The smile stays where it is.

  She blows out the match.

  —I like it.

  She takes a deep drag and exhales.

  —That girl you got over there. Turns out she don’t know what she has in you, you bring that smile back over to this side of the river. We could get some things done here.

  I put the smile away.

  She lifts her shoulders.

  —And there it goes.

  She reaches past me and pulls open a drawer and takes out a pair of knee-length cutoff jeans.

  —They move around.

  She puts the smoke between her lips and pulls the cutoffs on.

  —Only got so many people to watch their border, so they move them around. Got apartments they move in and out of with views of the bridges. Shift others from station to station and line to line, sniffing for refugees. Buses and trains. Got some guys work the graveyard in the toll booths. How’s that for security? Others got MTA jobs, down in the tunnels. Conductors. Motormen. Maintenance. Only the Hood can do that. What’s the last time you saw someone white working the subways? First of never, that’s when. Coalition tried to put one of theirs in a job underground, everyone’d be like, What the fuck?

  She points at a Starks jersey on the back of the chair.

  —Toss me that.

  I toss it to her and she peels off her WNBA top.

  —Don’t be staring at my tits. You had your chance.

  I take a drag and look away as she pulls on the jersey.

  She’s right, I had my chance.

  And I passed on the best the Bronx has to offer.

  So.

  Back to the fire.

  I stand at the foot of the Macombs Dam Bridge, leaning against one of the Tudor abutments, smoking, looking down the length of the swing bridge at the Island, a little over two thousand feet away.

  Esperanza watches the approach.

  —Should be a gypsy around an
ytime.

  —They don’t like to stop for me.

  —Why not?

  —Why do you think? I’m white. They think I’m a transit cop or something. Looking to bust them for hacking without a medallion.

  —I can flag one for you.

  I flick my butt over the rail of the bridge. The wind off the Harlem grabs it and spins it away.

  —I’ll walk.

  I take the cash Predo gave me out of my pocket.

  —How much?

  She shrugs.

  —Guy I called, he’ll need a couple bills.

  I peel off two hundred.

  —And you?

  She points over the river at the FDR.

  —That stretch of road, just that couple blocks, know what it’s called?

  I look at it.

  —Nope.

  —Three Hundred Sixty-ninth Harlem Hellfighter’s Drive. Black regiment. First fought in World War I. Spent one hundred and ninety-one days under fire. Suffered over fifteen hundred casualties. Guy named Private Henry Lincoln Johnson, and his buddy Private Needham Roberts, they fought off twenty-four Germans. Just the two of them. When Roberts was shot, Johnson used his bolo knife and rifle butt to hold off the krauts.

  She turns, looks over the Bronx.

  —Johnson won the Croix de Guerre. First American ever.

  She looks at me.

  —Good to have someone to put your back against when the close work starts.

  She spits over the rail.

  —So how about you owe me on this one. Sometime I need someone to have my back, maybe I give you a call.

  I fold the bills over.

  —Can’t say it’s a safe bet I’ll be around long enough to pay off.

  —I’ll take that chance.

  I put the money in my pocket.

  —If that’s how you want it.

  —That’s how I want it.

  She starts to walk backward, away down the bridge approach.

  —Guy said the bridge was clear. No watchers. Grab yourself a ride on the other side. Said steer clear of Marcus Garvey Park. Said Malcom X is clear all the way to One Ten. Once you cross to Coalition turf, who knows what the hell you find. But in a car, I don’t know how they go about spotting you.

  I raise a hand.

  —Stay alive.

  She raises a hand.

  —That’s the plan.

  She turns away, takes a couple steps, turns back.

  —Joe.

  —Yeah.

  —Little advice.

  —What’s that?

  She points at my trousers.

  —Lose the khakis. They do nothing for you.

  She turns again and breaks into a trot, jogging smooth and easy till she boosts herself over the rail, dropping into Macombs Park, lost from view.

  I find a cigarette to put in my mouth and start over the bridge.

  Summer wind is blowing, taking the smoke downriver. A couple cars roll past, vibrating the bridge plates. I slap one of the beige-painted trusses and it tolls like a low bell. I cross the midpoint, feel my feet start to hurry, make them pace slow.

  Is my breath short?

  It is.

  Past the little stone hutch where the operator sits when the bridge swings open, I hit the western approach. Look down, see the river disappear behind me, land under the bridge.

  Crossing Hellfighter’s, coming onto the Island, fingering the straight blade in my pocket.

  At Adam Clayton Powell Junior and One Fifty-three I raise my hand in the air then step in front of the gypsy that tries to drive past me. The driver looks at the color of my skin and his door locks snap down. I show him the color of my money and the locks pop up.

  He watches me in the rearview as I slide into the back.

  I point.

  —South.

  He starts rolling.

  —How far?

  I lean into the leather, light a smoke.

  —Not too far. But take Malcolm, will you.

  He takes the left onto One Forty-five.

  —Right. The scenic route.

  I roll the window down and smell the summer stink of Manhattan.

  —Sure. The scenic route. Why not.

  How you know you’re being watched is, you have clandestine arrangements with someone you don’t trust under any circumstances that don’t involve that individual being tied up and held at gunpoint. It also helps if the individual involved shares a similar attitude toward you.

  The rest is easy.

  See, once you’ve established a level of trust like that, the only question you have to ask yourself is, Assuming I don’t want to be followed, where do I go?

  The obvious answer being, I go where they expect me to go.

  And then I go somewhere else.

  The gypsy drops me at the corner of Second Avenue and Seventy-third. For a moment I sit there with one foot out on the sidewalk, thinking about pulling my leg back in, closing the door and telling him to roll farther south.

  It passes, and I get out and close the door and he drives off.

  No. That’s a lie.

  I get out and he drives away, alright, but it doesn’t pass. The gravity pulling from below Fourteenth doesn’t go away. Back on the Island, it just pulls harder than ever.

  How you ignore a thing like that is, you move. Create momentum. Build velocity to carry your mass outside the influence of the body pulling at yours.

  I walk east on Seventy-third, aligning myself with a new trajectory, knowing that what happens beyond the event horizon cannot be described until you are caught in its tide.

  The building is mid-block between First and Second, only four stories, but stretching the width of three tenements. Big ground-floor windows covered in sheets of dark paper in a manner to suggest some kind of renovation within. A half-full construction Dumpster at the curb. Upper-story windows heavily draped.

  A double stoop leads up to a portico entrance.

  The sky’s holding the day back yet.

  Time enough to make a courtesy call and be on my way.

  I go up the steps and push the buzzer.

  It’s a mess.

  Like there was ever any doubt, right?

  Something like this, the only way you think it’s going to be anything but a mess is if you’re one of those people they call an idealist. Those people, I generally prefer the word asshole when I describe them. Not that I fault a person for doing their own thing, but assholes of the idealist strain have a habit of fucking things up for everyone else.

  Nothing like a person with a dream and a vision for getting a load of people all fucked up.

  But Jesus it’s a mess.

  It reeks. Rank with overcrowding.

  Fear. Desperation. Misery.

  All these most pleasant human emotions have a smell. None of them enjoyable. The air in here is heavy with all of them. A man could gag.

  —Um, mind your step there. Just. Yes. Just kind of, um, step over them and. Obviously these are less than ideal conditions. You’re certainly not seeing us at our best. But I, um, assure you that this state is only temporary. Once the renovation is complete we’ll have these people housed, um, properly.

  I follow his advice and just kind of step over the people sleeping in the hallway. Not that they’re actually sleeping. What they’re actually doing is watching us pass, tracking us through slitted lids. I hear one or two sniff at me as I weave through their jumbled limbs and bodies.

  —Hey, hey, man.

  I look down at the hairy face looking up at me from his spot, reclined along the wainscoting.

  He scratches his fat belly through his Superman T-shirt, pointing a rolled-up copy of Green Lantern at me.

  —You got anything?

  I step past him.

  —No. I ain’t got anything.

  He sits up, waves his comic book at me as I follow my guide.

  —Bullshit, man! That’s bullshit! I can smell it on ya! I can smell it, man! We can all smell it!

 
Bodies rouse, the more lively ones tilt their faces up and inhale.

  My guide tugs at the shirttails that hang ever so stylishly from the bottom of his argyle sweater.

  —Um, just a little, um, more briskly here. Just up here.

  He picks up the pace, doesn’t pay enough attention, steps on someone’s fingers.

  —Hey, fuck!

  —Sorry, um, so sorry.

  —Watch where the fuck, Gladstone.

  —Yes, um, sorry.

  The comicbook geek is on his feet.

  —Can’t get away with this shit, Gladstone. Come through here, stomp on people, bring some asshole that’s holding and won’t share out.

  More sniffing from the bodies.

  Voices.

  —Who’s holding?

  —Fuckin’ Gladstone.

  —Holdin’?

  —I smell it. I smell it.

  Gladstone stops at the door at the end of the hall, sorts keys.

  —Yes, um, so sorry, yes, my mistake, didn’t mean to. Yes, um, just in here if you will.

  He slips a key in the lock.

  —Just, um, in here and. Um. Yes, if you’ll all please just be patient, I’m sure we’ll have something for you all just as soon as, um. Yes. Um.

  I pass through, glancing back, seeing the comicbook geek flipping us off.

  —Fuck you, Gladstone!

  The others in the hallway settling back into torpor and misery. These being easier and more comfortable than action and rage.

  The door closes and Gladstone locks it tight.

  —Um, Sorry, um. Normally we’d have taken the elevator to the office level. Not walked through the, um, residences, but, um, the elevator is out and, well, there are some difficulties involved with getting it serviced. So, um. Up here and, yes.

  He pulls at his lower lip.

  —By the, um, way, are you holding any?

  I walk past him, up the fire stairs.

  —No. Just I couldn’t get all the blood out of my jacket when I cleaned it last.

  He comes after me.

  —Oh, yes, that would, um, explain it.

  —It’s a fucking mess.

  —I know.

  —And it’s getting worse.

  —I know.

  —And it’s going to happen again.

  —I know, Sela.

  —Um, yes, excuse me.

  I watch Gladstone’s back as he sticks his head a little farther into the room beyond the door he cracked open only after knocking politely about ten times and finally deciding the people fighting beyond it had not heard him.