"I said, what you want," Raisin repeated. "Look, you gonna kill me or what?"
Barney looked up, first at Raisin, and then off over the glistening black water.
"See here. I didn't come all this way to stare at New York Harbor with you. Now, you gonna 'sassinate me, or I going to walk away?"
Barney looked out over the water. It reminded him of a giant inkwell. A place where all the words of his life could be obliterated in an instant. Words like honor. Decency. Love. Words he had lived by once, when he had had a reason for living. One jump, and he could be as dead and as meaningless as those words. The water would swallow him up, and the remains of Barney Daniels would disappear into it. The water. The cold, bleak, unforgiving, welcome water.
"Snap to, boy," Raisin said," bending over to slap Barney on the shoulder. "It's cold out here. You gonna freeze."
Barney stared out over the water.
Raisin's voice softened. "Hey, want to grab a cup of coffee somewheres?" the portly black man asked.
But Barney only stared.
Raisin picked up his red terrycloth slipper and bounced it on Barney's head. "Look alive, man," he shouted. "What is this stupidness? I get hauled out here in the middle of nowheres, getting the crap scared out of me 'cause I thinking you gonna kill me, and now you ain't about to do nothing. You on junk, boy?"
Barney didn't answer.
"You wasting my time. I got a sick-in demonstration going, so if you ain't going to rub me out, I better get back to it 'fore I die of the cold."
Barney offered Raisin his flask. "Have a drink," he said. "It'll warm you."
Raisin drank. "Man, what is that shit? Tastes like poison."
"Tequila," Barney said, regaining possession of the silver container. "But it could have been poisoned."
"Sure as hell tasted like it."
Ignoring the crass comment, Barney lifted the flask to his lips and let the liquid pour down his throat. "I could have poisoned you, you know," he said.
Raisin shrugged.
"Your wife wants me to kill you."
"Lorraine? What she want to do that for? Who gonna pay the bills on that split-level money-eater in Whiteyville?"
"Not Lorraine. Gloria. Your wife. The blonde."
"My wife ain't no blonde," Raisin protested. "Leastways she wasn't four days ago. Lorraine look mighty silly a blonde. I gonna slap her silly if she done dyed her hair. Blonde. Hmmph."
"Gloria," Barney said, louder.
"I don't know no Gloria, stupid white ignoramus. You done come down here to kill the wrong man. Good thing you spaced out."
"Her name is Gloria, I tell you," Barney shouted, "and she's paying me a thousand dollars to kill you."
Raisin hopped up and down, his jaw thrust forward. "Well, then, you do that, smartass. You just try and kill me." He put up his fists. "Weirdo white junkie."
"Oh, get lost," Barney said.
"I ain't leaving till you 'pologize for calling my wife a white woman."
"I won't apologize. Go."
"I ain't going."
"Then you'll have to die here on the pier, because the drink I gave you was poisoned." Barney stood up to leave.
"Woah," Raisin said, restraining Barney with a shaky black arm. "You lying. Speaking falsehoods. You lying, ain't you?"
Barney ambled toward the end of the pier and sat down, his legs dangling off the edge. The water. The black, forgetful water.
"Wait, man," Raisin said, running to him and grabbing his arm.
"That's my drinking arm," Barney said. He yanked it free and took a long swallow from his flask.
"You ain't put nothing in that drink you give me, did you? I mean, you drank it yourself. Ain't nothing in it, right? Did she pay you in advance, or is she waiting for you to finish me off?"
Daniels pondered a moment, peered into the desperate eyes of a fellow human being, contemplated the obligation of all mankind to be responsible for all mankind, the true meaning of brotherhood, mercy and love and finally decided that if he were to relieve Raisin's doubts it might be whole seconds before he could get back to his flask of tequila.
"Yes," Barney said with finality. "It was poisoned."
"Oh, Lordie Lord!" Raisin's hands clutched around his throat.
"And I'm going to sit right here and die with you," Barney said, thumping on the rotted wood of the pier. ''The perfect murder-suicide."
Calder Raisin ran off into the night, up the length of the pier and deep into the shadows behind. But it was only a matter of seconds after Raisin scurried away until Barney heard a thud, and then the whooshing of air a man makes when his lungs are collapsing, and then a small moan. And another thud.
Then they were on him, around him, behind him, hundreds of them, it seemed.
Then Barney felt the sharp, searing pain, acid pain, oh, beautiful, numbing, terrible, shaking pain.
Frantic footsteps tore away into the blackness. Barney felt beneath his shoulder blades for the wounds. Just a little oozing dampness from all three cuts. He had not lost much blood, but oh God, the pain. Barney leaned against a dock support, fought to bring air into his lungs, then staggered up the ramp like a drunk.
And then he thought he saw her again. Once again, as though she had never gone.
"Denise," he whispered. Her face was in front of him again and she was smiling and the smell of her was on him, warm and giving and forever, before she began to fade again, into the black sea and the fetid air of the harbor.
"Denise," he called into the cold wind. But she was gone. Again.
He fell. And then there was blackness, the blackness for which he was grateful after an endless lifetime of waiting.
Chapter Eight
When Gloria X entered her house in East Harlem, Malcolm was not at the door to greet her. He was inside, at the base of the stairwell, his neck broken so that his head joined his massive body at a perfect right angle. Surrounding him and leading up the stairs were the corpses of six other Peaches of Mecca, their arms and legs splayed over the steps like broken dolls, their blue-edged knives glinting beside them.
Silently, she pulled a small revolver out of her pursue and followed the trail of bodies up to her bedroom.
The door was open. She listened. Nothing. Slowly she stepped inside, her revolver steady in her outstretched hand, positioned low for firing.
There was no one in the room. She circled it once, careful to keep one eye on the doorway. No one. Not a sound.
Then he came through the window as suddenly as a breeze, and the gun left her hand and soared out of reach as Remo clasped her wrists together behind her with one hand and held her throat with the other.
"Where is he," he said quietly. "I haven't got much time."
She closed her eyes with a shudder. Remo squeezed. "Barney Daniels," he said, pressing the veins in her neck. "I know you've sent him out to kill Calder Raisin. Where are they?"
"I don't know who you're talking about," she said levelly. "I never heard of him. And I don't know anything about Cald..."
Remo's grip tightened until her eyes bulged. "You have three seconds," he said. Her tongue began to ease out of her mouth, encircled by white foam.
"One," Remo said. "If you faint first, I'llkill you anyway. Two."
"At the pier," she croaked. Remo softened the pressure slightly. "The abandoned pier at Battery Park, near the Staten Island Ferry."
"Good girl." Remo took his hand away and threw her into a corner of the room as if he were tossing a wet washrag.
She spun around on her knees. Crouched on all fours, she raised her head and laughed like a mad dog, her hate-filled eyes glistening. "You'll be too late," she spat, her voice still gravelly. "Raisin's dead by now. And so's your friend."