Jenks and two other rhinos are what’s left of the crew that came up the park. And Jenks looks worse than ever. They close the back doors of the van, and Digga waves them off.
– Drive it up to the Jack. Put ‘em in a lye bath.
Jenks croaks, gets in the van with one of the rhinos and they drive off.
Digga checks me out.
– Coulda thanked the man for savin’ your life, muthafucka.
I’m rolling a smoke.
– He never thanked me for sparing his.
Digga nods.
– True dat.
We start down the path.
I light up.
– Cops aren’t gonna sit pat much longer.
– No. No, they ain’t.
– City feels all wrong.
– Yes, yes it do.
We reach the spot where we shot it out. I couldn’t find bullets that fit my gun, so I took one off a dead enforcer. Lean gun, sleek, like a fashion accessory. It fits at the base of my spine, but the weight is wrong, lighter than I like.
I kick some pebbles through a puddle of blood.
– It’s gonna be a mess.
His hands are deep in the pockets of his coat. He shrugs without pulling them free.
– I try an be philosophical about this shit. Got people depending on my ass to make the right calls, but they’s only so much a man can do in this climate of mental instability. I got to try an keep the Hood together, fight for the betterment of my bruthas and sistahs, but, same time, can’t afford to live no fantasy about how fucked up shit is.
He nods to himself.
– People gonna die. My people. Lots. Trick from my end is to see more of someone else’s people die first. Be sure we can claim what’s ours when the smoke clears. If it go that far. Which I ain’t sure ‘bout as yet. Possibility people could all have a sudden attack of gettin’ they’s shit together. Never know.
– Don’t count on it.
– Oh I don’t, I don’t.
We’re at the bottom.
He looks up at the top.
– Got to do the old man’s biddings now. Kill on some folks.
He looks at me.
– Don’t suppose?
I’m dropping a butt in the gutter, rolling another.
– Got lost people to find.
– Uh-huh. Young lovers and a baby.
He brings his hands out of his pockets and waves them about a little.
– You find that hole. You light the match, put it to the fuse and set that flame headin’ to the powder. Then while we all run around tryin’ ta stomp the damn thing out, you just go ‘bout your fuckin’ bizniz.
I set a match to a fresh smoke.
– That’s how I had it figured. Why?
I drop the match.
– It not working for you?
He lowers his hands.
– Pitt, tell you a true thing, you drew down on Lament, for whatever the fuck reason, an that played out right. Maybe kept me from havin’ a neck stretch. But still an all, muthafucka, if Percy didn’t say he wanted those kids looked to, I’d be killin’ yo ass right this fuckin’ second. An you ask me, I called Predo and Bird and everyone else together and dropped yo head on the floor, everyone be so damn happy they just get to huggin’ and settlin’ they’s differences. Say to that shit?
I take a drag, consider the prospect that he might be right, and blow some smoke.
– I say that if you think that, you’re pretty fucking stupid to be letting me walk off with my head.
He thinks about it, I can see it in the way he’s looking at my neck.
Me, I’m thinking how many times I’ve been told my mouth is gonna get me killed. First time was about the first time I opened it to cry because I was hungry. Seems the last time was less than an hour ago when Digga busted my nose. How a man lives that long without figuring that keeping his mouth shut is an option is beyond me. I’ve had the point reinforced enough times. Except I don’t like doing what people want me to.
Mostly because I don’t like them I guess.
People, I mean.
Digga takes his eyes from my neck. I appreciate the restraint. More than I could have mustered in his shoes. I was him, my head would be in the gutter by now.
He shakes his head, turns and points at the cars at the curb.
– The Escalade’s mine. I ain’t givin’ up the Bentley for your ragged ass. That leave the ‘95 Impala.
He looks at me.
– Percy’s favorite ride.
We walk to the car.
– Any tips on crossing One Ten?
He touches the nape of his neck.
– Well, it’s night, so that help. An fact is, anybody can only watch for so much. True this car is one they know. Coalition spotters likely got pictures, got the plate number. But unless you get stuck at a light right at One Ten, right where a spotter is lookin’, you can squirt through. Border always been porous that way. Trick is how to stay invisible once you across. ‘Specially seein’ as where you headed. Was me, I’d maximize my potential, take Harlem River Drive, come west once you drop far enough south. After that, could try drivin’ up on the doorstep where yo headed, right through the door. Might get in safe that way.
I open the Impala’s door.
– Tight?
He puckers.
– We don’t get much news from down there, but you size it up. Middle of Coalition turf a crazy little chick thinks she can cure the Vyrus sets up shop, declares she’s Clan Cure, an invites all the infected losers she can get to come live with her in peace. Shit goes sideways. She guns up and turns her haven into a redoubt. No one in, no one out. Tell me what Predo does ‘bout that. No, I’ll tell you. Embargoes they’s ass. No blood. Let ‘em sit in that building with no egress or ingress at all. Eyes all over that street.
He shakes his head.
– What Percy thinkin’ lettin’ his young people in love run down to that shit is beyond my ken. Wild shit is what it is.
He shakes his head, fiddling with his hair.
– Had to go an die now, he did. Just when I need a haircut.
I look somewhere else.
He makes a soft sound.
I keep looking away.
He drops his hand from the back of his head.
– Muthafucka.
I get in the car and turn the key.
– Thanks for the wheels.
He puts a hand on the open door.
– Percy an shit.
– Yeah. Percy.
I take the wheel.
He pushes the door closed. I put it in drive and pull away. Watch him standing there in the rearview.
King in exile in his own land. Alone. And most cruel.
There’s a worm at the heart of the world, eating itself.
Did you know that?
It’s true.
And with each bite it does itself injury. Kills itself a little more. Digests another mouthful of its own intestine. Its howls are muffled by its body. But, being as it’s at the heart of the world, people still hear it. They get driven mad from listening to the damn thing eat itself. They want to make it stop so they won’t have to hear it anymore. And the way you kill what’s at the heart of the world is, you kill the world.
Tell me you don’t know the people I’m talking about.
Driving down Harlem River Drive, traffic breaking now, the Impala growling to itself about the pace, I let the radio scan the frequencies. A year underground and a man misses out on a lot. Arts and culture. Science and technology. Politics and finance. Most of the music puts my teeth on edge. But it always has. The news doesn’t so much put them on edge as make me wish for something bloody to sink them into.
I think in verbs while I listen to the news. Rend. Rip. Tear.
I hear that worm in the news, eating itself, choking on a bite, puking it back up, eating it again. And I wonder where it all starts. This cycle. What I feel on the streets, the tension, does it start with what people like me are doing just around the corner, the almost immediate danger of things that feed on blood going to war? Or does it start with what people completely not like me are doing, far away and out of touch, blood feeders of a different sort, going to war?