Every Last Drop (20 page)

He looks north toward the Bronx.

—And considering the roll he played in educating me, I do not imagine it is any coincidence that I have similar visions regarding his own head.

I spit in the oily water we walk along. —He has one of those heads people think about cutting off. —Yes. He does.

He rests the flat of the machete blade on his shoulder. —When he took me off the street, I thought it was the greatest piece of luck. I

was finally going to be part of a crew. Make some money. Other kids, they would join crews. Soon after they would be showing up at school in fresh K-Swiss, And1. Hilfiger jeans. Burberry caps. Soon, the ones who lasted would have cars. Leased Escalades and Mercedes. Tricked-out Nissans.

He frowns.

—I wanted to be in a crew. Everyone I knew wanted to be in a crew. That was how you got things. Kicks. Clothes. Wheels. Respect.

His frown deepens. —All the things a boy desires. That is a skill of Lament's.

He catches his lower lip between the points of two teeth. —To know what young people desire.

His teeth draw a bead of blood from his own flesh.

—After I was infected by one of the older boys, I felt less as if I had been lied to, and more as if I were being invited deeper inside something special. Of course.

He wipes the drop of blood away with the back of his wrist. —By then Lament had taken my name, christened me Menace. A process of physical starvation had begun, soon followed by a more intense deprivation when  he withheld blood. And physical abuse. And emotional abuse.  The

easiest thing, the thing most of us did, was to surrender. After all.

He drops the blade of the machete from his shoulder and angles it to catch a bit of the sliver-moon.

—Once you have been told that you are worthless, and treated as if you are worthless, put in a place where you are all set against one another in a contest for one person's approval, approval that is never consistent in how it is rewarded, it is the easiest thing in the world to succumb to that conditioning and believe yourself to be worthless.

He brings the blade up, touches it to his own forehead, like a warrior knighting himself. —But I am not worthless.

He lowers the blade.

—He had me cleaning. Digging out the piles of papers and magazines he had accumulated.

He shakes his head.

—I have no idea why the word caught my eye. I do not believe in destiny. For whatever reason, I saw it, and I needed to read about it. And so I did. I do not even remember the magazine. National Geographic? Time? It does not matter.

He inhales, exhales a word.

—Mungiki.

He nods.

—Kikuyu farmers. They banded together in defense squads against Nairobi government forces during a land dispute. The government was dominated by the Kalenjin tribe. Enemies of the Kikuyu. The Mungiki prevailed. And thrived. They moved into the cities, the slums. Provided protection, brought down crime rates. They did this through violence.

He nods again.

—Beheadings. Amputations. Vicious beatings. Torture. And they became a source of terror. Blood drinkers. Madmen. Savages so brutal, neither the police nor the military would go into their slums.

I look at the long flat span of empty cement around us, the other Mungiki scattered about. I look at the water. Water's the way out. Whether I have to jump in it, or that's where they dump my body, it looks like that's where I'm going.

He stops nodding. —They inspired me.

He shakes his head. —Not that I knew anything about the Kikuyu. Not that I did, or do, have any

care about the Kalenjin. I was simply inspired that these put-upon people, outnumbered, the lowest, rose. Made of themselves something to be reckoned with. Regardless of their methods. They made me realize that I could fight back. I could leave. So I did.

He shrugs.

—Physical security is not a concern of Laments. He relies on his personality to keep his captives with him. Until he is ready to send them on their way. Escaping was relatively easy. But freedom. That was most difficult. I had already seen the uses of fear in my own conditioning.

He tinks a claw against a bone that dangles from his wrist. —So. I set out to make myself fearful.

He indicated the black leather vest worn open over his bare chest, the combat fatigues cut off at the knees. The outfit his crew sports as well. —I designed a uniform for myself and the friends I convinced to join me. And we did things. Engaged in acts modeled on the Mungiki. Are they still afraid of us in the Bronx?

I flick ash. —They are.

He points north.

—And we are not even there.

He lowers his arm.

—It is strange. That causing fear in others can help produce freedom. But it is also true. It clears a path before one. Creates space, a perimeter within which one can operate with abandon. I am not saying that it is true freedom. But it is a start. And it has given us the space and time to become more dangerous.

He brings a claw to his temple.

—I am not the boy I was. I do not crave the material things of MTV culture. I am not the slave I was. I do not crave the attention and occasional kindnesses of Lament. I am not even the savage I made myself after my initial escape. I do not crave blood for blood's own sake. I am a rational man. I have made myself into this. I have read and studied and applied myself. I am clear in my thoughts. And in how I express them. While I cultivate mystery about my person in order to project the fear that frees me, I want none of that mystery in my speech. I am capable now of great subtlety. A word I could not have defined just a few years ago. I am capable of that subtlety, but I prefer bluntness. I am all these things, all my past selves, and my new self, because of one reason.

He aims the claw at me.

—Because I have a purpose. And succeed or fail, I have aimed myself solely at that purpose. With no time for anything else. And yet.

He turns his hand over, shows me his pale palm.

—Even a man with a purpose can have regrets. My own regret is that I could not convince Esperanza Lucretia to join me. Though I still have hopes that she might. So, seeing that you know her, and that she recommends you to me, I agreed to deviate my attention from my purpose to meet with you. In return, I will need you to do something.

I wait.

He looks away. —Tell her I miss her.

I flick my butt into the water, pull out a fresh one. —Yeah, I know how that goes.

I light up. —I can do that for you.

He nods. —Well, then.

He squats, puts the tip of the blade on the ground, folds his hands over the

leather-wrapped grip. —What do you want?

I inhale smoke, killing the smell of the rank water.

—Like I told Esperanza.  I don't know Queens. She told me you two had history. I asked if she could reach out. —You asked Esperanza Lucretia to reach out to the Mungiki. —Not saying I was happy to be looking to talk to you. Just saying I don't know anyone in Queens.

He looks up at me. —Then what you have to do in Queens must be very important.

I think about the Cure house, and the blood they need. I think about Terry, and the money he needs. I think about Predo, and the information he needs.

I think about me, and what I need. Where I need to be. Who I need to see.

Feel the pull. —Yeah, It's important.

I look at my burning cigarette.

Say it out loud and you don't go back.

Say it in the open air and there's no telling where the words drift.

Say it. —I'm looking for blood.

He raises an eyebrow. —Are not we all?

I look up from my cigarette. —No, man, I'm looking for a whole lot of blood.

He looks into my eye, nods, stops nodding. —Did I mention, Joe Pitt, that I do not believe in destiny? —Yeah, I remember something like that.

He rises, looks me up and down. —Serendipity though, that is another matter.

He glances at the water. —What's the worst thing you've ever seen, Joe Pitt?

I look at him.

I could tell him the worst thing I've ever seen. But he wouldn't see it the same as me. Tell someone the worst thing you ever saw was a dying girl being healed, they wont really get it. But I saw it. And it was bad. So I know better.

He watches me, nods. —So you have seen many awful things.

I still got nothing to say.

Menace weighs his machete in both hands. —Have they changed you, do you think? The things you have seen?

I find my lighter. —How the hell should I know.

I flick the lighter to life, realize I don't have a cigarette in my mouth for it to light, and snap it closed. —You are who you are. See things. Don't see them. You are who you are.

He studies the machete in his hands.

—I was who I was. I saw terrible things as a child. And I was who I was. Taken by Lament, tortured, I saw more terrible things. And I was who I was. Changing, yes, but always who I was. I agree with that. But as I told you.

He holds the machete tight in one hand, as he runs the palm of his other hand down the blade, cutting deep. —I am different now. Remade. By a purpose.

He looks at the hand, watches the blood clot over the deep incision.

—Remade by what I have seen.

He shakes his hand, flecks of blood spattering the pavement. —You should go home, Joe Pitt.

He looks at me. —Or risk being a different person when you leave later.

He shrugs. —//you can leave later.

I put my Zippo back in my pocket, take hold of my razor. —You saying something?

His mouth twists down, tries to straighten, stays twisted. —Rope works. Steel caskets. Animal carbon. Glue factory.

He swallows. —Do you think the swamp draws such industry?

I slip my other hand in my other pocket, thread my fingers into the hoops of the brass knuckles. —Not following you, kid.

He breathes deep a couple times, like a man trying to keep down his last ten

drinks.

—There are things. Things you have to see.

Tears start in his eyes. —Go home, Joe Pitt.

He raises the hand he cut, and the rest of the Mungiki encircle us. —We are Mungiki. Savages. We are born for this.

He lowers his hand. —It will kill you.

He bares his teeth. —It will kill us all.

I lick my lips. —OK.

I take my hands from my pockets, lighter in one hand, cigarette in the other. —I'm suitably freaked out.

I light the cigarette. —Now tell me where I go to see this thing.

He wipes tears from his face, leaving a small smear of his hands blood.

—Not far.

He points south. —English Kill.

He nods at the Creek. —Do you know how to swim?

The Mungiki don't have guns.

Not that they have anything against them, just that they don't have much cash to procure them with. Under normal circumstances I'd consider it a bonus for the whole world that these guys are limited to machetes and handmade claws, but it does mean I can't borrow a gun for myself. —Not even a zip gun? —No. No firearms at all.

I look at the rank water below my feet. —Shit.

I look back up at Menace. —And you re sure I can't go on land? —No. This is the only way.

—Shit.

There's a splash as one of the Mungiki tosses an inflated inner tube, scavenged from one of the truck yards, into the water.

I look at it bobbing on the scummy low tide. —What's that for?

Menace squats next to me, angles his machete at the sandbar peeking from the middle of the Creek.

—Mussel Island. Even at low tide the currents around it are strong. Hidden rocks. You can get pulled down into them and ripped apart. —Shit.

He picks up a shard of glass between the points of two claws. —I will not see you again, Joe Pitt.

I unlace my boots. —That's always a chance. —No.

He drops the shard in the water.

—I will not see you again. You will not come back. If someone comes back, it will not be you.

I peel off my socks and stuff them inside the boots, shrug out of my jacket and pull off my shirt. —Do me a favor anyway. —Yes?

I point at my clothes.

—Hang on to that stuff. I got a feeling they'll fit the son of a bitch who does come back.