The Immune System, page 21
Dig it. Past the double doors.
White Suburban across 1st Avenue. Beyond this, the haunted forest that was once called Stuyvesant Town.
I gotta smile—cause clearly nobody’s talking to each other anymore. Factions within factions. It’s pretty much a free-for-all, as far as I can ascertain.
Goddamn. Watch gone. Err safe, assume it’s before eleven a.m. . . .
The chopper remains, sounds like roof-level, and thus far no foot traffic. Though undoubtedly I have only moments to make any kind of move.
Lotta white Suburbans in this town. But smart money says . . .
Fuck it, I’m up and pushing through the doors, aiming for the vehicle. Immediately there’s commotion to my right under the old Beth Israel overhang, the Russians shouting this and that, I pick up the pace. . . in the middle of the avenue now and they cut loose with some “warning” shots that go way, way wide.
Nope, they’re not gonna take me out.
I don’t stop my hustle, but rotate (left) with the MP7 and spray the area a couple meters above their heads, the boys ducking for some cover as chunks of plaster and plastic drop on them, then I’ve got a hand on the back door, throw it open, and vault into the rear of the Suburban.
Ari has a small dart protruding from her neck, slumped over the steering wheel. Huh. Some Tintin shit.
Okay, so either she’s dead or . . . I jerk the thing out, working it sideways.
This wakes the sleeping Israeli in a damn hurry. Lady’s confusedly reaching for her gun on the dash, but I jam the Glock in her ear and she locks up, me saying, “Drive, Ari.”
Sloppy gal, sleeping on the j.o.b.
She commences speaking, which is obscured by a downpour of bullets tearing through the roof of the vehicle, pulverizing the passenger’s seat, propelling Ari into action.
Chopper.
The Israeli slams the gearbox into drive and we jerk forward, me hollering, “Left, left, into the buildings!”
Car bounces off a traffic pole, up and over the low concrete divider, jerks left and into false night.
Ari flicks on the headlights, revealing overgrown hedges and trees, the bases of massive darkened buildings, a village of sleeping giants.
“They let me live,” she says, forlorn.
“Who’s that?”
“They came at me. Why am I alive?” Ari is tremendously saddened by all this, seemingly more that she didn’t have the honor of being slain than anything else.
All I can say is: “Fuck if I know. Everybody trying to whack everybody else, it seems.”
“They spoke Russian or one of these languages . . . your people, eh?”
Shake my head. “Not my people. I got no more people. Now get ready to stop—”
“So, Mr. White, you’re one seriously crazy kind of guy. You bounce right back, huh?”
“I do my damndest, baby.”
When we get to the first curve, at least a city block deep into the huge housing complex, I tap her shoulder with the barrel of the Glock. “Stop. Kill the car.”
She does it, opens her yap.
“Shut the fuck up,” I hiss. Listening hard.
Chopper buzzing, far overhead. No way can it get to us through this overgrowth, between the buildings . . . We’re good. For the very, very short term. I exhale, feeling profoundly ill. Abruptly dizzy, head lolling . . . Ari observing me in the rearview. She bares her gums.
Bitch is fast, I’ll say that for her, as it seems I’m no longer holding my gun. Which I contemplate for the quarter-second it takes her to smash me in the mouth with it.
Reeling, but I manage to catch her hand. Twist. My gold grill dug partially into my mouth proper.
Again I savvy those healthy teeth.
“Wasn’t expecting to see you come back out of there, Mr. White. Thought you were dead going in. Figured I’d bet on you, though, and now here you are . . .”
Me nodding. I twist further and Ari gasps, leaning awkwardly into the backseat.
Hawk out some blood.
“No more fucking around. You wanna grab the twins, I know where they’re at. We got very little time.”
Ari winces. “I know exactly where they are too. Back at the hospital. They’ve—”
“Been relocated.”
“How could you possibly know this?”
“New information and I do believe it’s good. But we have to move right now.”
Ari regards me, then nods. “Okay.” Then adds pleasantly: “Oh, I have new information too. If you’re wrong? I get to kill you. This is new!”
Me thinking: Yeah. And if I’m right about the twins, you’ll kill me all the same. No doubt. Say, “Great to be working together, Ari.”
Locating another vehicle to get us out of there unrecognized is far easier than convincing a skeptical dyke ex-Mossad operative mission priority number one is, in fact, getting me a new outfit. And not some bullshit either. Something tight. Talking about priorities, ya heard?
Take a left. Another left. Left again. Me calling it, Ari not asking.
We hit the former site of the Paul Smith store at Greene and Houston . . . my argument being hell, it’s right on the fucking way, and what’s more, I can’t do much without a shirt and shoes. No shirt, no shoes—no service, right?
It’s Chinese territory now, of course . . . but trust, those people have no need for British designer clothing. My only hope is that they haven’t yet demo’d the block . . . but no, there it is. The Chinese taking their time with their rebuild . . .
Oh, I’ve been here before. I scarcely need a light down in the storeroom. In fact, I’m quite sure I’m the primary looter on the scene, and most probably their best (posthumous) customer.
“Gimme ten minutes. Twelve minutes,” I say to Ari. She’s talking but I slam the door in her face, come around the car (left), flip open the hood, and disable the battery. This vehicle will not be moving. If a patrol comes, so be it.
Bingo.
Within fifteen, I step out the joint in a light-gray broken twill three-piece, crisp white shirt, black/dark-green striped silk tie, black felt trilby hat, and a slightly large pair of black high-shine brogues. Got a three-pack of handkerchiefs, one of which I’m employing to soak up the blood still leaking from my eternally split lip.
Top this off with a charcoal double-breasted wool coat and I am good to motherfucking go. Dubious. I lather up with the generic sanitizer.
Ari has no comment but is shaking her head in disbelief.
Fucking people don’t understand the importance of shining out and coming correct with the freshness.
Given good luck, this will be my last suit. Stock is pretty scant down there.
My last suit. This elicits a small shiver.
Wordlessly, I point the Housing Authority cop car in the direction of Mercer and Prince streets, adjusting my large gun so the new coat partially conceals it, speed forth . . .
I’m coming, princess.
_________________
At the hotel we go ahead and shoot our way in, old-school cowboy style.
Roll up pon dem gangster, me hanging out the window with the light assault rifle, primed for a mess of boots . . . Ridiculously, there’s only a handful of uniforms, Saudis and a couple Cyna-corp, and they are just not ready for us, so it’s with relative speed that they go down as we converge on them, heaters blazing.
Half of them are flat on the sidewalk before we’re even out of the car. It’s too easy to be any good. But fuck it, I’m having fun. Feel like I’m flying, and I channel that leap from roof to balcony . . .
Ari’s enjoying herself as well, a faint smile, happily rolling one of those tea-tree oil toothpicks between her well-kept teeth.
Through the upturned lobby, emptied of anything useful. Several wooden cases of wine sit untouched near the door, the French lettering gibberish to me now. Building’s dead quiet. The utter ease with which we float on in solidifies my suspicion that this mission is a major head fuck. But what can I do, if not push forward . . .
Listen. I pause, lifting two fingers to halt Ari . . . listen. Yeah, there it is . . . music. Tinny.
Around the corner. Sure.
Signal to Ari. Who for all I know could put a bullet in my ass at any moment. At this point, who cares?
Laser sight on my rifle enough to see by. We flip around the wall (left) Seal style, me with head fully in the game. This is my element.
Cyna-corper parked near the elevators. Some sorry shit. Bugman has his headphones cranked so goddamn loud he missed out on our not-so-subtle entrance. His head wobbles to the metal within.
On top of him in a heartbeat, prying off that headgear, which pops off with a hiss of oxygen—Slayer or whatever it is fills the hallway. I kick his helmet away, put my gun in his face.
“Hush, child,” I say to him.
He’s probably midtwenties, indeterminate race, unshaven, and terrified.
“Fuckin . . .” he whispers. “I got kids. I got kids.”
“That’s good. You’ll get to tell them the scary story of how Daddy almost died—if you’re straight with us. Otherwise . . .” I put a round into the tiling next to his head, a little eruption of glass. “Ya heard me now?”
He nods, nods.
“Solid. Where are the twins, son?”
“210 and 312. The guy, the male, is in 210—”
Kick him in the face. He sputters. I kick him again.
Kneel and make sure he’s breathing.
Which is stupid. Cause in a heartbeat Ari’s got her gun up on me. Naturally. Cause the girl doesn’t need Dewey Decimal anymore.
I turn and rise with my pistol in her gut.
This is us, then, squaring off. Ari and I. Both of us grinning.
“Respect, Ari. You crazy like I and I. Cap me if you gotta. I could give a fuck.”
“You’ve got option to run. Maybe might not shoot you in the back,” she says playfully.
“No, I truly could give a fuck. I got the AIDS. I’m a dead man.” There, I said it. I said it out loud. I repeat myself, almost in disbelief: “I’ve got advanced AIDS. I’m dying. Do you hear me? I’m dying anyway.”
Ari’s smile falters then drops off her face entirely. The toothpick sags.
“So I’m fresh out of patience here. Can you dig? Let’s get these kids, cause I wanna go lie down.”
Ari’s doing the math. I don’t think she’s gonna let me walk, once the twins are secured. But till then, it’s in her interest to have me doing the work.
“I’m sorry to hear this, White,” she says, lowering her weapon.
I snort, turn toward the fire exit, toward Haifa. “The fuck you are.”
_________________
The body of Prince Khalid is suspended from the sprinkler piping in the middle of his suite, having strung himself up with a bedsheet.
“Damn,” I mumble. Thinking for all the world the kid looks like a Klansman, white on white on white, the headgear.
Strange fruit. Flipped.
Feel kinda bad but I’m finding it tricky to get emotional here.
“This is the male?” mumbles Ari through her toothpick.
“Yeah,” I say. Don’t wanna enter the room, though, lest there be cameras. Plus Khalid, as one does, has shat himself, and this I can detect from the doorway. “Wonder if they made him jizz in a beaker or what. Turkey baster and shit.”
Ari shrugs, chewing that stick. Must be a nerves thing with her, the toothpick. “You’re a disgusting man,” she says.
“It’s a disgusting fucking world. I’m just the narrator, cheesecake.” But my stomach is in my mouth, thinking . . . Haifa.
In the doorway, a neatly folded note, in English script: To my family. Kneel and flip it open. Shit’s in floral Arabic, meaningless to me now, somehow menacing and needlessly complicated looking. Is this how all non-Arabic speakers see these characters? Once again, I feel a sharp loss.
Crush it one-handed, and chuck it at the leather trash bin near the desk. Swish. Three points from behind the line.
* * *
Upstairs in a jiffy, we locate room 312 dead easy, unguarded and ajar as downstairs. Are these people joking? Again my stitch-up meter is pinned red. And my heart rests on the back of my tongue. My tummy’s in knots. To see Haifa again. I’m a teenager.
Coax the door open, me bracing for any kinda trickery . . . yet all is quiet, spa-like. Spot is plush, some high-thread-count shit. In the center of the room, a king-size bed, Duxiana kinda outfit, a body under the comforter.
Me and Ari parked in the doorway, breathing, weapons in hand. Me thinking: Fuck. There she is. “Cameras,” I say to the Israeli out of the corner of my mouth.
Lady’s humming a little tune through that toothpick, minor-y, with some Arabic inflection. “Huh,” she says quietly, peeking into the room. “You think so?”
“Oh yeah, hon.”
“Can you ID that cunt?”
I wince at that. Would never use the word myself. Would I? Reckon, how dare you? But say, “Not from here.”
“Huh,” she repeats. Swapping a fresh mag.
“Fuck it, cameras. Let ’em watch. End of the line, yeah?”
She smacks the cartridge into place, raises the gun, and saunters straight at the prone princess.
I pop the Israeli in the back of the head, two shots, thwip thwip. Pair of clean hits at the base of her skull. Ari tumbles forward, the blood Rorschach splatter a complex fan across the off-white duvet.
She wouldn’t have let anybody live. It was a solid call. Shame, cause the gal was kind of a good time. But no way was she so much as touching Haifa. No fucking way.
Toss back the cover, Haifa fetal in a black lacy nightgown, steeling myself. Nauseous.
“Princess,” I hiss. Nudge her hard with my knee.
Slack-mouthed, the girl is out. Assuming drugged to the gills. Ear to her nose. She’s breathing. God is great. My throat eases up.
I admire her teeth . . . like Ari, the mark of a tourist. I admire her face. It’s a miraculous face. I will see this woman to a safe space if it kills me. That alone would assign this wretched life meaning.
However. Out of habit I take a moment to raid the warm minibar. Why not? A couple bottles of water, a Kit Kat. I leave the alcohol.
Back to the princess. Pretty lady. Roll her gently off the bed, swap out Ari’s body.
One bullet’s exit path direct through her socket, and the other eye regards me askance. Tuck the big girl in—g’night, baby.
Not very convincing. Too much fucking blood. Plus, it’d be tough to imagine Ari passing for female. But might buy me a half second, and that could make all the difference. Plus, they’re probably clocking me on video right about now. Like it matters.
I heft and shoulder the slack Haifa, one-two. More difficult than it sounds.
Corridor empty for the moment. A fire alarm is going off on another, higher floor, could be unrelated. Straight across the hall, the stairs.
Ease that door open with my foot, and we descend into dark.
_________________
Left out the main entrance onto Mercer Street, the bodies of the sentries resting quietly, as yet undisturbed. All is tranquility.
Expecting an ambush. Can’t be this easy.
“HIV,” I say again, aloud. “AIDS. Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome.” I’m dying. Weirdly, this helps. There’s something in my throat, though, and now I have the sense to know it’s not sand.
No more of that.
They’ve lied to me before. Yes. They have not been entirely straight with a brother. Maybe this too . . . but I don’t think so.
Ouch. I have to set Haifa down. I’m shaky as fuck and even a gal as petite as this seems too much.
Fuck. I gotta do this.
“Dead man!” I call down Mercer Street. Silence is the response.
Dead man or not, I’ve been sloppy with the System, and it’s now my intention, especially now, after all of this, for the sake of my body, for the sake of balance, to follow System protocol to the letter. The Mercer clock still ticking, reads 9:35.
Haul her back up, wincing. I just gotta do it.
Left onto Houston. Abercrombie and Fitch mural on the single remaining wall of a decimated twenty-odd-story building, the model’s abs . . .
I gotta ease the girl off me again. Legs shaking, my shoulder in excruciating pain from the exertion. Look back to the hotel. Look to Haifa. Slack, out deep. I drag her into a doorway, prop her up . . .
In two minutes I’m back with a porter’s luggage cart from the hotel. I slip on my newly acquired gas mask. Light-headed. This’ll work. I got this, y’all . . . solid gold.
* * *
Left, left, left. Left on MacDougal. Duck under a tattered canopy, clock a low-flying group of choppers. Proceed north. Breath loud in my gas mask. Thump thump, some gigantor sound system pumping four-on-the-floor to the west.
We rattle over uneven ground. I push from behind, trying to scan ahead for any big dips. Watch Haifa unconscious jiggle and twerk, and even in this she manages to read classy. But the girl is out.
Skimming the concrete area once occupied by Washington Square Park, I pull a left onto Washington Place with the intention of heading up 6th Avenue. A mash-up of amplified Russian language dubstep (a genre I cannot bear in any language) and the sounds of heavy industry, the noise collision grows clearer ahead . . . Sure enough, as I get halfway down the block I can dig massive bulldozers doing their thing.
I can’t help it, I gotta see what gives.
Close enough now. Despite the din, the cart makes a crazy rattle.
The entirety of 6th Avenue has been broken up and scooped out, for reasons unknown. Peep deeper: lit by floodlights, I can see the exposed subway tracks, either for the A/C/E or the F train. Partial view of the tile that must have at one point been the West 4th Street station . . .
It all looks pretty motherfucking pointless. The crew is clearly Ukrainians and Russians as the garbage-y music would indicate, and I’ve got no desire to get with that group anytime soon.
Plus this is Russian turf, north of West 3rd. Gotta move. Take a second and sanitize, scoping the scene.
Another left and a jog across the street, quick now before anybody makes me, then another left back toward the former park. Rerouting.
