– I don’t suppose your last name is Predo, by any chance?

She brings the glasses to her eyes and looks me over. Inspects me. Takes my measure. I don’t like it.

She lowers the glasses.

– If Dexter Predo were my child, I’d cut out my womb and throw it on the fire.

I wipe blood from my lips.

– Well, we have that it common. Minus the womb.

– One lump or two.

I scratch my cheek.

– If I say three, are you gonna whip out a mallet and hit me over the head with it?

She wrinkles her forehead at me, tiny silver tongs still poised over the sugar bowl.

– Excuse me?

– Nothing. Sorry. No sugar.

– Milk?

– Black is fine.

She lifts the delicate cup and offers it to me. I take it and give it a good sniff. Nothing but the strong scent of Earl Grey.

She watches me through the steam drifting off the top of her own cup of sugary, milky tea.

– Tell me, Mr. Pitt.

– Yeah?

– What is it about the manner in which you’ve been treated here that makes you think we’d resort to anything so subtle as drugging your tea?

I take a sip.

– Nothing. Habit.

She nods.

– One may assume then that you do not often take tea with friends.

– If one wanted to, sure.

I look over my shoulder at the window.

– It makes you nervous?

I look back at her.

– A big, east-facing picture window with nothing covering it but a drape? Yeah, I’m a little itchy about it.

– It’s a very heavy drape.

– Imagine my relief.

– And we certainly wouldn’t consider throwing it open on you while we are all here together enjoying our tea.

I look at the four boys standing about the room. They’re taking their tea in shifts; two of them sipping while the others keep their guns on me.

– Sure. But you never know when someone on the street might shoot out that window and tear that rag to shreds. You should nail up some plywood at least.

The corners of her mouth drop.

– Plywood. It would ruin the room.

She stands and walks toward the window.

– And I would lose my view.

She fingers a fold in the burgundy drapes.

– True, I cannot enjoy it during the day. But at night it is still quite spectacular.

She stares at the curtain, looking beyond it to the sprawl of the Hood below Morningside Park.

– Even if it does remind one of what is out there.

She turns back to me.

– Of what is living in homes that were once ours. On land that we rightfully own.

She spreads her arms wide.

– No, Mr. Pitt, I keep this window so thinly covered for a reason. So that I might open it that much more quickly when the time comes to watch the things down there being burned out of their nests.

She returns to the couch.

– That day will come soon enough. I can bear waiting for it a little longer. Just now, we should talk about you. And what is going to be done with you.

I swirl the last of my tea around the bottom of the cup.

She points at the cup.

– Anything of use to you in there?

I look at the tea leaves. They don’t tell me the future. They don’t tell me anything at all. But I don’t really need them, I already have a pretty good idea of what’s going to be done with me.

– Nothing I can see.

She holds out her hand.

– May I?

I hand her the cup.

She gazes into it.

– Hmm.

– ’M I gonna hit the lotto?

She sets the cup on the tea tray.

– No, just as you said, nothing. But I can tell you your future nonetheless.

– That would be a relief about now.

She arches an eyebrow.

– A relief? Well then, allow me to relieve you. I will soon call Dexter Predo and inform him that we have you in our custody. He will immediately make arrangements for your rendition, which will most likely take place as soon as the sun has gone down. You will be transferred to Coalition territory proper, and Predo will begin a lengthy interrogation. When he has extracted every last scrap of useful information you possess, you will be executed. In the traditional fashion. Having not seen the sun in…many years, I could almost envy you the view you will have.

I cross my legs.

– But not really.

She shakes her head.

– No, not really.

I play with the frayed hem of my jeans.

– So what’s holding up you making this call?

She slips her glasses on and studies me again.

– Dexter Predo will do what is best for the Coalition at large. Or rather, what is best for the Secretariat and for his chances of advancing to that body. I, on the other hand, will do what is best for our settlement here. This final scrap of our great northern territory, which is all Predo retained for us when he negotiated that abominable treaty with the animals on those streets.

She gives it a rest for a second.

I have nothing to say. So I don’t.

She picks it back up.

– Seeing as you have just come from our occupied territories, I am very curious to hear about what you have seen there.

Another rest.

Me, I still got nothing to interject.

– Predo will offer as little of this information to me as possible, keeping the most useful details for himself.

I look at the mixing bowl at the edge of the table, the one still filled with the remains of those cigarettes.

– And I intend to extract as many of those details as possible before I must call him and report your capture. Using the same tactics he will use.

I cough.

– Lady, if you’re offering me a chance to avoid being tortured twice, just say so. Tell me what you want to know and I’ll spill it. Just maybe one of these guys could get me some rolling papers so I can put my cigarettes back together and have a smoke while I’m talking.

She looks at one of the boys. He comes over and puts a box of Marlboro Lights and a yellow Bic on the table.

I light up.

She takes my empty cup off its saucer.

– You may call me Mrs. Vandewater. I prefer it to lady.

I blow smoke.

She slides the saucer in front of me.

– I’m afraid I don’t have a proper ashtray.

More smoke.

– And now that you have your cigarette, I would like to know what you saw while you were below. How many soldiers, what arms, defenses along the border, these are the details I am most interested in.

I heave out another lungful of smoke and knock ash onto the very-expensive-looking Persian rug that her tea table rests on.

– Fuck off. Mrs. Vandewater.

I expect to be given a few good raps on the back of the skull and hauled away to a basement or some other place where the floors aren’t as nice and the bloodstains won’t matter so much. But all that happens is the Vandewater lady gives a little sniff, lets her glasses drop to the end of their neck chain, gets up and walks out, two of her boys trailing her. The others don’t even slap me around. They just stand there and keep me covered, both of them staying on the same side of the room so there’s no chance they might shoot each other if they have to open fire.

I make the most of it, smoking the rest of the Marlboros and grinding the butts into the rug. It passes the time.

An hour goes by. I run out of cigarettes. I stand up and the boys don’t shoot me. I stretch. Still no bullets. I take a step in their direction. They both take their fingers from the safe position alongside the trigger guard and wrap them around their triggers. I take a step back. They unwrap. So I guess this is my side of the room. I take a look.

I had the bag over my head when they brought me in, but I’m pretty sure we stayed on that same block they were driving around. There or very nearby. They drove us down a ramp into an underground garage. The elevator went up express, opening right into the apartment. The way Vandewater talked about the view, figure we’re anywhere from the sixth to the tenth floor. I can’t hear anything from the other rooms of the apartment or the apartment above. Probably prewar, brick walls. The wainscoting and the molding around the ceiling have never been painted over white like in most old Manhattan buildings. Yeah, this is one of those places on Morningside Drive, one of those castles right at the top of the park.