Terry straightens up. He looks at Tom.

– Wow. How about that?

Tom is shaking his head.

– Fucking spies, man. What a load. That, see, that’s how the Coalition works. That’s how they fucking plan to undermine us. By attacking our unity. That kind of creepy bullshit.

The Count isn’t done.

– He told me. He said I was supposed to tell a story about Joe. Say Joe was the dealer, say he was the spy. I was supposed to do it here. In front of the council. He told me to act like I was unconscious until the council was in session. Then tell this story. Tell it in front of everybody, that it was Joe, and that you knew. Tell ’em that you knew. So he could, he could have you removed. Have you executed and take the chair, man. He. He would have killed me after. He would have. He’s a fucking.

He turns his eyes on Tom.

– You fucking sadist! You sick son of a bitch! That shit you did to me! You fucking! You die! I don’t care anymore! Burn me! Burn me! Just burn him next to me so I can watch!

It’s more than a guy like Tom can take.

Terry takes care of him this time, has him on the ground almost as quickly as Hurley did. The partisans want to help their leader, but what are you supposed to do with Hurley and Lydia in your face?

The Count sobs.

– I’ll burn. Ungh, God. I’ll, Jesus, I’ll, hngh, hngh, hngh, I’ll burn just to watch.

Tom raves.

– Off me! That fucking spy. Both of them. Don’t think this is gonna get you off the hook. You know it’s bullshit. Everyone in here can smell it.

I clear my throat.

– Um, I don’t want to stick my nose in family business, but that is pretty much what the old lady told me.

Terry swings around.

– Old lady?

– Vandewater. She said her name was Vandewater. Lives Uptown. Ever hear of her?

First, things come to a halt as Terry tries to get Digga on the phone. That takes awhile. Seems he’s been pretty busy smacking some ass up there. But once he does, once Digga confirms that I did some muthafuckin’ fine recognizance for him up on Morningside Heights, once it is confirmed that I was up there and met the old lady and came down with the anathema and a witness, once that all gets said? The shoe gets on the other foot in a hurry. Figure some of that speed has to do with a sense of justice needing to be done in a hurry. Figure some of it’s because Terry doesn’t want me talking too much about some of the things Vandewater had to say. Figure six of one, a half dozen of the other. But mostly, figure it’s the other: Terry being the private sort and all.

The partisans get to stay. Once they see the new wind that’s blown through the room, they opt for roles as official witnesses to a hastily called tribunal. Terry and Lydia sit. Under normal circumstances Tom would have sat next to them as head of security, loving a good tribunal as he does, but things being a bit out of joint, Hurley sits in for him.

It’s an intimate affair. The Count gives testimony. I give testimony. The partisans give testimony as to what they just heard in this room. Tom tries to give testimony, but the tape Hurley wrapped around his face keeps it to a minimum.

The verdict comes in fast.

Terry, Lydia and Hurley each write a word on a scrap of paper and show them to each other.

Terry does the honors.

– Tom Nolan, on charges of treason, espionage, distribution of poisons, murder, corruption of the principles of the Society, abuse of office, and any and all additional charges that might accrue to you posthumously, you are found guilty and will be executed.

He shuffles the scraps of paper.

– Further.

He takes off his glasses, blinks.

– Further, due to the nature and, well, the extent of your crimes. We’ve decided. Hell. You’re going out in the sun. You have to burn.

He puts his glasses back on.

– You sorry son of a bitch.

– There’s gonna be some fallout.

Terry comes back from the fridge and hands me a beer.

I take it, set it down.

– Figures.

He offers one to Lydia.

She shakes her head.

– Beer companies peddle male domination fantasies to twelve-year-old boys.

Terry sets the beer on the table.

– My bad.

He sits next to me.

– Some of Tom’s people won’t accept it. You know. So. We’re gonna have to work fast. Make sure things don’t get out of hand. Get our ducks in a row.

Lydia grabs the beer.

– Fuck it.

She opens the can and takes a long drink.

– We’re going to have to kill some people, Terry.

He shrugs.

– Yeah. Yeah. I guess, I guess that’s what I’m getting at. And we’re gonna have to kill them now. Today. Before, you know, before word gets out.

He looks at me.

– Before word gets out about what was said and, you know, by who.

I look at my own unopened beer.

It’s not like it’s a shock. Situation like this, guy like Tom with all those fanatics behind him? Execute a guy like that after a kangaroo court, some people will get up in arms.

Terry drinks.

– I’m not big on covert operations, but we gotta be quick, I think. And quiet. On this one? The less people know, the better. Not gonna increase anyone’s confidence in the Society knowing the head of security was a spy.

Lydia frowns at her own beer.

– I’m more worried if the other Clans find out. Some of the smaller Clans, some of those guys below Houston could take it as a sign, start picking at our turf. The Bulls and the Bears, those money grubbing pigs, they’d love to move their turf closer to the Coalition, get hooked back up. We need to keep it in-house. Make sure everybody knows we can clean our own mess. And we need to send a message Uptown. Let Predo and that Vandewater woman know they can’t get away with this shit.

Terry nods.

– Yeah. Yeah.

He looks at me.

– That’s why, what we’re doing with Tom, that’s why we felt we needed to do that. Make sure people know we’re serious.

I take out a smoke.

– I know you’re serious, Terry.

He takes a drink of his beer.

– Well, OK, if you say so.

I go to light my smoke.

Lydia puts a hand on my arm.

– No smoking in Society buildings, Joe.

I look at her, look at Terry, one on either side of me.

Figure it was gonna come to this. Figure I don’t like it. Figure it’s this or the other. Figure it’s take care of the list, or end up on it.

I move Lydia’s hand and light my smoke.

– Guys, stop fucking around and tell me who you want me to kill.

They start me with Tom.

– A case like dis? Da hardest part is just knowin’ da poor fooker. Ever seen it bifore, Joe?

– Nope.

– Ain’t fookin’ pretty. It’s not dat hard, mind. It’s easier if ya start at night. Stake ’em out an’ let da sun rise and take care of ’em. Dis way is harder. But it’s still not dat hard.

I drive Tom’s van while Hurley lectures me on the logistics of burning someone.

– What we’ll do, when we get ta da spot, we’ll unwrap him here in da van. In da back der. One ah us, you or me, don’t matter none to me, one of us will open dat back door, da udder’ll shove da fooker out. After dat it don’t take too fookin’ long. Once he’s done, I got a snow shovel.

Way at the end of 14th, past the power station there, away from the projects and the playing field of the park, we find a square of asphalt littered with broken bottles, tiny, empty glassine envelopes, and used condoms.

We climb into the windowless back of the Econoline. My hands have been getting too much sun, wrapped around the wheel, exposed to the rays. The blisters that had been soothed by the pint I drank are starting to bubble back up under my gloves. We take off our shades and look at the writhing log of black Hefty bags.