He holds the phone out to me.

– It’s for you.

I take the phone and put it to my ear.

– Yeah.

– Pitt, it’s Predo. I understand there is a Van Helsing in your midst. We will need to address this. Come see me.

Fucker.

Little fucking fucker Predo is, he keeps me waiting in the lobby with nothing but back issues of The New Yorker and Town amp; Country to read.

I fiddle a Lucky out of the pack and stick it in my mouth.

– Uh-uh.

I look at the giant behind the reception desk.

– Uh-uh what?

He waves his pen back and forth.

– Not in here.

I take out my Zippo.

– What’s with everybody? It’s smoke. It doesn’t hurt us. It’s like the best part about the Vyrus. Look, Ma, no cancer.

I snap the lighter open.

He places the pen on his desk, aligning it perfectly with the vertical edge of his blotter.

– Don’t even think about it.

I tap the tip of the unlit cigarette.

– Buddy, it’s too fucking late for that, I’m thinking about it.

He smiles, no doubt dying for me to light up so he can stop dicking around with the boss’ PowerPoint presentation and go to work on me instead.

– Then you best find something new to think about.

I size him up. It doesn’t take long. A guy built like that, you’d have to be blind not to be able to size him up from about half a mile out. I’m a big guy, but one of his suits, the jacket would make a nice overcoat for me. Still, I long to try it, see if I could put a couple in his face before he tears the desk in two, jumps across the room, digs his finger into my sternum and pulls my rib cage out.

Not that I got anything to prove, but the fucker pisses me off. Way he backed up Predo that time they broke into my place and tossed me around, that made me not like him. Not that I ever did in the first place. Piece of Coalition enforcer shit that he is.

But I didn’t bring a gun. And I don’t have the stones to try it even if I was packing.

I drop the Zippo back in my pocket, take a big drag off the unlit cigarette, pull it from my mouth, blow a huge cloud of no smoke in his direction.

– Gotta rule against this?

He slits his eyes.

– Sooner or later.

– What? Sooner or later you’re gonna sprout something from the brain stem that keeps your lungs pumping?

He rises. If we were outside, if it was daytime, he’d blot out the sun.

– Sooner or later you are going to fuck up and be back on the street again. Sooner or later you won’t have Clan protection anymore. Sooner or later you’re going to be a Rogue again. And nobody will care what happens to you. Nobody will care when I pick you up by the ankles and wishbone you.

What’s a guy gonna say to that? Especially seeing as it’s likely true.

Wish I had that gun.

The phone on his desk buzzes. He presses a button on it and picks up the handset.

– Yes. I’ll send him up. Yes, Mr. Predo.

He closes his eyes, frowns.

– Yes, I will, sir. Unforgivable. It won’t happen again.

He puts the phone down, opens his eyes, keeps the frown.

– Mr. Predo will see you now.

I get up.

– And we were just getting to know each other so well.

He looks me in the eye.

– And I am to offer my apologies for my threats. I went far beyond the limits of my duties. A simple request not to smoke would have been more than enough.

He sits, picks up his pen and starts pretending to do something in an appointment book.

I walk to his desk and stand there.

He looks up.

– Yes?

– I never heard the actual words I’m sorry.

His fingers tense, the stainless steel barrel of his pen flattens between them.

– I’m sorry.

I tap invisible ash onto his desktop and make for the doorway that leads to the stairs.

– Keep your fucking apology. First time I get the chance, I’m gonna see how many bullets I can fit in that empty head of yours.

He presses the buzzer that lets me pull the door open, masking whatever it is he’s muttering about my mother.

Like I ever gave a shit about her.

– I’m wondering, Pitt.

I’m remembering what it was like when I was a kid, the handful of times I attended school, the way those days inevitably ended in the principal’s office or a police station. The lectures. The rhetorical questions. The, What were you thinking? The, How do you expect to get anywhere doing things like that? The, Is this how you act at home? The, Do you think you’re scoring any points with that attitude?

– I’m wondering, is there anything you care about at all?

Nights like this, it’s easy to remember those days.

I stop picking at the knot tangling my bootlace.

– I care about getting out of here as soon as possible.

Predo places the pen on his desk, aligning it perfectly with the vertical edge of his blotter.

– If that is your goal, you might try paying attention for a few moments.

I point at the pen.

– You know your receptionist did that the exact same way. What do you think that’s about?

– I wouldn’t know.

– Hunh.

He watches me, the bright blue eyes in his smooth boyish face looking at me, slouched in the uncomfortable small wood chair across from him.

– Any other random thoughts, Pitt?

I give up on the knot and uncross my legs.

– Nothing just now. Why don’t we get to your thing.

– Thing. My thing. That is what I am talking about. A Van Helsing, well versed from what I hear, at large, and you evaluate it as a thing. An object or idea of no value relative to any other thing. No better. No worse. Of no greater concern than a rock or a tree, perhaps.

– What is it with people and trees tonight?

– Excuse me?

– Nothing.

He brushes the flop of dark bangs from his forehead.

– Someone was talking about trees?

I shrug.

The corner of his mouth twitches upward.

– Was Bird speaking on the subjects of forests and trees?

– What’s it to you?

The corner of his mouth straightens.

– Nothing. I have heard similar lectures in the past.

I look back at the knot, give it a tug, pulling the wrong end and drawing it tighter.

– Pitt?

I keep my eyes down. Thinking about Terry and Predo. Hippie Terry. Head of the Society. Revolutionary who organized all the downtown riffraff and Rogues almost forty years back, got them on the same page and broke off a piece of Coalition turf to make their own. And old man Predo. God knows how old, but so well fed, so blooded up he still looks twenty-five. Coalition whip and public face of their Secretariat. The one who straightens the rank and file. Head of the enforcers. The man who counters the Society’s drive to unite all the infecteds and take us public with the Coalition’s doctrine to unite in utter secrecy. A couple of true believers in separate corners. Guys taking potshots at each other every chance they get.

They go back.

Back to a time when Terry was up here. A time when they worked the same side. A time maybe only they and a couple other people know about. Like me.

A time I figure they’d kill to keep hidden.

I put the thoughts away. Blink. And look up into the spymaster’s eyes.

– I’m Society, Predo. I was out, now I’m back in. You want to fish for what goes on behind closed doors, find another place to drop your line. I don’t run your errands anymore and I don’t give up skinny on my people. You want to know do I care about anything, now you know.

His eyes widen.

– Heaven’s, Mr. Pitt, have you seen the light? Are you a believer again? Forgive my surprise. I was under the impression that you had taken over Society security because it was the only way Terry would tolerate you on their turf anymore. My apologies if I’ve been mistaken. I never meant to impugn your devotion to your cause.