A DARKNESS PALE

DEAD

…The mission became contacting the loan shark up in the downtown hive who supposedly had the drop on Motown…

Dead

It was hard for Daimon to disappear into the passenger floorboards given his height. Irie cruised down the street of Disney ginger bread houses that had no doubt once been high end boutiques. Now they were all boarded up. Black men, some hazers, some not, dressed sporty and fresh, owned sections of sidewalk and bopped their heads and danced in place, ready for action. Loan shark boulevard. The demise of the hives had been great for these predators, as they could now ply their trade up here. Paying off the gangs was obviously more profitable than paying off the cops.

“Greenwald’s right at the end. Fuck.” Daimon down low, talking through flat hands held in front of his face.

Irie made a turn at the end of the street and pulled over.  “Thanks. Is there somewhere you want me to drop you off?”

“You get the goods from him then drop me off at the junction. Where ever you going, it’ll be on your way. Right now, up here, you my best armor, know what I’m saying?”

Irie nodded.

Greenwald pretended not to watch her approach. He was an impressive looking hustler, easily six-five and solid as granite. His bald head reflected the ceiling fluorescents that were still working. His face was alive, as though there were fire ants chewing it up on the inside. It was a meth face Irie had seen a thousand times before. His body, drenched in an emerald velour track suit twitched and snapped and he shuffled his Adidas, working on his soft shoe routine, staying in the groove.

“Mr. Greenwald.”

His eyes were boiling. “Yes, that’s me. Now you, you with that skinny old nigger who be trying to take this castle though he talk all peace and respect and community bullshit. Yes, I seen him. I see every fucking thing. What – he got a redneck working for him now, huh?”

The bad guys always clocked the Berserker, just as the Berserker always clocked the bad guy.

“Yes,” Irie said. “Good eyes. He doesn’t think he’s very popular around here.”

“Ain’t no thing,” Greenwald said, and changed the station, his face breaking into a emotionless grin. “What can I do you for? You need some get up on some cheddar?”

“No. Now listen, we both know I got no jurisdiction here.”

“You ain’t got no legal rights whatsoever. I got my respects paid to the month and you ain’t nothing in that. You just another nigga bitch on the street up here.”

“Yes. And as just another nigger bitch on the street, I’m going to ask you a favor.”

“So you say,” he said gleefully. “See how you play.”

“I got a friend named Motown. Maybe you know where she’s at. I’m hoping you can tell me. We can work out some sort of gratis, you know what I’m saying? Here, I’m just some nigger bitch, but step out of the Hive I’m a redneck who would owe you a favor.”

He hmphed, like she’d just confirmed something he’d known this whole time. With deep satisfaction he licked thick, moist lips. “Motown, who be called Russia. That who you interested in?”

“She’s about my height, used to favor spaghetti braids. I don’t know about the Russia part.”

“Uh huh, uh uh. That Russia. Up to the Salvation Army up on wet three, right as you get in. She a ho for SL.” He gave an academic nod. “Telling you where she’s at cause I see you and I see you going to find it any which way. Ain’t no thing, ain’t no pull for no favor.”

 “Thank you Mr. Greenwald. Respect.”

She handed him her business card..

“Ain’t no thing.”

Faster than lightning he whipped a .38 from the back of his waistband and fired into Irie’s face. Irie jumped back. She was on her ass, feeling her face and head to make sure it was all still there, that he’d missed, partially aware of Greenwald marching past her.

She hopped to her feet and pulled free her Beretta. Hurrying to her car she hears four quick shots like fire crackers. Greenwald was bent over her smashed driver’s window. Irie stopped and aimed and emptied her clip into his back. Greenwald righted himself and turned around and shot Irie in the chest. He took an uncertain step toward her and fell onto his face and lay still.

Irie thought, good, and then remembered she wasn’t wearing a vest. She wasn’t on duty. She kept a spare in her trunk, but hadn’t thought about it. She opened her trunk and retrieved the medical kit. The driver’s seat was covered in impact glass. Irie threw her coat over the glass and sat on it. Her chest felt like it was getting squeezed by a vice.

Daimon looked like he’d taken everything Greenwald had given him.  “I got that ratsha bastard,” Irie said. “Sorry I was too late.”

“He fucked me up good.” Daimon wheezed and coughed blood. “Think I took one in the lung. He get you?”

“Liver shot. I think.”

Saying it brought the pain. Over the course of her career she’d been shot eight times, once in her left boob, five in the legs, once in her left shoulder, and once in her right forearm. Thanks to the dose and vest and dumb luck, she’d never suffered a direct body shot. Until now. Irie thought, you never know when. Until you do. The bullet had punched right into her liver. She could tell because of the pain. She prodded her back and couldn’t find an exit hole.

Daimon started coughing up black blood. He was choking, suffocating. She’d seen it plenty of times before. There was nothing she could do to help him.

“You’re going to be okay,” Irie told him. “I can get us to county.”

With a shaky fingers she located the M95TM pen from the medical kit, what was colloquially referred to as a Narco Polo, an AES cocktail that numbed reginal pain and coagulated blood. It was basically a chemical band aid that gave an operator time to crash into an emergency room. She ripped open her shirt and jammed the pen next to the wound then applied a pressure adhesive and wrapped herself tight with an ace bandage. She did a shitty job with all of it but almost immediately the pain began ebbing away. She could see the bandage bloat with blood.

Daimon was as still as static.

“Shit,” Irie muttered.

In the movies this was often a big dramatic moment. Characters would have insights and epiphanies about their lives, about the great nature of everything. Irie found only practicality and irritation. How far was county? The Narco Polo wouldn’t last that long. And then, even if she made it there, what then? There wasn’t much to be done with a dead liver. She’d need a transplant. She wasn’t going to get a transplant.

“Big fucking deal,” Irie muttered, putting her car in gear. Up, the only direction. Up up and away.

…Irie’s about to die, and Motown doesn’t want to be saved…