sugar.”
She languidly reached behind her and got hold of a box of syringes and a Bic ballpoint pen. Weed watched with growing terror as Smoke started heating a needle in the candle flame while Divinity smashed the pen with the butt of the vodka bottle. She pulled out the slender ink tube and dabbed a dot of black ink on her wrist, as if she were testing the warmth of baby’s milk.
“We got it, sugar,” she said.
“Get your ass over here,” Smoke ordered Weed.
Weed was paralyzed.
“What’cha gonna do, Smoke?” His voice got small again.
“You gotta get your slave number, retard.”
“I don’t need one. Really I don’t.”
“Yeah you do. And you don’t get your puny ass right here right now”—he patted the mattress where he and Divinity sat—“then I’m gonna have to get the boys here to convince you.”
Weed walked over and sat on the mattress, a musty, yeasty smell assaulting his nostrils. He held his legs closetogether and wrapped his arms around his knees, his fists clenched to hide his fingers as best he could. Smoke slowly turned the needle in the flame.
“Hold out your right hand,” he commanded.
“I don’t need no number.” Weed tried not to sound like he was begging, but knew he did.
“You don’t hold it out now, I’m gonna chop it off.”
Divinity poured another cup of vodka and handed it to Weed.
“Here, honey, this will help. I know it don’t feel good, but we all had it done, you know?” she said, holding out her delicate finger with its homemade 2 tattoo.
Weed drank the vodka and caught on fire. His mind went somewhere and when he put out his hand, he was surprised that he could tolerate the sticks and deep scratches of the red-hot needle. He didn’t cry. He threw a switch that turned off pain. He didn’t look as Divinity dripped ink into the wounds and rubbed it in good. Weed swayed and Smoke had to tell him twice to sit still.
“Your slave number’s five, little shit,” Smoke was saying. “Pretty good, huh. That makes you in the top ten—hell, it makes you in the top five, right? That makes you a first-string Pike. And a fucking lot is expected of a first-string Pike, right, everybody?”
“Sure as fuck is.”
“Fucking got it fucking straight.”
“Honey, don’t you fret. You’re gonna be just great,” Divinity reassured Weed.
“We’re going to initiate you, retard,” Smoke said as again he stuck the needle in Weed’s right index finger, above the first knuckle. “You’re gonna do a little paint job for us.”
Weed almost fell over and Divinity had to hold him up. She was laughing and rubbing his back.
“We’re gonna show this city who we are once and for all,” Smoke went on, full of liquor and himself. “You got paints, don’t you, little art fag?”
Smoke’s words whirled inside Weed’s head like the Milky Way.
“He’s gone, man,” Beeper said. “Whatta we do with him?”
“Nothing right now,” Smoke said. “I got an errand to run.”
It was almost eight P . M ., and Virginia West was glad. Working long hours meant she didn’t have the energy to get emotional about the dishes in the sink, the dirty clothes on the floor, the clean ones draped over chairs and falling off hangers.
She didn’t have to wait for Brazil to ring her up and suggest a pizza or just a walk like he used to back in Charlotte. She knew from her InLog of calls that he never tried, but why should he? She made sure he knew she was never home. If it even crossed his mind to call, he wouldn’t because it was pointless. She was busy, out, not thinking of him, not interested.
In fact, eight P . M . was earlier than usual. West preferred to roll in around ten or eleven, when it was too late to even call her family on the farm, where she rarely visited anymore because she now lived so far away. Time had become West’s enemy. A pause in it echoed with an unbearable emptiness and loneliness that sent her fleeing from the nineteenth-century town house
She languidly reached behind her and got hold of a box of syringes and a Bic ballpoint pen. Weed watched with growing terror as Smoke started heating a needle in the candle flame while Divinity smashed the pen with the butt of the vodka bottle. She pulled out the slender ink tube and dabbed a dot of black ink on her wrist, as if she were testing the warmth of baby’s milk.
“We got it, sugar,” she said.
“Get your ass over here,” Smoke ordered Weed.
Weed was paralyzed.
“What’cha gonna do, Smoke?” His voice got small again.
“You gotta get your slave number, retard.”
“I don’t need one. Really I don’t.”
“Yeah you do. And you don’t get your puny ass right here right now”—he patted the mattress where he and Divinity sat—“then I’m gonna have to get the boys here to convince you.”
Weed walked over and sat on the mattress, a musty, yeasty smell assaulting his nostrils. He held his legs closetogether and wrapped his arms around his knees, his fists clenched to hide his fingers as best he could. Smoke slowly turned the needle in the flame.
“Hold out your right hand,” he commanded.
“I don’t need no number.” Weed tried not to sound like he was begging, but knew he did.
“You don’t hold it out now, I’m gonna chop it off.”
Divinity poured another cup of vodka and handed it to Weed.
“Here, honey, this will help. I know it don’t feel good, but we all had it done, you know?” she said, holding out her delicate finger with its homemade 2 tattoo.
Weed drank the vodka and caught on fire. His mind went somewhere and when he put out his hand, he was surprised that he could tolerate the sticks and deep scratches of the red-hot needle. He didn’t cry. He threw a switch that turned off pain. He didn’t look as Divinity dripped ink into the wounds and rubbed it in good. Weed swayed and Smoke had to tell him twice to sit still.
“Your slave number’s five, little shit,” Smoke was saying. “Pretty good, huh. That makes you in the top ten—hell, it makes you in the top five, right? That makes you a first-string Pike. And a fucking lot is expected of a first-string Pike, right, everybody?”
“Sure as fuck is.”
“Fucking got it fucking straight.”
“Honey, don’t you fret. You’re gonna be just great,” Divinity reassured Weed.
“We’re going to initiate you, retard,” Smoke said as again he stuck the needle in Weed’s right index finger, above the first knuckle. “You’re gonna do a little paint job for us.”
Weed almost fell over and Divinity had to hold him up. She was laughing and rubbing his back.
“We’re gonna show this city who we are once and for all,” Smoke went on, full of liquor and himself. “You got paints, don’t you, little art fag?”
Smoke’s words whirled inside Weed’s head like the Milky Way.
“He’s gone, man,” Beeper said. “Whatta we do with him?”
“Nothing right now,” Smoke said. “I got an errand to run.”
It was almost eight P . M ., and Virginia West was glad. Working long hours meant she didn’t have the energy to get emotional about the dishes in the sink, the dirty clothes on the floor, the clean ones draped over chairs and falling off hangers.
She didn’t have to wait for Brazil to ring her up and suggest a pizza or just a walk like he used to back in Charlotte. She knew from her InLog of calls that he never tried, but why should he? She made sure he knew she was never home. If it even crossed his mind to call, he wouldn’t because it was pointless. She was busy, out, not thinking of him, not interested.
In fact, eight P . M . was earlier than usual. West preferred to roll in around ten or eleven, when it was too late to even call her family on the farm, where she rarely visited anymore because she now lived so far away. Time had become West’s enemy. A pause in it echoed with an unbearable emptiness and loneliness that sent her fleeing from the nineteenth-century town house
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