He fits his goggles over his eyes.

– Then believe me when I say, What I got to show you, this kind of thing is everybody’s business.

I get on the back of the bike.

– Where we going?

– Rivington off Essex.

I put my feet on the bitch pegs.

– Not the fucking Candy Man?

He taps his toe on the shifter.

– Yeah, the fucking Candy Man.

And he takes me for a ride below Houston.

The basement reeks of blood and ammonia and candy.

– What do you think, Joe?

– What do I think?

I take another look at the poor slob spread all over the floor: arms and legs and hands and feet and head and bisected torso and ripped-out heart all laid pretty much where they should be, but with about a foot or so between various parts that should be connected.

– I think we got a fucking Van Helsing on our hands.

Christian claps his hands to his cheeks and bugs his eyes.

– A Van Helsing? Ya think?

I look at the big white Maytag refrigerator in the corner of the basement. Blood is smeared around the handle and drips from the seal at the bottom of the door, pooling on the floor.

– Don’t be a smartass, Christian. Nobody likes a smartass.

– You would know.

I go to the fridge and tug on the silver handle. The blood around the seal makes a noise: two pieces of overused flypaper being peeled from each other.

Two dozen slashed blood bags drip the last of their contents over the stainless steel shelves. A small flood of it washes out onto the floor.

Christian walks over.

– Any of it still good?

I pick up one of the bags and hand it to him.

He smells the ammonia it was laced with, the same ammonia that’s been splashed around the basement.

He drops the bag.

– That’s fucked up. What’s he think, the ammonia’s gonna hurt us?

I dab my index finger in some of the blood.