Blue Belle

Immaculata stood watching him, hands on hips. "Max!" she snapped, stamping her foot. He ignored her, watching me.

Immaculata sighed. "When I was pregnant, he'd do that all the time. He said the baby could hear him. When she came out of my body, he made everyone be quiet. He waited until she was nursing . . . Then he clapped his hands like that. When she moved - when she heard him - I thought he was going to burst, he was so happy."

"She recognized his voice," I said.

"Sure. That's what he said."

"What else could it be?"

"I think" - she looked at her husband - "I think he was afraid our baby would be born deaf."

"Was Max born deaf?"

"I never asked him," she said, a slight warning tone in her voice.

He was my brother. I had earned the right to know. Earned it in a prison cell. I pointed at Max. Made a gesture as if I was rocking a baby. Pointed at him again. At my ear.

His face went hard, eyes slitted, mouth a straight line. He shook his head. No.

I opened my hands. "How?"

Max gently picked up his baby, carried her back over to the floor, put her down. Kissed her. He stood between Immaculata and me. Pointed to himself again. A fist flashed into his palm so quickly I only saw the vapor trail. A sharp crack. He pointed to his ear. Held his palm thigh-high. A little child. His hand became a claw, snatched something, lifted it off the ground. Threw it against the wall. Walked away. Pointed to himself again.

He wasn't born deaf.

I tapped my heart twice, bowed my head. My eyes felt funny.

Max pointed at Flower, playing by herself on the floor. Reached his hand across the table. Immaculata put her hand in his. He circled his thumb and forefinger. Okay. Okay, now.

Yeah. He was ahead of the game.

I took a sip of the ginger ale. Lit another smoke. I held my palms close together, not touching. A meeting.

Max did the same. The palms became fists.

I shrugged. Maybe. Who knows?

I pointed at him. At myself. Waved a pointing finger. A meeting outside. In the street.

He looked a question.

I rubbed my first two fingers and thumb together. Money. Maybe a job.

Max hissed an inhale through his nose.

I shook my head. Not cocaine. I made the sign of injecting something into my arm. Shook my head again. Not heroin. Held an imaginary joint in my mouth, triple-inhaled fast. Shook my head again. Not marijuana.

Max took a dollar from his pocket. Held up three fingers.

I shook my head again. Not funny-money.

Immaculata watched us, like a spectator at a tennis match. Waiting for the punch line.

Max pointed a finger, cocked his thumb. I told him no again. Not guns. I weaved my fingers in the air, making an hourglass. Women.

His face went hard again as he held his hand chest-high, asking.

I put my palm to my forehead, like a salute, measuring for him. Not kids. I made a gesture like I was talking to someone, negotiating. Showed money changing hands. I took some cash from my pocket, put it on the table. Made one big pile with a single bill off to the side. Pocketed the pile. Pushed the remaining bill across the table to my left. Made the hourglass sign again. Her share.

Max circled his hands around his head, tilted a hat brim forward.

I nodded. A pimp.

Max smiled. He made a gesture like he was pulling a wristwatch off. Pulled rings off fingers. Reached inside his shirt for a wallet.

I shook my head. Not a shakedown. Not a rough-off. I held my palms together again, not touching. Just a meeting. Okay?

He nodded.

I pointed at my watch. Made an "I don't know" gesture. I'd let him know when it was going down.

The baby cried. Immaculata went over to her, picked her up, and sat her down on her lap to nurse. I bowed to Max, to Immaculata, to my brother's baby.

I went down the stairs to my car, thinking of Flood. Back to being alone.

22

I went through the mail back in the office. The usual stuff. Congenital defectives replying to my ad promising "south of the border" opportunities for "qualified adventurers." Most of the mercenary action is in Central America now; the Cubans have made it real clear that Africa isn't the promised land. The good scams concentrate on "training exercises." There's decent money in stinging maladroits who want to dress up in camouflage gear and run around the New Jersey swamps learning how to "survive." I don't run one of the camps - I don't want to meet any of my customers face to face. But, for a reasonable fee, I'm always happy to process their applications.

The pedophile letters always have P.O. boxes of their own for return addresses. One was neatly typed on creamy bond paper, the monogram "CX" engraved in one corner. "l'm always interested in the real thing. Especially discipline, golden showers, and snuff. I hope we can be friends." I put the letter aside. If it wasn't from a Postal Inspector, I had a genuine freak - the kind who expected to pay for his fun. Scumbags. They always manage to get what they pay for. Sometimes I get lucky; then they pay for what they get.

The rest of the mail was replies to our new series of personal ads. We run them everyplace - from literary journals to hard-core slime-sheets. Variations on the same theme: young girl, serving a prison sentence, getting out soon. Lonely, broke, needs a friend.

Honey Blaine is the sweet young girl's name. If any of the suckers bothered to write directly, they'd find an "H. Blame, #86-B-9757," doing time at Bedford Hills. Just the way it said in the ad. Honey would set them straight right away. She'd explain that she couldn't write the kind of letter she'd really like to: the prison censors wouIdn't permit it. Honey had a secret P.O. box, though, and if a sincere man was willing to be a little patient, well . . .

I screened the letters. Michelle answered them. We had a few dozen different photos we used. All Polaroids ("That's the only kind they let us take here, darling"). Whatever the suckers wanted, that's what they got. Honey could be a nineteen-year-old victimized by a cruel pimp. A lesbian whose lover informed on her in a drug deal. A car thief. Anything but a scam artist. She could be the answer to an old man's prayer or the bottom of a minister's ugly fantasy. A very flexible girl, this Honey. All it took was Michelle's never-miss instincts and some creative writing. Honey would play the sucker, work the hook in deep, turning up the heat to full boil. Then the poor girl would start to have problems: a bull dyke hitting on her, demanding her body or her life; a threatened transfer to another section of the prison, where she wouldn't be able to correspond. Overdue rent on the P.O. box. A nice piece of cash needed to bribe the Parole Board. Gate money. And the money orders would start to come in.

After a while, the sucker would get his last letter returned. Unopened. An official prison stamp on the outside. Black-bordered. "Return to sender. Inmate deceased." The suckers always bought it - if it was a scam, why wouldn't sweet Honey have cashed the last money order?

H. Blaine, #86-B-9757, wasn't allowed visitors. Good thing. The name and the number were legit, but Hortense Blaine is a fifty-five-year-old, three-hundred-pound black woman. She raised three generations of foster kids. From babies dropped down incinerators who didn't die, to kiddie prostitutes who never lived. She never had a kid of her own, but she was mother to dozens. Her boyfriend raped one of the kids. A twelve-year-old girl named Princess.

I have a copy of the trial transcript. I got it from the lawyer who's working on the appeal. A hard-blues lyric they'll never put to music.

DIRECT EXAMINATION BY MR. DAVIDSON:

Q: What, if anything, did you do after Princess told you about the rape?

A: I told the child he was never going to hurt her again. I carried her into my room. Put her in my hed.

Q: The same bed you shared with Mr. Jackson?

A: He wasn't going to be using it no more.

Q: And then?

A: I waited for Jackson to come home. He was out gambling someplace. He comes in the door, sits at the kitchen table. Tells me to get him a beer.

Q: Did you get him a beer?

A: Yeah.

Q: Tell the jury what happened next.

A: I asked him why he did this. I said . . .

Q: Excuse me for interrupting you, Mrs. Blaine. You asked him why he raped the child? Not if he did it?

A: There was blood in the child's bed.

Q: I see. Please continue.

A: I asked him why he did what he did. He tells me Princess going to be a woman soon. Won't hurt her none. Get her ready for what life's all about, he said. He said she was walking around in her nightgown when I was out working. Said she asked for it.

Q: Did you see the expression on his face when he said this?

MR. HAYNES: Objection. Calls for a conclusion of the witness.

MR. DAVIDSON: An observation of demeanor is not a conclusion, Judge.

MR. HAYNES: Your Honor, counsel for the defense is trying to introduce blatant hearsay. This is an attempt to impugn the character of a dead man.

MR. DAVIDSON: This Court has already heard the testimony of the child Princess. The character of this rapist is already in evidence.

MR. HAYNES: Objection! Mr. Jackson is not on trial.

MR. DAVIDSON: That's right. He's already been tried.

THE COURT: Gentlemen, that will be quite enough. The objection is overruled.

Q: I ask you again, Mrs. Blame. Did you see the expression on his face when he admitted to you that he raped Princess?

A: Yeah. He was smiling. Like it was nothing.

MR. HAYNES: Objection.

THE COURT: Overruled.

Q: Did he say anything else?

A: He said the little bitch got what she deserved.

Q: What happened then?

A: I picked up the kitchen knife and I stabbed him in his heart.

Q: Did you mean to kill him?

A: Yes.

Q: Why?

A: So he'd never hurt my baby no more.

MR. DAVIDSON: Your witness.

Defending a murder charge wasn't a job for a courthouse gonif. Too many of our people had spent time with Hortense when we were coming up. Like the Prof. Short for "Professor." Or "Prophet." A tiny black omen-master who'd been on the hustle since before I was born, he talked rhyme and he walked crime. The Prof only stood as high as my chest, but he always stood up.

"Cutting up slime ain't no crime," was all he said, dealing himself in on whatever we had to do to raise the cash.

Davidson was the man for the job. A husky guy with a full beard, he plays the game hard. I first heard about him when he defended one of the UGL gunmen years ago. Davidson told us the only way to roll on this one was to do what he called a "psychiatric autopsy" on the dead man.

And he pulled it off. When he was finished, the jury knew Jackson had been a piece of living scum before he died. They came back with a verdict of Manslaughter, Second Degree. You could feel the weight lift - murder carries a twenty-five-to-life top in this state. But Davidson slammed his fist down on the defense table hard enough to break it. He never raised his eyes.

One of the jurors walked over to him. A fat guy in a brown suit. Said Davidson did a great job, asked him for his card. Davidson raised his face to look at the juror. His eyes were wet. "I'm particular about who I defend," he said, turning his back on the juror's outstretched hand.

The judge hit Hortense with two-to-six upstate. Only child molesters get probation in New York. One of her foster sons stood next to her when she got the sentence. All grown up now, he works in a bank, lives in the suburbs. When he heard she was going down, he started to cry. Hortense put a big hand on his shoulder. She had to reach up to do it.

"Be a man," she told him. Not giving an inch.

She gave Davidson a kiss on the cheek and held out her hands for the cuffs.

Davidson's working on the appeal. Working hard, the way he always does. While he's working on the appeal, we're working on putting together some cash for when Hortense walks out. Once a month, the Prof visits her at the prison, bringing a batch of money orders for her to sign. There's a check-cashing joint in the Bronx that doesn't ask a lot of questions. Hortense gets half the money; Michelle and I split the rest. It was supposed to be a four-way split, but the Prof gives his piece to Hortense. "Not all payback's a bitch," he said when we asked him.

Michelle doesn't work the streets anymore. I thought it was AIDS, but she said she couldn't risk a bust now. Now that she's a mother.

So she does phone jobs, suckers letting their credit cards run wild while she talks them over the top. Or she visits her clients indoors.

It was only right that she and Hortense would work a sting together. Walking different sides of the same oneway street.

23

I felt bad, and I didn't know why. I was some cash ahead, for a change. The last job went down like sweet syrup, and maybe there would be some more of that kind of work down the road. Nobody was looking for me.

I didn't spend time thinking about it. I used to do that. I used to do time. A couple of bad habits.

Pansy ambled over to where I was sitting, put her huge head on my lap. She made a noise that sounded like a growl, but I knew what she wanted.

"Not today, girl," I told her, scratching her head between her eyes. Max and I were training her to stay low when she hit. Most dogs leave their feet when they attack, some deep instinct forcing them to go for the throat. That doesn't work on people: human throats are too far off the ground. We take Pansy over to this vacant lot in Brooklyn. Pay some kid ten bucks and talk him into putting on the agitator's suit -leather covered with padded canvas. I hold Pansy on a snap leash, facing the agitator. Max stands to the side with a long bamboo pole. When I send Pansy, Max brings the pole down. Hard. If she stays low, about groin-height, she can nail the kid wearing the suit. If she leaves her feet, Max cracks her in the head. Lately she's been getting through most of the time. I call her off as soon as she gets a good bite.

I have to get a different kid each time. The suit feels like it's armor-plated, but Pansy can turn a leg into liquid right through it.

I flipped the channels on the TV until I found a pro wrestling match. Pansy's favorite. I gave her one of the marrow bones and stretched out on the couch, opening the racing sheet. Maybe I'd find a horse I liked. Make my own kind of investment.

The last thing I remember before I fell asleep was Pansy grinding the marrow bone into powder.

24

It was past ten when I woke up. On the TV, a private detective was getting hit over the head with a tire iron. I lit a smoke. Opened the back door for Pansy. When I walked back inside, the private eye was wide awake and looking for clues.

I took a shower. Looked at my face in the mirror. Deep, past the image. Looked into myself, breathing through my nose, expanding my stomach, exhaling as my chest went out.

When I came out of it, I felt clear. Centered. Ready to go to work.

I shaved carefully. Combed my hair. I put on a pair of dark-gray slacks and a white silk shirt. Alligator boots. Custom-made, but they were a pretty good fit on me anyway. I moved aside some shirts in the bottom drawer of my dresser. Looked at a whole pile of rings, watches, bracelets, gold chains. The spoils of war.

I held a smuggler's necklace in my hand. Each link is a one-ounce gold ingot; it comes apart one piece at a time. Too classy for this job. I pawed through the stuff until I found the right combination: a thick gold neck chain, a gold bracelet, and a gold ring set with a blue star sapphire.

Checked myself in the full-length mirror on the door of the closet. Something missing. I found some gel in the bathroom. Ran it through my hair until it looked thicker and a bit greasy. White hair shot through the black just past my temples. It didn't bother me - the only thing I ever posed for was mug shots.

I slopped some cologne all over my face and neck. To throw the dogs off the scent.

A few hundred bucks in my pocket, one of the Mole's butane lighters, a wallet I stripped of bogus credit cards, and I was ready to visit a strip joint.

25

JFK Airport sits at the end Queens, near the Long Island border, sticking out into the bay. The surrounding swampland is slashed with two-lane side roads running off the expressway. Warehouses, light industry, short-stay motels.

The Highway Department keeps the roads in good shape, but they don't waste any money on streetlights. A bandit's paradise.

I found The Satellite Dish easily enough. A one-story blue stucco building, standing alone on a slab of blacktop. Two long, narrow windows framing a set of double doors, the dark glass covered with fluorescent promises: Go-Go Girls. Topless. Bottomless. Exotic Dancers.

I nosed the Plymouth through the parking lot. General Motors must have held a white-on-white sale: Eldorados, Buick Regals, Oldsmobiles. Vinyl tops, tinted glass, hand-painted monograms on the doors. I left the Plymouth at the edge of the blacktop, dull paint fading into the shadows. It looked abandoned.

I stepped through the double doors into a square foyer. White walls, red carpet. Hawk-faced guy in a powder-blue double-knit suit sitting at a little table to one side. The joint wasn't classy enough to have a hat-check girl - and not hard-core enough to shake you down for weapons.

"Ten bucks cover, pal. And worth every penny," the hawk-faced guy said. His heart wasn't in it.

I paid, went through the next set of doors. The place was bigger than it looked from the outside, so dark I couldn't see the walls. A T-shaped bar ran the entire width of the room, with a long perpendicular runway almost to the door. Small round tables were spread all over the room. Two giant screens, like the ones they use for projection TV, stood in the corners at each end of the long bar. The screens were blank.

The tables were empty. Every man in the place was seated at the bar, most of them along the runway. Hard-rock music circled from hidden speakers. Three girls were on top of the bar. Two blondes and a redhead. All wearing bikini bottoms, high heels, and sparkle dust. Each girl worked her own piece of the bar, bouncing around, talking to the customers. The redhead went to her knees in front of a guido with a high-rise haircut and diamonds on his fingers. She spun on the bar, dropped her shoulders. The guido pulled down her panties, stuffed some bills between her thighs, patted her butt. She gave him a trembly wiggle, reached back and pulled up the panties, spun around again, ran her tongue over her lips. Danced away.

It was somewhere between the South Bronx shacks where the girls would blow you in the back booths and the steak-and-silicone joints in midtown where they called you "sir" but wouldn't screw you out of anything more than your money.

I found an empty stool near the left side of the T. A brunette wearing a red push-up bra under a transparent white blouse leaned over the bar toward me. She raised her eyebrows, smiling the smile they all use.

"Gin-and-tonic," I told her, putting a fifty on the bar. "Plenty of ice. Don't mix them."

She winked. I was obviously a with-it guy. No watered drinks for this stud.

She brought me a tall glass of tonic, jigger of gin on the side. Put four ten-dollar bills back in front of me. Class costs.

"My name is Laura," she cooed. "I go on after the last set. You going to be here?"

I nodded. She took one of the ten-spots off the bar, looked a question at me. I nodded. She stuffed it between her breasts, winked at me, and went back to work. I left the money on the bar.

I sipped my tonic, waiting.

The music stopped. A short, stocky guy in a pink sport coat over a billowy pair of white slacks stepped to the intersection of the T. The lights went down. The house man hit the stocky guy with a baby spot. He had a wireless microphone in one hand.

"Here's what you've heen waiting for . . . the fabulous . . . Debbie, and the Dance of Domination!"

The bar went dark again. Most of the men moved to the back tables. A door at the right of the T opened, and two dim shapes walked to the intersection. The music started. No words, heavy bass-lines and drums. One of the shapes went off the stage.

A hard white spot burned the center of the T, making it into an isolated island. A black straight-back chair stood by itself, thick high posts on each side. The giant TV screens flickered into life. The camera zoomed in on the chair, filling the picture.

A blonde in a black sheath came into the light. Black spikes on her feet, black gloves up to her elbows. A black pillbox hat on her head, a black veil covering her face. She sat down on the chair, crossed her legs. She tilted her chin up, waiting.

I could hear the humans breathing under the music, but there was no conversation. Topless waitresses were working the darkness, stopping at the little tables, taking orders for drinks. Business was booming.

It was like no strip act I'd ever seen. No playing to the audience - they were all watching through a window. Quiet. Lost and alone in their ugliness.

The stage went dark. The music stopped. Herd sounds from the crowd.

Nobody moved.

When the spot came on again, the blonde was on her knees, facing the crowd. She ran her hand across her thighs, into her crotch, as the music built. Then she lifted the veil slowly. The pillbox hat came off. The camera came in on her face. She licked her lips, her eyes wide. As she opened her mouth, the stage went dark again.

It stayed dark for a couple of minutes. Cigarette lighters snapped in the crowd. Tiny red flares.

Flood came into my mind. I saw her struggling to work skin-tight pants over her hips, shifting from toe to toe, flexing her legs. Bending over another chair, in another place, the fire-scar on her rump dark against the white skin. I put the image down - those bodies were buried.

The lights came up again, blaring rock music came back through the speakers, the TV screens went dark. Three different girls were working the top of the bar, gesturing for the men to come away from the little tables and get closer.

I poured the gin into the empty tonic glass, mixing it with the ice. The bargirl came back to where I was sitting, bringing me another set; she put my empty glasses on a little tray.

"You like that stuff?"

"Not my taste," I said.

"Maybe later you'll tell me what you like," she whispered, sweeping the rest of my money off the bar, doubling her tip.

I reached in my pocket for another fifty. Waiting for Belle wasn't a cheap job.

26

I figured Belle must work as one of the back-table waitresses, but I didn't want to ask for her by name. The tables stayed empty while the girls worked the top of the bar, so I'd have to wait for the next number, move into the darkness by myself, look around. I sipped my tonic, lit another smoke.

I watched the girls spread themselves on the long bar, as turned-on as a gynecologist.

It was a good twenty minutes and another half-century note before the guy in the pink jacket took center stage again. "Cassandra," was all he said. The stage went dark again. I could see shapes moving around, setting things up. This time I went back to a table near the back wall. I took the tonic, left the gin.

When the spot hit the stage, a girl was seated on a padded chair, looking into a mirror. The camera came in on her face. Belle. A mask of makeup making the soft lines hard, a white bathrobe around her shoulders, a white ribbon around her hair.

The speakers fired into life. Nasty music, zombie-swamp blues, voodoo drums.

Belle was taking off the makeup, patting her face with cream. She shrugged her shoulders and the robe dropped to her waist. Her breasts were enormous, standing out straight, defying gravity in a white D-cup bra. The camera watched them in the mirror.

She rose to her feet, holding the robe in one hand at her waist like a skirt. The spotlight widened: she was in a bedroom, white ruffled bedspread, white shag rug on the floor. Belle stalked the white room, a young girl getting ready for bed. Running a brush through her thick hair, maybe humming to herself. She opened her hand and the robe dropped to the floor. Belle hooked it with one foot, delicately tossed it onto the bed.

With the robe off, it was a different Belle on the screen. She faced the crowd in the white bra and plain matching panties, bending slightly forward, as if she was looking out into the night. The big woman wasn't fat; she was wasp-waisted. When she turned sideways, the stinger was a beauty, standing out by itself, straining against the fabric.

The music came harder. Her hips wiggled, like they had a mind of their own. She paced the room, stretching the way a cat does, bending to touch her toes, working off the restlessness, too wired to sleep.

The speakers spit out the music, sliding from the voodoo drums into words. Words I'd never heard before. A man's voice, gospel-tinted blues now. Warning. Blood moon rising. Slide guitar climbing on top of the drums, picking high notes, bending them against the black fabric of the bass. The words came through at the bottom of my brain; my eyes were locked on Belle.

The swamp gets mean at night.

Bloody shadows eat the light,

Things that snarl,

Things that bite,

Things no man can fight.

The music stayed dense, but the tempo picked up. Belle cocked her head, listening. She unsnapped the bra, carefully hung it on the bedpost. Her huge breasts didn't sag an inch. She raised her hands high above her head, touching them together, standing on her toes. She made a complete turn that way, a tiny smile on her face. Not a muscle twitched in the smooth skin. Her body was as seamless as an air-brushed photograph. Her shoes were gone. She stalked the little room again, listening to the throbbing music, rolling her head on the column of her neck, working out the kinks. A nurse, tired from a hard day's work? A waitress, finished with her shift?

The camera ran the length of her body. Only the white panties on her hips, a thin gold chain around her neck, a gold cross resting between her breasts. Some kind of blue mark on the front of one thigh. Even with the camera zooming in, I couldn't make it out.

She rolled the panties over her hips, down past her butt. It took a long time, but not because she was teasing the audience - the panties had a long way to travel. Belle picked them off the floor, fluffed them out, went over to the bed, and hung them on the bedpost. On top of the white bra.

The music drove harder.

Belle dropped to her knees in front of the low bed. She clasped her hands. A little girl praying. The camera moved from her broad shoulders, past her tiny waist, down to the giant globes of her butt. The seamless skin was sweaty in the burning spotlight.

The words pushed back the music.

Yes, boy, you better beware,

You better walk with care.

You can carry a cross,

You can carry a gun,

But when you hear the call, you better run.

There's worse things than gators out there.

Worse things than gators out there.

Belle's whole body was shaking now. Trembling as the spotlight blended from white to blood-red and back to white. She got to her feet and turned to face the crowd. She pulled back the covers, slid into the bed. She fluffed the pillow, pulled the covers to her shoulders, lying on her side. The mound of her hip was as high as her shoulders. The music faded down. The lights dimmed.

The music wouldn't let her sleep. Her body thrashed under the covers. Drums working her hips, guitar plucking her soft breasts. A blue spot burned down on her face buried in the pillow, turning her taffy-honey hair a ghostly white. The spot turned a softer blue, widening to cover the whole bed. The warning voice came back, soft, demanding. Telling the truth, the way the blues always does.

There's worse things than gators out there, boy.

Much worse things than gators out there.

Belle threw back the covers, the music pulling her from the bed. She looked out into the night, shook herself. She reached for her robe, put one arm into a sleeve. Then she dropped the robe to the floor.

The blue spot played over her body as she walked into the darkness.

27

When the lights came up, I saw I had two more drinks in front of me. I hadn't touched them. The pile of tenspots in front of me was lighter.

I went back to my spot at the end of the bar, no closer to talking with Belle than I'd been. Laura came over to me, her little tray loaded with another gin-and-tonic in separate glasses. She leaned over the bar.

"You like that act better?"

I felt a hand on my shoulder. "He sure does," said a little girl's voice.

I didn't turn around. I knew who it was.

"Is this yours?" Laura asked Belle.

"All mine," Belle said.

"I thought you didn't like men," Laura said, a nasty little smile on her face.

"I don't like boys."

Laura looked past me. She reached her hand over to my pile of tens. Took one. Stuffed it in her cleavage, looking over my shoulder.

"Take two," Belle told her, razor tips on her breathy voice.

Laura shrugged, pretending she was thinking about it. She pulled another bill off the bar and walked away.

I felt Belle's face close to mine in the darkness. Smelled her little-girl sweat.

"Where's your car?" she whispered in my ear.

I told her.

"Finish your tonic. I'll meet you outside in ten minutes."

I felt her move away.

28

I was still on my first smoke when I saw the floating white shape moving through the parking lot toward the car. Belle. In a white shift a little smaller than a pup tent.

She opened the door and slid into the front seat. "Got a cigarette, big boy?" she asked, her voice a parody.

I gave her one. Snapped off a wooden match, watching her face in the glare. It was scrubbed clean again. She inhaled the way you take a hit off an oxygen tank. Her breasts moved under the shift. Her thighs gleamed in the night. The blue mark was a tattoo. A tiny snake, coiled in an S shape.

She saw me looking. "You like my legs?"

"They look like, if you squeezed them, you'd get juice."

"Want to try?"

I put my hand on her thigh, fitting the snake tattoo in the web between my thumb and finger.

"Not that one," she said.

I moved my hand. Squeezed. Felt the baby skin on top, the long, hard muscles beneath. I watched her face.

"No juice."

"Not there," she said, shifting her hips on the car seat. I took my hand away. Lit another smoke. "How long were you watching?" I asked her.

"How'd you know?"

"You knew where to find me in the dark."

"Maybe I worked my way through the joint."

"You knew I wasn't drinking the gin."

Belle took another deep drag. "Maybe you are a detective," she said, a little smile playing around her lips. "There's a strip of one-way glass that runs all around the place. So we can see who comes in."

I didn't say anything, watching the snake tattoo. "You know why it's set up like that?" "That joint can't be making money. The strip acts cost a lot to package. The projection TV, the music system, all that. You're running a low cover charge. You don't sell sex. Even with the guidos paying grope-money and the watered drinks, the boss couldn't break even."

"And . . ."

"And the building's a hell of a lot bigger than the bar." Belle took a last drag. Threw her cigarette out the open window. "What's that tell you?"

"Who knows? You got space enough back there for trucks to pull in?"

"Sure."

"The airport's real close . . ."

My pack of smokes was sitting on top of the dashboard. Belle helped herself to one. I lit it for her.

"Marques said you were a hijacker."

"Marques is a pimp."

"I know. Not my pimp. I work for me. That's why that bitch made that crack about me not liking men. I don't sell sex."

"If you did, you'd be rich."

That bought me another smile. Then, "You came out here to tell me you're going to meet with him?"

"Tuesday night."

"Why Tuesday?"

"That's your night off; right?"

"So?"

"So you're coming along."

"Says who?"

"That's the deal, Belle. Tuesday night. Pier 47. Marques knows where it is. Eleven o'clock. Tell him to bring two grand. Tell him that's mine. For the talk."

"That's a lot of money for talk."

"You get paid for your work - I get paid for mine."

Belle took another drag. "What time will you pick me up?"

"I won't. Tell Marques it's gunfighters' rules - we each bring one person with us. He gets to bring you."

"I don't use guns."

"Neither does the guy I'm bringing with me. Tell Marques what I said. He'll get it."

"I don't want Marques knowing where I live."

"Tell him to meet you someplace."

"And after . . ."

"I'll take you home," I told her.

"Should I call you and tell you if he . . . ?"

"Don't call me. I'll be at the pier. Just tell him if he doesn't show not to call me again."

"You take me home anyway."

"Yes."

Belle leaned against me. A big, sweet-smelling girl with a snake tattoo on her thigh. She pushed her hand against my chest, holding me against the seat. Kissed me hard on the mouth, saying, "See you Tuesday," at the same time.

I watched the white shift dance in the dark parking lot until it disappeared behind the blue building.

29

Max was already dealt in on the meeting with Marques. I could get a message to the Mole easy enough, even if he didn't answer his phone. That still left me a few days to find the Prof.

It might take that long. The little man could be sleeping in doorways or prowling hotel corridors. He could be working the subway tunnels or the after-hours joints. He never had an address, but you couldn't call him "homeless." I asked him once why he didn't find himself a crib somewhere - why he lived in the street. "I got the balls, and I don't like walls," he told me. He didn't have to explain any more than that - we'd met in prison.

I think "Prof' was once short for "Professor," because he always seemed so much older and smarter than the rest of us. But somewhere along the line, he started telling the kind of truth they never write down in books, and now it stands for "Prophet."

A citizen couldn't find the Prof, but I knew where he picked up his paycheck. A few years ago, I'd fixed him up with SSI. Psychiatric disability. His official diagnosis was "Schizophrenia. Chronic, undifferentiated." The resident at Bellevue noted the Prof's grossly disorganized thought pattern, his grandiose pronouncements, his delusion that he was getting his marching orders from the dead spirit of Marcus Garvey. A typical microwave case. They tried medication and it did what it usually does - the Prof got sleepy. It was worth the thirty-day investment. When they discharged the Prof, they gave him a one-week supply of medication, a standing appointment at the clinic, and what the little man called his "crazy papers."

Once a year, the federales would send a letter to the Prof demanding a "face to face." He had to make a personal appearance at the clinic. Not to prove that he was still crazy, just that he was still alive. Uncle Sam likes to keep a close watch on his money.

It was a two-sided scam. Not only did the Prof get a disability check every month, but the diagnosis was a Get Out of Jail Free card in case he ever went down for something major. Nothing like putting an insanity defense together before you commit the crime. The government mails him the check to General Delivery, at the giant post office on Eighth Avenue, right across from Madison Square Garden. There are so many homeless people in New York that the General Delivery window does more business than most small towns.

I addressed a postcard to the Prof. Wrote "Call home" on the back, and dropped it in the box.

30

By late Tuesday evening, I had everything in place. I ate dinner at Mama's, working over my copy of Harness Lines, looking for a horse that would make me rich. Max came in, carrying his baby, Immaculata at his side. Mama snatched the baby from Max and pushed him toward my booth. She took Immaculata into a corner of her own. I saw a flash of pink as the purse changed hands.

I explained to Max that there'd be five hundred apiece for us no matter what Marques wanted. We weren't going to rough off any extras unless the pimp got stupid. He pointed at the racing sheet I had spread out in front of me, looked a question. I shook my head - there was nothing worth an investment.

Max held up five fingers, looked a question. He knew Marques was paying four times that - where was the rest of the money going? It wasn't like Max to ask. Maybe a baby changes everything. I held one hand chest-high, waving the other in sweeping gestures. The Prof. Then I made goggles of my hands, held them over my eyes. Max looked a question. I made the sign of pushing a plunger with both hands, setting off an explosion. The Mole. He looked another question - why all these people for a meeting? I spilled salt on the table, drew a circle. I put two coins inside the circle. Marques plus one coin. He was bringing somebody with him. I put down two more. Me and Max. Then I added the Prof, tapping the side of my head. I didn't know what Marques wanted and I might have to give him an answer right there. The Prof knew the hustling scene - he'd be more on top of Marques than I would.

I picked up one more coin, gesturing that it was the Mole. Put it on the table, deliberately outside the circle. Patted my back. Insurance policy. Max nodded.

Immaculata came over to the table, put her hand on Max's shoulder.

"Burke, is this dangerous?"

"Not a chance, Mac," I said, making the sign of steering a car. "You think I'm going to let Max drive?"

She laughed. Max looked burned. He thought he could drive the same way he walked: with people stepping aside when they saw him coming. But weasels who wouldn't meet his eyes on the street get big balls when they're behind the wheel. Driving a car, he was a rhino on angel dust.

Max kissed Flower goodbye. Mac held the baby's little hand at the wrist, helping her wave goodbye to her father.

31

We found the Prof where he said he'd be, standing by a bench at the east end of the park in Union Square. When he saw the Plymouth pull up, he hoisted a canvas sack over one shoulder and walked to us. The Prof was wearing a formal black tuxedo, complete with a white carnation in the lapel. The shiny coat reached almost to his feet, like a cattleman's duster. Some chump was going to be poorly dressed for his senior prom.

"Yo, bro', what you know?" he greeted us, climbing in the back of the Plymouth like it was the limo he'd been waiting for.

I turned west on 14^th, heading for the river. The Prof poked his head between me and Max, linking our shoulders with his hands. "What's down, Burke?"

"Like I told you, Prof. Marques Dupree wants a meet. He went to a lot of trouble to get to me - walking around the edges. He's supposed to bring two G's with him. Four-way split. All we have to do is listen to his pitch."

"Who's the fourth?"

"The Mole will be there. Off to the side."

"You want me to ride the trunk?"

"No, we go in square. I don't know what he wants, okay? I may need a translator,"

"The street is my beat," said the Prof.

Max looked straight ahead.

We got to the pier around ten-thirty. I pulled the Plymouth against the railing, parked it parallel. The pier was deserted except for a dark, boxy sedan parked about a hundred feet behind us.

We all got out. Max was dressed in flowing black parachute pants and a black sweatshirt. Thin-soled black leather shoes on his feet. He disappeared into the shadows. The Prof stood next to him. I leaned against the railing a few feet away. We waited. Max and the Prof took turns smoking, Max bending forward every time he took a drag when it was his turn. A watcher would see the little red dots, murky shapes. Two people.

Headlights hit the pier. A big old Rolls-Royce, plum-colored, with black fenders. I could see two heads behind the windshield. The Rolls parked at right angles to the Plymouth. Two doors opened. The Prof and I stepped into the outer fringe of the headlights, letting whoever was in the car see us.

Two people came toward us. Belle was a shapeless hulk in a gray sweatsuit. Even with sneakers on her feet, she was as tall as the man next to her.

Marques Dupree. A chesty mahogany man with a smooth, round face. He was wearing a dove-gray silk suit with a metallic pinstripe. Deep-slashed lapels over a peach-colored shirt. Sprayed in diamonds. He and Belle stopped in front of me.

"You're Burke?"

"Yeah."

"Who's this?" Indicating the Prof.

"My brother."

"You don't look like brothers."

"We had the same father."

Marques smiled. I caught the flash of a diamond in his mouth. "I never did time, myself."

I didn't want to swap life stories. "You want to do business?" I asked him.

Marques put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a roll of bills. A car door slammed. He didn't turn around. "What's that?"

"Just checking your car. Making sure you didn't bring friends."

"You said one friend apiece."

"You said you never did time."

Another door slammed. I lit a cigarette. Two more slamming doors. A bright burning dot of light fired where the dark sedan was parked. Okay.

"Your trunk is locked," I said. "I don't need to open it. Let's walk over this way."

I moved to my left, farther away from the parked cars. Marques kept his cash in his fist.

"Here it is," I said. "If anyone opens your trunk, there's a big bang. Okay? Everything goes right here tonight, goes like it's supposed to, my friend takes the package off your trunk. Understand?"

"No problem. You said two large?"

I nodded.

Marques peeled hundreds off his roll, letting me see the two thousand was nothing. I pocketed the cash.

Marques turned to Belle. "Go sit in the car."

She turned to go, nothing on her face. "Stay where you are," I said.

Marques shrugged, his face showing nothing. I knew what was in his mind - if Belle was a hostage, she was a worthless one.

I lit a cigarette. Max materialized out of the night. Marques jumped, his hands flying to his face. Max reached out one hand, picked up the Prof by the back of his jacket, and hoisted him to the railing.

Marques slowly dropped his hands. "You got a lot of friends, huh?"

"A lot of friends," I assured him.

He adjusted his cuffs, letting me see the diamond watch, getting his rap down smooth before he laid it out. Pimps don't like talking on their feet. "I paid for some time."

"Here it is."

Marques took a breath through his nose. It sounded hollow. Cocaine does that. His voice had that hard-sweet pimp sound, promise and threat twisting together like snakes in a basket. "We never met, but we know each other. I know what you do - you know what I do. I have a problem. A business problem."

I watched his face. His eyes were narrow slits in folds of hard flesh. I backed up so the Prof could put his hand on my shoulder.

"I'm listening."

"I am a player. A major player. I got a stable of racehorses, you follow me? All my girls are stars. All white, and all right."

The Prof laughed. "You got nothing but tire-biters and streetscarfers, my man. One of your beasts sees the front seat of a car, she thinks it's the Hilton."

Marques looked at me. "Who's this, man? Your designated hitter?"

"No, pal. He's a polygraph machine."

"You know my action or not?"

I felt the Prof's hand on my shoulder. A quick squeeze.

"Yes," I said.

"Then you know I don't run no jail bait, right? No kiddie pross in my string?"

Another squeeze from the Prof. I nodded agreement.

"I am an elevated player, you understand? That ride cost me over a hundred grand, and I got a better one back at my crib. I wear the best, I eat the best, and I live the best. I don't associate with these half-ass simps who think they can run on the fast track. I don't hang around the Port Authority snatching runaways. I don't wear no leopardskin hats, I don't flash no zircons, and that ain't no Kansas City bankroll in my pocket. My ladies are clean machines, and they're all of righteous age. I got lawyers, I got a bondsman, and I got my act together, all right? I don't make trouble, and I don't take trouble."

The Prof spoke up, his voice a near-perfect imitation of the pimp's. "Okay, Jim, you ain't Iceberg Slim. We got the beat, get to the meat."

Marques smiled. "You got some rhythm, man. The little nigger does the rapping, you just stand there."

"I talk the talk, Burke walks the walk," the Prof told him.

Marques wasn't a good listener. "What's the chink do, man? You going to send out for Chinese food?"

The Profs voice went soft. "This is Max the Silent, pimp. You hear the name, you should know the game."

Recognition flashed in the pimp's eyes. "He's the one . . ."

"That's right, fool," said the Prof, cutting him off.

"Max ain't Chinese, but he sure as hell does take-out work."

"You done with the dozens?" I asked.

"Yeah, man, let's drop the games. I know you're a hijacker, I know you run guns, I know you do work on people. I need some work done."

"I don't work for pimps."

"I know that, man. You think everybody on the street don't know who shot Merlin?"

"I don't know any Merlin."

"Yeah, right. 'Course you don't. But I know Merlin was no player, man. He was a stone rapist - that's what he was. Jumping on those little girls like an animal. Whoever shot him did all the real players a favor."

"So?"

"So you got no beef with me, man. I know you used to rough off trollers in Times Square - take them down right in the bus station. I know you chase runaways. See what I'm saying? I know you. That's why I didn't call myself. Didn't want you to get the wrong idea." He waved his hand at Belle. "I paid this bitch real money just to put you and me together."

"That lady don't look like no bitch to me," the Prof said. "Don't look like one of yours either."

Belle stepped slightly to the side, flashing a tiny smile at the Prof.

"She don't need to be mine to be a bitch, man. They all sell their time."

"I didn't know you were a philosopher, Marques," I told him. "And I don't give a fuck. The only time you bought here is mine. And you've about used it up."

Marques locked eyes with me. "You know the Ghost Van?" he asked.

The Prof's hand bit into my shoulder.

I nodded.

The pimp went on as though I'd said no. "Big smoke-colored van. No windows. A few weeks ago, it comes off the river on Twenty-ninth. I got ladies working that block. Van pulls past the pack. Stops. One of the baby girls, not mine, she trots over. The doors swing open and she drops in the street. Nobody heard a shot. The other girls get in the wind. Papers say the little girl was fourteen. Shot in the chest. Dead."

I lit another smoke. Beads of sweat on the pimp's smooth face, his hands working like he didn't know where to put them.

"The next week, two more shootings. Two dead girls. One fifteen, one nineteen. I move my girls over to the East Side, but the pickings too slim there. This van must come off the river. The girls say it's like a ghost. One minute everything's cool; the next this gray thing is on the street. Taking life.

"Last week, one of the little girls gets in a blue Caddy. The Caddy goes up the street. One of my ladies gets curious; she pokes her head around the corner. Two guys get out of the Caddy, holding the girl. She's kicking and screaming. They throw her into the Ghost Van. The Caddy drives off and the van just fucking disappears.

"My ladies don't want to work. The street's like a church social, man. I move the girls again. Way downtown. Brooklyn. The Bronx. Everyplace, man. Three more girls been shot, one more snatched. All near the river. But even out of the city, working girls be saying they seen the van. Like a hawk coming down. The girls see the shadow, they run."

"What do you want from me?"

"Cops is all over the street. My ladies got to work someplace. If they can't work near the river, I got a serious deficit, you follow me? Between the Man and the van, I'm up against it. Until they take that van off, my girls are running scared, jumping at shadows. That hurts me, man."

"In the pocket."

"Yeah, okay, Burke. You a good citizen, right? You look down on me - that's your business. But this is your business too, the way I hear it."

"How's that?"

"The van is full of shooters and snatchers, man. And babies is what they hit. Right up your alley, right?"

"Wrong."

"Look, man, let's all be telling the truth here. The word's been out a long time - you got a kiddie problem, you call Burke. I know you ain't no social worker. You an outlaw, like me. You just work a different side of the street."

"I work for money."

"You think I'm here for myself? The players got together. This is bad for everyone, not just Marques Dupree. We put up a kitty."

"Pussy put up the kitty," said the Prof.

"Call it like you see it, it make you feel better. I call it what it is."

I waited.

"A bounty. Fifty thousand bucks. Dead or alive. The van's got to go. Goes to Attica, goes to Forest Lawn, makes no difference to us."

"Hire a private eye."

"I said a bounty, man. I look like a fucking trick to you? We not paying anyone by the hour."

"Put the money out on the street."

"Can't do that."

"Why?"

"We can't wait for some faggot to drop a dime. And we can't be sure the Man will do the work anyway."

"Why not?"

"We heard the van's protected. That's all I know. But the word is out, all over the street. Uptown, downtown. The van has to have a parking place, you got it?"

The Prof's hand worked on my shoulder again.

"Yeah," I said.

"It's good money, Burke. I'll work out any collateral you want."

"You're carrying your collateral."

Marques looked puzzled. "My jewelry?"

"Your head," I told him.

He took another deep breath. "You'll do it?"

"I'll think about it."

"You need to know anything else?" he asked.

"When the van goes down, we'll be around," said the Prof.

"Let's go, bitch," Marques said to Belle.

"She'll go with me," I said.

Marques Dupree smiled. "You like cows?"

"Go home and play with your coat hangers," I told him, waving to the Mole. So Marques could open his trunk later without losing his collateral.

32

The Rolls moved off. "Wait in the car," I told Belle. She waggled her fingers at the Prof in a goodbye. "Good night, pretty lady," he said. Max stood stone-still.

I watched her walk away.

"Prof, you know what he was running down?"

"The van's for real, Burke. It's been all over the street for weeks."

"You know something?"

"Something. When I know it all, I'll give you the call." I gave Max his five hundred, a thousand to the Prof.

"Take care of the Mole - he'll drop you off." Max bowed. I shook hands with the Prof. "Watch yourself," I told him.

I got into the Plymouth. Belle was sitting against the passenger door, looking out at the river through the open window.

"Where to?" I asked her, watching the dark sedan pull away.

33

Belle reached into the waistband of her sweatsuit, pulled out a pack of smokes. I handed her my little box of wooden matches, waiting. She inhaled deeply. It was like watching the Alps shift.

"You know Broad Channel?"

"Sure."

"I'll show you once we get on to Cross Bay Boulevard."

I pointed the Plymouth downtown, heading for the Battery Tunnel.

"How'd you meet Marques?"

"When I first came to New York. I was working at Rosie's Show Bar."

"Dancing?"

"I was a barmaid."

"He try and turn you out?"

"He thinks I'm a lesbian. Okay?"

She knew the score. Plenty of lesbians turn tricks, but a smart pimp doesn't want one in his stable. One day he turns around and he's missing two girls.

"They think the same thing at that joint you work at?"

"The boss doesn't care one way or the other."

"So why did Marques pick you for a messenger?"

"It's one of the things I do. I carry stuff, drive a car, deliver a message . . . like that, you know?"

"You carry powder?"

"No."

"That's where the money is."

"The fall's too far."

"You ever been down?"

"Just overnight a couple of times. Once for a week. ln West Virginia."

"What for?"

"The cops thought I drove on a bank job. They didn't want me - I was just a kid - they wanted the gunman."

"They only held you a week?"

She caught something in my tone. "I stood up, Burke. The P.D. got bail for me and I caught a bus north. I know how to do It - if I go to jail, I go by myself."

"You never did time - where'd you learn the rules?"

Belle smiled in the dark. Slapped the side of one thigh. "Maybe I'm too heavy to roll over."

I looped the Plymouth onto the Belt Parkway, heading east to Queens. A red panel truck ahead of me changed lanes suddenly, cutting me off. I tapped the brakes, flicked the wheel to the right, touched the gas. The Plymouth flowed around the panel truck like a shark passing a rowboat. Belle wiggled her hips deep into the seat, testing her balance.

"This car's a lot more than it looks."

"So are you."

Her smile flashed again. A prim smile, showing just the tips of her teeth.

I wheeled the Plymouth off the Belt, picking my way through Ozone Park. No reason for Marques to have the car followed, but Belle said she played by our rules - she wouldn't want the pimp knowing where she lived. We stopped at a light. An abandoned factory stood to the side, waiting for a developer to finish the job a fire started years ago. It was wallpapered with graffiti except for a broad rectangle in the center that somebody had carefully whitewashed. On that white canvas was a message, lovingly slash-scripted by a gifted graffiti-writer. Day-Glo orange letters, shadowed in black so they screamed off the wall.

DISS AT YOUR OWN RISK!

Belle read the message, fascinated, going over every word, biting her lower lip. "What does it mean. 'Diss'?"

"It's short for 'disrespect.' This is a border town. Black and white."

She didn't say another word until we turned onto the Boulevard. I followed her directions into Broad Channel. Mostly little bungalows, set close together, right on the water. Years ago they were summer shacks, but most of them had been fixed up now, and people lived there year-round.

The cottage was at the end of a short block. White with blue trim around the one window, the dark roof almost flat across the top. Her red Camaro was parked in front.

"This is me," she said.

34

I slid the Plymouth to the curb, killed the engine. The block was quiet, every house dark.

"Come in with me?" Belle asked.

The cottage was set close to the sidewalk, the path to her front door only a few feet long. She turned her key in the door, pushed it open, stepped aside. The inside of the house was in shadow; a soft light coming from the back. Belle motioned me to go ahead of her.

"You first," I said.

A little smile. "You being polite? Or scared?"

"Scared."

She walked in ahead of me. I watched from the doorway, gently pushing the door back and forth with my left hand, feeling for resistance. Belle bent from the waist in the shadows. I heard a click. A lamp came to life. She rnoved a few feet. Another.

"Close the door behind you," she said.

The cottage was one big room. A long modular couch took up one wall, side tables with lamps on either end. The kitchen was strung out along the opposite wall, Hollywood-style, everything half-size. The side walls were blank, no windows.

"You want coffee?"

"No, thanks."

I lit a cigarette, walking toward the couch. The back of the house was still dark. I could see a triple-width window next to a door on the far left, a bed on the right.

Belle pulled the top of the sweatsuit over her head, tossing it into a white plastic basket next to the refrigerator. Her black bra was some kind of jersey material, the straps crossing behind her back so her shoulders were bare. She stepped out of the sweatpants. Underneath she had what looked like a pair of men's white boxer shorts.

She took her coffee cup in one hand, a pack of cigarettes in the other. Walked to the back door.

I opened it for her, followed her outside. A wood deck stretched out in the black water, a waist-high railing on both sides. The other cottages had decks too. I saw a small sailboat tied to one, a rowboat with an outboard to another. Belle walked out to the end, carefully balancing her coffee cup.

"Hold this," she said, handing the coffee and cigarettes to me. She turned her back to the water, one palm out to each side, and vaulted herself onto the railing. I put the coffee cup on one side of her perch, handed her back the smokes. She kicked one out, leaned forward, one hand on my shoulder for balance. I lit it for her.

I could feel the night air's chill through my jacket. Belle didn't seem to notice. I leaned my elbows on the railing next to her, watching the harbor lights a half-mile away. I felt her hand on my shoulder again.

"Did you really do all that stuff?" A soft voice, loaded with her breath. A girl's voice. The twisted snake tattoo stood out sharply on her thigh, inches from my face.

"What stuff?"

"What that guy said tonight."

"No."

She giggled the way kids do when they know you're playing with them.

"Yes, you did," she said.

I shrugged.

"I have something you might be interested in," she said, her voice quiet.

"You got something anybody'd be interested in."

She giggled. "I didn't mean that. Business. Can I tell you about it?"

"Not here."

"Why?"

"Sound carries over water."

She put an arm around my neck, pulling her face close to mine. Whispering. "You think I don't know that? I was raised on the water. Inside."

"Okay."

I turned toward the house, slipping an arm around her waist. She slid off the railing against me, her legs pointing straight out. I threw up my other arm instinctively, grabbing her thighs. Belle nestled into my arms. "Carry me," she said, soft-voiced.

"I'll get a double hernia," I growled at her, leaning against the railing for support.

"Please."

I would have shrugged again, but I needed all my strength.

She ducked her head into my chest as we went through the door, pushing it closed with her toe. I tried to put her down on the couch gently, but I dropped her the last couple of feet.

I flopped down next to her. "I love to be carried," she said, leaning over and kissing my cheek.

"Don't get used to it."

Belle bounced off the couch. She came back in a minute. Put her coffee cup in the sink, lit two cigarettes off the gas burner, walked over, and handed one to me.

"You first," she said.

I dragged deep on the cigarette, wondering how she knew.

"That music . . ."

"In my act?"

"Yeah. Swamp blues. I never heard it before. Louisiana?"

"Florida. It's an old record. I don't even know the singer. I found it in a store in the city."

"How do you know it's from Florida?"

Belle got off the couch. Walked over to the darkened bed. She hit a light switch. The bed was low, covered in white, a white rug on the floor. It was the bed in her act.

She came back to the couch, pulling her bra over her head as she walked. Turned off the two lamps on the end tables, one by one. She stretched out full-length on the couch, her head in my lap, facing up at me, eyes closed. Even with her arms at her sides, her breasts stood straight up at me, carved in flesh.

Her face was indistinct in the soft light, her eyes lost in the sheaf of taffy-honey hair. No lipstick on her mouth. Only the tiny chin with its sharp point moving.

"I'm from Florida. When I heard that song, I knew it was a home call. Understand?"

"Yeah."

She took my hand, pressed it to where her breast covered her heart. I could feel the beat. Strong, slow, steady.

"What did you think of my act?"

"I never saw anything like it before."

"Each girl gets to design her own. As long as our clothes come off before the lights go out."

"It's a psychiatric mirror."

"A what?"

"A psychiatric mirror. You do your act - people watch it - they all see something different - if you knew what they were thinking, you'd know them."

"Like that inkblot test?"

"Just like that."

Belle sighed. A tiny slash of white across her face where she chewed her lower lip. "It's true. Men send notes backstage."

"You ever answer them?"

"No. I'm like you."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't work for pimps either."

"You could work for yourself."

"I do work for myself - I'm not for sale."

She reached for my cigarette, ignoring her own. Put it in her mouth, took a deep drag. The smoke shot out her nose. I watched her stomach muscles flex.

"Did it work on you?"

"What?"

"My act - did you think of something?"

I bit into the cigarette filter. "I saw it like a play. Young girl coming into herself. Things pulling at her. Evil calling.

"Tell the truth - you saw a play?"

'Like a play. It all meant something."

"Not what you think."

"Yeah, exactly what I think. That's the way the mirror works."

Belle pulled herself into a sitting position, her back to me. She got to her feet, took my hand. "Come on," she said.

She walked over to the bed. Put a hand against my chest. "Stay here," she said. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the shorts, pulling them over her hips, dropping them to her feet. She stepped out of the shorts and padded to the bed. She fell to her knees, bent forward onto the bed, her hands clasped in front of her.

"Tell the truth," she said again, her little-girl voice almost hissing. Demanding. "What did you see?"

I looked at the shadows play over her body. "I saw a young girl. Praying."

"What did it make you want to do?" she whispered, looking back at me over one shoulder, wiggling her butt.

I took a breath. Telling the truth. "Answer your prayers," I told her.

Her little chin came up, smile flashing. "Come on," she said

35

She stayed on her knees, watching me over her shoulder. She cocked her head to one side, listening as my clothes hit the floor.

"Where's your gun?"

"I don't have one."

"Marques did."

"I know - in his left-hand pocket," I said, standing next to her, my hand on her shoulder.

She came to her feet, facing me. Without the heels, she was maybe a half-inch shorter than me. Her eyes were set so close together it was hard to look into them. I ran two fingers along her jawline, feeling for bone lost in the soft flesh, cupping her little chin. I kissed her softly, feeling her lips swell. Her teeth clicked against mine.

"How'd you know he had a gun?" she asked, her tongue darting out, whispering into my mouth.

I moved my hands to her waist, and down to her sculptured butt, feeling the soft skin, squeezing the hard muscles beneath the surface. She locked her hands behind my head and fell backward, pulling me down with her.

The bed was hard. No springs squeaked when our weight came down. I landed on top of her, but she slid out from underneath me slick as an otter leaving a rock in the water. She snuggled into my chest, nudging me onto my back with her shoulder, one hand trailing across my stomach, throwing a thigh over mine. She burrowed her face into my neck, her whole body quivering.

"You have to tell me," she whispered. "I have to know those things."

"Why?"

She reached her free hand between my legs, wrapping it around me, rubbing the tip with the pad of her thumb. "You think this is the answer to my prayers?"

"I had hopes," I said.

"Come on, honey. How'd you know?"

"When you walked up with him, he didn't want you on his left side. When you moved away, he was more relaxed."

"So?"

"So either he was carrying on his left side or you were holding a piece for him."

"How'd you know I wasn't?"

"You kept your hands free. The clothes you had on - that sweatsuit - you couldn't get to it in time. Besides, you weren't his woman."

"Because I said so?"

"The way you carried yourself."

She stroked me gently, her mind somewhere else. Mine wasn't.

"What if you were wrong?"

"Huh?"

"What if I was carrying?"

"You're not fast enough to make it work."

"Not fast enough for you?"

"For Max."

"Which one was Max?"

"The guy that didn't speak."

"He was ten feet away from me."

I shrugged.

She shifted her weight, holding her head in one hand, her elbow cocked against the bed. Her breast was an inch from my face. The dark nipple looked tiny against the white globe. I kissed it. Her hand pulled against me in response.

"He's really that fast?"

"Faster."

Belle moved her head into my chest again. Her hand slid down the shaft, cupping my balls, lifting them gently, like she was trying to guess their weight. Her voice was all soft curves, hardness flexing underneath, the same as her body. "Tell the truth. When you saw me in the club - in the play - and you wanted to answer my prayers?"

"Yeah?"

"What did you want to do?"

"I'm not sure . . ."

"Tell me!" she whispered hard against my chest, her hand closing on me.

"I wanted to rescue you," I said.

She moved her hand back to the shaft, shifting her body on top of mine, fitting me inside her. She was wet - I slid in like a bullet being chambered. Her hands were on either side of me, taking her weight, her breasts brushing my face. I moved my hands to her butt as she started to grind against me.

Her mouth came down to mine. "Rescue me," she said.

36

When I woke up a while later, Belle's face was on the pillow next to mine, her body still covering me. I couldn't see my watch. I flexed my shoulders to see if I could slide from under her without waking her up.

"You want a cigarette, baby?"

"I didn't know you were awake," I said.

"I never went to sleep. I've been here all along."

"How come you didn't get up?"

"I was guarding you," she said, her face close to mine. "I knew the only way you'd sleep is if I didn't move."

She padded over to the kitchen, opened a door next to the refrigerator. I heard water running. Belle came back with a big glass ashtray, cigarettes and matches inside, a washcloth over one shoulder. She bent over me, set the ashtray on the far side. She put a cigarette in her mouth, fired it up, handed it to me. Lit one for herself.

She smiled down at me in the darkness. "Are you my boyfriend now?"

I thought I was going to laugh - it came out kind of a snort. "Your boyfriend?"

"Yes, my boyfriend."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know. I never had a boyfriend. But if you rescued me, you have to be my boyfriend, right?"

"If that's what it takes to rescue you, there must have been a thousand applicants for the job."

She bent to kiss me. "You're a sweet man. But that was a down payment. I'm not rescued yet."

She ground out her cigarette, pulled the washcloth off her shoulder. Started to clean me off, not being that gentle about it. The washcloth was wet, warm. I felt myself growing in her hands.

I finished my cigarette. Belle was still scrubbing me like she was going to use my cock for surgery, kneeling on the floor, her body at right angles to mine. I lit another. She tossed the washcloth aside, climbed on the bed, her knees next to my chest. She bent forward and took me in her mouth, her butt in the air, blocking my view of the rest of the world.

She took her mouth from me, peeking back over one shoulder, licking her lips. "Put out your cigarette."

"Why?"

"I don't want you to burn me."

"I wouldn't burn you."

She caught the warning in my voice. "I didn't mean on purpose, honey," she whispered. "I know you're not like that."

I held the cigarette in my left hand, took a deep drag, my right hand stroking her outside thigh.

"Just don't keep it in your mouth," she said, bending forward again, nibbling at my cock. She swallowed the engorged tip, sucking hard. I put the cigarette in my mouth, dragging deep, letting the smoke bubble out my nose, lost in the feeling.

Belle moved her inside foot against me, sliding it onto my chest. I shifted the cigarette to my left hand as she threw her leg over, straddling me, her butt still in the air, now squarely in front of me. She wiggled her rear, sucking, working her tongue. I took another drag. Her butt came down, moving toward my face. I flashed my right hand hard against her cheek, a sharp crack in the quiet room.

She pointed her butt in the air again, pulling her mouth off me. "Was that a message - or did you just want to see what it felt like?"

"A message," I told her.

"Why didn't you just tell me?"

"There wasn't time."

She pivoted on her knees so her face was close to mine. "You don't want to taste me?"

"No."

"Why not, honey? Don't you think I'd be sweet?"

"It's not that."

"You think a man doesn't do stuff like that?"

I snubbed out the cigarette. "I don't think that. It's just not me."

"Prison?"

"It's not that simple. There's no code against it." I laughed. "The only cons who swear they've never eaten a woman are pimps."

Belle rubbed her face against my chest. "Wouldn't you do something to make me happy?"

"Some. Things. You understand?"

"I'd do whatever you want."

"The only way it works is if you do what you want, Belle. That's the only thing that goes the distance."

She lit a cigarette for herself.

"Do you have a woman?"

"Yes."

"With you?"

"No."

"Where is she?"

"I don't know."

The tip of her cigarette flared. "But you love her - you're waiting for her?"

"Yes."

"She's coming back?"

"I don't know."

She ran her hands through her hair, holding it in a bun on top of her head, looking down at me.

"Will you love me?"

"I never thought I would love her," I said.

She held the cigarette to my mouth. Her face was intent in the light it threw. She didn't have to ask me to tell the truth - he knew it when she heard it.

"I'm going to love you, Burke. And you're going to rescue me." She moved her hand away from my face, leaving the cigarette in my mouth.

"If I try to sit on your face again, you going to give me another smack?"

"You want me to tell you another way?"

She spun on her knees again, bending her face down again. She looked back over her shoulder. "No, send me another message. I like the way you did it."

Her mouth locked onto me again. I went hard in her mouth. She rubbed her thighs together. My hand stroked her butt. Her thighs opened. I stroked my fingers against the back of her knees. A liquid drop fell into my hand. I felt the pinpricks of pressure in my balls, tightening into a thick mass. I hooked my hand around the front of her thigh, pulling her toward me. She wouldn't move, sucking harder now. Strega flashed into my mind - Strega and her witch games. I jerked her thigh hard, trying to pull her face off me. It was rigid as a cell bar.

"Belle," I whispered. "Come here."

She didn't move. I cracked her hard against the same cheek I'd hit before. She made a humming noise but stayed where she was. I hit her twice more, feeling the sting in my palm, wondering what she felt.

Her mouth came off my cock. She crawled forward on the bed, throwing a leg over me. She pushed her butt between my legs until I was smoothly inside her, moved to her knees, straddling my body, her back to me.

"Come on!" she said, her voice hard, bucking until we both got there.

37

She slept then. On her stomach, one arm flung across my chest. I slipped under it, found the bathroom. It was small-scale, like the kitchen. Cheap black-and-white tile covered the floor and ran halfway up the wall from the tub. The hot water came up right away; the pressure was good that time of night. I took a quick shower, used some of her Brand-X shampoo, toweled myself off. The little medicine cabinet was empty except for a toothbrush and a bottle of aspirin. A plastic hairbrush and a bottle of green mouthwash stood on the sink. I wondered where she kept all her makeup . . . maybe on the dressing table near her bed.

The bathroom was full of steam, the mirror cloudy. I wiped it off, looked at my face. Whatever she wanted, she hadn't seen it there.

My foot hit something under the sink. A black metal box with a latch on the front, carry-handle on top. I popped it open. Sterile bandages, individually wrapped. A roll of gauze. Elastic tape. Three scalpels with different-sized blades. A pair of surgical scissors. A bottle of iodine. Two more of sulfa powder. A pair of matching plastic vials, both full, unlabeled. I opened them. Penicillin. Percodan. There was no tag on the metal box, but I knew what it was. Bulletwound kit.

The refrigerator had a half-empty carton of milk, a lump of cream cheese, and a head of lettuce under a plastic wrap. I found some ice cubes, filled a glass, let it get cold while I got dressed.

I sipped the water in the easy chair near her bed, smoking, trying to think it through. A Ghost Van in my mind.

Belle rolled over on her side as her eyes came open. "This time you guarded me," she said.

"I've got to go," I told her.

"Let me take a shower first." She didn't wait for an answer, shoving past me to the bathroom. It was still dark outside - my watch said it was almost four-thirty.

She came out of the bathroom brushing her hair, her body gleaming wet.

"Why do you have to go?" she wanted to know, stepping close to where I was sitting.

"There's something I have to take care of."

"What's her name?" she asked, a mock-growl in her voice.

"Pansy."

She pulled back. "You better be kidding."

"Pansy's a dog. My dog."

She giggled. "You have a dog named Pansy? You tie ribbons in her hair and all that?"

"She's about your size."

"I'd like to see that."

"You will."

"Can I come with you?"

"Not this time," I said, getting to my feet.

She put her arms around my neck, pushing her nose so close to mine that my eyes went out of focus. "You'll be back here tonight?"

"I thought you had to work."

"I'll call in sick. Most of the girls do that after their night off - it's no big deal."

"Okay," I said, running my hands down her smooth back to the swelling of her rear.

"What are you thinking?"

"I was thinking if I pressed a quarter against your back and let it go it would fly off your ass like it was a ski slope."

She slipped her hand between us, patting my crotch. "You got a quarter in there someplace?"

"No," I said, pushing gently against her. "I have to go - no joke."

She put her hand in mine, walking me toward her door. "Burke, you know when you didn't want to taste me? You said that wasn't you, right?"

I made a yes noise, walking with her.

"That's okay. You can be you. It's okay that I keep dancing?"

"If that's what you want to do."

"I'm telling the truth now, Burke. I'm going to love you. And you're going to love me too, when you see how I am. But I have to be me while I do it, understand?"

"I'm not arguing with you, Belle."

She put her mouth on my ear, whispering in that little-girl breathy voice, holding my hand tight. "I'm me. You don't change for me - I don't change for you. But I wouldn't let you dance."

"That means what?"

Her voice was pure and sad in my ear. "If Pansy's a dog, like you said, I'm going to pat her. If she's a woman, I'll kill her."

She kissed me on the cheek, pushed me away, stood to the side while I stepped out the door.

I looked back at the cottage as I climbed into my car. It was dark.

38

The Plymouth tracked its way back to the office, its monster motor barely turning over. The all-news station was talking about Kuwaiti ships flying the American flag in the Persian Gulf, minesweepers guarding the point. I flipped to the oldies station. Screamin' Jay Hawkins. "I Put a Spell on You." Growling his love-threats to his woman and to the world.

I don't care if you don't want me, I'm yours