Blue Belle

Right now.

Belle would know he was telling the truth.

Most of the traffic was trucks, highballing it toward the city. A customized van passed on my right. Big glass doors cut into the side, a plastic bubble on its roof. As it went by, I saw a narrow metal ladder running from the bumper up to the roof. A mural was painted on the back - some religious scene.

I lit a smoke. The van I was looking for was a custom job too. I knew that meant something, but I couldn't lock in on it. It would come.

If Marques was right, the van had been working for a few weeks now. Time enough for the police to be on the job. I flicked my cigarette out the window, wondering if McGowan was working nights.

Bob Seger came through the radio. "Still the Same." Motor City blues. Somebody once said it was about a guy catching up with his old girlfriend, but it never sounded like that to me.

It sounded like a kid catching up with his father.

39

I let Pansy out to her roof. Picked up the phone on my desk, checked for hippies. All quiet. I dialed a number.

"Runaway Squad, Officer Thompson speaking." A young woman's voice.

"Is McGowan around?"

"Hold on."

I lit a smoke, waiting. Any other detective bureau in the city, they ask you who's calling. The Runaway Squad knows most of the callers won't give their names.

"McGowan," said the voice on the phone. The same hard-sweet voice pimps use, but McGowan did it different, giving you your choice.

"It's Burke. We're working the same case. Got a few minutes to meet with me?"

"I'm off at eight. Breakfast at Dino's? Eight-fifteen, eight-thirty?"

"I'll be there," I told him, and put down the phone. Pansy ambled in, rested her head in my lap. I patted her. "You're always glad to see me, aren't you, girl?"

She didn't answer me.

I pushed her head off my lap, helped myself to a drink of ice water from the refrigerator. I took out two hard-boiled eggs, cracked them against the wall, peeled off the shells.

"Wake me in an hour," I told Pansy, handing her the eggs.

I closed my eyes so I wouldn't see the mess she made.

40

When I opened my eyes, it was seven-thirty. I took another shower, changed my clothes: I let Pansy out again, watching her run around while I took a deep slug of Pepto-Bismol. Eating at Dino's on an empty stomach was dangerous.

I drove north on the West Side Highway, moving against the snarled rush-hour traffic. Dino's was on Twelfth Avenue, about ten blocks south of Times Square. Yuppies in New York are heavy into diner food now, but Dino's wasn't going to make the list.

McGowan's unmarked cruiser was parked right out front, empty slots on either side. I pulled in, not wasting my time trying to spot him through the greasy windows.

He was sitting in a booth near the back corner, hat tipped back on his long Irish face, cigar in his mouth. Wearing a dark suit, a shirt that had once been white, a blue tie that had never been silk. I sat across from him, my back to the door. We'd known each other a long time.

He shook his head sharply before I could open my mouth, tilting his chin up. Somebody coming.

It was only three hours into her shift, but the waitress was already tired, her broad face lined with strain. Still, she had a smile for McGowan. They all did.

"Good morning, lovely Belinda," he greeted her. "How's the play coming?"

"It comes about like I do, McGowan. Not too often."

"Nothing good comes easy, my little darling," he said, turning aside gloom like a bullfighter. He took one of her hands, holding it in his, patting her.

"Belinda, it was your choice. A lovely young girl like you, the boys would be all over you and they had a chance. But it's not the life of a housewife for my girl, is it now? Your play will come. Your day will come."

"Ah, McGowan . . ." she said, trying to sneer at his blarney. But the smile came out, like they both knew it would.

"Give me two of your finest eggs, sunny-side up. Bacon, toast, and some Sanka, will you, girl?"

She wrote it down, turned to me.

"Two eggs, fried over hard, break the yolks. Ham, rye toast, apple juice. Burn everything."

"You got it," the waitress said, moving away, the bounce back in her walk.

McGowan puffed on his cigar, knowing we wouldn't talk until the food came.

"How's Max?"

"The same."

"I heard he was a proud papa."

"That's on the street?"

"Sure," he said, watching me closely. "Any problem with it?"

I shrugged. No point asking McGowan where he got it - maybe from one of the little girls he brought to Lily's program, maybe . . .

The food came and we ate.

It didn't take either of us long. Swallowing it wasn't as bad as looking at it. The Senator's Motto.

Belinda cleared our plates. McGowan settled down over his second cup of Sanka, relighting his mangy cigar.

"So?"

"The Ghost Van - you know it?"

"Everybody knows it."

"Any more than what's been in the papers?"

"A bit. What's your interest?"

"Some people want me to find it."

"And take it off the street?"

"It's just an investigation. The people who want me to do this job don't have anything personal at stake. For all they care, I find it, I could call the cops."

McGowan leaned across the table, his Irish blues going cop-hard. "It's personal to me, Burke. The swine shot one of my girls."

"When?"

"The second shooting. Little girl named Darla James. Fifteen years old, and on the stroll for the last two. I was close to taking her off the track. Real close, Burke. They put two into her chest at twenty feet - she never had a prayer."

I lit a smoke, watching his face. McGowan had been working the cesspool for twenty years and he'd never fired his gun. He won some and he lost a hell of a lot more, but he always kept coming. He played the game square, and we all respected him.

"You want me out of it - I'm out of it," I told him.

"I want you in it, pal. In fact, I was going to put it out on the wire last week for you to come around. These are bad, bad people, Burke."

"How do you make it?"

He puffed on the cigar, his eyes still hard, but not looking my way. "Has to be a vigilante trip. One of those sicko cults. They're shooting the poor little girls to fight the devil. Or maybe they're sacrificing bodies to Satan. It all comes out the same."

"You sure?"

"I'm not sure of anything. I'll tell you what we have - it's precious little enough."

I kept my hands on the table, where he could see them. McGowan would know I don't write things down, but he looked upset enough to forget.

"Tell me," I said.

"There's been five girls shot, not the three the papers reported. And two snatched - not just the one everybody knows about. Ballistics says they were all shot with the same piece. Military hardware, probably an M-16, or one of those Russian jobs. High-speed ammo. Ballistics says the slugs were twenty-two-caliber."

"They mean 5.56-millimeter. About the same thing."

"Whatever," McGowan snarled. He wasn't a forensics man. "The girls were all torn up inside - ripped to pieces. Dead before they hit the ground."

'You ever find either of the girls who were snatched?''

"Not a trace."

"Were all the girls underage?"

"Either that or they looked it."

"You sure it's random?"

"We thought of that. Questioned half the pimps in Times Square. We can't make a connection."

"Who's 'we'? The Commissioner got a task force working on this?"

McGowan's laugh was too ugly to be cynical. "Task force? Sure, and why would they be doing that? It's not like it was citizens getting killed."

I sipped my apple juice, thinking out loud to draw him in. "Seems like a strange piece to use . . ."

McGowan's eyes snapped into focus. "Why?"

"It's not an assassin's weapon. Doesn't have the shock power of a heavier slug. That high speed's a waste at such close range. The bullets fly so fast that they tumble around as soon as they hit something. That's why the girls were so torn up inside. And it makes a hell of a bang - real hard to silence."

I took another drag, thinking it through. I wasn't playing with McGowan: it really didn't make sense. "Automatics jam," I told him. "You know that - that's why they don't let you guys carry the nine-millimeters you want. So why risk an automatic when you're only going to fire off a couple of shots? And if it was so random, why didn't they just sweep the street? With an M-16, they could chop down a dozen girls just as easy as one. You check with ATF?"

"They're too busy looking for Uzis. The guy I talked with said what you said. Doesn't even have to be a military piece - there's all kinds of semi-auto stuff floating around – AK-47s, AR-15s. Takes ten minutes to convert them to full auto, he said."

"It's still the wrong gun for killing at close range. A heavier piece, even if you hit someone in the arm, you'd blow it right off. They'd be dead before the ambulance got there."

"Maybe it's all they have?"

"Doesn't add up. This is an expensive deal, McGowan. And for what?"

His honey voice turned sour. "Couple of bullets and gas money - it don't sound so expensive to me."

'You ever find the van?"

"No. So?"

"So they didn't dump it after the shootings. So they have to have a place to stash it. They got to have at least a driver, a hooter, and another guy to fling open the doors. And the snatch . . . they had a switch-car for that, right?"

"Where'd you hear that?"

"Out there," I said, pointing vaguely out the greasy window.

"Yeah. We found the switch-car. Took it apart, piece by piece. We got some decent prints, but no match."

"Anything else?"

"There's no pattern. No thread. The girls didn't know each other. Two were on the runaway list, but that doesn't mean anything. Half the little hookers out there were on the list one time or another."

"Any mail?"

He knew what I meant. Some serial killers have to tell the cops how clever they are.

"No letters. No phone calls. Blank fucking zero. It's so bad the pimps aren't even afraid to be seen talking to us - they want these guys off the street too. I even heard talk about a bounty . . ." His eyes locked on mine. "You hear anything about a bounty, Burke?"

I met his stare. "No."

It didn't impress the cop. He knew where I'd been raised.

"People like that . . . who knows what could happen if they were arrested. A smart lawyer . . . maybe some kind of NGI deal . . . drop a few dimes. Maybe they'd make it a goddamned miniseries."

NGI. Not Guilty, Insanity. "Better they don't get arrested," I said quietly.

His eyes were ball bearings.

41

I headed back to my office, weaving through the West Side blocks, checking the action. It looked the same to me. If the Ghost Van was trying to keep baby pross off the street, it wasn't working. I couldn't pick up the scent - you have to work close to the ground to do that. If it was out there, the Prof would find it.

Called Mama from a pay phone. Nothing.

Back at the office, I let Pansy out to her roof. I had a few more calls to make, but they'd have to wait until the afternoon.

Pansy ambled over to the desk, where I was working on the racing form, making that snarling noise she does when she's trying to tell me something. I knew what she wanted. "I was at Dino's," I told her, explaining why I hadn't bought her a present.

There was a trotter I fancied in the fourth race at Yonkers. Mystery Mary, a five-year-old mare, moving down from Canada. She'd been running in Open company at Greenwood, finishing pretty consistently in the money, but no wins. She had a lot of early speed, which is unusual for a mare, but she kept getting run down in the deep stretch. Greenwood is a five-eighths-of-a-mile track - a long run from the three-quarter pole to the finish line. Yonkers was a half-miler - a longer launch and a shorter way home. She was moving up to higher purses in New York, but I thought she had a shot if she could get away clean. I checked the last eight races. Mystery Mary was a surefooted little trotter - no breaks on her card. The morning line had her at 6 - 1. Most of the OTB bettors would use the Daily News as a handicapping form. All that would show is her last three outs: two thirds and a fifth-place finish. I made a mental note to call my broker before the close of business, flipped on the TV, and kicked back on the couch. The last thing I remember before falling asleep was Abbott telling Costello that paying back rent was like betting on a dead horse.

It wasn't a good sleep. Dark, fleshy dreams. Flood facing the Cobra, the snake on his arm turning into the tattoo on Belle's thigh. Strega licking her bloody lips, crazy eyes full of ugly promises. The Ghost Van zoomed up a narrow street, a silent gray shark. Max at the end of the block, waiting, shielding Flower in one arm.

I woke up before the crash, sweating like when I'd had malaria. Sergeant Bilko was on the TV. A little past three o'clock.

I took a shower, changed my clothes. Pansy jumped on the couch as I was walking out the door.

Mama still had nothing for me. I dropped another quarter, called Maurice. He answered in his usual breezy style.

"Yeah?"

"It's Burke."

"This a social call, or what?"

"Yonkers. Give me the two horse, fourth race. A deuce to win."

"At Yonkers. Horse number two, race number four. Two on the nose, is that right?"

"Right. How you doing, Maurice?"

"You want conversation, play fucking Lotto," he said, hanging up.

I changed phones, fed another quarter. I don't know why they make dimes anymore. I rang the direct-line number of a reporter I know.

"Morelli."

"It's Burke. You got anything outside the clips on this Ghost Van?"

"Bullshit gossip. Cop talk. Nothing good."

"The cops thirik they're close?"

"They're waiting for the van to get a parking ticket."

"Can you pull the clips for me?"

"You looking?"

"Looking around, anyway."

"You'll clue me in front?"

"If I can."

"I'll pull the clips, leave them downstairs by six. Okay?"

"Yeah. Could you do a NEXIS spin too? See if there's any more van jobs around the country?"

"You think it's a group?"

"No, but check anyway."

"You got it."

One more call. Belle answered on the first ring, sounding like she ran a hundred yards to snatch it off the hook.

"Hello?"

"It's me. Want to get some dinner?"

"Oh, I'm starved. There's nothing in the house."

"I know. Why didn't you go out?"

"I knew you were going to call."

"I said . . . never mind. I'll pick you up in an hour, okay?"

"Hurry up," she said.

I put the phone down, moving fast to beat the charge out of the city.

42

I pulled in behind the red Camaro a little after five. The door opened as my fist came down to knock. A hand came around my neck, pulling me inside. Belle mashed her face against mine, kissing me hard, firing her hip at the door to close it.

She pulled her face back a couple of inches, still holding on to me.

"That was a cold kiss. Didn't you miss me?"

"I was working, Belle."

Her mouth went down at the corners. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to push you."

I put my hand on the back of her neck, working the tight muscles, keeping my voice quiet.

"You're not pushing me. You don't know me, okay? I don't show a lot on the surface -it's not my way."

"You did miss me?"

"I did miss you."

She twirled away, flashing a smile. Her face was all made up, the blue eye shadow making her eyes look bigger, bright lipstick smeared on her teeth. She was wearing a fire-engine-red T-shirt big enough for a linebacker. It fell to mid-thigh, just covering the tattoo.

"I'm just about ready, baby. Give me a minute. I have to find my shoes."

She scooped a pair of glasses from the dressing table. Big round lenses with a light-blue tint, sitting in a thin black plastic frame. "Here they are," she said happily, dragging a pair of red spike-heeled shoes from under the bed.

"Belle."

She was bending forward, slipping on the shoes. Black panties that didn't have a prayer of covering her rump peeked out as the T-shirt rose. "What, honey?"

"You're going out like that?"

Her face fell. "You don't like it?"

Damn. "It's not that," I said quietly, walking over to her, taking her chin in my hand. With the spikes on, she was taller than me - l had to look up into her eyes.

"You go on the street like that, every man that's not brain-dead is going to remember you."

"So?"

"So it's not my game to attract attention, girl. The places I have to go - I don't make reservations, understand?"

"You like me better when I'm all covered? When I look like a big fat cow?"

"I like you the same. It's you I like, yes?"

"Yes?"

"Yes!" I said, slapping her rear.

She grabbed my hand, pulled it around to her butt. Held it there. "You like this big fat thing?"

I looked deep into her eyes, watching a tear run down her cheek. Keeping my voice quiet: "Belle," I told her, "it works on me like a hormone shot."

She never took her eyes off mine. "Burke, I'd do anything for you."

"Will you put on a pair of pants?"

"Sure, baby. I've got just the thing."

She rummaged through a chest of drawers, throwing clothes on the bed. Finally, she pulled out a pair of white overalls, the kind with suspender straps. She kicked off the high heels and stepped into the overalls, pulling the straps over her breasts. She wouldn't disappear in a crowd, but at least she wasn't flashing a hundred yards of skin.

"You look beautiful," I said.

She threw me a smile, lacing up a pair of dirty white sneakers. "I'm ready," she announced, bouncing off the bed to me. She wasn't the only thing bouncing.

"Belle . . ."

"What now?"

"Could you put on a bra too?"

She took off her glasses, unsnapped the suspenders, pulled the red T-shirt over her head. She found a white bra with heavy shoulder straps. Slipped into it, hooked it in front.

"I didn't know they made them that big," I said, watching her.

"Boobs?"

"Bras."

She slapped me on the arm, smiling, pushing me to the door with her hip.

43

I held the car door open for her. She slid across and flicked the inside handle to let me in. I wheeled the Plymouth in a tight U-turn and headed back to the city. When we hit the highway, I shoved a cassette into the dash. Belle sat with her back against the door, feet on the seat between us, hands clasped around her knees. Smoking and listening. Charley Musselwhite's harp barking its challenge on "Stranger in a Strange Land." Buddy Guy driving his mojo north to Chicago, Junior Wells riding shotgun. Lightning Hopkins being sly about grown-up schoolgirls and John Lee Hooker threatening anyone with an eye for his woman. Paul Butterfield riding the mystery train.

The tape looped over to the Brooklyn Blues. One group after another slipped through the speakers and surrounded us. The Jacks, the Chantels, the Passions. When I heard Rosie and the Originals, the clear, high voice of the girl singer hitting "Angel Baby" like no one else ever could, I kicked out the cassette.

I felt Belle's eyes on my face. "Remind you of something?"

"Yeah," I said. Dancing with Flood in the warehouse garage, helping her pull it back together before her last fight. I should have erased the fucking thing.

We were heading toward the Midtown Tunnel. I pulled into the Exact Change lane, tossed a two-dollar token into the basket, and slid into the right lane. When we pulled up outside the magazine stand on Second Avenue, it was already past six.

"Go inside and tell the guard you're there to pick up a package from Mr. Morelli," I said.

She didn't ask any questions. She was back in a minute, tossing a thick manila envelope on the seat between us.

"Where're we going, honey?"

"You wanted to meet Pansy," I said, pointing the car downtown.

44

I tucked the Plymouth into the garage, showed Belle the back stairs, motioning her to go ahead. Her swaying hips narrowed the staircase.

She knew how to act - didn't make a sound on the way up. When we got to the office door, I gently pushed her to one side while I worked the locks. I went in first, saying "Pansy, jump!" as soon as I did. She hit the floor, paws out in front, her monster's head tilted up to watch Belle.

I made the hand motion that said everything was okay, and told Belle to come in.

"This is Pansy," I said.

Belle stood on the threshold of the office like she was rooted. "Good sweet Jesus! That's a dog? He looks like a swamp panther. What kind is it?"

"She's a Neapolitan mastiff. The most beautiful Neapolitan mastiff in the world, aren't you, girl?" I asked Pansy, rubbing her head. Pansy growled agreement, her tongue lolling in happiness. Belle hadn't moved.

"Go sit on the couch," I told her. "It's okay."

Belle obediently went to the couch, sat down like she was in church, knees pressed together, hands in her lap. I spread my arms wide, telling Pansy she was released. The beast plodded over to Belle, sat in front of the couch, cocked her head.

Belle didn't move. Pansy rammed her head into Belle's lap, shoving at her hands, demanding a pat. Or else.

"She won't hurt you," I said.

Belle gave Pansy a halfhearted pat on the head. The beast made a rumbling noise in her chest. Belle jerked her hand away. Pansy shoved her head back in Belle's lap.

"She just wants to be friends."

"Burke, I swear to God, she's scaring me to death."

"That's her happy noise," I assured her.

"How much does she weigh?"

"About the same as you."

"I'd kiss you for that if I wasn't scared to move off this couch."

I went into the next room, pulled a couple of strips of steaks out of the refrigerator, tossed one at Pansy, saying "Speak!" as I did. The steak disappeared. I threw the other piece on the floor and watched Pansy drool over it.

"Why won't she eat it?"

"She's waiting for the word."

"What you just said?"

"Yep."

Belle looked at Pansy, said "Speak!" in the same tone I'd used. Pansy ignored her. "It only works when you say it?"

"That's right."

"Well, say it, then. The poor dog's dying for the meat." Pansy flashed Belle a grateful look as I gave her the word. As soon as she polished off the steak, she came back to the couch. Belle patted her with a bit more confidence. "I think she likes me, Burke. Does she do any more tricks?"

"Those aren't tricks," I told her. "Pansy works. Just like you and me."

I threw Pansy the signal and she came over to the door. I opened it and she disappeared into the dusk.

"Where's she going?"

"To the roof."

"It must be beautiful - can we go up there?"

"Belle," I said, "trust me. That roofs one place you never want to go."

"Can I get up?"

"Sure. it's okay - Pansy understands."

I showed Belle the rest of the office. I let her poke around by herself while I laid out the clips Morelli got for me on the desk, thinking I should have heard from the Prof by then.

Belle walked in, put a hand on my shoulder. "Pansy will know me from now on?"

"Sure."

"So if I came here by myself . . . if I had a key . . . she'd let me in?"

"She'd rip you to pieces, Belle."

"Oh," she said in her little-girl's voice, watching as Pansy came back inside and curled up in a corner.

I stubbed out my cigarette, anxious to get in the street, see if the Prof had called in.

"Want some dinner?"

"If you do, baby."

"I thought you were starving."

"I can wait for what I want," she said, her voice still too small for her body. "I waited for you."

So she went through a lot of résumés looking for the ideal hijacker. Big deal. "Let's go," I told her.

Belle was still rubbing my shoulder, watching the dog. "Will she get jealous if I kiss you?"

"She couldn't care less."

"That's my kind of girl," Belle said, and kissed the side of my mouth.

45

The joint I took her to just says "Bar" over the green metal door. A hustlers' hangout off West Street, it serves decent food in the back room, all the tables set aside in booths so people can do business.

I left Belle in the booth to call Mama from one of the pay phones in the bar. I dialed the number that rings at her desk, in the front of the restaurant. She said something in Cantonese.

"Anything?" I asked.

"No calls," she said, recognizing my voice.

I hung up, went back inside. A redhead waitres was talking to Belle. I recognized her as I got close. MaryEllen. She'd been working there for years. It was a nice quiet joint, no grab-ass drunks, all business.

"What'll it be?" she asked, like she'd never seen me before. My kind of place.

"You order?" I asked Belle, watching her settle into the booth. Sitting down, she was shorter than me - I guess most of her height was legs.

"I waited for you, honey."

I looked up at MaryEllen. There's no menu, but the food doesn't vary much.

"We have some real nice shell steaks."

I looked a question at Belle. She nodded. "One medium and one . . ." I looked at Belle again. "Rare," she said. I ordered a ginger ale. "You have beer on tap?" Belle asked. MaryEllen shook her head no.

"What brand?"

"Cold," Belle said, smiling at her.

Maybe she had been starving - Belle TKO'd her steak in the first round. She had two more beers and half my potatoes before I was halfway through. "You want another one?" I asked her, joking. She nodded happily. Even with the head start, we finished about the same time.

MaryEllen cleared the plates off. I lit a smoke.

"Don't they have dessert?" Belle asked.

"Not here," I told her. "You want coffee?"

"Can I have ice cream later?"

"Sure."

I was smoking my cigarette, thinking about the Prof. Belle sipped her coffee, watching me quietly. I felt a hand on my shoulder, a lilac-and-jasmine smell. Michelle. Wearing a wine-colored silk sheath, a black scarf at her throat. She looked a question at me. I moved over so she could sit down next me. She gave me a quick kiss as she slid in, turned to look at Belle, talking to me out of the side of her mouth.

"Hi, baby. Who's your friend?"

"Michelle, this is Belle."

Michelle held out a manicured hand. "Hi, honey."

"Hello," Belle said, shaking her hand. Holding on to it too long, watching my face.

Michelle took her hand back, figuring it all out in a split second. "Don't look at me like that, girl. This ugly thug's my brother, not my lover."

Belle's mouth twitched into a half-smile. "He's not so ugly."

"Honey, please!"

Belle laughed. "He's got other fine qualities."

"I know," Michelle said.

Belle's face went hard. "Do you?"

Michelle stiffened, her claws coming out. "Look, country girl, I say what I mean. And I mean what I say. Let's put it all out, okay? I never had a brother until Burke came along. I love him - I don't sleep with him. Wherever you go with him, I don't want to go. And where I go with him, you can't go. Get it?"

"I get it."

"Get this too. You want to be my friend, you come with the best recommendation," Michelle said, patting my forearm. "You want to be a bitch, you came to the right place. I'll be here after you're gone, girl."

"I'm not going anywhere," Belle said.

"Then let's be friends, yes?" Michelle said, her sculptured face flashing a deadly smile.

"Yes," Belle said, reaching over and taking my hand.

Michelle took one of her long black cigarettes from a thin lacquer case and tapped the filter, waiting for a light. I cracked a wooden match. She cupped my hand around the fire, gently pulling in the smoke. Belle watched Michelle as if she had the answer to all her questions.

Michelle fumbled in her huge black patent-leather purse. She pulled out a sheaf of photographs. Terry. In a blue blazer with gold buttons, wearing a white shirt and a striped tie, his hair slicked down. "Isn't he handsome?" she asked me.

"A living doll," I assured her.

Michelle jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow. "Pig," she snapped. She held the photos out to Belle. "My boy."

Belle took the pictures. "He is handsome. Does he go to boarding school?"

I laughed. Michelle jabbed me again. "He most certainly does, honey. One of the most exclusive in the country, I might add. And if it wasn't for certain people teaching him bad habits . . ."

"Don't look at me," I said.

"The Mole does not smoke," Michelle said, ending the discussion.

"How old is he?" Belle asked.

"He's almost twelve."

"He's going to be a heartbreaker when he gets older."

"Just like his mother," Michelle said, ready to talk about her favorite subject for the next few days.

"I can't find the Prof," I told her, bringing her back to the real world.

"Well, honey, you know the Prof. He could be anywhere."

"He was supposed to call in, Michelle. We're working on something."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Will you . . . ?"

"I run on a different track now, baby. But I still have my associates in the right spots. I'll throw out some lines, okay?"

"Tonight?"

"I have a late date - I'll make some calls before I start. If you don't hear by tomorrow, give me a call and I'll take a look myself."

"Thanks, Michelle."

She waved it off.

I got up to call Mama again. She answered the same way.

"Anything at all?"

"Nothing. You worried?"

"Yes."

"Call later. Leave number, okay?"

"Okay."

When I got back to the booth, Michelle and Belle were yakking it up like old pals. Michelle had Belle's face in her hand, twisting it different ways to catch the light. The big girl didn't seem to mind. I sat down, lit another smoke, listening to Michelle rattle on.

"You draw the eyeliner away from the center, honey. Separate those eyes. And we use a sharper line here" - drawing her fingernail across Belle's cheekbone - "for an accent. Are you with me so far?"

Belle nodded vigorously, not trying to talk while Michelle was grabbing her face.

"Now the mouth . . . we use a brush, yes? We paint a thin line just past the lips, then we fill it in with a nice dark shade. Widen that mouth a bit. Then we . . . Oh, come on," Michelle said, standing up, dragging Belle by the hand. "We'll be back in a minute," she said to me.

I ignored her. I knew what a minute meant to Michelle. I knew what it meant when the Prof didn't call in.

It was two ginger ales and a half-dozen cigarettes before they came out of the ladies' room, Michelle still leading Belle by the hand. They both sat across from me. I had to look twice. Belle's soft face was sharpened, different. Her eyes looked set farther apart, bigger. Her cheekbones stood out, her tiny mouth was more generous. And her hair was pulled over to one side, tied with Michelle's scarf.

"You look beautiful," I said.

"You really like it?" she asked.

"Honey, face it, you're a traffic-stopper," Michelle told her. "All it takes is a little work."

"Michelle, you're a doll," Belle said.

"They all say that." Michelle smiled. "Don't they, Burke?"

"Among other things."

Michelle was in too good a mood to pay attention to me. "Stripes," she said to Belle. "Vertical stripes. You're big enough to be two showgirls, sweetie. And watch the waist -you cinch it too tight, your hips look huge.

"He likes my hips," Belle said, smiling at me.

"All lower-class men like big hips, honey. Don't pay attention to him."

Belle looked at me. "You've got some family. A little black brother and a big Chinese one. And a gorgeous sister."

Michelle flashed her perfect smile. "It's the truth, girl." She gave each of us a kiss. "I've got to go to work - my baby needs violin lessons."

Belle kissed her back. "Thanks, Michelle. For everything."

"Fry their brain cells, honey," she said, "and watch the walk."

A quick over-the-shoulder wave and she was gone.

46

I was stopped at a light at 43^rd and Ninth when Belle's baby voice poked through the mist in my brain.

"Honey . . ."

"What?"

"We've been driving around for two hours. Around and around. You haven't said a word to me - you mad at me for something?"

I took a breath, glanced at my watch; it was past eleven. I was just going to make one quick sweep of the city, see if I could spot the Prof. I replayed the path in my head: both sides of the river, Christopher Street to Sheridan Square, across Sixth Avenue to 8^th Street, back downtown to Houston, across to First, through the Lower East Side to Tompkins Square Park, outside the pool-room on 14^th up to Union Square, across to Eighth Avenue and up into Times Square, working river to river into midtown. And back again. Driving through the marketplace, somebody selling something every time the Plymouth rolled to a stop. Crack, smoke, gravity knives, cheap handguns, watches with Rolex faces and Taiwan guts, little boys, girls, women, men dressed like women. Cheap promises - high prices. Murphy Men selling the New York version of safe sex -the hotel-room key they sold you wouldn't open the door, and they wouldn't be standing on the same corner when you went back to ask for better directions. Islands of light where flesh waited to take your money - pools of darkness where wolf packs waited to take your life. And vultures to pick your bones.

Something else out there too. Something that would make the wolves step aside when it walked.

I looked over at Belle. She was facing out the windshield as though she didn't want to see my face, twisting her hands together in her lap. It hurt my heart to watch her - it wasn't her fault. "You're a good, sweet girl," I told her. "It has nothing to do with you; I'm looking for my friend."

"The little black guy?"

"Yeah."

"I've been looking too," she said, her voice serious. "You think we should get out? Ask around?"

I patted her thigh. She was down for whatever it took - knew I had to do this. I couldn't explain how it worked to her. Asking around for the Prof could get him in deeper than he already was.

I drove back to the river, turned downtown until I saw a pay phone. Mama still had nothing for me. If the Prof had been swept up by the cops, he'd get a call out sooner or later. Nothing to do but wait.

I sat on the hood of the Plymouth, feeling the warmth of the engine through my clothes, watching the Jersey lights across the river. I felt compressed. Things were moving too fast - not like they were supposed to. Belle was inside my life without the preliminaries. We'd made some deals without talking them over - she'd been in my office, Michelle was showing her baby pictures and giving her makeup advice. I was going to help her hijack some hijackers. All too fast.

The Prof was lost somewhere in the freak pipeline under the city, and I couldn't go after him without spooking the shadows.

I got back into the car, started the engine.

"I'll take you home," I said.

"Will you stay with me?"

"I have to leave a phone number. Where I can be reached tonight."

"Why don't we go to your house?"

"There's no phone there," I told her. She hadn't put it together that I live in my office.

She lit a smoke, watching me, her voice soft. Not pushing. "What if I don't want my number given out?"

"It's okay. I'll drop you off. See you soon, all right?"

"No!" It sounded like she'd start crying in a minute. "You can leave my phone number. I know it's important, Burke. I'm sorry, okay?"

"Yeah."

"Can't we go to your house first?"

I looked a question at her.

"So you can pack a suitcase."

I tried to smile at her, not knowing if I pulled it off. "I can't stay with you, Belle. Not while this is going down."

"But when it's over . . ."

"Let's see what happens."

She moved close to me, gave me a quick kiss. "Whatever happens," she said.

I pointed the Plymouth out of the city.

47

It was past two when I called Mama from Belle's phone. I gave her the number where I'd be, told her I'd call when I went on the move again. She didn't tie up the phone lines telling me not to worry.

"Where's the nearest pay phone?" I asked Belle.

"About four blocks down. Outside the grocery store on the right."

"I'll be back in a few minutes," I told her.

"Honey, why don't you use this phone? If it's none of my business, I can step outside on the deck until you're finished."

"It's you I'll be calling. Make sure your phone works, okay?"

She watched my face. "Whatever you say."

I found the pay phone, called Belle's number, listened to her answer, hung up.

The walk back didn't help - I could work it out in my head easy enough, but the answers were no good. The Prof was dead reliable. If he hadn't called in, he was in trouble, or he was dead. Either way, I had a debt.

Belle let me back in. I checked the phone; the cord was long enough to reach anyplace in the little cottage, even out onto the deck. I asked Belle for a fingernail file. Then I flipped the phone over, opened it up, checked the contact points, making sure the bell would work. I closed it back up, turned the dial on the underside to the loudest setting. I put the phone back on the end table near the couch, watched it.

Belle's voice came through the fog. "You can do everything to phones but make them ring, huh?"

The room came back into focus. Her face was scrubbed clean, but the glow was gone. "What is it, Belle? You look like you're afraid of me.

"I'm afraid of you shutting me out."

"This isn't yours," I told her, my voice flat.

Belle's hands went to her hips. Her little chin tilted up, eyes glistening. "What kind of a woman do you think I am?" she demanded.

I shrugged, knowing it was cruel, locked into my own course.

She moved closer, taking up all the space between us. "I said I was going to love you, Burke. You think I'd make you tell the truth and not do it myself?"

"No."

"You think I told you the truth?"

"Yes."

"You know what I want?"

"Sure."

She bent down to where I was sitting, pulled the cigarette out of my mouth, pressed her nose against mine.

"Tell me what I want."

I didn't move, didn't change expression. "The back of the joint where you work - it's like a suitcase with a false bottom. Plenty of room back there. Armored car gets hit at the airport - the hijackers take off running. But they don't go far, right? They pull in the back of the joint, stash the getaway car, and walk into the club. When the cops come looking, they've been there for hours. An alibi and a hideout all in one. Easy to come back in a few weeks. Move the cash out." I took the cigarette out of her hand, leaned back, took a deep drag. "How do they get rid of the getaway car - chop it down? repaint it back there? drive it into the back of a moving van, dump it in the swamp one night?"

She didn't answer me. Just watched.

"All that money just sitting there. Clean, unmarked bills. Probably two or three good jobs stashed in one place. Couple of hundred grand, minimum. Wouldn't be the first time somebody turned around and hit the syndicate. Hijackers aren't like numbers runners - that's why they don't make good employees."

I took a last drag, stubbed out the butt. Feeling her eyes burn on my skin.

"Whoever set this up, it's a big operation. Costs a lot of cash to front. The syndicate probably takes a piece from every hijacking at the airport. That's the way they'd do it. I know how things work. All the young mob guys want to do today is move product. They leave the armored cars and the banks to the independents."

I lit another cigarette, thinking back to the way I used to be. Telling the truth, the way she wanted it.

"A good thief, he can't stand to see a big lump of cash sitting around. Just a matter of time before some crew takes a shot."

Belle took the cigarette away from me again, put it to her lips. A red dot glowed in front of my face. Two more in her eyes.

"You didn't answer me, Burke. Tell me what I want. Tell me the truth."

"You want me to hijack the cash."

I saw her right shoulder drop, but I kept my eyes on her face. Her hand came around in a blur, her little clenched fist catching me high on the cheekbone just under the eye. She drew back her fist again. "That's enough," I said.

Her mouth trembled. The firelights went out of her eyes. She pulled away from me, fell face-down on her big white bed. Cried softly to herself as I pulled some ice cubes from the refrigerator. I wrapped the ice cubes in a towel and held it to my face. Sat by the phone.

48

When I woke up, it was past four o'clock in the morning. My jacket was soaking wet on the left side. I snatched the phone. Dial tone.

"It didn't ring." A soft voice from the bed. "I've been listening since you fell asleep."

"Thanks."

"I'll stay by the phone now. When you get where you're going, you can call me. If you don't get your call by then, you can switch the numbers, okay?"

"Yeah."

"I've got an electric heater: it gets cold by the water in the winter. You can dry your clothes first."

I pulled off my jacket, unbuttoned my shirt. Belle came off the bed. I handed them to her. "Your face is swollen," she said, her voice a breathy whisper, the way you tell a secret.

"It's no big deal. Nothing's broken."

"My heart is broken," she said. Like she was saying it was Wednesday morning.

"Belle . . ."

"Don't say anything. It's my fault. I made a mistake. I wanted a hard man. A hard man, not a cold man."

I lit a smoke. She came back over to me, her voice sad now. Sad for all of us. "Not a cold man, Burke. Not a man who wouldn't take my love."

"I just . . ."

"Yeah, I know. You think telling the truth's not a game for a woman to play."

"That's not it."

"No?" she challenged, her little-girl's voice laced with acid. "You think I couldn't find a cowboy to stick up a liquor store for me? You don't think I could pussy-whip some guido into picking up a gun? Sweet-talk some cockhound into showing me what a big man he is?"

"I know you could."

Belle stalked the room, unsnapping the suspender straps, pulling the T-shirt over her head, unhooking the bra. She worked the zipper, pulled the white pants over her hips. She sat down on the bed. Unlaced her sneakers, threw them into a corner. She went over to the kitchen corner, where my shirt and jacket were stretched on coat hangers, baking in the glow from the electric heater. She picked up my shirt. "It'll dry better this way," she said, slipping into it. She tried to button it; it wouldn't close over her breasts.

She fell to her knees beside me, hands on my thigh, looking up at my face.

"Can we have another chance?"

"Who's 'we'?"

"You and me."

"To do what?"

"To tell the truth. Let me tell you the truth. The real truth. I swear on my mother," she whispered, one hand making an X on her breast. "That's my sacred oath."

"Belle . . ."

"Don't hurt me like this, Burke. I'd never hurt you. You don't know what I want. You don't have any idea. Let me say what I have to say."

She got to her feet, held out her hand.

I took it.

She pulled me to her bed. "Sit down," she said. She took a fat black candle, grounded it in a glass ashtray, positioned it on top of the headboard of the bed. "Light it," she said.

I fired a wooden match. I heard a click - the electric heater snapping off. Belle laid back on the bed, her hands behind her head. I sat next to her, watching the tiny candle flame.

"This is the truth," she began. "I grew up in a little place you never heard of. In South Florida. Just me, my father, and my big sister. Sissy. We lived on the edge of the swamp in a tiny house. Not much bigger than this one. My father did a little bit of this, a little bit of that. Like everyone there. Grew some vegetables out back. Made some liquor. There was a mill nearby - he'd work when they had work. Shoot him some gator for the hides. Fix boats. We lived poor, but nice. When my father would make a good score, he'd always buy something for the house. Had a big old freezer, nice color TV. Good boat too. Mercury outboard." Her voice trailed off, remembering. I lit a cigarette, handed it to her.

"I was always told my mother died giving birth to me. Sissy really raised me - took care of me - my father never paid me any attention."

She took a drag on the cigarette, looking at the dark ceiling.

"I was a big, tall girl, even when I was real young. And skinny too - you believe that?"

"Sure."

"I was. Like a board. Ugly old skinny girl with no kind of face at all. Sissy was pretty once. You could tell by looking at her in the morning light. Sissy was hard on me. I had to do my chores sharp, or she'd let me know it. Homework too. We had a school, all the kids together in one class. Sissy made sure I did my homework. Always sent me to school clean, no matter how things were at home. She never had a new dress in all the time I knew her. Said it didn't matter to her. She had nice night-gowns, though. She caught me trying one on once and she took a switch to me so hard I didn't want to sit down for a couple of days. Anything she had, she'd give to me. Except those nightgowns. Or her perfume." She took another drag.

"My father never much bothered with me. Once in a while, I'd do something to make him notice me. Pay some attention to me. He didn't care if I did my homework, but he had to have his coffee just so: dark coffee with a big dollop of cream across the top; he never mixed it.

"I talked back to him once. He grabbed my arm, pulled off his belt to give it to me. Sissy jumped in between us, kitchen knife in her hand. The devil was in her face - you could see it. You never put a hand on that child, she told him.

"He backed off. Told her I had it coming, but he wouldn't look her in the face. Sissy said if I had something coming she'd be the one to give it to me. Go ahead, my father said, give it to her.

"Sissy ripped the belt out of his hands, dragged me outside to the back. You better yell now, she told me. Loud! She whipped me something fierce that time. Brought me back inside by the hand, told me to get to work on my chores and keep my mouth shut. My father was watching us when we came in. Sissy went back in the bedroom. I saw her taking one of her nightgowns out of her drawer. My father went back there too."

She drew on the cigarette again, the flame close to her hand.

"My father was real drunk one day. Late in the afternoon, swamp shadows across the back of the house. I heard him fighting with Sissy when I came back home. I swear I'll kill you, Sissy told him. He just laughed at her. Slapped her hard across the face. I went after him. He threw me off, but I got up again. Sissy and me fought him until he was out of wind. He just lay there on the floor, looking up at us. I'll be back tonight, he told Sissy, I'll be back, and I'll take what's mine.

"He staggered out the door. Sissy grabbed me, took me to the back of the house. Your time has come, she told me. She took out a suitcase. I didn't even know she had one. Put all your clothes in this, she told me. Don't argue. I helped her fill it up. I thought we were going to run away together. We snuck out the back, into the swamp. Sissy showed me a marker on a cypress tree, where she'd cut it with her knife. She gave me a shovel and told me to dig. Deep. I found an old mason jar, wax-sealed. Found two more. Sissy broke the jars open. There was near a thousand dollars in the jars."

Belle yelped - the cigarette had burned into her fingers. I held out the ashtray and she dropped it in; put her fingers in her mouth for a second to suck on them.

"Sissy sat me down at the table. He'll be back in a couple of hours, she said. You take that suitcase and get into the swamp. I'll fix the boat so he can't go after you. You take the back trail all the way through, to where it catches the highway. The late bus to town comes past there about nine - you got plenty of time to make it."

Belle's face was wet with tears, but her voice was the same quiet whisper.

"Where am I going? I asked her.

"You go to the bus station. Take a Greyhound north, and don't stop until you're out of this state. Go north and keep going, Belle, she told me. You're going to be on your own.

"I didn't want to go - I didn't understand. Sissy wouldn't listen to me. You're grown now, she said. Almost fifteen years old. I held him back as long as I could, baby, but now your time has come. You got to mind me, Belle, she said. This one last time. You got to mind me - do what I say. She took her nightgowns out of the drawer, threw them in the suitcase too. Your nightgowns . . . I said. I won't be needing them anymore, she told me. I think I knew then. For the first time."

Belle was crying now, working hard to keep her voice steady.

"I grabbed on to her. Hugged her tight. Don't make me go, Sissy, I begged her. She pushed me away. Looked at me like she was memorizing me. Then she slapped me across the face. Hard.

"Why'd you slap me, Sissy? I asked her. Why'd you slap me? You never slapped me in the face in all my life."

Belle took a deep breath, looking straight at me in the dark.

"I slapped you so you'll never forget my name, baby. Don't you ever call me Sissy again, not even in your dreams.

"I was standing there, crying. Sissy rubbed my face where she'd slapped me. So tender and sweet. She kissed me to take away the pain, like she used to do when I was little.

"We heard my father's car pull in. Sissy was calm. I'm not just your sister, Belle. I'm not Sissy. I'm your mother.

"I couldn't move. Go! Sissy said. Go, little girl. I'm your mother. I kept you safe. Now run!

"I ran into the swamp, but I didn't go far. I hid down in a grove, so scared I couldn't make my legs work. I heard my father yell something at Sissy. Then I heard this explosion; flames shot up. The boat. You stay right there, bitch! I heard my father yell. Then I heard his gator-gun blast off: Once. Twice. He yelled my name. Screamed it out into the night. I ran through that swamp.

My mother wasn't lying there dead by the boat - she was inside me - running with me -keeping me strong. She's always inside me."

Belle grabbed me, holding me tight, her arms locked around my back.

Crying the truth.

49

I don't know how long we were like that. Belle loosened her hold. She drew back from me, reaching out a hand to touch my face.

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

"I didn't mean to hurt you. I just wanted you to remember my name," she whispered.

"I do."

"Will you get in bed with me, honey? Lie down with me?"

"Sure."

She propped herself on one elbow, reached across my chest for the cigarettes. "I have to tell you the rest," she said.

"You don't . . ."

"Yes. Yes, I do. You still don't know what I want from you."

I fired a match for her and watched the smoke drift out her pug nose, not pushing her.

"How old do you think I am?" she asked.

"Twenty, twenty-two?"

"I'm almost twenty-nine years old," she said. "It was fourteen years ago when my mother saved me. I went running. Even when I was a young girl, they only looked at my chest, not my face. There's always young folks running in this country. I found them - they found me. I made some rules for myself, promises to my mother. I never turned a trick, but I let my tits hang over plenty of bars. I could always make men buy drinks. I never let a man beat me - there's some who wanted to try - big girl like me makes them feel small, I guess. I drove cars to - l'm real good at it. Getaway cars sometimes. I ran 'shine over the mountains in Kentucky. Drove stolen cars from Chicago to Vegas. I thought I was going to be a showgirl there. I've got the size and the body for it, but my face . . ."

"You have a beautiful face, Belle."

"No, I don't. But I know it's the truth to you. Just listen to me, don't talk."

I nodded, rubbing her shoulder.

"I saved my money. I read a lot of books, teaching myself. I'm an incest child. You know what that means? I have my father's blood and my sister's too. That's why my face is so . . . like it is. My eyes close together and all. I have bad blood, Burke. Bad blood. Only the Lord knows what's gone on in my family before I was born. Or what happened to Sissy's mother. My grandmother, I guess. I saw a doctor. At New York University. I told him the truth. He did some tests, but he couldn't tell me anything without testing my father too. I'm all messed up inside. I'm missing a rib here" - she pressed my hand under her heart - "and one leg's a bit shorter than the other. The doctor wouldn't tell me that much, but I made him say the truth."

She smoked in the dark while I waited.

"I can never have a child. Never have a baby of my own, you understand? My father's bloodline has to stop with me."

She felt the question.

"He's down to Raiford State Prison. In that drawer over there, I have all the papers. I was busted once with a station wagon full of machine guns. I rolled over on the people who hired me," she said, watching my face. "They told me it was stolen watches when they asked me to drive."

"They didn't tell the truth," I said.

"Yeah, you understand. They didn't tell the truth. I got a free pass out of it - no testimony, just the names. And one of the feds, he looked up my father for me. He's doing a ten-year jolt for manslaughter; he gets out this Christmas."

"How come he's still in on a ten-year hit if it happened fourteen years ago?"

Belle's face twisted - I saw her teeth flash, but it wasn't a smile. "He never did a day for killing my mother. He shot a man in a dispute over some gator hides."

She pointed her toe in the air, flexing her thigh, drawing my eyes to the tattoo.

"Look close," she whispered. "Look real close. What do you see?"

"A snake."

"When I was running through the swamp that first night, I stopped in a clearing. A snake hissed at me. Cottonmouth, maybe. I couldn't see him in the dark. He had me rooted - too scared to move. Then my mother's spirit came into me and I knew I had to go. No matter what. I threw a branch at the noise and it stopped. A gator wouldn't stop. I was dancing in this club in Jersey. All of the girls had tattoos. Butterfly tattoos. Their boyfriends' names. A rose on their butt. They told me where they got it done. I had the man do a snake. Right on my thigh, pointing at my cunt. A poison snake - that's all the men saw."

I looked hard at the tattoo, knowing there was more. Seeing it. "The snake, it's the letter 'S'."

"Yes. For 'Sissy.' For my mother. it's the only gravestone she'll ever have."

I lit a cigarette. "That's where your dance comes from."

"Tell me," she whispered. "Tell me you see it."

"I see it. There's worse things than gators out there," I told her. "But not as bad as what's in the house."

She kissed my chest. "That's what I wanted," she said, talking fast now, like I'd cut her off before she finished. "That's what I wanted from you. Marques told me he wouldn't meet you without a cut-out. He told me you were a dangerous, crazy man. Said you used to be a hijacker and now you're a hired killer."

"Marques doesn't . . ."

"Ssssh . . ." she said, putting her finger to my mouth. "He said you killed a pimp just because he had a little girl on the street. He said everyone knows you lose your mind when people fuck kids. He said you took money to bring back some runaway girl. You got her away from the pimp, then you shot him anyway."

"And you wanted . . ."

"I wanted you to rescue me. I told you the truth, honey. I told you the truth. It's my soul that's lost. My spirit. My mother saved my life - I need someone to save the rest."

"The hijacking . . ."

"I deserve to have my ass beat for that. I played it wrong. I wanted a hard man. I knew I couldn't hold you with sex. I wanted you to rescue me - I wanted to be your partner. I thought if I brought you a solid-gold score, handed it to you on a platter . . . you'd know I was worth something. I didn't want the money."

"Damn."

"Burke. I don't care if you take off the back room. You want to do it, I'll drive the car. And I'll leave the engine running until you come out the door, I swear it."

"And if I don't?"

"I'll go inside and pull you out."

I took a deep drag. "I mean, if I don't want to pull the robbery?"

"I just want you to want me," she said, her voice grave. "I never meant anything more in my life."

I took another drag, feeling so tired.

"I can't rescue you, Belle."

"You let me help you. Help you with your friend. Find that van. Then decide."

I sat quietly, watching the shadows.

"Please, honey."

"Go to sleep, Belle," I said, stroking her back. "If the Prof's okay, you can help."

She closed her eyes on the promise.

50

She slept with her face against my chest. I brought the Prof's face into my mind, keeping him alive. Seeing the Prof made me see prison. Where we met. I never knew what sent him down that time. Any time the subject came up, the little man made it clear what he was about. "I didn't use the phone, and I came here alone," is all he'd say It was enough.

The first time I went down, I was a kid. In New York, sixteen years old, you're too far gone for another bit in reform school. I came in with a good jacket: attempted murder. But it wasn't enough. One thing good about all that time in reform school - I knew the rules. I did the thirty days on Fish Row by myself. The Prof rolled up on my cell one day - he was the runner. Said, "This is from a friend," and tossed a couple of packs of smokes and an old magazine in my cell. I wanted a smoke bad, but I left everything on my bunk, waiting for him to come around again. I grabbed him through the bars, pulling him close.

"Take this stuff back where you got it," I said to him, nice and quiet. "I got no friends here."

The little man looked up at me. His eyes had a yellowish cast. No fear in them.

"Here's the slant on the plant, son. Don't play it hard when you not holding no cards."

"I'm holding myself," I told him. "You tell whoever gave you this stuff for me that I'm sending it back, okay? And if he don't like it, tell him I'll send it back with interest when I hit the yard."

The little man smiled, not even trying to pull away. "Jump back, Jack! I ain't no wolf, and that's the truth."

I looked over at the cigarettes. "From you?"

"From me, fool. You never heard of the Welcome Wagon?"

"I thought . . ."

"I know what you thought, youngblood. Here's a clue - don't play the fool."

"I can't pay you back," I told him. "I got no money on the books."

"Look here, rookie. I've got more time behind the Wall than you've got on the earth. In prison, first you learn, then you earn."

"Learn what?"

"Here's your first case, Ace. Don't smoke the butts. Don't read the magazine. Let it all sit. Don't trust me. When you get into Population, keep your ear to the ground, ask around. People call me the Prophet. I don't stand tall, but I stand up. Take a look before you book."

I let go of him. The little man made his way down the tier, rhyming the time away.

When I got into Population, I moved slow. Asked around, like the man said. The Prophet had some rep. Guys knew him going back twenty years - this was at least his fifth time behind bars. He once did four years straight in solitary for smuggling a gun inside. He hooked up with a guy doing three life sentences, running wild. They took a guard hostage. Got all the way to the front gate when they ran out of room. The guy with him got blown away. The hacks broke half the bones in the Profs body.

In solitary, they kept at him. Every day, every night. He kept telling them the gun came to him in a vision. Every con in the joint knew where the gun came from . . . where it had to come from. A guard. And the Prof was too much of a man to give up even one of them.

It took a few weeks, but I finally saw the Prof on the yard. I rolled up on him, keeping both hands where he could see them. The group of men around him pulled up close. The Prof made a motion with his head and they peeled off, giving me room.

"What's the word, rookie?" he challenged me.

I took the two packs of smokes and the magazine from under my shirt.

"You handing them back?" he asked.

"No. I wanted you to see for yourself," I said, opening a pack, taking out my first cigarette in seven weeks. "Smoke?" I asked him, holding out the pack:

"Much obliged, Clyde," the little man replied, a smile shining.

I hunkered down against the wall with him, my back to the yard, watching. Speaking out of the side of my mouth, looking straight ahead.

"I'm sorry for what I thought."

"That's okay, gunfighter. You just a schoolboy in here." I wasn't looking at him, but he must have felt the question.

"I glommed your jacket."

"How'd you pull that off?"

"You don't have to pay if you know the way," the little man said.

I did three years on that bit. Not a day went by that the Prof didn't teach me something. When it was near my time to leave, he schooled me about how to act in front of the Parole Board. When the Board set a release date for me, he gave me the hard stuff. Straight.

"You're short now, schoolboy. You know what that means? Thirty days to wait, and you walk out the gate. They'll come at you now. Punks you backed down before, they'll get bold, knowing you don't want to fuck up the go-home. You got two plays: hide or slide."

"Break it down."

"First guy fucks with you, you can go to the Man. Take a PC for the rest of your bit."

"No."

"Yeah, that only works for the citizens. The guys who're never coming back here. That ain't you. So we got to slide. I got people here - leave it to me."

"Which means?"

"Which means young blood is hot blood. You got to be cold if you want to grow old. Someone moves on you, tell them 'later' with your eyes, but don't do nothing right away, okay?"

"Okay, Prof."

By the end of the week, it happened. A big fat jocker named Moore who'd moved on me early in my bit. I showed him a shank and he backed off. Went looking for easier game - there was a lot of it around. I was sitting at my table during chow when I felt him looking down at me.

"You lost four crates on the Series, Burke. When you planning on paying?"

"You're dreaming, pal. I never bet with you."

"I say you did. You got till Monday. Then I want my four crates or I take it out in trade."

I pushed my chair back, knowing everyone was watching. The Prof made a growling noise in his throat. I looked up at Moore.

"I'll see you before Monday," I promised him, my voice under control.

He walked away, slapping five with one of his buddies. Late that afternoon, we were on the yard. A pair of bikers broke from their group and came our way. Monster bodybuilders both, their arms were so choked with muscle they had to cock their elbows to walk. I reached for my sock. A bluff - I wasn't carrying so close to parole, but I wanted to give the Prof time to run. He chuckled. "Take a hike, Mike," he said.

I wouldn't disrespect him by arguing. When I glanced back over my shoulder, he was deep in conversation with the gorillas.

Sunday morning, the cafeteria was buzzing when I came in. A black guy I knew slightly from boxing walked by my table. "Right on, man," he whispered. I lit a cigarette to mask my face.

Bongo pulled up a chair across from me, an old buddy from reform school. His trick was using his head as a battering ram in a fight. He'd done it too many times.

"Burke, you hear what happened in the weight room last night?"

I shook my head no.

"You know Moore? That big fat faggot? He decides he's going to bench-press four hundred and fifty pounds, can you dig it?"

"That's a lot of weight."

Bongo giggled his crazy laugh. "Too much fucking weight, man. His spotters musta been bigger punks than he was - they dropped the weight right on his chest."

"What?"

"Yeah, man. Square business. The hacks found him on the bench. Crushed his chest like it was cardboard."

When the Prof finally walked out the gate, I was there.

51

I lit another smoke, keeping the Prof alive in my mind. Belle stirred in her sleep. I patted her, saying, "Ssssh, little girl," but it was no good.

"I can't sleep, honey. What time is it?"

"About five."

She pulled her body away from me, shifting her hips so they were against the headboard, her face still on my chest.

"Help me go to sleep," she whispered, rubbing her face on my stomach.

"Belle . . ."

She squirmed lower, gently licking my cock, taking me in her mouth, making soft sounds to herself. I felt myself stir, but it was like someone else.

"Pull my pants down," she said, taking her mouth off me.

I got them past her butt, but that was as far as they could go. A black ribbon across her thighs. I went semihard in her mouth.

"I don't . . ."

"Don't do anything, honey. Please. I'm lonely for you - you're far away. Let me just hold you till I fall asleep."

She put her mouth back on me. In a minute, she was asleep again.

52

I patted her rump, drifting in and out. At least it was a hell of a lot more than time on my hands. Time. Back to prison, where time is the enemy and you kill it any way you can. It was the Prof who got me into reading books. The first time he laid it on me, I laughed at him.

"They don't write down everything in those books," I said.

"Just because you locked in a dump, you don't have to be no chump, bro'. Pay attention. Hear the word. What you going to do when you hit the bricks, get a job?"

"Who'd hire me?"

"You gonna hook up with a mob - kiss some old asshole's pinky ring?"

"No way."

"That's the true clue. You ain't Italian anyway, right?"

"I don't know."

The Prof's face flashed sad for just a second. "You really don't?"

"No.I did the State Shuffle. Orphanage to foster homes to the gladiator schools. To here."

"And you always knew you were coming."

"I always knew,"

"Okay, bro', then know this. You can't score if you don't learn more, got it? One way or another, you got to steal to be real. And I know what's in your schoolboy head: pick up the gun and have some fun. Right?"

I smiled at the little man, thinking about guns. And banks.

He grabbed my arm, hard. I was always surprised at the Prof's powerful grip.

"You got to go on the hustle, schoolboy. There ain't no fame in the gun game - play it tame, the money's the same."

"I'm no hustler. I don't have the rap."

"Man, I'm not talking about no Murphy Man shit. Or pimping off some little girl either. The magic word is 'scam,' my man. Use this time. Study the freaks in here. Watch them close. Learn. How. Things. Work. That's the key to the money tree."

I started reading books just to show the Prof respect. It was his advice - it had to stand for something. I read it all. Everything I could get my hands on. When the prison library ran low, I joined the Book-of-the-Month Club. I scored a couple of dozen books before they threatened to garnishee my salary. I wrote to religious organizations - they sent me books too. I covered hundreds of pages with notes, calculations. Figuring the odds.

When I got out, things didn't work like I planned. It took me another couple of falls to get things down to where I have them now. But I always kept reading, listening. Watching for the crack in the wall.

It was during my second bit that I started reading psychology. I never knew they had sweet words for some of the freakish things people did. The Prof said, if I read the books enough, one day they'd talk to me. I knew what I wanted to be, just not what to call it.

Ice-cold.

Stone-hard.

And I worked at that too.

One day, I was reading a psychology book and a word jumped out at me. "Sociopath." It called to me. I read it over and over. "Sociopath. The essential characteristic of this disorder is a lack of remorse, even for violent or criminal behavior. The sociopath lacks the fundamental quality of empathy."

I ran to the battered old dictionary I kept in my cell. "Empathy: the intellectual identification with or vicarious experiencing of the feelings, thoughts, or attitudes of another." I puzzled it out. A sociopath thinks only his own thoughts, walks his own road. Feels only his own pain. Yeah. Wasn't that the right way to live in this junkyard? Do your own time, keep your face flat. Don't let them see your heart.

A couple of weeks later, I watched the hacks carry an informant out on a stretcher, a white towel over his face. A shank was sucking out of his chest. "That's a nice way for a rat to check out of this hotel," I said to the guys around me. They nodded. I knew what they'd say - Burke is a cold dude.

I kept my face flat. I never raised my voice, never argued with anybody. Practiced letting my eyes go slightly out of focus so I could look in a man's face for minutes without turning away.

Sometime, alone in my cell at night, I'd say the word softly to myself. "Sociopath." Calling on the ice god to come into my soul. Willing to be anything but afraid all the time.

I listened to the freaks. Listened to Lester tell us how he broke in a house, found some woman taking a bath. Put his gun to her head, made her suck him off. Then he plugged in her hair dryer, tossed it in the water. I kept my face flat, walking away.

Lester grabbed a young boy who'd just come in. "Shit on my dick or blood on my knife," he told the kid, smiling his smile. I took him off the count the next night. He never saw me coming. I hooked him underhand in the gut with a sharpened file, ripped it upward all the way to his chest. I dropped the file on his body, walked away. A few guys saw it - nobody said anything. I let them think it was over a gambling debt.

I read the psychology books again and again. They have some of us pegged. Michelle is a transsexual. A woman trapped in a man's body. The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders even has a special coded number for it - 302.50.

But I never got it to feel right for me-never found the name for what I was. And the number they gave me upstate didn't tell me a thing.

53

The phone woke me. I snatched it off the hook on the first ring.

"Yeah?"

"Your friend call," Mama said. "He say come to Saint Vincent's Hospital. Room 909. Visiting hour at nine o'clock. You ask for Melvin, okay?"

"Thanks, Mama."

Belle was awake, still twisted like she was when she fell asleep, looking up at me.

"He called?"

"Sure did." I got up. "I'm going to take a shower, okay?"

"Let me use the bathroom for a minute first." She padded off. I lit a smoke. Melvin was the Prof's brother, a semi-legitimate dude who worked the post office. He must be in the hospital for something or other. If we had to meet in the daytime, Saint Vincent's was as good a place as any.

"All yours," Belle said, giving me a kiss.

I didn't sing in the shower, but I felt like it. Pansy's the only one who likes my singing.

I slipped into my shirt. It smelled of Belle. She was bustling around the little house, a smile on her face. "You're going?" she asked.

"Yeah. I got to be downtown at nine."

"It's not quite six, honey."

"I got to hit my office, grab a shave, change my clothes."

Belle went over to the bed, bent from the waist, looking back at me, her big beautiful butt trembling just a little bit. "You've got some time," she said.

I went over to her.

"This has got to make you think of something," she said, her voice soft and sweet.

I slid into her smooth. She dropped her shoulders to the bed, pushed against me. "Come on."

Belle locked her elbows tight as I slammed into her from behind, my hands on her waist. I was lost in her.

"I'm coming," she said, her voice calm.

"Try not to get so excited about it," I told her. She giggled. Her whole body shook. "I mean I'm coming with you. To the hospital . . . oh!"

I blasted off inside her, fell on top of her on the bed. I lay there, catching my breath until I got soft and slipped out of her. "You want a smoke?" I asked her, lighting one for myself.

"No, I have to get dressed," she said, bouncing off the bed.

I didn't argue with her.

54

The morning was bright and clear. Like I felt. We pulled off the West Side Highway just past the Battery Tunnel. I motored quietly up Reade Street, heading for the river and my office. A mixed crew of blacks and Orientals were taking a break from unloading a truck. The black guys were eating bowls of steaming noodles, working with chopsticks like they'd been doing it all their lives. One of the Orientals yelled something in Chinese to a guy standing in the doorway with a clipboard in his hand. The only word I caught was "motherfucker."

Pansy was glad to see me. She always is, no matter what's in my hands. I love my dog. Guys doing time promise themselves a lot of things for when they hit the bricks. Big cars. Wall-to-wall broads. Fine clothes. Who knows? I promised myself I'd have a dog. I had one when I was a kid and they took him away from me when they sent me upstate. I'll never go to prison again over anything money can buy. Wherever I have to run, I can take Pansy.

The beast took my signal and let Belle inside. I gave her a couple of the bagels we'd brought with us and went inside to shave. When I came out, Belle was sitting on the couch, holding her paper cup of coffee with both hands, her arms stiff as steel. Pansy was lying on the couch, happily slurping from the cup, spilling coffee all over Belle.

"Pansy, jump!" I yelled at her. She hit the floor, spilling the rest of the coffee in the process. "You miserable gorilla," I told the dog.

Belle looked at me, appealing. "I didn't know what to do - I was afraid to push her away."

"It's not your fault - she's a goddamned extortionist."

Pansy growled agreement, always eager for praise.

Belle's white sweatshirt was soaked. She pulled it over her head. "I'll wear something of yours," she said, smiling.

I knew none of my shirts would fit her, but I kept my mouth shut. I found a black turtleneck sweater in a drawer, tossed it to her.

I pulled out a dark suit, nice conservative blue shirt, black knit tie. A pair of black-rimmed glasses and an attaché case and I was set.

Belle looked me over. "I didn't know you wore glasses."

"They're just plain glass - they change the shape of your face."

"That's what I wish I could do," she said bitterly.

"I like your face," I told her.

"It doesn't look like his," she said. "But I still see him in the mirror sometimes."

"If it hurts you, maybe you should fix it."

"You mean like plastic surgery?"

"No."

"Oh. You think . . . ?"

"Now's not the time, little girl."

She nodded. A trusting child's face watching me. Listening.

Just about time to go. I let Pansy out to the roof, blanking my mind. No point speculating - the Prof would have something for me and I'd find out when I saw him.

Pansy strolled downstairs and flopped down in a corner. She wasn't into exercise.

"You want a beer?" I asked Belle.

"Who drinks beer at this hour?"

I pulled the last bottle of Bud from the refrigerator, uncapped it, and poured it into a bowl. Pansy charged over - made it disappear.

55

Saint Vincent's is in the West Village, not far from my office. "Just act like you know where you're going," I told Belle.

The information desk gave us a visitor's pass and we took the elevator. Room 909 was at the end of the corridor. I walked in first, not looking forward to shooting the breeze with Melvin, hoping the Prof was already on the scene.

He was. In the hospital bed, both legs in heavy casts, suspended by steel wires. A pair of IV tubes ran into his arm. His face was charcoal-ash, eyes closed. He looked smaller than ever - a hundred years old.

My eyes swept the room. Empty except for a chair in the corner. I came to the bed quietly, images jamming my brain.

The Prof didn't move, didn't open his eyes. I bent close to him.

"Burke?" His voice was calm. Drugged?

"It's me, brother."

"You got my message?"

"Yeah. What happened?"

His eyes flicked open. They were bloodshot but clear, focused on my face. His voice was soft, barely a whisper. "I was poking around. On my cart. Scoping the scene, you know? I was working Thirty-sixth and Tenth. By the Lincoln Tunnel."

The Prof does this routine where he folds his legs under him and pulls himself along on a board with roller skates bolted to the bottom. It looks like he has no legs at all. Sometimes he carries a sign and a metal cup. Working close to the ground.

"You want to wait on this? Get some rest?"

His eyes hardened. "They gave me pain, but I'm still in the game. The nurse'll be around in a few minutes to give me another shot. You need to know now."

I put my hand on his forearm, next to the IV tubes. "Run it," I said, my voice as quiet as his.

"You ever hear of this freak karate-man they call Mortay?"

"The one who's hitting all the dojos? Challenging every sensei?"

"That's him. You know Kuo? Kung-fu man?"

"He teaches dragon-style, right? Over on Amsterdam?"

"He's dead, Burke. This Mortay hits the dojo, slaps Kuo in front of his own students. Kuo clears the floor and they go at it. Mortay left him right there."

I let out a breath. "Kuo's good."

"He's good and dead, bro'. It's been going on for a while. This Mortay's been selling tickets - says he's the world's deadliest human. The word is that he was kicked off the tournament circuit - he wouldn't pull his shots. Hurt a lot of people. He fought a death-match about a year ago. In the basement under Sin City."

"I heard about it."

"Every player on the scene was there. They put up a twenty-grand purse, side bets all over the place. He fought this Japanese guy from the Coast. The way I heard it, Mortay just played with him before he took him out. Now he's hooked on it. Death. He finds a dojo, walks in the door. The sensei has to fight him or walk off the floor."

"He's got to be crazy. Sooner or later . . ."

"Yeah. That's what everybody's been saying. But he's still out there."

The Prof took a deep breath. "He does work too."

"For hire?"

"That's the word."

"He did this to you?"

"I'm on my cart, talking to a couple of the working girls, handing out my religious rap. Like I'm the man to deal with the van, you know?"

"Yeah."

"Car pulls up. Station wagon. Spanish guy gets out. Short, heavy-built dude. Big diamond hanging from his ear. Tells me he has someone wants to talk to me. I tell him that I bring the Word to the people, so the people got to come to me. The Spanish guy don't blink an eye. Pulls a piece right there in the street. Tells me he has to bring me, don't matter what condition I arrive in. I tell him not to get crazy - how am I supposed to go, walk? He calls to another guy. They each grab one end of my cart, put me in the back of the wagon. The girls just faded. They're hijacking me off the street, nobody's paying attention."

The Prof's voice was the same quiet flow, his eyes focused on someplace else.

"They take me to one of the piers. Past where they have the big ships. I'm not blindfolded or anything. They haul me inside this old building at the end of the pier. Place is falling apart: big holes in the roof, smells like a garbage dump.

"Guy's waiting for us. Tall, maybe six two, six three. Couldn't weigh more than one and a quarter."

"That thin?"

"Skinny as a razor blade, man. Arms like matchsticks. You'd look like a weightlifter next to him.

"Mortay?"

"Oh, yeah. Mortay. No mystery - he tells me who he is. Like his name is supposed to stand for something. He got this weird voice. Real thin, high-pitched. He says that he heard I been asking around. About the Ghost Van. He says that's a bad thing to do. Could make him mad, I keep doing that.

"I rap to him. Try my crazy act. He don't go for it. He says he knows me too. Calls my name - the Prophet. Asks, if I know the Word, why I can't cure myself. Fix my own legs.

"I tell him no man can change the will of the Lord. He comes over to me, kneels down, starts on me with his hands, pressing spots on my face, watching me. Then he says, You lie. Just like that. You lie. He slaps me right off the cart, tells me to stand up. For a minute, I thought my legs stopped working for real . . . but I got to my feet.

"He says he's going to have to show me it's a mistake to ask questions. I know bodywork's coming up. I got no place to go. I fucked up, brother," the little man said, his voice shaking. "I was scared. You know I don't spook easy, but this freak . . . It was like he was sending out waves. Hurting me inside, and he wasn't even touching me."

I felt Belle behind me. "Wait outside," I told her. I didn't know what was coming, but it wasn't for her to hear.

"It's all right, Prof," I said to my brother, squeezing his arm.

His voice went sad. Shamed. "No, it ain't all right. I lost control, Burke. I put Max's name out. I told this freak the Silent One was my brother. I ran the whole rap. Told him the widow-making wind would tear down his house if he messed with me. I figured if he knew I was hooked up with Max . . ."

"It's the truth. And he's not the only one."

The Prof's face was deep-down sad. "You know what he did? He smiled, man. He said he wanted Max. In a match. Said he made me walk, he could make Max talk. The freak said he had word out for months that he wanted to meet Max - that Max was dog-yellow.

"I went dumb. It wasn't no act. It was the devil talking to me, standing right there. He said he's been looking for Max's dojo. When he finds it, he's going to take it for himself.

"And then he asked me where it was. Smiling at me. Saying since Max was my brother and all, I had to know.

"I told him I didn't. I know when a man is lying, he says. Looks at me. Right through me.

"The Spanish guy says something. Mortay flicks his wrist at the Spanish guy's face like he's brushing away a fly. Blood jumps out on the Spanish guy's face.

"Then the freak says to me he sees I don't know where Max's dojo is. So he wants me to give him a message.

"I say okay - tell me the message. He takes this fucking machete from someplace. Hands it to me. Test the blade, he says. Big smile on his face. I touch the edge - it goes right into my hand, draws blood.

"Sharp enough? he asks me. For what? I say.

"I'm going to fix your legs, he says.

"I try and stall him. Put the blade down, take off my coat. Like I'm getting ready to duel with him. I pick up the blade, swing it in both hands. Like I'm testing it? I check the door where they brought me in. Spanish guy standing there, holding the gun. No place to go.

"I was scared, Burke. But shamed too. I knew I put Max's name out. Broke the rules. I'm a man. I never cried when they broke me up in the joint. I have a name too."

"Your name is gold, Prof."

The little man wasn't listening; tears on his face.

"I pulled it together. I called his name: Come on, pussy! He came at me. I hit the floor, flipped onto my back, flashing the blade up at him with both hands-hard. Going to cut his balls off."

The Prof's arm trembled in my hand.

"He floated right over me. Musta been six feet off the ground. He comes again. I step to him, blade going side to side, razor-circle. No way in for him. He comes inside the blade, chops me on the wrist. The blade goes flying.

"Fun's over, nigger," he says.

The Prof's eyes closed.

"I grab for his eyes. White mist comes. I hear a crack - I know it's my leg. I go down."

His eyes opened.

"When I come around, I'm in the back of the station wagon. Mortay - he's sitting like Max sits. Against the back door, facing me. Taking you to the hospital, he said. Put you in a nice private room - everything's on me. Tell Max I did this. Says his name real slow. Two pieces. Like More-Tay. Get it right, he said. Give him my message."

The Prof bit into his lip, reaching inside for what he needed. "You're the only one I called," he said.

"I know."

"I fucked up. Fucked up bad."

"You did the job, brother. This Mortay . . . he's got to be locked into the van somehow."

"But Max . . . ?"

"He knew about Max before he ever grabbed you, Prof. That's his own scene. You gave him nothing he didn't already have."

"Burke . . . I never saw nothing move so fast in all my life."

I patted his arm, feeling the little man's fear vibrate through to me.

"I need you on this one, brother," I told him.

"I won't be running no races for a while," he said, looking at his legs.

"It's your brain I need. Knife-fighters are a dime a dozen."

The ghost of the Prof's old smile showed. "If you got a plan, I'm your man."

"They still have the death-matches in the basement under Sin City?"

"They move them around, what I heard."

"Who'll know?"

The Prof thought a minute. "Got to be Lupe, brother. That dude's a battle-freak. Cockfighting, pit bulls, rope-dancing . . . it's a good bet he'll be on the set."

"Where's he hang?"

A bigger smile this time. "Your favorite place, Ace. Every weeknight, he's at the end grandstand at Yonkers."

"Which end?"

"Way past the finish line . . . where it looks like bleachers?"

"Yeah, I know it."

"Every night. He sets up matches. Takes a piece. The little man's eyes moved into stronger focus. Working again. "Light me a smoke."

I fired one for him, held it to his lips. He took a deep drag.

"Lupe's about fifty. Greasy 'do, wears it in an old-style D.A. Pachuco cross on his hand. Short, fat dude. Bad teeth. Got him?"

"Yeah."

The Prof looked up at me, eyes clear. "All the faggot broke was my legs, Burke."

"I know."

"No rhyme this time. This is the true word: he'll be sorry."

"For breaking your legs?"

"For not killing me when he had the chance," the little man promised. Back to himself.

I heard loud voices in the corridor. Pushed open the door a crack. A big black nurse was trying to push her way past Belle and not having any luck.

"It's okay," I told Belle, holding open the door.

The nurse came in, pushing a cart with a metal tray on it. "Time for your medicine," she told the Prof, a West Indian tang to her voice.

The little man winked at her.

"You better hope that ain't no dope," he said, pointing his chin at the hypo on her tray.

"And why is that?" she said, a smile creeping onto her broad face.

"Dope makes me sexy, Mama. I couldn't trust myself around a fine cup of Jamaican coffee like you."

"Never mind with a smart mouth, mahn," she snapped, still smiling, loading the syringe.

The Prof looked at me and Belle. "Look here, fools, can't you see me and this lady want to be alone?"

I waved goodbye. Belle bent over and kissed him.

He was already deep into his rap with the nurse by the time we got the door closed.

56

Belle rested her hand lightly on my arm as we waited for the elevator, not saying a word. She stayed quiet until we got in the car.

"What happened to him?"

"He was in an accident."

Her face went sulky. "I told you the truth. I told you my secrets. You don't have to tell me yours." She lit a cigarette. "But don't lie to me - I'm a big girl, not a baby. It's none of my business, just say that. Don't tell me stories, you want me to trust you."

"It's none of your business," I said.

She didn't say another word until I hit the highway and she saw where I was headed.

"No."

"No what?"

"No good. What happened to your friend - it's none of my business, okay. But you're going to do something now. I know you have to."

"And?"

"And that's my business. I'm in too."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am. Don't you tell me I'm not. I can do things. I can help."

"Look, Belle . . ."

"You look. You think I'm just a piece of ass with a sad story? I'm a woman. A woman who loves you. You don't want my love, you say so. Say so right now."

''I . . ."

"Just shut up. I don't sell my love. I never gave it away before. I said I was going to love you. That means something. My love is worth something - you have to give me a chance to show you."

"You'll get your chance."

"How? Coming to see you on visiting day?"

"If that's what it comes down to."

"No! I love you. I swear I love you. I pay attention when you talk. I learn things. You want to mistreat me, I'll still love you. I play for keeps. But you can't disrespect me. Like on that wall you showed me."

"I'm not disrespecting you."

"No? You've got work to do, I should stay at home, right? I'm too fat for an apron, and I don't know how to cook."

I lit a cigarette, blew smoke at the windshield, driving mechanically.

Belle moved in close to me, her hip against mine, both arms around my neck, talking softly into my ear. "You have to love me. And you won't . . . not really love me . . . unless you let me in. I won't get in the way - I'll just do my piece. You say what it is. But you have to let me in or you'll never see what I am . . . you'll never love me, Burke."

I took a deep breath. Let it out slow.

"You won't free-lance? You'll do what I tell you?"

"I swear."

"I'll pick you up tonight. Around seven."

"Where're we going?"

"The racetrack."

"I thought . . ."

"That's not the deal," I reminded her.

She gave me a kiss, nuzzled against me for a minute, moved back to the passenger side.

"You're the boss." She smiled.

Sure.

57

When we got to her house, Belle bounded out of the car like she was going to a fire sale on salvation. I wheeled the car around and shot back to the city. Lots of work to do.

I pulled in behind Mama's. Grabbed the Daily News from under the register and sat in my booth. The waiter brought me some hot-and-sour soup, not even pretending I had a choice. I read the paper, waiting for Mama. Nothing about any new Ghost Van murders. I flipped through to the back. The race results. Mystery Mary came out on top. Wired the field, trotting the mile in 2:00.3. She was three lengths up at the top of the stretch and held on by a neck. Paid $14.20. I was up almost a grand and a half. I couldn't remember the last time I figured a race so perfectly. I waited for the rush. It didn't come.

Mama moved into the booth. Greeted me, her eyes shifting to the newspaper.

"You win?"

"Yeah."

"I tell Max pick up the money?"

"Yeah. And tell him to lay low for a few days. Stay off the street, okay? I'm working on something - a nice sweet score. Let people think he's gone away for a while."

Mama looked at me, waiting.

"I got to go," I told her.

She didn't say anything.

58

I hit the post office. Told Melvin where the Prof was, gave him the phone number of the private room. Anyone comes around asking for the Prof, he should call me at Mama's, leave the word.

The City Planning Office had the detailed grid maps I needed. I paid for them in cash.

I spent another couple of hours at the library, groping around, not sure what I was looking for.

I drove to the junkyard. Turned around before I got there. It wasn't time for the Mole yet.

I went back to the office. I put the grid maps of the city on the wall. Spread out the clips Morelli got for me. I couldn't make them work.

I went into myself, deep as I could go. I came back empty.

Pansy and I shared some roast beef.

When I looked at my watch, it was time to go.

59

The door opened before I could knock. "Close your eyes," Belle said. "Keep them closed."

She led me over to the couch, pushed me into it. "Just sit for a minute, honey - I'm not done yet."

I lit a smoke, looking around. The whole place was a mess - boxes and paper all over the floor, bed not made, ashtrays overflowing.

Belle came out of the bathroom prancing on a pair of shiny black spikes. Her hair was swept to one side, held together with a black clip. Her face was so different I had to look twice: dark eye liner pulled her eyes apart, sharp lines over her cheekbones. Her mouth was a wide, dark slash. She was wearing a black silk top over a pair of skin-tight pants in a wide black-and-white stripe. Two heavy white ropes tied loosely around her waist. She twirled before me, as pretty-proud as a little girl in her first party dress.

"See. Just like Michelle said."

I stared at her.

"Burke. Say something!"

"Damn!"

"What does that mean?" she demanded, moving closer.

"I think my heart stopped. You want to try some mouth-to-mouth?"

The smile lit up her face. "Isn't it great? Michelle's so smart."

She twirled again. Stood hip-shot, her back to me. "Vertical stripes," she boasted, patting her hip.

The black-and-white stripes were vertical all the way up her legs. But when they got to her butt, they stopped going parallel and ran for their lives in opposite directions. Flesh stomps fashion every time.

"You're the loveliest thing I've ever seen in my life," I told her, reaching out my hand.

She slapped it away. "No, you don't." She laughed. "I didn't put all this on for you to pull it off."

I got to my feet, reaching in my pocket for the car keys. Belle moved in close to me, holding the lapel of my jacket with one hand. Dark-red polish on her nails.

"Burke, I was only teasing. You want to stay here, it's okay."

I patted her on the rear. "I wish we could stay here. We're working, remember?"

"Then why'd you say . . . ?"

"I lost my head."

She gave me a quick kiss. "Wait till later," she promised.

60

I rolled onto the Belt Parkway, taking it past the crossover for the airport, heading for the Whitestone Bridge. When I saw a break in traffic, I pulled over on the shoulder. Turned off the engine. Belle sat quietly, black-and-white-striped legs crossed, waiting patiently.

"Were you really a driver?" I asked her.

"Oh, yes," she said, her eyes opening wide, watching me close.

"Want to show me?"

She was behind the wheel in a flash, almost shoving me out the door. I went around to the other side, let myself in. Lit a smoke, watching her.

Belle kicked off the spike heels, wiggling her hips in the seat. She wasn't playing around, just getting the feel of the machine. "Can I move the seat back a bit?"

I showed her where the lever was. She took it back an inch or two, extending her arms toward the wheel, looking another question at me. I threw a toggle switch and the wheel dropped into her lap. "Move it to where you want it and I'll lock it in place."

She played with the wheel for a minute, getting it just the way she wanted it, squirming around in the seat, checking the mirrors, rolling her shoulders to get the stiffness out. "Anything I should know?" she asked.

"Like what?"

"Do the brakes grab? Does it pull to one side?"

"No. It tracks like a train. Stops straight. But watch the gas - it's a lot stronger than it looks."

She nodded. Turned the key. Blipped the throttle a couple of times. "No tach?" she asked.

"It's built for torque, not revs. You want to drop it down a gear, just kick the pedal. Or you can move the lever down one from D."

Belle gave herself plenty of room, waited until the traffic was quiet in the right lane. She came down hard on the gas, adjusting the wheel when the rear started to slide, and pulled out onto the highway hard and smooth. She merged with traffic and flowed along, getting the feel.

"Where's the flasher for the headlights?"

"Flick the turn signal toward you. But be careful - the high beams are real monsters."

"Horn?"

"There's two. The hub on the wheel is the regular one; the little button near the rim -see it? - that's for moving trucks out of the way."

She flicked a glance over her right shoulder. "Okay to play?"

"Go," I told her.

She spotted an opening, mashed the gas, shot all the way across to the far-left lane, blew past a dozen cars, backed off the gas, and rolled into the center lane. She pulled the Plymouth so close behind the car in front that it looked like we were going to hit. Kept it right there until the guy in front of us pulled over.

"Follow the signs to the Whitestone Bridge," I told her.

Belle handled the big car like it was part of her, cutting through traffic, moving from one clot of cars to another, staying in the pack each time. When we got to the bridge, she pulled into the Exact Change lane without me saying a word. I handed her a token. She flicked it into the basket without looking. We motored along the Hutchinson River Parkway, Belle still putting the Plymouth through its paces, not talking to me. We came to the last toll before the hook-turn to the Cross County. A guy in a white Corvette was in the lane next to us, coming out of the chute at the same time. Belle goosed the Plymouth, heading for the left lane. The 'Vette jumped out ahead of us. Belle kicked it down - both cars were flying to the same lane, the 'Vette a half-length in front. Belle kept coming. The gap got narrow. I heard the scream of rubber - the 'Vette's driver stood on the brakes as we shot through.

A minute later, the 'Vette steamed by in the right lane, cutting sharply in front of us as soon as he passed. Belle flicked the brights, punching the horn button at the same time. The sky lit up. The twin air horns under the horn blasted the warning call of a runaway semi. The 'Vette ducked out of the way as we went by. Belle slashed over into his lane. I heard the shriek of brakes again.

Belle brought it down to about seventy. We were in the right lane, heading for the hook-turn at Exit 13. Bright lights flooded the back window. Belle reached up, turned the rearview mirror to the side. She hit the hook-turn with the 'Vette boiling up behind us.

"Come on, sucker," she muttered as the 'Vette pulled into the outside lane behind us. She nailed it around the sweeping turn, holding the inside track. The 'Vette roared behind us, closing fast. Belle's mouth was a straight line. She slid the Plymouth into a piece of the outside lane, but this time the 'Vette was ready for her - he darted back to the inside. Belle slashed the wheel back to the right, carrying the 'Vette right off the road onto the grass. She pulled the Plymouth together for the straightaway, swept under the overpass, and slid into the new traffic stream as smoothly as a pickpocket working a crowd.

She patted the steering wheel hard - like you'd do a horse who'd run a strong race. "Good girl," she said.

"You took the words out of my mouth."

She flashed me her smile.

We exited the Cross County and hooked back to the racetrack. I showed her where to pull in: around the back, near the stable area. Nobody parks there except the horse vans - it's a long distance to the entrance. I gave Belle the buck and a half for the guy collecting the entrance fee, and we motored slowly through, stopping for grooms to walk their horses across the road.

"Park over there," I told her, pointing at a blacktop road that runs behind the paddock. "Leave the nose pointing out."

There are a couple of hundred acres of gravel behind the road. Pitch-dark. Belle turned off the road, stomped the gas, blasting straight into the darkness. She floored the brakes, feathering the gas at the same time, spinning the Plymouth into a perfect bootlegger's turn right into the spot I'd pointed to. She turned off the engine. A whirlwind of dirt and dust flew outside the windows, settling on the car.

"What'd you think, honey?"

"You're a natural," I told her.

Her face went sad. "No. No, I'm not."

I took her hand, squeezed it. "Don't disrespect your mother," I told her.

She gulped. Took a breath. "You always know what to say, Burke."

"I know what to do too," I promised her.

I walked her past the paddock, holding her hand. The black-and-white stripes swayed in the night. I bet some of the mares were jealous.

61

I paid our way past the turnstiles. Stopped in the open area to toss a dollar at the guy selling programs from behind a little desk. There was a box of tiny pencils next to the stack of programs. Belle reached past me and took one.

"That's a quarter for the pencil, lady," the guy called out.

Belle looked at him like he was deranged. "For this little thing?" She tossed it back into the box.

"Behave yourself," I told her, taking her hand to lead her outside. A booth about the size of a one-bedroom apartment was set up outside, open along the sides, canvas across the top. Barbecue grill inside. "Want something?" I asked her.

Smart move. She ordered four hamburgers with everything, two beers. The guy behind the counter finally stopped staring and barked the order over his shoulder, not moving his eyes from her chest.

"What're you getting, pal?" the counter geek asked me.

"He gets it later," Belle assured him.

The guy's jaw went from gaping to unhinged.

I paid the money, carrying a beer in each hand, motioning for Belle to climb the stairs ahead of me, admiring the view. We found seats in the outside grandstand, right near the top of the stretch.

Belle put her hamburgers on one seat, took some napkins, and thoroughly cleaned off two more. She took a slug of beer, then handed it back to me to hold for her while she worked on the burgers.

"You see that guy's face?" she asked innocently. "Michelle was right about the makeup."

When she finished eating, I stowed the refuse under our seats, lit a smoke, and opened the program. Belle slouched against me, her head on my shoulder, holding the last beer in one hand.

"What do all those little numbers mean?"

"They all mean something different. You really want to know?"

"Yes," she said, sounding injured.

I went through it quickly, just once over lightly. Showed her how you could tell the horse's age, sex, color, breeding, all that kind of thing. I was up to the comparative speed ratings at the different tracks and she was still paying attention.

"What's the most important?" she wanted to know.

"What d'you mean?"

"Like, all that stuff. It can't all mean the same thing."

"Belle, that's the trick of it. It all means different things to different people. Some people like speed, some people like breeding, some people . . ."

She cut me off. "What about you? You think breeding is important?"

I looked at her face against my shoulder. "Class is what's important to me. Heart. Going the distance. Breeding don't mean a thing."

"But breeding has to count for something, right? Or they wouldn't put it there," she said, pointing to the program.

"They put everything on the program, girl. Because the gamblers want to know, see? What possible difference could a horse's color make? That's on there too."

"But it must . . ."

"It does mean something, Belle. I've been looking at horses since I was a kid - I'll tell you what it means – you want to tell if a horse has real class, you look at its mother."

She tilted her head up to me, a smile growing. "Truly?"

"That's the way nature made it, girl. You can never know for sure who the father of a baby is, but there's never a doubt about the mother."

"Never a doubt," she agreed, patting my thigh. The P.A. system blared into life; the horses were on the track for the first race. Belle watched as they paraded in front of the grandstand behind the marshal. She lit a cigarette, watching everything, leaning forward in her seat, her hand on my knee.

The tote board said two minutes to post time. "Are you going to make a bet, honey?"

"Not this race," I told her, watching.

Belle sipped delicately at her second beer. The very image of a lady, about ten percent past life-size.

The race wasn't much. If I'd had binoculars, I would have looked for Lupe.

Belle finished her beer. "Who's going to win the next race?'' she demanded.

I studied the program. Same class, same crop. Mostly older horses on the way down. But there was one four-year-old, a Warm Breeze mare; Hurricane was her name. I pointed her out on the program.

"This one's getting stronger all the time - maybe she's a late bloomer."

Belle lit a smoke. "I like this," she said, watching the horses come out for the post parade. "Which one is ours?"

"The five horse," I told her. "The one with the white blanket."

"She's pretty. Kind of small, though."

At five minutes to post, Hurricane was up to 15-1.

"Let's bet on her," Belle said.

"Okay. I'll be right back," I said, getting up.

"Can't I come too?"

"Come on," I said, ripping the front and back covers off the program and folding the pages into the rungs of our seats to mark them as ours.

She held my hand as we walked to the windows. A group of Latins were standing against a pole, arguing about the race in Spanish. One blurted out "Mira, mira!" as we walked by. Belle stiffened. "It just means 'Look at that!' "I said to her, squeezing her hand. "Must be those vertical stripes."

I threw a double-sawbuck down on the mare.

Back in our seats, Belle squirmed, swiveling her head so she wouldn't miss anything. I lit a smoke as they called the horses to the gate. As the car pulled off, the horses charged into the first turn, fighting for position. Hurricane didn't get off quickly - she was pushed to the outside, deep in the pack.

"Oh, she's losing!"

Hurricane moved wide on the paddock turn, gaining a little ground. The three horse was in front, the six next to him, Hurricane running behind the six.

Belle was pounding her fist on my knee, bouncing a little in her seat. "Come on!"

Hurricane fired on the back stretch, going three-wide around the horse in front of her, collaring the leader. But she couldn't pull ahead, and the three horse looked fresh. The two of them ran away from the pack into the final turn and pounded for home, not giving an inch.

"Don't quit, baby!" Belle yelled.

The three horse pulled a neck ahead, but the mare wouldn't give it up. She reached down and found something, shot forward again. The crowd roared - the three horse was the odds-on favorite. They crossed the finish line together - too far down the track for me to see who came out on top. "Photo" shot up on the board.

"Did she win?"

"I don't know, Belle. It was close - we have to wait for the photo."

"She didn't quit, though, did she?"

"Sure as hell didn't."

The crowd buzzed. The "Photo" came down and the numbers went up: "5-3-4."

Belle stood up, her hands on the railing, leaning out into the night. "Good girl!" she shouted to the mare. Heads turned toward the sound; the male heads stayed turned. I grabbed her hand, pulled her back into her seat.

Hurricane drove past us, heading for the stable. Belle stood up again, clapping her hands. "Oh, she's beautiful!" she said, happy as a kid at Christmas. The kind of Christmas the Cosby kids have.

I lit a smoke. Almost $350 to the good. With Mystery Mary last night, I was on the longest winning streak of my career.

"Burke, it's just like you said. Heart. She had heart - she went the distance."

62

"Anything you want to bet in the next race?" I asked her, keeping my voice as neutral as possible under the circumstances.

"No, honey. I don't want to bet anymore. Let's just watch, okay?"

"I'll be right back," I said.

I cashed in the ticket. "Nice hit," the teller congratulated me. The money made a sweet roll.

I sat down next to Belle. "Now, listen - I have to go and see someone. On the other side of the track. You stay here. Don't get out of your seat. Okay?"

"Yes."

"The next race is going to start soon. I'll get up like I'm making a bet. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Okay."

"Now, listen, Belle. And don't tell me anything. II I'm not back by the end of the seventh race, you get up and leave." I pressed the car keys into her hand. Drive to your house. Call the number you called me at the first time. Ask for Mama. Tell her I met with a man named Lupe. Tell her everything you know."

"When will you be back?"

"I don't know. I'm going down a tunnel. If you don't hear from me in a couple of days, call Mama again. She'll tell you what to do."

"Burke . . ."

I held her face in my hand, grabbing her eyes. "You want to be my woman?"

She nodded.

"This is part of what it costs," I told her.

I didn't look back.

63

I went to the betting windows, put down ten to win on the six horse, slipped the ticket into my pocket. I hadn't looked at the program. I made my way through the track until I was past the finish line. Then I went downstairs, paid an extra buck, and went into the Club-house area. I stayed outside, climbing into the dark grand-stand at the end, working my way to the top row.

I spotted Lupe in a couple of minutes, sitting by himself in the far corner, wearing a neon-green jacket with some writing on the back. I moved down until I was across from him, making sure. The Prof's description was right on the money.

I lit a smoke, stuck it in my mouth, and moved over to him, both hands in front of me.

"Lupe?"

"Who wants to know, man?"

"Name's Burke," I said, sitting down.

He grinned, showing me his lousy teeth. "I know you, man. I heard of you. You got that monster dog, right? You want to put her in the ring?"

"Only if you get in there with her," I said, keeping my voice even.

"I got no beef with you," he said quickly.

"I got no beef with you either. I heard you were the man to see about a match, that's all."

"What you got?"

"I got nothing. I want to get down on some action."

"You know Van Cortlandt Park?"

"I don't mean dogs, pal. Or roosters either."

"So?"

"I heard this guy Mortay - he's been doing some duels. Heavy action."

"Mucho action, man. But this motherfucker Mortay - he only had that one match."

"With the Jap?"

"Yeah! You saw it?"

"No, just heard about it."

His eyes glittered, crazy-cold eyes. "You got someone wants to meet Mortay, man?"

"Yeah. Me."

Lupe laughed. "With what, man? A machine gun?"

"I don't want to fight him - just have a talk. I figured you could set it up."

"No, man," he said, sadness in his voice. "I don't find him - he finds me. He's got this guy, Ramón. He's the one who makes the meets."

"How'd he find the Jap?"

"The Jap found him, man. Guy rolls in from the Coast, puts the word out. I hear this Mortay totaled his brother out there. He was looking for payback."

"Didn't have much luck, did he?"

"Man, Mortay don't take prisoners. He earned his name. Mortay, man. You get it? Muerte. Death. He deals death, man. Eats it alive."

"You don't know where to find him?"

"Man, I don't want to know where to find him."

"Yeah. Okay. This Ramón comes around, you tell him I'd like to meet Mortay. Public place, no problems. Just want to talk to him for a minute."

Lupe shrugged. "He comes, I ask him, man. Where you gonna be?"

"Just give him my name. I'm in the phone book," I told him, walking off.

64

I was back next to Belle before the start of the fifth race.

"Not so bad, huh?" I asked her.

"I waited here, just like you said."

"Good girl."

"But if you hadn't come back, I was going looking."

"That's not what I told you to do."

"I wasn't going to make trouble. Just poke around."

"Yeah, you got a great disguise all right. Nobody'd remember seeing you."

"Burke, I love you. I had to . . ."

"You had to listen. Like I told you to. Like you promised. Stupid bitch."

"Honey!"

"You don't want to listen, you can walk. We made a deal."

"I'm sorry, baby. I am. I just . . ."

"Just. Fucking. Nothing. I'm not going to tell you again."

She leaned into me, her hand near the inside of my thigh, whispering. "You want to take me home, beat my ass, teach me a lesson?"

"I thought you said no man ever hit you."

"It'd be worth it," she whispered. "You know why?"

"Why, dopey?"

"You'd have to be there to do it," she said.

I stood up, held out my hand. She took it, meek as a lamb, a little smile on her face.

65

I drove the Plymouth on the way back. Belle was quiet.

"You mad at me?"

"I'm not mad at you - I'm not going to be mad at you. That's not the way I work. You want to be with me, I have to trust you. That's all there is."

I turned to look at her. A tear rolled down her cheek, tracking through the makeup.

158 ANDREWVACHSS BLUE BELLE 159

"Okay?" I asked her.

"I swear," she promised, lying down on the front seat, curling up next to my leg. She didn't say another word all the way back to her house.

66

When I pulled in behind the red Camaro, Belle was still lying across the front seat, her head against my leg. She put her hand on my thigh, grabbed hard enough to hurt.

"You have to come in with me."

"Pretty bossy, aren't you?"

She looked up at me, her face wet, the lovely makeup ruined.

"Just come inside, honey. Come inside - you can be all the boss you want to be, but don't go away now."

I opened my door, got out. Walked around to her side of the car to let her out. I held my hand out to her.

"Come on," I told her.

She piled out of the Plymouth faster than I thought she could move.

67

"Don't turn on the lights," she said, pushing me to the couch. She patted my pockets, found cigarettes and matches. Lit one for each of us. The little flame shot highlights into her hair.

"I don't know what to do," she said, sounding lost.

"About what?"

"I want to wash my face. Take these tears off. But if I do, the makeup won't stay."

"Wash your face."

"But you liked the way I looked. You said so."

"I like the way you look in those pants too - does that mean you'll never take them off while I'm around?"

"It's not the same thing," she sniffled.

"Yeah, it is," I told her. "Exactly the same thing. Underneath whatever you put on there's still you."

"But . . ."

"But what?"

"That's not the way it is, honey. All my life . . . it's been the same thing. I have to take off my clothes to make a man forget my face."

I held her against me, her face pressed into my chest, talking softly into her ear.

"Listen to me, Belle. You said you'd listen to me, yes?"

Her head nodded against me.

"You're the one who doesn't like your face. Because you don't understand it's your own face. I know whose face it is, okay?"

She nodded against me again.

"Go take off the makeup," I said, patting her gently. While she was in the bathroom, I called the Prof. His voice sounded much stronger.

"I'm on the line with plenty of time."

"It's me."

"Back from the track?"

"Yeah. I spoke to the man."

"So we got a plan?"

"No. Not yet. I want to see the guy you talked with. Square the beef. Drop the case. Walk away."

"He's got to pay, but not today?"

"Right. And we don't want anyone else in the game - just you and me."

"He's not going to stop till he gets to the top."

"I'm not sure that's right, Prof. I think this dueling shit isn't the real story - he was riding shotgun on this other thing, and you stumbled into the line of fire."

"Could be, man. But . . ."

"No names, we'll talk later. I'll come and see you. On the first shift, okay?"

"I can't run, son."

I hung up.

68

Belle came out of the bathroom wearing a black bra over the striped pants, a doubtful look on her freshly scrubbed face. She lit another of her fat black candles, propping it on the sink.

"I'm ugly again," she said.

I gave her a hard look but she didn't flinch. "I looked for myself," she said, her voice sad.

I took a drag of my cigarette. "You want me to fix it?"

"How? Put a bag over my head?"

"Come here," I said, keeping my voice even.

She walked over to the couch.

"Take off those pants."

She reached back to unhook her bra. "Just the pants," I told her.

She stepped out of her spike heels. Even with the zipper all the way down, getting the pants off was a struggle. She stood there in her bra and panties, hands on her hips. "You want these off too?" she asked, her thumbs hooked in the waistband.

"Yeah."

She did, watching me every second. "Now what?"

"Come with me," I said, taking her hand. I led her back to the bathroom, posing her in front of the sink. The candle's flickering glow carried through the open door.

"Lean forward," I told her, my hand on her shoulder. "Look into the mirror."

"I still think . . ."

"Shut up. Just do what I tell you, okay?"

"Okay."

"I'm going to ask you some questions," I said, sliding my hand down to her waist. "Soon as you get the right answer, I'll stop. Got it?"

"Yes."

"Look in the mirror - tell me what you see."

"An ugly old girl."

I slid my hand to her butt, took a plump cheek in my right hand, gave her a hard, sharp pinch.

"Ow!" she yelped.

"Wrong answer," I told her. "What do you see now?"

"The same thing," she snapped, her voice set and stubborn.

I pinched her harder.

She yelped again. "Take another look," I told her. She tried to rub herself - I slapped her hand away.

"I don't care if you pinch it right off, I'm not . . . Burke!" she squealed as I pinched her again. My hand was getting tired.

"I see a beautiful young girl," I whispered to her. "You sure I'm wrong?"

Tears rolled down her face. "You mean it? You swear you mean it?"

I squeezed her butt, gently this time. "I've got all night," I promised her.

"This isn't fair," she said, a smile peeking out from beneath the pout.

"Tell me what you see," I said, still holding her in the same place, tightening my hand. "Last chance."

"I see a beautiful young girl," she said. Like a robot. I pinched the sweet flesh hard. She tried to push past me but I blocked her way.

"Okay!"

I stroked her butt gently. "Tell me."

"I see a beautiful young girl."

"Me too," I said, kissing her.

She came into my arms, baby-soft. I kissed her for a long time. "I'm going to be black and blue," she said against my chest.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not," she said, pulling me toward the bed. "It's a lot better than being just blue."

69

Something flicked at my brain just before I drifted off to sleep. Something about a letter. I made a grab for it, but I went under before I could pull it close.

When I came around, it was still dark. Belle was lying crossways on the bed, her breasts flattened against my chest, her face buried in the pillow next to mine. She was awake too - I could tell from her breathing.

"What, baby?" I asked her.

She turned her head, propping herself on an elbow. "Baby . . . I'll never have a baby."

"Sure you will. Someday."

"No, I won't. I fixed it. I had a real ugly harelip - you know what that is?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I had a bad one. Pulled up so bad you could see my teeth all the time. I saved some money - went to a plastic surgeon. You know what, Burke? He told me he could fix the whole thing, give me a different face. A real nose instead of this little pig's snout, cheekbones, anything I wanted."

"So what happened?"

"I started on it. He did the harelip first. Did it real good too. But then I went on a job with a couple of boys. It got nasty right in the middle - the wheels came off and we had to fly. We got away, but one of the boys got himself shot up pretty bad. There's this old doctor, back in the hills. We went by his place, stayed there for damn near a month. Cost us every dime we had between us, but he pulled Rodney through."

She fumbled around the night table, looking for a cigarette. Her body gleamed in the flame from the match.

"This old doctor - he was an outlaw. Like us. I don't even know if he was a real doctor and all, but he had good hands. I was pregnant - maybe two, three months gone. I found out while we were holed up. I was just a big dumb old girl - never figured on getting pregnant. When the doc told me, I told him to go and get the baby. Take it.

"He wanted to know was I sure. So I told him. I told him the truth. He said I was right - I was doing the right thing. He said he saw a lot of babies like I was gonna have - said they never did too well. Trying to make it gentle for me, but I knew what he meant."

She took a deep drag off her cigarette.

"He said he could fix me up inside when he went to get the baby. Tie my tubes. I didn't have to think a minute."

Her voice was soft in the night. "I could love a baby - I know I could. But I figured, if I loved a baby, I'd never have one. You understand?"

"Yeah."

"How come you never worried about it?"

"About what?"

"Making me pregnant."

I laughed. "I can't make babies, Belle."

"You tried? With that woman . . ."

"No. I never tried. Never thought about it when I was young. Spent most of my time in places where you couldn't make a baby anyway. I got jumped once. Long time ago. It wasn't a personal thing - I was in the wrong place. Or maybe I was just the wrong color. Doesn't much matter. Anyway, they really did a number on me. When the ambulance dropped me at the hospital, the pain was so bad . . . there's no way for me to describe it to you."

"What'd they do?"

"Broke some ribs. Fractured my jaw. But the real hurt they kicked me in the balls so many times I thought they were going to fall off. The doctor said it was a testicular torsion."

"A what?"

"A torsion . . . like a twist." I held my two fists together in front of her face, twisted one sideways. "Like that."

"Ugh!"

"Yeah. I looked down at myself - the whole sac was black. Before they put me out, the doctor said the blood supply was pinched off - they'd have to cut me open and stitch a new wall inside to hold the balls in place."

"God!"

"I remember telling them, could they do a vasectomy while they were at it . . . The doctor thought it was funny - like, as long as they were in the neighborhood and all. But they did it. No babies from me either."

"Does that hurt you?"

"No. It's not for me. I don't think about it. But I never told anyone before."

Belle kissed me. "You can tell me anything," she said. I reached past her. Lit a smoke for myself. My watch said it was past four in the morning.

"Go back to sleep," I said, rubbing her back, pushing against her shoulder.

"I have to sleep on my stomach," she said, a smile playing around her lips.

"You're breaking my heart - I didn't pinch you that hard."

"You did!"

"Give it a rest, Belle. I'd need a set of vise grips to do a job on all this," I said, patting her butt.

"I looked in the mirror. While you were asleep. You made a big mark."

"It'll be gone soon."

"I know," she whispered. "That's why I'm sleeping on my stomach. I want to see it again before it goes away."

She put her face in my chest. I felt the tears.

"What?"

"It'll fade away. You will too."

"I'm right here."

"For now."

I took a last long pull on the cigarette, tangling my hand in the hair at the back of her neck.

"It's like you said before, Belle. We're outlaws. Tomorrow's for citizens. For us, it's always now."

"I love you," she mumbled into my chest.

"Go to sleep, little girl," I told her, holding her, kissing her hair.

Waiting for daylight.

70

I was back up a couple of hours later. I lit a cigarette, walked out onto the deck. A big seagull sat on the railing. He didn't fly away as I walked closer to him, just shifted his head so he could watch me close. He knew he had the whole sky to run to.

I felt Belle behind me. "You better go back to sleep," I said.

"Why? I'm awake now."

"You already missed a couple of nights' work. You're going to be wiped out if you don't get some rest."

"I'm not going back. In that business, girls come and they go. It happens all the time."

"Yeah, but . . ."

"I'm in this with you, Burke. I know you could walk away from me anyway. When it's over. But I got to take this shot. Show you what I can do . . . so you'll want to be with me."

"Look, Belle . . ."

"You promised. Maybe you didn't say the words, but you promised. An outlaw's promise - I'm in on this. I've got some money put away. You won't have to take care of me."

"Hell, I'd have to rob a bank just to feed you."

She slapped me hard on the arm. "I mean it. Don't joke around."

She slipped her arms around my neck from behind, pressed against me, talking only for my ears. "I'm going to be with you. I don't want men looking at me anymore the way they do. You made it too late for that." Her grip tightened. "I want a man who looks at my face."

I let out a breath. "Get dressed," I told her.

71

We were back in my office by seven-thirty. I let Pansy out to the roof, called Mama. No messages came in for me, but she got mine out to Max. One more quick call. The Prof was a little blurred on the phone - I guess they were still shooting him up.

"How you holding up, brother?" I asked him.

"If the Board don't call, it's time for the Wall."

One of his old sayings - if you can't scam the Parole Board, it's time to start working on an escape plan. I guess he was pretty sick of the hospital.

I spread out the street maps on the desk again, stared at them.

Belle's hand on my shoulder. "What're you looking for, honey?"

"I don't know yet."

Pansy came back downstairs. One glance told her the situation. I was working - no point in trying to extort food. Then her beast's brain came as close to an idea as she was ever likely to get. She butted her massive head against Belle's leg, pushing her back a few feet. Belle headed for the couch, but Pansy cut her off, butting at her again.

"What does she want?"

"Food," I said, not looking up.

I heard the refrigerator open. "Well, what suits you?" Belle asked. Pansy growled. "Can I give her some of this brown rice?"

"Heat it up first," I told her, keeping my eyes on the maps.

Belle came back inside. "Honey, is there a store around here?"

"What kind of store?"

"Like a supermarket or a grocery?"

"Not far. Why?"

"I need some stuff."

"Later, okay?"

"But I want . . ."

"Belle, I'm trying to figure something out. Just be quiet for a while, okay?"

She leaned over the desk, her breasts in my face, one hand slipping into my lap. "Maybe you should put something in my mouth . . . shut me up good."

I looked up at her, holding her eyes. "If you won't let me work with you here . . ."

Her eyes went soft and sad. "I was playing."

"Now's not the time."

She leaned closer, watching my eyes. "I know. I thought you'd give me a slap. Where you pinched me last night."

"What good would that do?"

"I have to feel you. You won't let me help . . . I just wanted . . ."

"I will let you help. But if you don't shut up, I'll never figure out how."

I patted her rump. Gently. "Okay?"

"Okay."

72

When I looked away from the map, she was curled up asleep on the couch, Pansy was lying parallel to her on the floor.

I snapped my fingers. Pansy's head swiveled. I pointed toward the far corner of the office. She moved with the speed of a runaway fire hydrant. As soon as she was at her post, I went over to the couch. I kissed Belle on the cheek. She came awake. "What is it, honey?"

"I got something for you to do - you awake?"

She rubbed her eyes. "Sure."

"When you spoke to Marques, he call you or did you call him?"

"Both."

"So you have a phone number for him?"

"Sure."

"I want you to call him. Tell him I came by the club and saw you. Asked you to get in touch with him - set up a meeting. Tell him I said any time, any place. About what we talked about the last time."

"What if he has to call me back - where do I tell him?"

"Don't tell him anything. If he can't give you a time and a place right then, tell him to call my number. The one he gave you the first time."

"The Chinese woman."

"Yeah."

"Burke, is she the one? The one you . . ."

I ruffled her hair, kissed the back of her neck. "Come on, Belle. We got a lot to do today."

73

On the way to the hospital, I asked her about Marques.

"You know the best time to call?"

"What difference does it make?"

"He's a pimp. He goes off the street before four, five in the morning, the other players will think he's losing a step. Best time to catch him at his crib is early afternoon."

"Sometimes, when I come off my shift, I can't sleep. Maybe I could try him now."

"Yeah, okay. When I go up to see the Prof, you take the car. Find a pay phone, take a shot." I looked at my watch. Almost ten-thirty. "I'll meet you in the parking lot around noon. If you haven't reached him by then, we'll try again."

I pulled up outside Saint Vincent's. "The registration papers are in the glove compartment. You get stopped by the cops, tell them you borrowed the car. It's not on any list."

I showed her the papers.

"Juan Rodriguez?"

"That's me. I met you at the club. Told you you could borrow the car any time you wanted. You've never been to my house. I told you I wouldn't need the car for a couple of weeks 'cause I'd be on vacation."

I gave her a slip of paper with a phone number on it. The phone would ring at the junkyard I own a piece of in the Bronx. The old man who made out my paycheck would tell anyone who called I was on vacation. In Puerto Rico someplace. Juan Rodriguez was the ideal employee - he never showed up for work, but he cashed his paycheck and gave the boss back the money. Fuck the IRS.

"Drive the car like it was hot. Don't call attention to yourself. But if you get pulled over, don't run. If you get a ticket, just take it. Don't say anything."

"All right, honey."

The Plymouth pulled away and disappeared in traffic. Smoother than I ever drove it.

74

The Prof looked stronger already. I pulled my chair to the head of the bed and we talked like we used to on the yard. Quiet, each looking in a different direction. The West Indian nurse came in.

"I smell smoke in here," she said, like she'd caught us stealing.

"Smoke don't have a prayer against your own sweet smell, Mama," the Prof sang out.

"There's no smoking in the patients' rooms. Now, you know that very well. I have told you before."

The Prof spread his hands to the heavens, seeking divine guidance. "Lord, what must I say to make this woman give me a play?"

The nurse's broad face creased as she fought off the smile. "You smart-mouth little man - I'd break the rest of your bones."

"You don't mean a word of it, a goddess like you."

The nurse had a pill and a plastic cup of dark liquid. "You going to take this medicine with no more of your speeches?"

The Prof regarded her, his fine head cocked to the side. "You know why a man climbs a mountain?"

She sighed, used to this by now.

"So, then. Why does a man climb a mountain?"

"'Cause the air's so sweet when you get to the top," the Prof said, and popped the pill in his mouth, holding the glass like a toast. "You going to give a poor man a reason to live?"

"You keep messing with me, you have no reason to live," she warned him, then waited patiently for the Prof to finish drinking his medicine. Snatched the glass from his hand and stalked out.

"A little more time and she's all mine," the Prof said. He was right - all Mortay broke was his legs.

I lit another cigarette, pulling the half-filled water glass we used as an ashtray from under the bed.

I went to the track. Saw the man. Like I told you."

"And?"

He can't put me in touch. Says this Mortay's a death-dealer for real. That duel with the Jap - it really went down."

The Prof dragged deep on his cigarette. "Yeah. But he's no warrior. Not like Max. He's a junkie for it."

"It connects, Prof."

His eyes flashed. ''Run it down, home."

"You weren't looking for this freak, right? Just poking around . . . asking about the van."

"Right."

"And this guy's no bodyguard. You must have stepped on his turf by accident."

"It's not enough. We need to know more if we going to score."

'I'm working on it. I told this Lupe . . . the guy who makes matches . . . I want to meet."

"You not going to bring Max?"

"Max is out of this one, Prof."

He reached his hand across the bed. I squeezed it.

"That seals the deal," he said.

"Right. You getting anything over the wire?"

"Not yet. It'll come, though. I got a lot of hooks floating."

I stood up to leave. "You need anything?" I asked.

"I need a nurse," he said.

75

Belle was behind the wheel of the Plymouth as I came through the parking lot, reading a newspaper spread over the steering wheel. She had the car moving before I closed the door.

"Very nice," I told her.

"This is some lovely car."

"You're some lovely woman. You call Marques?"

"No answer. Can't we try him from your office?"

"That phone's no good past eight in the morning. You can't stay on the line more than a minute anyway. I'll show you where to pull over."

We found an open pay phone by the river. I handed Belle a quarter. She took one of those premoistened towelettes from her purse, ripped off the foil, wiped down the mouthpiece.

She dialed the number. Waited. Somebody picked up. I only heard her end of the conversation.

"Could I speak to Marques, please?"

. . .

"Belle."

We waited a couple of minutes. I opened my palm to show her I had another quarter ready.

"Hi. Remember that man you wanted me to call for you? Burke? He came by the club. Said he wanted to meet with you. About what you talked about the last time."

. . .

"He said it was up to you. Any time. Any place."

. . .

"No, he didn't seem mad at all. He just said he needed information about the scene, and you were the best person . . . He didn't want to poke around without checking with you, he said."

. . .

"Okay. Wait, let me write this down," she said, signaling to me. I nodded. "Go ahead," she said into the phone.

. . .

"Junior's? Where's that? Oh, he'll know."

I nodded to her again.

"What time?"

. . .

"Eleven. Okay. And tell him not to bring his friends? Sure. Okay, thanks. I'll tell him - he said he'd call me before I go to work tonight." She put down the phone.

"Good girl," I told her.

She tossed her head, smile flashing in the sun. "You just wait and see," she promised.

76

I took the wheel. As I pulled out, I noticed the back seat full of cartons. "What's all that stuff?" I asked her.

"Stuff I needed," she said. Case closed.

"You hungry?"

She made a noise like Pansy does when you ask her the same question.

I pulled in behind Mama's, taking Belle by the hand as we walked through the kitchen. Mama's collection of thugs watched us impassively - they'd seen stranger things come through the back room.

The joint had a few customers - no way to keep them all out at lunchtime - but my booth was empty, the way it always is.

The waiter came over to us, blocking Belle's side of the booth, looking a question at me with his eyes. I shook my head, telling him Belle wasn't trouble. He flicked his eyes toward the front of the room. I nodded - send Mama over.

Mama's dress was a deep shade of red. Opal earrings matched the ring on her hand. She returned my bow, face a mask.

"Mama, this is Belle," I said. "Belle, this is Mama." I said it carefully. Nice and even, same tone of voice. Mama was stone-solid reliable when it came down to a crunch, but she was funny about women.

She bowed. "Friend of Burke, friend of Mama."

Belle started to reach out her hand, thought better of it. Bowed gently. "Thank you, ma'am." Polite as a little girl in church.

Mama slid into the booth next to me, barking something in Cantonese over her shoulder.

The waiter brought the soup. Mama served me, then Belle, then herself. Watched carefully, smiling with approval as the bowl emptied. "You have more soup?"

"Yes, please. It's delicious."

Mama bowed again. "Very good soup - good for strength. Special for my people. Always here."

Belle looked a question.

"Burke my people," Mama said. No expression on her face, nothing in her tone. But a low-grade moron would have caught the warning.

Belle quietly worked her way through beef in oyster sauce, snow-pea pods, water chestnuts, fried rice, hard noodles, paying no attention to us.

Mama took a look at the empty plates, raised her eyebrows, called the waiter over again. Belle had a portion of lemon chicken, washing it all down with some Chinese beer. She patted her face with her napkin. "Oh, that was good!"

"You want more?" Mama asked.

Belle smiled. "No, thank you."

"You come back sometime. When no more trouble, okay? See my granddaughter, yes?"

"You have a granddaughter?"

"Why not?" Mama asked, her face hardening.

"You don't look old enough."

A smile flashed. Disappeared. "Plenty old enough. Burke explain to you sometime."

"Do you havve pictures of her?"

Mama scanned Belle's face, taking her time. "Many pictures," she said, tapping her head. "All in here."

Belle walked past the warning like she hadn't heard it. "What's the baby's name?"

"Flower."

Belle sipped her tea, prim and proper. Her eyes were soft. "If I was a flower, I know what kind I'd be," she said, half to herself. "A bluebell."

Mama bowed, as though she understood. The way she always looks.

77

"I have to go in the street for a while," I told Belle as we climbed in the Plymouth. "I'll call you when I'm done with Marques. Late, okay?"

"Can't I wait at your office?"

"It's only a little after two now - I'll be coming back there to change around eight. It's a long time to be cooped up."

"I won't be cooped up."

"Yeah you would. I could leave you there with Pansy, but she wouldn't let you out."

"It's okay."

I drove back to the office, helping Belle carry her boxes up the back stairs.

"I'm not playing, girl. Pansy lets people in, but they're always there when I come back, understand?"

"Sure. Go ahead. I'll just take a nap."

"Don't use the phone. And don't open any of the file cabinets."

"O-kay! I got it."

I gave her a kiss.

78

I found Michelle at The Very Idea, a transsexual bar on the East Side. I walked through a jungle of hard looks until I got to her table, feeling them fall away when she kissed me on the cheek.

"Hi, handsome." She smiled. "Looking for me?" I sat down next to her, lit a cigarette, waiting patiently for her two girlfriends to leave. Michelle didn't introduce me.