Blue Belle

"The Prof's in the hospital," I told her.

"What's the rest of it?"

"His legs are broken. Somebody did it to him. For poking around, asking questions."

"You know who?"

"Guy named Mortay."

Her big eyes went quiet, two long dark fingernails flirting with her cheekbone, meaning she was thinking. "I don't know him . . . but it seems like I heard the name . . ."

"It's Spanish for 'death.' "

"Honey, you know my language is French."

I didn't say anything, looking straight ahead. Michelle's hand grabbed my wrist. "Honey, I'm sorry. But it's business, right? The Prof was poking around, like you said. It's not the first time he stepped on a nail."

"The guy didn't have to do it, Michelle. It was a message. He's some kind of freak -wants to fight Max. That's why he worked the Prof over."

"He wants to fight Max?"

"That's what he said."

"He should change his name to 'death wish.'"

"Yeah, great. Thanks for your help." I got up to leave.

"Burke!"

"What? You think I came here to listen to your snappy dialogue? The Prof's my brother. Yours too. I know you're off the street - I didn't think we were off your list."

Michelle grabbed my arm, her talons biting deep. "Don't you ever say that!" she hissed, pulling me closer. She got to her feet, hooking her arm through mine. "Let's get out of here - too many ears."

We walked out into the daylight. I let her lead me down the street to another joint - a singles bar that wouldn't come alive for a couple of hours. We grabbed a pair of stools near a corner. Glass tinkled; a brittle edge to the juiceless, anorexic laughter of the patrons. The bartender brought Michelle her white wine and me my ginger ale.

"Tell me," she said, not playing now.

"You know the Ghost Van?"

"Just the rumors. The gossip off the street. But I know it's for real - somebody's shooting the working girls."

"There's a bounty on it. I talked with some people. Made a deal to track it down. The Prof was in on it. That's what he was looking for when he ran into this Mortay."

"So they're connected?"

"I don't know. When Mortay leaned hard, the Prof pulled out Max's name. Thinking to put some protection on himself. It backfired. Mortay wants Max - that's what he said. Wanted to know where his dojo was. The Prof didn't know. Mortay snapped his legs."

"How'd you find him?"

"They brought him right to the hospital. Like I said - a message."

"Where are you now?"

"I did some digging. There's this guy Lupe. Works out of the Bronx. Sets up matches. You know: cockfights, pit bulls, crap like that?"

"Yes?"

"He said this Mortay fought a duel. A bunch of the players got together, put up this purse. Twenty grand. Mortay killed the other guy in front of the whole crowd."

"I can see it. Regular prizefights are too tame for the freaks. Too much cocaine, too much filth . . . After a while, they have no nerve endings at all. It takes a superjolt to get their batten es started. They want the real thing."

"I told this Lupe I want to meet Mortay."

"Burke, that's not like you, that macho foolishness."

"Not fight him, Michelle. Meet him. Just to tell him I'm walking away. No hard feelings."

"Baby, I've known you forever. All your feelings are hard feelings."

"I have to turn him away from Max."

"It doesn't sound like . . ."

"I don't know what it sounds like. If he's free-lance, it doesn't matter. He can't find Max."

"So?"

"So, if he's tied up with this Ghost Van, maybe he's tied up with people who could."

The bartender brought us another round. I felt a flesh-padded hip bump my arm. A girl in a pink leather skirt, moving onto the stool next to me, talking to her girlfriend. Secretaries prolonging their lunch hour to look around.

Michelle sipped at her wine. "What do you want me to do?"

"Ask around. About the van. I'll check out this Mortay the best I can. See if it all catches up."

"I thought you were going to walk away."

"If I can, I will. I don't like any of this. If this guy's really fighting duels, he can't last forever. There's no old gunfighters."

Her big eyes pinned me over the rim of her glass. "I may be a sweet young thing, honey, but I go back a ways, remember?"

"Ex-gunfighter," I said, quietly.

"Yeah, we're all X-rated, aren't we, babe? I'm an ex-streetwalker, and you want me back on the stroll to listen to the beat. And you're ready to pick up the gun again - I can hear it in your voice."

"It'll be all right. I'll talk with him, square it up."

The girl in the pink skirt leaned into our conversation, her hardpointed breasts brushing my arm. "Excuse me, honey," she said to Michelle, "could I ask your boyfriend a question?"

Michelle gave her an icy smile. "He's not my boyfriend - he's my lawyer."

"Oh, perfect!" the girl said, pulling her pal into the scene. She looked at me, flicking her tongue over her lower lip. "Do you think prenuptial agreements take the romance out of marriage?"

I blew a jet of smoke across the bar. "Rubbers take some of the romance out of sex," I said, "but they beat the hell out of AIDS."

I tossed a couple of bills on the bar. Michelle followed me out.

79

I drove Michelle over to her hotel. She was quiet on the drive, her eyes on the street. I pulled up down the block from her place.

"I can't explain it to you," I told her. "I wish I could - it's somewhere inside my head - I have to work with it until it makes sense."

"Not everything makes sense."

I lit a smoke, shook my head. "It's just a feeling but I know this whole thing is bad for us. For all of us. I'm not looking for trouble."

"Okay honey. I'm with you."

"Thanks, Michelle."

She lit one of her long black cigarettes like she does everything else. Elegantly.

"You still with that big girl?"

"Yeah."

"That's a very fine woman, Burke. Believe me when I tell you. Nobody's ever been nice to her."

"I'm nice to her."

She smiled. "Are you?"

"Yeah, I am. She took your advice."

"Vertical stripes."

I laughed. "You should have seen them on her." Michelle slapped my arm with unerring instinct in the same spot Belle always used. "You work with what you have, baby. You're looking at the expert."

"I know."

"Okay. You got some cash on you?"

"Yeah."

"Then let's do some shopping."

"Shopping? For what?"

"For a present, you idiot. For your girl."

"I have to . . ."

"Drive down to the Village," she ordered me, not willing to discuss it further.

Michelle found what she wanted in a little basement dive on Sullivan Street. A necklace of small dark-blue stones. The old Turk who ran the place had been a chemist before he fled some border war a hundred years ago. He'd been one of the Mole's first teachers.

"How much for this old thing, Mahmud?" Michelle asked, holding the necklace up to the light.

"That is pure lapis lazuli, young lady. Very fine. Very special."

"Sure, sure. About a hundred bucks retail, right?"

"A hundred dollars? For Old World craftsmanship? The stones alone are worth many times that."

"Since when is Taiwan the Old World, Mahmud?"

The old man's eyes gleamed. "Lapis lazuli. The mineral is called 'lazulite.' Very rare. You will not find it in the Far East. This perfect crystal comes only from Madagascar."

"Does the geography lesson cost extra?"

Mahmud and I exchanged shrugs. "Even a hurricane eventually passes, leaving the calm," he said.

Michelle wasn't moved. "You take American Express?"

Mahmud laughed so hard, tears ran down his face. "From him?" he said, pointing at me.

Michelle moved in for the kill. "Okay, so how much of a discount for cash?"

Mahmud moved to center ring, gloves up. "This necklace is worth one thousand two hundred dollar."

"Get out of town! Do I look like I'm on medication?"

"You look lovely, as always, Michelle. One thousand two hundred dollar."

"Four hundred. And you don't have to gift-wrap it."

"For you, because you are so beautiful, because such a beautiful necklace should have a beautiful home . . . a thousand."

"It's not for me, you old bandit, it's for Burke. For his girlfriend."

"This is true?"

I nodded.

"He just brought me along for protection," Michelle said, smiling sweetly.

"Ah, I see. Eight hundred, then."

"Did you say five?"

"Seven hundred dollar, and only because I respect your good taste."

"Can we split the difference?"

"Seven hundred dollar," the old man said. He meant it.

"Give him the money," Michelle ordered me.

I handed it over. Mahmud slipped the necklace into a soft leather pouch, handed it to me. "You take this too," he said, rummaging around under the counter. He came up with a tiny round wood box. He unscrewed it, holding it out to me. It was filled with a fragrant paste, colorless in the dark wood.

"Jasmine," he said. "Just a touch on the lady's finger, then . . . here" - touching his chest. "The lapis takes its fire from the earth; it will blaze all the brighter if there is fire in the heart."

I bowed to Mahmud. Michelle gave him a kiss. When we hit the street, it was past six.

80

"Where to?" I asked Michelle.

"Take me back to my hotel. I need to change my clothes before I get to work."

"Michelle . . . you'll look?"

"I'll do better than that, baby. There's plenty of those little girls out there that know me. Like the Prof would say, if they know me, they owe me."

"Debts."

"Debts all come due, Burke. You know I love you. And even if you were still nothing but a rough-off artist like you used to be, I'd still love you." She lit a smoke, her face dead serious. "I'd love you because you're right sometimes you have to go down the tunnel even if you don't know what's at the other end."

She blew the smoke at the windshield. Reached over and squeezed my hand. "I don't know what you're doing half the time. I don't think you do either. You're a hard man trying to be a hustler, and you don't always make it. I don't know why you went into that house last year - all I did was make a phone call like you asked. I don't know why you started that whole mess."

"It doesn't matter now," I said. Thinking of the witch-woman, Strega. "It's all over now."

"It doesn't matter why you did it . . . but I know this. You brought me my son. And I'll never forget."

She leaned over to kiss me as the Plymouth pulled to the curb. "If it's out there, I'll find it," she said.

"Michelle . . ."

"What?"

"Use a telescope, okay?"

She just waved a goodbye and moved down the street. Heads turned. Her walk didn't make men want to bite into their palms like Belle's. lt pulled at a different piece, but it pulled just as hard.

81

It was almost seven-thirty by the time I got back to the office. I had the key in the lock when the smell hit me. A hard-sharp smell. I stepped inside. Pansy was at her post, tail wagging, even happier to see me than usual. All the furniture was against one wall. The fake Persian rug was off the wall. The smell was stronger inside.

Belle came in from the back room. Barefoot, wearing only a bra and pants, her hair tied on top of her head, a rag in one hand.

"You came home too early."

"What in hell is this?"

"It's almost a clean office, honey. Lord, this place was dirty - I damn near had to use a chisel on the floor in the back."

"Belle . . ."

"I couldn't get that rug up. And you don't have a vacuum - I should've known. It's some kind of plastic, isn't it? I had to scrub it down . . . It's still damp - watch where you put your feet."

I walked over to the couch. Sat down. Slowly. Pansy leaped onto the cushions, pressing against me. I patted her head.

Belle came over to me. "That old beast - she followed me around everywhere. Big busybody, poking her nose into everything. She wouldn't hardly let me work."

''I . . ."

"Honey, don't you like it?"

"Yeah. I mean, it's great. I just . . ."

"Take a look," she said, reaching out her hand to me. "Come on."

The bathroom sparkled, the back window gleamed. The floor glistened. The walls were a color I had never seen before. Even the hot plate looked new.

"Damn!"

"It's good, huh?"

"It's unbelievable."

"I thought there was another room. Behind the rug on the wall."

"That's what people are supposed to think," I said, half to myself. The surfaces of the file cabinets looked like someone had worked them over with a power sander. My old desk was oiled - you could even see the grain in the wood.

"How'd you do all this?"

"I'm a working fool - always have been. I was raised on work."

"I don't know what to say." It was the truth.

The big girl moved in against me, sharp sweat-smell blending with her natural juices into something way past sweet. "Say what I want to hear," she whispered.

I slipped both hands inside her pants, pulling her tight against me. "Go take a shower," I said.

She ground her hips against me. "That isn't it," she said.

"Trust me."

"I do."

"Well . . .?"

She pulled back from me, walked toward the back room, shaking her butt like she was on the runway. Pansy shook her head in amazement. "You want out?" I asked her, opening the back door. The beast turned away in disgust - I guess she'd been on the roof a few times since I'd been gone.

I had most of the furniture back in place in a few minutes. I was rehooking the rug on the wall when Belle came out. Nude, beads of water covering yards of pink flesh. She had a towel around her head, holding it in place with her hands.

"I'm all clean."

"Come here," I said, reaching into my jacket pocket.

She came over to the desk, giving her hair one final rub with the towel, then tossing it over to the couch.

"Just stay there for a minute," I said, signaling Pansy to come with me. I dumped everything in the refrigerator into her giant bowl. I added some chocolate-chip cookies and a pint of vanilla ice cream. "Speak!" I told her. It would keep her occupied for a good five minutes.

I went back inside. Belle was standing by the desk, the soul of patience. I stood close to her, holding her face in my hands, looking into her dark eyes.

"Turn around," I said.

She turned her back to me, bent over so her elbows were on the desk, butt in the air.

I stepped in against her, grabbed her shoulders, pulled her back so she was standing up again. "Just do what I tell you," I said.

"I thought . . ."

"Sssh. Close your eyes."

"Okay, I . . ."

"And be quiet."

She stood with her back to me, hands at her sides. So quiet I could hear her breathing.

I took the necklace out of the leather pouch, unhooked the clasp, and slipped it around her neck. I hooked it closed. "Turn around," I told her.

Her eyes were still closed, but her mouth was trembling. The lapis was blue fire against her, falling down just to the top of her breasts. I kissed her on the lips. "Take a look," I whispered to her.

Belle kept her eyes closed, working the necklace with her fingers, feeling the heat. Her eyes came open; she lifted it in her hands, bent her head.

"It's the most pure-beautiful thing I've ever seen in my whole life," she said solemnly. Tears on her face.

"What're you crying about - you don't like it?"

"Don't be such a hard guy," she said, ignoring the tears; "you know why."

I kissed her. "Okay. Be a baby if you want to."

"It's your baby I want to be," she said, pushing me to the couch.

She dropped into my lap, sprawling across me, covering me, knowing she wouldn't fit and not giving a damn. I snaked a hand around her hip and pulled out the jasmine box. Handed it to her.

"What's this?"

"Open it."

"Oh, it's perfume!"

"Paste, not spray. Here," I said, touching my finger to it, rubbing it between her breasts.

She pulled my head down to her. "How do I smell?" she asked.

"Like juicy flowers," I told her.

She rolled off my lap, pulling at my belt. "I've got some juice for you, baby. Come on, come on!"

82

It was after nine when I looked at my watch. Belle was lying half on top of me on the couch. Pansy was spread out on the floor, looking glum. I rolled off, sliding away from Belle.

I took Pansy to the back door, jumped into the shower, dressed fast. Junior's at eleven, Marques had said.

I leaned over to kiss Belle on my way out. "You going to be okay here?"

"I do love you," is all she said.

The Plymouth hummed, a fast horse on a short rein. Maybe it missed the way Belle drove. Junior's was over the border. Uptown. A players' joint, it wouldn't even start to roll until past midnight. The bar was in shadow, Billie Holiday on the jukebox. "God Bless the Child."

I wasn't going to pull a house-to-house search through the booths. The bartender came over. Slash of white skin across his dark face like a scar.

"Can I help you, Officer?"

"I'm not the Man. I'm lodking for Marques. Marques Dupree."

"Nobody by that name here, friend."

"Yeah, there is. He's expecting me. Ask him."

"What name should I call?"

"How many good-looking white men you see in this bar?" I asked him.

He looked me full in the face. "None," he said, moving away.

I lit a cigarette. Felt a tap on my shoulder. Slim blonde woman in a bottle-green sheath. "Burke?"

"Yeah."

"Marques is over this way," she said, moving off.

I followed her to a horseshoe-shaped red leather booth. Marques was sitting at the center, another blonde to his left. The one I had followed moved to his right. I sat facing him.

"My man!" Marques said, not offering his hand. "How's the hijacking business?"

I nodded to him, not answering.

"You come by yourself?" he asked, not looking around, sure of himself on home ground.

"Same way I came into this world," I assured him.

"You packing?"

I let out a breath, disgusted with his bullshit games. "Yeah, I got a machine gun in my pocket."

"Mind if Christina takes a look?"

"Whatever it takes to get on with this."

The blonde who had come over to the bar moved next to me, running her hands over my body. She reached into my crotch, squeezed. "Nobody home, huh?"

I didn't answer her, my eyes on Marques.

She slid back next to him. "He's got three packs of smokes, two lighters, bunch of keys, some folding cash . . . He's empty."

I watched Marques's teeth flash. "Can't take chances with you gunslingers."

"Ready to talk now?"

"Fire away."

I looked deliberately at the blonde on his left. Turned my head, looked the same way at the one on his right.

"My ladies are cool - you can talk in front of them." I shrugged, putting a pack of cigarettes and a butane lighter on the table in front of me. I lit another smoke, snapping off a wooden match. He didn't pay attention. That's why he was a pimp and I was what I was.

"You know a man named Mortay?"

"The fighter?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know him. Man, I don't want to know him. He's not on my list - I don't let my women mess with no freaks."

"What's that mean?"

"I saw him do his thing, man. It was unreal. He fought this other dude.

"The Japanese guy. In the basement under Sin City?"

"Right on. I didn't even know what the entertainment was going to be, but it was on the wire that it was a big thing, you know? I had to make the scene. Get down, be around. When you set the style, you got to show it off."

"Yeah, right. You saw the whole thing?"

"The whole thing. This Mortay, man, that's a scary dude. Moves like a fucking ghost."

"That may be the connect, Marques."

"l'm not reading you, man."

"Read this: One of my people was looking around. On that job you and me talked about?"

"Yeah?"

"And he met Mortay. I don't know if it was just a territory thing, wrong guy in the wrong place . . . maybe so. It happens to all of us."

"So?"

"So Mortay warned him off. Maybe he's front-ending the thing. Guarding the van."

Marques snapped his fingers. The blonde on the left pulled a vial from her purse, tapped out some white powder on a mirror. She cut it into four lines with a gold razor blade, put it in front of Marques. He rolled a bill into a tight straw, snorted a line up each nostril. Each of the blondes took a remaining line for herself. The pimp looked across at me, letting the coke rush around inside his head.

"I can't see it, man. You're off the wall."

"Could be. What if I'm not?"

"Look, man. We had a deal. You're working for me. I pay, you play my tune."

"Watch your back, Marques," I said, starting to get up.

"Hey! Hold up, I'm not downing you. Just lay it out, okay? Why you here?"

"I'm here because you know things I don't know. And you can find out things I can't. I don't want any more to do with this Mortay than you do. But if I'm going to do the job on the van, I need to know if he's in the play."

"How would I know?"

"I'll find that part out myself. What I need is whatever you can find out about Mortay. Anything could do some good - I won't know till I get it. He's out there - he has to live someplace, hang out someplace. I'm not asking you to walk the wire, just listen to what you hear, okay?"

"I don't know, man."

I felt like breaking his face. I lit another cigarette, centering myself, coming to what would work. I kept my voice quiet, letting another pitch take over, working the corners. "Marques, there isn't another player in this town with your weight. You want to take the Ghost Van off the streets, protect your women - I respect that. You know your game - I know mine. That's why we got together, right? We're partners on this thing. Now I need your help. That's why I came here. This Mortay, he had people with him. Guy named Ramón, for one. If they show anywhere on the set, somebody'll scope them out. All I want is for you to use your network - you don't have to get out of your Rolls-Royce - just let it come to you. And pass it along."

The pimp sat like he was considering, basking in the praise. "I'm the one that can get the lowdown, no question about it."

"None at all," I agreed.

"All right, hijacker. I don't promise nothing, but I'll get back to you if something comes up."

"Thanks," I said, getting up to go again. Putting the butane lighter back in my pocket. I don't use it to light cigarettes.

The blondes never said a word. Good bitches. Whores in their hearts. Renting out what they never owned.

83

I slipped the Plymouth through Times Square on the way back. Sin City was a monster building squatting in the middle of a long block. It stood four neon-faced stories high, towering over the storefront-sized sleaze shops on either side. I stopped at the corner. A black stringbean sporting a red porkpie hat was hunched over a folding table covered with gold chains. Cesspool Specials: the chains were broken, so the suckers would think they'd been snatched on the subway. The hustler breaks the chains himself - nobody snatches goldplated junk. "Check it out!" he called to the passing pack of slugs. He wouldn't be there tomorrow.

I motored slowly around the block - couldn't see the back of Sin City from the other side. The buildings were packed tighter than the crowd at a lynching.

The Prof felt the pain before Mortay ever touched him. That kind of power leaves a scent.

But only to those he marked.

Tenth Avenue was quiet. Eleventh was alive with working girls. The river was only a block away. A black woman in a blond wig strolled up to the Plymouth. Red spandex pants, a matching halter top, red heels. All yesterday's stuff, like she was.

"You want some action, baby?"

I let her come close, watching the other girls through the windshield, trying to get the feel of the street. It felt calm - didn't make sense. The Plymouth sat through the green light; the pross took it for a signal. She leaned into the window, folding her arms under her breasts to poke them forward.

"What you say, honey. Fifty takes you around the world."

I looked in her face, keeping my voice low.

"You got a room?"

"We just drive around the block, honey. Nice dark places to park - take all the time you need."

"Around here? Haven't you heard about the Ghost Van?"

She laughed. Hard and bitter. "The Ghost Van don't eat no dark meat, baby."

It started to hit me then. I feathered the gas pedal and the Plymouth moved off, leaving the whore alone in the street.

84

Past midnight. I found a phone, rang Mama's.

"It's me."

"Nobodv call."

"Okay."

"Max has your money."

"You keeping him close?"

"Yes. Keep close. Waiting for you."

"I'll call you tomorrow."

"Burke?"

"What?"

"Nice girl you bring here. Nice big girl."

"Yeah."

I put the phone down. Dialed the Mole. I heard the phone being picked up, nothing on the other end. The way he always answers.

"It's me. I need to come see you tomorrow night - talk something over. I'm bringing someone with me - someone you need to meet. Okay?"

"Eight o'clock," said the Mole, hanging up.

85

It hit me as soon as I stepped out of the back staircase into the hallway. The electricity started at the base of my spine. It shot upward in little jolts, forming a T-bar at my neck, firing out to my shoulders. My hands trembled. I knew what it was - an old friend. Fear.

I opened the door. The office was pitch-dark. Pansy was standing at her post, wire-tight, eyes glowing. The hair on the back of her neck was standing straight up. I closed the door behind me, hit the light switch.

Belle was on the couch - on her knees, a butcher knife in her hand.

"What happened?" I asked her.

"Somebody rang the bell downstairs. It buzzed up here. Maybe twenty minutes ago. I didn't answer it. I killed all the lights, turned off the radio. Then those strobes, the ones above the door, they started flashing."

"Somebody coming up the stairs."

"That's what it was. Pansy, she ran right over to where she is, making these ugly low sounds. Like a gator eating a pig. I got scared."

"Anybody try and get in?"

"No. They just pounded on the door. Real loud. I thought the dog would bark, but she just stayed where she was. Like she was waiting."

"She was."

"They rattled the doorknob - you know, just shaking it, like they were mad. There were at least two of them; I could hear the talking."

"You hear what they said?"

"No. I was scared to move from here - I didn't want to get in the dog's way - she looked crazy. But one had like this Mexican accent."

"How long'd they stay?"

"Just a minute, maybe - but it seemed longer. The strobes went off again. It's been quiet since then."

"And you're still on the couch?" I asked, as I walked over to her, put my hands on her shoulders.

She looked up at me. "Burke, I don't know much, but I know about men. You learn to tell. From little things. The guy talking - the Mexican - he was one of those nasty men you see in the club sometimes. The way they look at you - like screams would make them smile."

"I know. You did the right thing." I gave her a smile, my thumb under her chin. "What were you going to do with that knife?"

"I didn't know what to do . . . but I could see the dog knew. Where she was standing, they'd walk in right past her. I figured they cbme toward me, and Pansy'd just blind-side them."

"That's what she'd do all right. But she'd do the same thing if you hid in the back room."

"I was going to give her a hand," Belle said, her hands still shaking hut no tremble in her voice.

I cupped a breast. It overflowed my hand. "There's a big heart under this big thing," I said.

"It's yours."

"Which?" I asked, squeezing her breast.

"Both. But only one's for playing with," the big girl said, eyes locked on mine.

I kissed the bridge of her nose, between her eyes. She put her face against my chest. I held her for a minute, making up my mind.

I let go of Belle, threw the signal to Pansy to pull her away from her post. Opened the back door to let her out to the roof.

"Get ready to go," I told Belle, opening drawers, filling my pockets.

86

In the garage, she watched quietly as I lifted the rubber floor mat, spun the wing nuts, and put the pistol inside the hollowed-out space near the transmission hump.

"You remember how to get to your place from here?"

"Sure. I couldn't tell you how to do it, but I can take the car there."

I checked the back of the garage. The street was quiet. Belle backed the Plymouth out. I hit the switch and the door closed behind us.

The Plymouth tracked through the empty streets. Belle handled it like it was a baby carriage. I lit a cigarette, putting it together. Any fool could get into my building from the front - just press the hippies' bell in the middle of the night and they'd buzz you in. It wasn't a customer - they'd come in even when my bell hadn't been answered. Spanish accent. Pounding on the door, but they hadn't tried to break in. Lupe would have told them about my dog.

"Anybody with us?" I asked Belle, not looking around. "No," she said, her eyes flicking to the mirrors. "Not since we pulled out."

87

As soon as we walked in the door, I grabbed the phone.

Mama answered like it was noon.

"They called, right?"

"Yes. Man say playground, behind the Chelsea Projects. Midnight tomorrow.

"Spanish accent?"

"Yes. Nasty man. Whisper on phone, like those men who call women, you know?"

"Yeah, I know. You say anything to him?"

"Nothing to say. You want Max now?"

"No! Mama, this is a bad play. You keep him close, like we said."

''If . . ."

"Mama, listen. Listen to me. If Max comes in now, it could be trouble for the baby, okay?"

She said something in Chinese. I didn't need a translator. "Later, Mama," I told her, hanging up.

Belle came over to the phone as I was lighting a smoke. "Me too," she said, holding my hand, guiding the match. She was wearing a white T-shirt that came halfway down to her thighs, the blue necklace around her neck.

"I'll be right back," I told her, reaching for my car keys.

"Let me . . ."

"Stay here," I told her.

She dropped to her knees, holding her hands out in front of her, bent at the wrists like dog's paws.

"Don't be so fucking smart," I said. "I'll be back in a couple of minutes - I need a pay phone."

88

I threw in a quarter, listened to the woman say something in Spanish.

"Dr. Pablo Cintrone," I said. Waited patiently for a long rap about how the doctor wasn't in at that hour of the night, but if it was an emergency . . ."

"Attention!" I barked into the receiver. "Dr. Cintrone. Burke. Teléfono cuatro. Ten o'clock tomorrow morning, por favor. Okay?"

The voice never changed tone. "Burke. Teléfono cuatro. Ten o'clock tomorrow morning."

"Gracias."

She hung up.

When a citizen's scared, he calls the cops. Where I live, you call a terrorist.

89

The front door was unlocked. I shut it behind me, walked through the cottage. Belle was out on the deck. I leaned on the railing, looking across the black water. Belle moved in next to me, fingering the necklace.

"You know why I danced in front of men?"

"Yes."

"I know you do. You're the first man who ever looked at my face after I took my clothes off." She pulled the cigarette from my mouth. Took a drag, handed it back.

"Nothing on this earth means anything all by itself. You know those orchids they sell in fancy flower shops? They grow wild in the swamp near where I was raised. And gator hide . . . It costs so much to make a little purse out of it, but the big old things are out there thick as mosquitoes. You know about gators?"

"Not much."

"Baby gators, they ain't got much of a chance. It's easy to find the eggs - the mama gators just bury 'em and they walk away. Most of them don't make it even if the eggs do hatch. When they're born, they're only a couple of inches long. The big birds grab them up. Bobcats, panthers, coons, damn near everything in the swamp feasts on them. Baby gators, they're not like puppies or kittens. You know the difference between a six-inch baby gator and a six-foot bull?"

"No," I said. Her face was turned in profile, tiny flat nose just a bump.

"Five and a half feet. They don't grow, they just get bigger, you understand?"

"Yeah."

"What they say about gators . . . Most of the little ones, they never get to be big ones, what with everything out there trying to eat them and all. The ones that do get their full growth - they spend the rest of their lives getting even."

"I know people like that."

"I thought I was like that too, once. But it's not the whole world I need to get square with."

"I know."

She moved against me, hip bumping gently. "There's things inside me. Bad things. In my blood and in my bones. I'll never have babies and I'll never get old. You're good with words, but there's things you don't like to say."

"I don't understand."

"Yeah, you do. Remember when I wanted you to taste me? When we first came together? I've met plenty of men good at romance, but I never met one any good at love. You're what I want, and you can't do things but one way. Your way."

"Belle, I . . ."

She pressed her fingers against my mouth. "Don't say anything. You already said all I need you to say. I'm with you to the end. Just make me one promise?"

"What?"

Tears rolled down her face, but her voice was steady. "I know you have people. I don't have anybody. If my time comes, you settle my debts. Pay them off."

"I will."

"One more thing. Just one more thing, and I'm going to give you my life, Burke. I'll never take my clothes off for another man again. And I'll never take this necklace off either. You see that I'm buried in it."

"Cut it out," I said, smacking her on the rump, trying for a smile.

She turned her face to me, holding my shirt with both hands. "Now's not the time for that. You can't change what's going to happen. You promise me. Promise me right now. I married the outlaw life - I've go a right to be buried in my wedding dress."

"I promise, Belle."

She pulled me close, her mouth butterfly-soft against mine. "My mother saved my heart for me. She died to do it. I waited a long time. I'm giving it to you now. And I'll die to do it too."

I held her against me in the dark. For that little piece of time, I didn't have to call on the ice god of hate to fight the fear.

90

Belle fell asleep holding me in her mouth. The bedside clock said four. I set it for six, stubbed out my last cigarette, and drifted off.

When the alarm went off, I was sleeping on my side. Belle was wrapped around my back. I slapped the clock to shut off the buzzer. The morning light was just coming through. Belle reached down for me, holding me in her hand, whispering in my ear.

"When I went shopping . . . to buy all that stuff to lean your office . . . I bought something else. A surprise for you. Something to give you nobody else has ever had. I was going to give it to you last night, when you came back. But you came back with my necklace. And all that other stuff happened. It's still here for you. Special. But not now," she said, stroking me, "not now. When your blood's up."

I felt myself grow in her hand. "Seems like it's up to me," I said.

She laughed, a rich laugh from her belly, moving against me. "When your blood's up, honey, I'll know. But as far as this other thing . . ." The big girl pushed against my shoulder, shoving me flat on my back, swinging one huge leg over me, her hand guiding me inside. "Come on, now," she whispered, her teeth in my shoulder.

91

An hour later, we were moving into the city. I had to be at the pay phone in the lobby of the Criminal Court before ten. The last phone in the long bank near the back wall. Teléfono cuatro.

There were only two places in the city I could go for what I needed. This freak I had to meet could call himself "death" if that's what got his rocks off, but I knew a guy who earned the title. A guy we did time with years ago. A guy who let the ice god into his soul like I'd wanted to. A guy named Wesley. Even saying his name in my mind made my hands shake. The other choice was the UGL.

Una Gente Libre - A Free People. Puerto Rican terrorists to the federates, hard-core independentistas to their people. The FBI had been trying to get a man inside for years - they'd have better luck getting Jimmy Hoffa to testify. The UGL didn't blow up buildings. They didn't write letters to the newspapers. Some of them fought in the mountains of their home, some in the city canyons of America. Their New York territory stretched from East Harlem to the Bronx. They kept their plate clean. You try to sell crack on their streets, you get cracked. You come back again, you get iced. The Colombians didn't like that much. One of their honchos sent a crew into UGL turf. Sprayed the streets with machine guns. Dropped five people, one of them a pregnant woman. The next day, the crack salesmen were back, stopping the BMWs and Mercedeses full of mobile slime on their way to the suburbs. Smiling. Three days later, the first salesman who showed up pushed his way through a crowd packed around a fire hydrant. The honcho's head was sitting on top of the fireplug like a bust in a museum display case. Whoever hacked it off hadn't been a surgeon. The last thing the salesman left on that street was his puke.

Dr. Pablo Cintrone was a psychiatrist. New York magazine did a profile on him once. Harvard Medical School graduate who returned to the mean streets to minister to his people. It made him sort of a hero to the upscale crowd for a couple of weeks. Not too many people in Spanish Harlem or the South Bronx read the magazine, but they knew El Jefe of the UGL.

92

Inside the office, I let Pansy out to the roof while I checked the security systems. Nobody'd made a move on the place last night.

I changed into a dark pin-striped suit, grabbed a leather attaché case. It wouldn't get anybody's attention if I stood by the pay phone in the Criminal Court waiting for it to ring.

When Pansy saw the leash, she spun in a circle, dancing for joy. I hooked her up and we all went down the back stairs.

First stop was the hospital. I left Pansy in the back taking Belle's hand.

"Is she going to be all right back there?"

"What could happen to her?" I asked, reasonably enough.

The Prof was sitting up in bed, half a dozen pillows propped up behind him. His legs were still in casts, but lying flat on the bed. A metal bar ran between the casts. I looked a question.

"To make sure they stay straight until the casts come off," he said.

"How you doing?"

"Not as sweet as drinking wine, not as bad as doing time."

"We got something," I said, moving close to the bed.

The little man's eyes shifted to where Belle was standing against the wall. I held out my hand behind me, not turning my head. She came up and took it. "She's with us," I told him. "She's in this."

He flashed his smile at her. "This your man, little girl?"

Her smile blazed back. "He surely is."

"That makes me your brother-in-law, darlin'. Soon's we finish this fight, I'll show you the sights."

She leaned over and kissed him. "I'll be waiting." Belle sat on the bed. It didn't shift more than half a foot. I pulled up the chair, keeping my voice down.

"Mortay called. We got a meet tonight."

"Where?"

"Playground back of the Chelsea Projects."

"Skinner heaven."

"I know."

"I don't like it. If he don't buy the play, how you gonna walk away?"

"I need a shooter. With a night scope. On the roof."

"The only one I know is . . ."

"Not Wesley. I'll get someone else - I got it covered." The Prof didn't know about my connect to UGL.

His voice dropped even lower. "You going to dust him?"

"No way. Just make sure he gets the word - I want to tell him we got no beef. Walk away. The shooter is in case he wants to try and send another of his freakish messages."

"Burke, I'm telling you, this Mortay . . ."

"I got it covered," I told him again. "You hear anything?"

"Got some promises, but no product."

"I'll see you tomorrow."

He put his hand on mine. "Burke, listen to me like you used to on the yard. You want to roll the dice, make it nice.

"I got it," I said, throwing him a salute.

93

I held the door for Belle to get into the car. "He's really so much better, isn't he?"

"He's better, but he's not back to himself yet."

"You'd expected him to be dancing by now?"

"Not the physical thing. The Prof, he's like two people. Half is this rhyming-time, upbeat thing you see, okay? The other half is how he got his name. Like a religious thing - I don't have a name for it. Re got his name because he can see things."

"Like what's going to happen?"

"Sort of. Like I said, I can't really explain it. But he can preach, square business. Talk that religion like he means it. Strong enough to make you buy a piece sometimes, when he really gets on a roll. That's what's missing now."

Belle tapped fingernails on one knee, paying attention, listening close. She turned to look at me. "Maybe he don't like what he sees comin'," she said, the Southern-swamp tang strong in her voice.

94

I pulled the Plymouth into the parking lot across from the Criminal Court. The parking lot where I met Strega for the first time. The court where I first saw Wolfe in action. It was nine-forty-five - all the spaces were taken.

"Cruise around the lot like you're looking for a place to park," I told Belle. "You find one, pull in. Watch for me - I'll be coming down those steps," I said, pointing across Centre Street. "You see me coming, catch my eye. We may have to move out right away."

I gave Pansy the signal. She flopped down in the back seat, filling it to capacity.

I crossed the street, grabbed the phone I wanted. I picked up the receiver, holding down the hook, and acted like I was listening to someone on the other end, glancing at my watch.

I knew my watch was accurate, because it read ten o'clock just as the phone rang. I released the hook.

"Can I see you? Today?"

"Muy importante?"

"Sí."

"Handball court closest to Metropolitan. One o'clock."

"Thanks."

I was talking to a dead line.

95

I came down the steps, spotted the Plymouth making a slow circuit. I caught it on the second pass, opened the door. Belle rolled out to Lafayette Street, turned south, in the direction of the office.

"I don't have to get moving until around noon," I told her. "But I need the car when I do."

"I'll go with you."

"No, you won't. And get that pout off your face."

She didn't. "Make a right," I told her as we came to Worth Street. "Head down to the river."

Pansy poked her head over the top of the front seat. "Want to run, girl?" I asked her. She growled.

I showed Belle where to pull in. There were only a few cars on the broad strip of concrete, the usual collection of humans minding other people's business. I opened the back door, hooked Pansy's leash, and we strolled along the river. Her snout wrinkled at the smells, but she held her position. On my left side, slightly ahead. Every time I stopped, she sat. When we got to the deserted pier, I let her off the lead, making a circle with my hand, telling her not to roam far. Freed of the restraint of the leash, she did what comes naturally to her. Lay down.

"You lazy old thing," Belle said. She looked around, her eyes sweeping the Jersey shore on the other side. "Sure doesn't smell like any water I ever saw."

"It's not water - ust a liquid toxic-waste dump."

"You can't swim in it?"

"No. But on a good day, you could walk on it."

"Ugh!"

A sailboat went by, loaded with yuppies in yachting gear. Sailboats down here make about as much sense as No Smoking sections in L.A. restaurants, so you see a lot of them.

Belle pointed to one of the round beams that held up the pier. "Boost me up," she said, one foot in the air. I cupped my hands and she stepped in, reaching to the top of the beam. I heaved, and up she went. It wasn't as bad as loading trucks, and the view was a lot better. I lit a smoke, handed it up to her. The breeze pulled at her hair, pulling it off her face. She turned to the side, sucking in a deep breath. I took one of my own - no Viking ship ever had a prouder figurehead.

Two teenagers pulled up, riding those little motor scooters you see everyplace. They stopped a decent distance, watching Pansy.

"What kind of dog is that?" the taller one asked.

"One that bites," I told him.

"He looks like a giant pit bull."

"Close enough."

"Where could I get one?"

"You can't."

The shorter one piped up. "He looks like a big lump to me. That ain't no pit bull."

"Pansy, watch!" I snapped at her.

She came slowly to her feet and strolled toward the kids, making her noises. I never heard an alligator eat a pig, but I knew what Belle meant. She pinned the boys with her ice-water eyes, one skull-crusher of a paw pulling at the concrete.

"Jump!" I yelled at her. The kids took off before she hit the deck. She looked over at me, bored to death. I made a circle sign again. This time she took off, loping the length of the boards, peering over the edge into the water. She jogged back, stopping at the beam where Belle perched. The beast leaped up, her paws locking into the wood a foot below Belle. She reached down and patted her. "Does she want me to come down?"

"I think she wants to come up."

"There's no room."

"Maybe that's a message."

Belle jumped down from her perch, landing next to me. "What message?" she said, bunching a small fist.

"That they should make those beams bigger."

"Or these smaller?" she asked, smacking herself on the rear.

"Wouldn't be my choice," I assured her.

She took my arm and we walked around some more, Pansy hanging close.

"She's so beautiful. She really is like a panther, the way she moves. So smooth."

I lit a smoke, thinking it was the truth.

"Burke, how come you got a female dog?"

I shrugged.

"Well, she's for protection, right? A guard dog? I thought they were all males. I thought they were tougher, you know? A man I knew once, he had a German shepherd. Wouldn't have a female dog around him - said a bitch would turn tail and run from a fight.''

"He's a moron. Male dogs, they smell a bitch in heat, you know what they want to do?"

"Sure."

"No, you don't. What they want to do is fight every other male dog around. In the wild, they run in packs. The way the pack stays alive, they only let the strongest bulls mate with the bitches. So the litters are strong too. The way they see who the strongest dog is they fight it out."

She put her head against my shoulder. "Maybe they're right."

"They're right for dogs. Not for people. I grew up like that. It took me a lot of years and a lot of scars before I snapped that a good woman won't make you fight over her."

"I worked with girls like that. Fire-starters. Blood makes them come."

She swayed against me, pulling me to a stop along the pier. "Is that why you have a girl dog? So she won't want to fight other dogs and all?"

"Males are just no good. Any kind of male. A man'll fuck a chain-link fence."

She patted my pockets, took out a cigarette. I cupped a wooden match against the wind for her. She sat on the bench. Pansy jumped up next to her. I sat on the other side.

Belle looked at the water. "The man who said a bitch would turn tail - that's what he wanted me to do. I never had much of my own. Things you buy . . . they're not really yours. But I own what I do. He found out too."

"What happened?"

"I cut him. Cut him good."

We walked back to the Plymouth. "You want to wait at the office for me?"

"Me and Pansy," she said.

96

Back at the office, Belle looked at the street maps rolled up in a corner. "Can I tack these on the wall?"

"Sure. I was going to do it anyway. Why?"

"I want to learn the city."

"Okay. I'll be back in a couple of hours, maybe more." I moved to the door.

"Honey?"

"What?"

"Come here for a minute. Sit with me."

I sat on the couch. She put herhead in my lap, looked up at me. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"What I told you, about my mother and my father and all? Is that the worst thing you ever heard?"

I thought about kiddie porn. About selling little boys in Times Square. Rapists. Child molesters. Snuff films. The tape looped inside my head. I hit the stop button.

"It's not close," I told her. "Everybody's pain is the worst thing in the world for them. Your mother really loved you. Died for you - you always have that."

"You think I'm . . . sick."

"No. I think you're hurt. And, one day, we'll fix that."

"I love you."

I bent to kiss her. "I've got to go," I said.

She pressed her head down against me. "Tell me something worse. Tell me something worse than what he did."

"It'd be worse for someone else, baby. Like I told you. Everybody has their own. Good and bad."

She came to her knees next to me. "Tell me the worst thing. The worst thing you know."

I looked in her face, talking quietly. I'd had enough of this crazy game. "People steal babies, Belle. Little tiny babies - they steal them from their parents. And they never bring them back."

"What do they do with them?"

"They sell most of them. Some of the pretty white kids, they sell them to nice rich folks who want a baby of their own. Black-market adoption."

"What about the others?"

"You know what a chop shop is?"

"Where they steal cars, break them down for parts?"

"Yeah. They have them for babies too. They sell the white babies. The other ones, they're not worth too much for adoption, so they cut them up for parts."

"Burke!"

"Rich baby needs a heart transplant, a new kidney, you think they care where the organs come from?"

"I don't believe you!"

"The world I live in, it's a lot deeper underground than any subway. It's a world where you can buy a baby's heart."

I held her against me. "Don't ask questions so much, little girl. I only got ugly answers."

She pulled back from me, dry-eyed. "You saw this? You saw this yourself?"

"Yeah. Guy's kid was in the hospital. Dying. Needed a transplant. It was in the papers, on TV. Looking for a donor. Baby only had a few days to live. He got a call.

They promised him a baby's heart. Fresh. All packed and ready for transport to the hospital. Twenty-five thousand, they wanted. He made some calls - a lot of calls. A cop I know sent him to me. I went down the tunnel."

"What happened? Did they have the heart?"

"Just like they promised."

"You took it? The baby was saved?"

"Yeah."

She nodded. "Damn their souls to hell."

"I don't do souls," I told her. "Just bodies."

97

The handball court was in the shadows of Metropolitan Hospital, just off 96^th Street near the East River. Once the tip of Spanish Harlem, it was now liberated territory - the yuppie land-grab machine wouldn't be satisfied until gentrification ate the South Bronx. I liked it better the old way, when the human beings lived in the tenements and investment bankers lived in the suburbs. Now we got plenty of rehab apartments for tomorrow's leaders. And more people living in the streets than they have in Calcutta.

I parked under the East Side Drive overpass and walked over to the court. Ten minutes to one. I watched people playing: handball, paddleball, basketball. No stickball. People working too. Working the cars. Selling flowers, newspapers, clean windshields. Ninety-sixth Street was the DMZ when I was coming up. North was theirs, South was ours. Now it all belongs to someone else - they just let us play there while they're at work downtown.

"These chumps can't play no basketball." A voice behind me. Pablo. The lack of a single Puerto Rican in the NBA makes him crazy.

He was wearing his white doctor's-coat over a black turtleneck, his round face looking the same way it did when he walked out of Harvard fifteen years ago.

"Gracias, compadre," I said, thanking him for coming. He shook hands the way he always does, using both of his.

"Something bad?" he asked me, standing close.

"I have to meet a man. Tonight. He hurt one of my brothers. He said it was a message. I don't know what's on his mind. I want to walk away - tell him I got no beef with him. But he might not go for it."

"You have Max."

"Can't use him for this, Pablo. It may be Max he wants. He's a karateka. Been going around the city, challenging sensei in their own dojos. Max, I think his name may be in the street over this. You know Lupe? The guy who sets up the cockfights?"

Pablo spat on the ground. "I know him. Mamao. A punk. Tough talk - no cojones."

"He set up a match. Between this guy I have to meet and a Jap. Duel to the death."

"I heard about that. In Times Square?"

"Yeah. That's what I mean. Seems like everybody's heard about it. Max fights this guy, he's got no win. Probably have cops in the audience."

Pablo looked at me. "Max wouldn't walk away from a challenge."

"So he doesn't get to hear one."

"I see. You want your back covered when you meet this guy . . .?"

"Mortay."

"Muerte?"

"Yeah. I don't know how he spells it, but it means the same thing."

"He's not a problem for us?"

"Not for you. Not now. I'm working on something, and I just bumped him accidentally. How he's tied in - if he's tied in - I don't know for sure."

"You chasing a missing kid?"

"Dead kids. The Ghost Van."

Pablo's round face went hard. His eyes were dark, flat buttons behind his round glasses. "Baby-killers. That van comes into our barrio, we'll make it a ghost."

"It just works off the river, near Times Square. I got a lot of threads, but no cloth."

"This Mortay . . . he knows?"

"I don't know. I'm not gonna ask him. He lets me walk, I'm gonna promise him I won't come his way again. He wants me off the van, I'm off the van."

"That's what you'll tell him."

"Yeah," I said, lighting a smoke.

"What time is your meet?"

"Midnight tonight. The playground behind the Chelsea Projects."

"How many people do you need?"

"Just one," I told him. "El Caňonero."

Pablo's lips moved. Just a tic. Nothing else showed in his face. "He only does our work."

"I don't want him to take anybody out. Just be around, break a couple of caps if he has to. He can do it from a distance. I figure maybe the roof . . ."

"He only does our work. He is not for hire. My people are soldiers, not gangsters."

"They do what you say."

"They follow me because they follow the truth. My personal friendship is with you, hermano. I can commit only myself."

I put my hand on his shoulder. "I understand what you say. I respect what you say. But there are two reasons why he should do this."

"Yes?"

"He does only your work. More than once, I have also done your work, this is true?"

"True."

"El Caňonero does this work tonight for UGL, it is UGL I owe. Comprende?"

He nodded. Rubbed the back of his neck like it was stiff. A young Hispanic woman in a blue jogging outfit stopped her slow circuit of the courts and trotted over. He took her aside, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish. She took off, running hard now, heading for the street.

We watched the basketball game. It wasn't in the same league as the semipro action at the court on Sixth Avenue in the Village, but it was intense. I asked him about his kids. Pablo's got a lot of kids - the oldest one's in college, his baby girl's still in diapers. He's never been married. Takes care of all his children. He never seems to make anybody mad with all his tomcat stuff, not even the women who have his babies. Most of them know each other.

I met Pablo in prison. He wasn't doing time - he was doing his residency in psychiatry. His supervisor was a wet-brain who did five-minute interviews with the cons before they saw the Parole Board. And handed out heavyweight tranquilizers any time they shoved the Rx pad under his nose. I was the wet-brain's clerk - a scam artist's dream job. Five crates of cigarettes and you got the prescription of your choice, twenty crates bought you a "fully rehabilitated" write-up for the Board. It only took Pablo a month to read my act, but he never said a word. I was on to him faster than that. He wasn't studying mental illness among convicts - he was recruiting.

The woman in the jogging suit ran back to us, pulled Pablo aside. Pablo turned to me. "You parked close by?"

"Under the overpass," I said, pointing.

"Sit on the hood. Smoke one of your cigarettes. See you in ten minutes."

He walked off with the woman.

98

Threee smokes later, a black Lincoln sedan pulled up. Dark windows, M.D. plates. The front door popped open and I stepped inside. The woman was driving. I glanced in the back seat. Pablo. And El Caňonero.

"Vete," Pablo said. The Lincoln moved off.

Pablo's voice came from the back seat. "Turn around, compadre. My hermano needs to memorize your face."

I turned full-face to the back. El Caňonero was a short, stocky Hispanic, not as dark as Pablo. He had straight, coal-black hair. Pablo once told me Puerto Ricans were a mixture of all the world's races. Looking at the two men in the back seat, I could see the African in Pablo, the Incan in El Caňonero. The shooter's face was featureless except for heavy cheekbones. But I'd seen his eyes before. On a tall, lanky man from West Virginia. Sniper's eyes - measuring distances.

The Lincoln worked its way downtown. We pulled to a stop across from the playground.

Kids were running everywhere. Little kids screaming, chasing each other, bigger kids in a stickball game. Teenagers against the lence, smoking dope, listening to a giant portable stereo. Pablo jerked his thumb. We got out, leaned against the car.

The gate to the park would be closed at midnight. Wire mesh - it wouldn't keep anybody out.

El Caňonero's eyes swept the scene. He said something in Spanish to Pablo, who just nodded.

I saw the man against the wire mesh. A medium-sized white man with a baseball cap on his head. Watching the kids play. He was wearing a yellow sweater, the sleeves pushed up almost to his elbows. I focused in on him, lighting a smoke. He had a heavy rubber band around one wrist. He pulled at it again and again with his other hand, snapping it against the inside of his wrist. I nudged Pablo, pointing at the man with a tilt of my head.

"Aversive therapy," I sneered.

His face went hard. "They should've tied the rubber band around his throat."

El Caňonero grunted a question. Pablo explained it to him. I couldn't follow the words, but I knew what he was saying. They have programs where they try "conditioning" on child molesters. The idea is to show them a lot of pictures of kids - then blast them with an electric jolt when the freaks get aroused. Nobody believes it works. When they discharge one of the freaks, they tell him to wear a rubber band around his wrist. When he feels himself getting excited over a kid, he's supposed to snap the band - reactivate his conditioning.

The shooter's eyes bored in on the man in the yellow sweater. "Maricón!" he snarled. Pablo launched into another speech. A child molester isn't a homosexual; most gays hate them too. El Caňonero listened, flat-faced. I heard my name. The shooter nodded. Then he held out his hand. I shook it. Pablo must have told him what I did.

Pablo leaned over to me. "We're going around the back, take a look. You stay here with Elena."

"I want to talk to the freak. Just take a minute."

"Sí." He gestured for the woman to move close. "Elena, that man over there, he is a molester of children. He is the wolf, stalking the baby chickens. My compadre wants to approach him, get a good look at his face, so el gusano will know he is known to us. Perhaps threaten him with violence, okay?"

She nodded. Pablo and El Caňonero moved off.

"Do you speak any English?" I asked the woman.

"I teach English," she said, nothing on her face.

"I didn't mean to offend you."

"You could not offend me. Just say what you want me to do."

I told her. I held out my hand. She took it, moving smoothly against me as we crossed the street.

Elena left me and moved off behind the freak; He stayed glued to the fence. I wrapped my hand around the roll of quarters in my pocket, moving my shoulder against the freak, slipping my left hand behind his back.

"Kids are cute, huh?"

He jumped like he'd been stabbed. "What?"

I snatched a handful of his sweater, locking his belt from behind, shoving my face into his, my voice cell-block hard. "When did they let you out, freak?"

"Hey! I didn't . . ."

I pushed him against the fence, my face jammed into his. "Don't come back to this playground, scumbag. We've been watching you. We know you. We know what you do. You do it again, you're dog meat. Got it?"

The freak twisted his head away from me. I looked where he was looking. At Elena. Standing three feet from us in her blue jogging suit, hands buried in the pockets of the sweatshirt. She took out her left hand, pulled up the waistband. A little black pistol was in her other hand. The freak whipped his head back to me. I pulled him away from the fence, bringing my right hand around in a short hook to his gut. He made a gagging sound, dropped to the ground. I went down on one knee next to him. His face was against the pavement, vomiting.

"We know your face, freak," I said quietly. "Next time we see you, you're done."

I stomped my heel hard into the side of his face; it made a squishy sound. Nobody gave us a look. When we climbed back inside the Lincoln, Pablo and El Caňonero were already in the back seat. Elena took the wheel and we moved off.

The rifleman tapped my shoulder. I turned around. He nodded his head once, a sharp, precise movement.

The Lincoln dropped me off at my car. Pablo got out with me. He handed me a strip of cloth, Day-Glo orange.

"Tie this around your head when you walk into the playground tonight. Bring a couple of bottles of beer. Pull your car into the playground, put the bottles on the hood. You raise your hand, one of the beer bottles blows up. This Mortay, he'll know you're covered."

"Thanks, Pablito. I owe you."

"El Caňonero said to tell you he'll be on the roof by eleven.

"Okay."

"He said to ask you something . . . If it gets bad . . . if this guy won't be warned off . . . if he comes for you . . . you want El Caňonero to drop him or just fade?"

"Drop him."

"Bueno."

99

I headed back downtown, stopped at Mama's. She took a long time to come to my booth. When she did, Immaculata was with her. They slid across from me. Mac didn't waste any time.

"Burke, is there trouble for Max?"

"I don't know. I'll know soon," I told her, stabbing Mama with my eyes. She stared right back. I shouldn't have mentioned the baby.

"You'll tell me as soon as you know?"

"Will you give me a fucking chance to head it off first?"

She reached across the table, took my hand. "I will. And I'll keep Max close for a few more days. Don't blame Mama. She told him you were working on something and he keeps pushing her. He thinks it's you who's in trouble. She needed my help."

"No hard feelings," I told her, remembering Michelle's words. "Where's Max now?"

"He's home with Flower." She got up to leave. Kissed me. "Be careful," is all she said.

Mama gave me about thirty pounds of Chinese food to take with me. I bowed to her as I left. Her eyes asked if I understood.

"It's okay," I said.

100

"Anybody come calling?" I asked Belle, stepping past Pansy.

"Been real quiet," she said, taking the cartons of food from me. Pansy followed her into the back room, ignoring me. The bitch.

Belle cleared off the desk so we could eat. "What's all that?" I asked her, pointing to yellow legal pads covered with scrawls.

"Just some charts I made. I have to see the streets for myself - the maps don't do it all. But I wrote down some ideas."

"Is it easier for you to memorize directions if you're driving or if you're a passenger?"

"Driving is best."

"Okay," I said, digging into the hot-and-sour soup, "you drive tonight."

"Where're we going?"

"To a place you might have to come back to by yourself someday. A safe place."

She nodded, her mouth full of food. I tossed an egg roll over my shoulder, saying "Speak!" as I did. It never hit the ground.

I smoked a cigarette while Belle put the dishes away, playing with the few pieces I had. I put the thoughts down - after tonight, I'd have more pieces.

Six o'clock. I let Pansy out to the roof, went to the back to put things together. Steel-toed boots with soft rubber soles. Black cotton pants. A black sweatshirt. I took a white jacket from the closet, checked the Velcro tearaways at the shoulders. Slipped the orange headband into a pocket. I put a clean set of papers together: driver's license, registration, Social Security card, all that crap. Six hundred bucks in used bills, nothing bigger than a fifty. A cheap black plastic digital wristwatch.

I let Pansy back inside. Took a shower. Put on a terry-cloth robe. When I came out, Belle was lying on the couch, her hands locked behind her head, long legs up on the backrest. Wearing one of my shirts over a pair of little red panties. She couldn't button the shirt.

I sat down. She dropped her legs across my lap.

"Burke, this is it, isn't it?"

"What're you talking about?"

"This place. This office. That's all there is, right? This is where you live."

"Yep."

She rolled over on her stomach, pushing her hands against the couch until her hips were across my lap. There's a new kind of stove they make. Induction coil, they call it. You don't have to turn it on - the burner stays cold until you touch it with a copper-bottom pot. I knew how the stove felt.

Belle leaned her head on her folded arms, talking back over her shoulder at me. "I thought you had a house. I thought you wouldn't take me there . . . wouldn't let me sleep in your bed. Because you had a woman there. The woman you talked about."

I lit cigarette, watching my shirt move on Belle's rump every time she readjusted herself.

"But she's gone, isn't she? Like you said. You told me the truth."

"Yeah. I told you the truth."

"I'm a bitch. I know that's not all bad - it's what I am. But I should have believed you; there's no excuse."

"Outlaws only lie to citizens."

"No, I met plenty of outlaws who lie. But I know you don't. Not to me."

She wiggled her hips, snuggling tight against me, feeling the heat.

"Is she dead?"

"I don't know, Belle," I said, my voice hardening. "I told you all this before. There's no more to tell."

"Are you mad at me?"

"No."

"I'm sorry, honey."

"Forget it."

She pulled the shirt off her hips. "Why don't you give me a smack? You'll feel better."

"I feel fine," I said.

Belle wiggled again. "Come on, please."

I put my hand on her rump, patting her gently.

"Come on. Do it, just a couple of times. I swear you'll feel better."

I brought my hand down hard. A sharp crack. "Do it again," she whispered, "come on."

I smacked her twice more in the same place. She slid off my lap to her knees, looked up at me. "Feel better?" she asked.

"No."

"You will," she promised, taking me in her mouth.

101

We were on the East Side Drive, heading for the Trihoro Bridge. Belle took a drag road.

"How do I turn up the dashboard lights?"

I told her. She peered at the speedometer. "I can tell how fast we're going without it, but I need to know the mileage."

"There's a trip odometer."

"It's okay, I'm keeping count."

We motored over the bridge. I showed her the cutoff, led her through the twisting South Bronx streets, past the warehouses, past the burned-out buildings, into the flatlands. "Next corner, left," I told her. "That's the spot."

She pulled to the side of the road. No streetlights here - we were in darkness.

Belle turned to me. "You think I'm a freak?" she asked, her voice shaking a little bit.

"Why would I think that?"

"Don't play with me - you know why I asked you. I liked it when you pinched me so hard - when you made me say what I saw in the mirror. I liked it when you spanked me before. I like it when you do that. Makes me feel like you love me. Special." She took another drag. "You think that makes me a freak?"

I lit a smoke of my own. "You want the truth?"

"Tell me."

"I think you think you're a freak. I think you believe your life is a damn dice game. Genetic dice, rolling down the table, and all you can do is watch."

"My blood . . ."

"Your blood may have done something to your face. Your blood tells you not to have babies. But it doesn't tell you how to act. You still have your choices."

"You don't understand."

"You're the one who doesn't understand, girl. You see it but you don't get it. Remember what you told me about alligators - the difference between a six-inch gator and a six-foot one?"

"I remember."

"What's the difference between a puppy and a dog? The same thing? Just size?"

"Isn't it?"

"How you raise the puppy, how you treat it, what you feed it - it all makes a different dog when it grows up. Two puppies from the same litter, they could be real different dogs when they grow up."

"Okay."

"Don't give me that 'okay' bullshit. You don't get it, we'll sit right here until you do."

"I get it."

"Then explain it to me."

She started to cry, her face in her hands. "I can't," she sobbed.

"Come over here," I told her. "Come on."

She unbuckled her seat belt, slid over against me, still crying. "I'm sorry . . ."

"Shut up. Just be quiet and listen, okay?"

"Okay," she gulped.

"Telling you about dogs and puppies wasn't the way to do it. You think blood will out, don't you?"

She nodded. "Yes." Still crying.

"You know about Dobermans . . . how they're supposed to turn on their owners?"

"Yes, I heard that."

"It's a lie, Belle. People get Dobermans, they're afraid of them. They've all heard the stories. So they beat the hell out of them when they're still puppies. Show them who's boss, right? One day, the dog gets his full growth, the owner goes to hit him, the dog says, 'Uh uh. Not today, pal,' and he rips the guy up. So this fool, this creep who's been beating up on his own dog, mistreating him all this time, he says, 'Well, the son of a bitch turned on me.'"

Belle giggled. "He sowed his own crop."

"Sure did. There's nothing genetic about Dobermans' turning on their masters. What's genetic about them is that they don't take a whole lot of shit once they get their growth. That's the truth."

"I thought . . ."

"We're people, Belle. Not alligators. I know people so cold, so evil, you meet them, you'd swear they came out of their mothers' wombs like that. But that's not the way it is. All the human monsters have to be made - they can't be born that way. You can't be born bad, no matter what the fucking government thinks."

"But if he . . ."

I cut her off sharp - I knew who "he" was. "It was his choice, Belle. No matter how he was raised, no matter what was done to him. There's no law says he has to repeat the pattern. He's not off the hook. I came up with guys raised by monsters. Did time with them when I was a kid. They still had choices."

I lit a cigarette. "Hard choices. The only kind people like us get. But choices still . . . You understand?"

"I do. I swear I do this time." She nestled against me. "I knew you were going to rescue me."

She kissed me full on the mouth, stabbing me with her tongue. I pulled back from her, watching the lights dance in her dark eyes. "The man we're going to see, millions of his people died because some slimy little psychopath decided their blood was bad. The psychopath, he's in the ground. The maggots are eating his body, and if there's a god, his soul is burning. And there's a country called Israel where there used to be only desert."

I squeezed her gently. "Okay?"

She let the whole smile go this time. "Okay."

102

I showed Belle where to pull in. "Flash the high beams three times, then shut the lights off."

"Something's coming," she said, peering into the darkness.

"Dogs," I told her. "Just be quiet."

They came in a pack. Simba didn't wait to make his entrance like he usually does. There was a tawny flash and a light thump as he landed on the hood of the Plymouth, baring his fangs as he looked through the windshield. Belle looked back at him. "Is that a wolf?"

"City wolf," I told her. "And that's his pack" - pointing to the river of beasts flowing around the car.

"What d'we do?"

"Wait."

The kid came through the crowd, bumping dogs out of his way like the Mole does. He called to Simba. The dog jumped off the hood, followed the kid around to the driver's side. "Switch places with me," I told Belle. I hit the switch. The window came down. Simba's lupine face popped into the opening.

"Simba-witz!" I greeted him.

Simba sniffed, poking his nose past me to look at Belle. A low growl came out of his throat. The pack went quiet. "It's okay, Terry," I told the boy. "This is Belle - she's with me."

The kid was wearing a dirty jumpsuit, a tool belt around his waist. A regular mini-Mole. Michelle would be thrilled.

"I'll open the gate," he said.

I drove the Plymouth a few feet into the yard, watching the gates close behind us. "I'm going to get out now," I told Belle. "I'll come around and let you out. The dogs will be with us, but they're okay. Don't be scared."

"Too late for that," she muttered.

When I let her out, she stepped to the ground. The dogs moved in close. "Should I pat them?" she asked.

Terry laughed. "Follow me," he said.

I took Belle's hand as we moved through the junkyard. Simba flashed ahead of us in a Z pattern, working the ground. The dogs came close, barking at each other, not paying much attention to us.

The Mole was sitting on a cut-down oil drum a few feet from his underground bunker. He got up when he saw us coming, pulling a slab of something white from his overalls. He threw it in a loping motion, like it was a grenade. The dogs chased off.

Before I could open my mouth, Terry took over. "Mole, this is Belle. Belle is Burke's friend. She came with him. I'm Terry," he said, holding out his hand. Belle shook it, gravely.

The Mole didn't offer to shake hands, pointing at more of the cut-down oil drums like they were deck chairs on his yacht.

"I should stay?" Terry asked.

The Mole looked at me. I nodded. The kid reached in his tool belt, pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a wooden match. He gets something from everyone in his family.

"Mole, I brought Belle here because she may need a place to run to. Soon. She's our people. She's mine, okay?"

"Okay."

"I wanted you to get a look at her. She has to come back in a hurry, you'll know her."

He nodded.

"Can Terry take her around - show her the other ways in?"

He nodded at the boy. Terry came over to Belle, holding out his hand. "Come on," he said. She went meekly as a child, towering over the kid.

I moved my oil-drum seat closer to the Mole. "I'm working on something. The Ghost Van. The Prof was nosing around. Guy named Mortay caught him. Broke both his legs. Told him to stay away."

The Mole nodded, waiting.

"I don't know if this Mortay is fronting off the van or he's got his own list. He told the Prof he wanted Max. In a duel. He's been moving on other karateka around the city. I can't bring Max into this until I know what the score is."

The Mole watched me as if I was one of his experiments. Waiting for something to happen.

"I'm meeting him. Tonight. Midnight. I've got backup. I'll call you when I get back. You don't hear from me, you call Davidson. The lawyer. You know him, right?"

"Yes."

"If I don't call you, I'll probably be locked up. Tell Davidson I'm good for the cash. Tell him to call Mama if he needs bail money."

"Okay."

"Thanks, Mole."

"There's more?" he asked. I couldn't see his eyes through the Coke-bottle lenses.

"Maybe. Maybe a lot more. I got pieces, but they may be two different puzzles. After tonight I should know enough to come and ask you."

He nodded. Terry came back, leading Belle by the hand. "She knows the way," he said, standing by the Mole.

"Take them back to the car," the Mole told him. Nodding goodbye to me and Belle.

103

When we crossed the Triboro, I told Belle to bear left.

"That's toward Queens."

"I know. You're going home. I need the car. I'll come back when it's over."

"I want . . ."

"I don't care what you want. It's way past nine and I'm meeting a man at midnight. You're not coming. And I'm not telling you again."

She drove in silence for a few minutes. "Burke, what's that orange cloth you put in your pocket?"

I lit a smoke. "A sign. So I'll be recognized."

"What's it mean?"

"Signs mean different things to different people, right? Middle-class kid, he's on his way to school. There's this bully waiting for him. Middle-class kid, he don't want to fight, but he don't want to look chicken. So he wraps his hand in bandages, says he cut himself. Understand?"

"Yes."

"You wear the same bandages in the places I was raised, just makes you an easier target. Different rules, okay?"

"Okay."

We pulled up outside her cottage. Ten o'clock. I followed her inside. She didn't turn on the lights.

"Burke, don't hate me for asking this . . ."

"What?"

"Are you scared?"

"Scared to death."

"Then . . ."

"I'm more scared not to go. I have to find out. Get some answers."

"Let's run," she said, standing close to me in the dark.

"Let's just go. We can be in Chicago by tomorrow. Or anyplace you want to go. I've got money stashed. Right here in the house. We can . . ."

"No."

She turned away from me. "What scares you?"

"This guy I have to meet - he's a psychopath. Behind the walls, being a psychopath is like walking a high-wire. Guys are scared of a man with eyes like an alligator's. That's good - makes people keep their distance. But it's no good to scare people too much. Just the possibility you might get hurt, that keeps you away. But if there's no doubt about it, if you know the guy's coming for you, you take him first. If you can."

"And that's what you need to find out?"

"That's it."

She moved close to me again, whispering in the dark room. "Why take a chance?"

"It's not that simple. I can't do anything until I find out. I don't know what else's out there."

"Burke, you come back here. You come back here to me."

"I will. As best I can."

I lit a last cigarette, pulled her to me. "You don't see me by tomorrow morning, drive back to the junkyard. The Mole will know who to contact, what to do."

"You'll come back. I've got something for you."

"I know you do," I said, giving her a kiss.

104

Eleven-fifteen. I was parked down the street from the playground. Breathing deep through my nose, sucking the air into my belly, expanding my chest as I let out each breath. Fear snapped around inside me. I gathered it together in a spot in my chest. Worked my mind, putting a fluid box around the fear. Testing the box, pushing it in different directions. I concentrated on the box, shooting clean, cold beams at it. Breaking it into little pieces. Smaller and smaller. Seeing the fear-blob break up into little liquid pieces inside me. Like tears. I held my hands out in front of me, willing the little pieces of fear to come out the ends of my fingers. Feeling them come. Some came out my eyes.

I felt so tired. Closed my eyes for a second. My watch said eleven-forty. Time.

I nosed the Plymouth up on the sidewalk, up to the playground gate. I jumped out, holding the heavy bolt-cutters in two hands. The chain around the fence gave way with one squeeze. I pulled the Plymouth inside the dark playground. Got out and closed the gate behind me. I made a slow circle of the yard, stopped when the Plymouth was pointed back at the street.

I got out, taking a six-pack of beer with me. Glass bottles. Lined them up on the trunk of the car, all in a row. Parallel to the building where the shooter would be waiting. I popped the top off one, held it to my lips. Lit a cigarette. Slouched against the car to wait.

The tip of my cigarette glowed. The streetlights didn't reach the corners of the buildings ringing the playground, but it was bright enough where I stood.

"You're early, punk." A voice from the shadows.

I dragged on my cigarette, keeping both hands in sight. Two men walked toward me from the left. One more from the right. I watched them, not moving. Well-built Spanish guy in a shortsleeved white guyabera shirt. Dark-haired white man in a leather jacket. And a tall man in a white T-shirt and white pants. He looked like a stick figure moving toward me. Mortay.

"Step away from the car," he said. His voice was a whisper-hiss, snake-thin.

The Spanish guy came to meet me. I held my hands away from my body as he searched. A diamond glinted in his ear. A fat diamond, not a stud.

"Empty," he said, stepping back.

Mortay stopped four feet from me. His face was at the end of a long, thin neck, so small I could have covered it with my hand. Hair cropped close - l could see the shine of his scalp. A heavy shelf of bone linked his eyebrows, bulging forward, a visor over his eyes.

"I don't recognize the school," he said. Meaning the orange headband. "Do you fight?"

"I'm just a student."

"You wanted to meet me?"

"Thank you for coming," I said, my voice gentle and low. "You had a dispute with a friend of mine. A small black man. On a cart."

He stood stone-still, waiting.

"The dispute was our fault, and we apologize. He wasn't looking for you. We don't know anything about you. We don't want to know."

"What was he looking for?"

"The Ghost Van."

"Don't look for the Ghost Van," Mortay hissed. "You wouldn't like it if you found it."

"I'm not looking for it. I'm off the case. I just wanted to tell you to your face. We have no quarrel with you - whatever you did, it was just business, okay?"

I turned to go.

"Stay where you are."

I faced him. He hadn't moved.

"I gave the little nigger a message. Didn't you get it?"

"I just told you we did."

"About Max. Max the Silent. Max the warrior. I called him out. I want to meet him."

"If I see him, I'll tell him."

"You know my name? You play with me, you play with death."

"I'm not playing."

"I know you. Burke. That's you, right?"

"Yeah."

"Max is your man. Everyone knows that - it's all over the street. Everyone says he's the best. He's not. It's me. Me. He wants to admit it, go down on one knee, he can live. Otherwise, we fight."

"You can't make him fight."

"I can make anyone fight. I spit on dojo floors. I killed a kendo master with his own sword. Everybody has a button." He opened his hands, a gambler fanning a handful of aces. "I push the buttons."

"Let it go," I said.

He moved in on top of me. Spit full in my face. I didn't move, watching his eyes.

"You're better than I thought," he whispered. "You're too old to jump if I call your mother a name. But you spit in an ex-con's face, he has to fight."

"I won't fight you."

"You couldn't fight me, pussy." I felt my face rock to the side, blood in the corner of my mouth. "Never saw that, did you?"

"No," I answered him, chewing on my lip, my mind back in an alley when I faced another man years ago. Wishing I had a gun, glad I didn't.

"I'm the fastest man there is. Max, he's nothing but a tough guy. I'll kill him in a heartbeat - he'll never see what does it."

"You can't make him fight - he doesn't fight just 'cause you call his name."

"What if I snap your spine, leave you in a wheelchair the rest of your life? You think that'll bring him around to see me?"

"You can't do that either," I said, my voice soft. "I'm not alone here."

The Spanish guy laughed. "I don't see nobody," he said, pulling an automatic from his belt.

I raised my hands as though I was responding to the pistol. One of the beer bottles exploded. I took another step away from Mortay.

"There's a rifle squad on the roof. Night scopes and silencers."

Mortay was ice, watching me.

"Want to see it again?" I raised my hand. Another bottle exploded. El Caňonero was the truth.

"I don't want any beef with you. You scared me good. I don't want anything to do with you. This is a walk-away. You can't hurt me, and you can't make Max fight you. It's over, get it?"

Mortay's voice was so low I had to lean forward to catch it. "Tell Max. Tell him I know about the baby. Tell him I know about Flower. Tell him to come and see me. Come and see me, or the baby dies."

I threw myself at him, screaming. I felt a chop in the ribs and I was on the ground. A flash of white and Mortay was gone. Bullets whined all around the playground. The dark-haired white guy went down. His body jumped as more bullets hit. Pieces of the building flew away.

I crawled over to the car, pulled myself inside. I twisted the key, floored the gas, and blasted through the gate.

105

The Plymouth thundered toward the river, running without lights. I grabbed the highway, sliding into the late-night traffic, willing myself to slow down. My shoulders were hunched into my neck, tensing for the shot that never came. No sirens.

A quick choice - my office or Belle's? My office was closer, but Mortay knew where it was. The Plymouth's license plates were smeared with dirt and Vaseline - nobody could call in an ID.

I slipped through the Battery Tunnel, staying with traffic, one eye locked to the rearview mirror. Clear. I pulled the sleeves off the jacket I was wearing. The Velcro made a tearing sound. One sleeve went out the window on the Belt Parkway, the other a few miles down the road. I slipped out of the body of the jacket, dumped that too. The orange headband was the last to go, slipping away in the wind.

Two blocks from Belle's. I stopped at a pay phone, pulling the pistol from under the floor mat. She answered on the first ring.

"Hello?"

"It's me. You okay?"

"I'm fine, honey."

"What's your favorite animal?"

She caught it. "An alligator. It's clear, baby."

I hung up, stepping back into the Plymouth. Her door opened as I was coming up the walk. I slipped into the darkness, the pistol in my hand.

106

I went to the couch, set the pistol down next to me, reached for the phone. Belle sat next to me, reaching out her band.

"Honey . . ."

"Get away from me, Belle. I got work to do and I don't have much left."

I punched the numbers, cursing Ma Bell for having different area codes for Queens and Manhattan. Mama picked up.

"It's me. No time to talk. You get to Immaculata. Get her to come and see you, okay?"

"Okay."

"She has to go out of town for a while. With the baby, Mama. That's the important thing. With the baby. Let her tell Max whatever she wants - visit friends, whatever. But get her out of here."

"Max too?"

"Can you do it?"

"Big problems for me. Business problems. In Boston, okay?"

"Okay. But keep him low to the ground. Work quiet."

"Tomorrow morning he goes."

"With the baby."

"With baby. Like you say. Come by, tell me soon."

"Soon."

"Plenty help here, okay? Nobody hurt baby."

"Get them out of here, Mama."

"All done," she said.

I took a deep breath. Belle was motionless next to me. I punched another number, taking the lighted cigarette she held out. The Mole's phone was picked up at his end.

"It's me. I'm okay."

He hung up.

I started to shake then. Couldn't get the cigarette into my mouth. Belle put her arms around me, pressing my head to her breasts.

"Let it go," I said, pushing her away. "Let it come out - I know what to do."

I let the fear snake its way through me, shaking my body, a terrier with a rat. I replayed the tape - back in the playground, down on the ground, a ribbon of killer bees death-darting between me and Mortay, El Caňonero on the high ground keeping me safe.

My body trembled in the terror seizure. Malaria flashes. Taking me back to the burned-out jungle in Biafra where fear grew thicker than the vines.

I couldn't make it stop - didn't even try. I stayed quiet and still. Careful as a man with broken ribs - the kind that puncture a lung if you cough.

Fear ran its race.

When it stopped, I was soaking wet, limp. Drained. I closed my eyes then, sliding my face into Belle's lap.

107

It was still dark when I came around. I turned my head. My face slid across Belle's lap, her thighs slick with sweat. Or tears. I pulled myself up, next to her.

"Can you get a duffel bag out of the trunk of my car? I need to take a shower - I don't like the way I smell."

"You smell fine to me."

"Just do it, okay?"

She got up without another word. I took off my clothes. They felt heavy in my hands. I dropped them on the floor, stepped into the shower.

When I came back out, Belle had the duffel bag on the couch. I toweled myself off, put on a fresh set of clothes. Belle's clock said two-fifteen. I took a pillowcase from the duffel bag, stuffed everything I'd been wearing into it, even the cheap watch.

"I don't have a washing machine here," she said, watching my face.

"This stuff needs an incinerator," I said, tossing it near the front door.

"You want a drink?"

"Ice water."

She cracked some cubes in a glass, ran the tap, brought it over to me. I lit a cigarette, watching my hands on the matches. They didn't shake.

I propped myself against the arm of the couch, sipping the water, smoking my cigarette. Watching the smoke drift to the ceiling. Belle stood a few feet away, watching me, not saying a word.

"Come here, baby," I said.

She sat on the floor next to the couch. I put my hand on the back of her neck, holding her. It was quiet and safe in the dark. Belle took the ashtray from me, put it on the floor where I could reach it. Lit a smoke of her own.

"When I was a young man, just a kid really, I had a place of my own. A basement, but it was fixed up like an apartment. I was raised in other people's places: the orphanage, foster homes, reform school. Nothing belonged to me. I got to thinking that place was real important."

I dragged deep on the cigarette, watching the glow at the tip.

"A man wanted my basement. I didn't know how to act then - there was nobody to tell me what to do - nobody for me to listen to. I got a gun and I went to meet him. In an alley. I was scared. I thought if I couldn't keep my basement I could never keep anything. Never have anything of my own.

"I had to meet the man. Like tonight. I can still see it - like I was right back there. I got ready to go. Ran Vaseline through my hair so nobody could get a grip. Wrapped my body with layers of newspaper in case he had a knife. Taped the handle of the pistol. So I wouldn't leave fingerprints . . . but really because I was so scared I thought I'd drop it when I took it out. I looked around that basement one last time. My basement. Left the radio playing as I walked out the door. It was Doc Pomus. A great old blues singer. Walking the line just before rock 'n' roll came. 'Heartlessly.' That was the song. I still hear it.

"He was there, waiting for me with his boys. I tried to talk to him. He just laughed at me - called me a punk. I showed him the pistol. He said I wouldn't pull the trigger - said I was scared to death. He was half right. I shot him."

"Did you kill him?"

"No. I didn't know it at the time. I just pumped a slug into him. The other people with him - they saw me do it. I just walked away. Back to my basement. I thought the word would be on the street. Don't fuck with Burke. He's a man now. Not a kid."

"What happened?"

"They came for me. I went to prison. I paid attention in there - found people I could listen to. I never wanted to be a hijacker. I'm not a gunfighter in my heart, I'm a thief. I never wanted to be a citizen - knew I never could anyway. But I didn't want to stick up liquor stores. I wanted to walk the line. Use my head, not my hands."

I stubbed out the cigarette.

"I've been waiting for full bloom all my life, Belle. It never worked out for me, Belle. I run some scams for a while, make a few good scores. But it seems like I always end up going back into that alley."

I took another hit of the ice water, Belle's hand on my chest.

"I thought it was all about that damn basement. I swore I'd never fight over a thing, never again. No matter what, I'd walk away. Travel light."

I lit another smoke.

"I cut the crap out of my life. I don't drink, don't play with dope. I learned to be careful. Real, real careful. I've got cut-outs inside cut-outs. Boxes inside boxes. Background tapes when I make telephone calls, phony license plates on the car. I got passports, birth certificates, driver's licenses. I sting freaks who can't sting back. I just wanted what the little ones want - what your mother wanted for you."

"To be safe?"

"Yeah. To be safe. The pattern I made for myself - it was like a ritual. Something you pray to. To keep you safe from demons. I was so scared before, when I was shaking on the couch. It made me think. Like you're praying your ass off and the devil shows up instead of God. It makes you stop praying. It's not a world out here, it's a junkyard. I grabbed a little girl once, maybe fourteen years old. Working the street. She spent her nights with her eyes closed and her mouth full. Turned over all the money to some dirtbag who beat her up and sent her back for more. I was taking her to this place I know, where they'd keep her safe, and I asked her about being a runaway. I thought you ran away to get to a better place. She told me she was in a better place."

"I know."

"I know you do. I've been thinking about it. Lying here. I wanted to live off my wits. Not beat the system, just take my little piece off to the side. Play it extra-safe.

"But I see it now. It was a pattern. The one thing you don't want to do."

"What pattern?"

"In prison, a guy who's thinking about going over the Wall . . . you can tell. You watch him, he falls into a pattern. Does the same thing every day. Maybe he stays in his cell instead of falling out for the movie. 'Cause he's working on the bars. Little piece at a time, putting dirty soap into the cuts to hide them. Waiting. Or you see him on the yard, watching the guard towers. Making schedules in his head. Any pattern marks you after a while. This South American dictator, he always went everywhere in an armored limo. Bodyguards in front, bodyguards in back. Safe as a bank vault. The other side, they blew up the car with a fucking rocket. See? The pattern taught them what to do. They didn't waste time with hijack stuff. Just blew the problem away."

"But . . ."

"It's me too, Belle. I've been at it too long. I play it safe; but I don't play it alone. You understand what I'm saying?"

"No, honey."

"I can walk away from that office and never look back. They'll never nail me fighting over my home again. I don't have a home. Remember when you said we should run? I can't run. I don't have a home, but I have people. My people. The only thing that's mine. That's my pattern."

"The little black guy?"

"The Prof is one. There's others. I don't know how it happened. I didn't mean for it to happen. I have these dreams. I was going to be a gunfighter. Live hard until I died. But I found out I didn't want to die. Then I was going to be a scam artist. But I kept running into kids. And they keep pulling me into what I didn't want to be.

"I wanted to use my head, Belle, and they make me use my hands. I was going to be a lone wolf. I even liked the way the words sound, you know? But it's not me. All my life, I never found what I am . . . just what I'm not."

Belle shifted her weight on the floor, looking at me. "I know what you are," she said.

"No, you don't. You know what you want. I do that too. I think I want something, I make what I have into whatever that is. It doesn't work."

She grabbed a handful of my shirt. "You better not be telling me a fancy goodbye, Burke."

"There's nothing fancy about it. There's not going to be any more basements in my life. I'm over the edge now. Past the line. This guy, the guy I met tonight - he wants my brother. And he knows how to make him come to fight. I can't let Max do it."

"If he's as good as you say . . ."

"It's not a duel, Belle. Max has a baby. He's an outlaw. Like us. But he walks his own road. He fights this freak, there's no win. It's like turning over a rock - you don't know what's underneath. This Mortay, he's started something. If they fight, maybe Mortay wins. And my brother is dead. Max wins, he won't win easy. And even if he does, he's out of the shadows and into the street. Don't you get it?"

"No!"

"Listen to me, little girl. Listen good. There's no more outlaw code. There's no rules for freaks. I've known this since I was a kid, but I never really dealt with it. When I went back to my basement, after I shot that guy?"

"Yeah . . ."

"The people who came for me, they weren't his friends. It was the cops."

''I . . ."

"Listen! It was the cops. I was a stupid fucking kid who thought he was going to be a gunfighter. I went back to my basement. I thought they'd come for me - we'd shoot it out. I didn't care if I lived or I died. If I couldn't have my basement, I didn't care. If they came for me and I won, I'd have a rep. Walk down the street, women would look at me, men would whisper my name. I thought they'd come with guns - they came with a warrant."

I lit a smoke. My hands were still steady.

"I'm telling you the truth now. Max can't win a fight with this freak. Somebody's coming for him after that. Sooner or later.

"Burke . . ."

"I've got my debts too, Belle. You've never been a slut with your body; don't be one with your respect. But give me what's coming to me. I got no choice about this. I don't want to live here if I have to pay so high."

"You have to kill him," she said. It wasn't a question.

"I have to kill him. And I'm not good enough to do it and walk away."

"You've been to prison before. I said I'd wait for you. I'll wait for you even if you buy a life sentence."

"I'm doing a life sentence right now. It's time to stop playing with myself. I got a plan. I know how to take him out. But it'll never end up in court."

"Honey . . ."

"The Mole. The guy you met tonight? He's a genius. Like you wouldn't believe. I'll have him make me a jacket. Line it with the right stuff. I'll find Mortay. He'll do what he does. And when he hits, there's a big bang and it's over."

She was crying, her head on my chest. "No, no, no."

"Don't take this from me," I said. "If I could figure out another way, I'd do it in a minute. But I looked in his eyes. There's nobody home there. I can't take a chance. If I try and I miss, my people will go down. And it'll be me who did it.

"I could live with jail again, Belle. But if I miss this freak, I couldn't live with myself. I'd have nothing to come back to."

"Why can't you . . . ?"

"What? Call the cops? Have us all move to the mountains? I'm going to try, okay? I don't want to die. I'm not good enough with my hands to take him out. For a minute, when I was in the shower, for just a minute, I let it run in my head. Thought the answer was there. There's a reason for this freak being connected to the Ghost Van. It's all patterns. If I could hook into his, maybe I'd have a handle to twist him with."

She pulled back, watching my face as if she could see past my eyes, big round tears on her face. Glass beads - they'd shatter if they hit the floor.

"You'll try?"

"I'll try, sure I'll try. I don't have much time. I have to put it together . . . but maybe it doesn't fit. Maybe there is no pattern."

"But you'll try? You swear?"

"I swear. But I'm cutting you out, Belle. Right now, nobody has you with me. You can be out of here in a few hours. I've got some money. I'll give you a number to call. It'll all be over in a few days, one way or another."

"Get some sleep, baby," she said, kissing me on the lips.

108

I felt the heat. My eyes snap open. My head turned to the side. Belle stood naked in front of me, my eyes on a level with the triangle of her hips, the soft pelt between them.

"You think you're being a man?" she asked.

"I'm being myself. Trying to be myself."

"I won't stop you. I love you. But you can't stop me either."

"What're you talking about?"

"I'm in this. I'm with you. Whatever way it plays."

"I told you . . ."

"What're you going to do, big man? Beat my ass? I like that, remember?"

"Belle . . ."

"You know why I like it?" she whispered. "Yes. Yes, you do. I only let two people hit me in my life. Sissy. And you. She loved me, and I wanted you to love me too. Own me. Take care of me. Rescue me, like she did. You don't want to live in this world alone. I understand what you said. I listened to you. I'm not running away, make some fucking phone call, find out if you're dead."

"Do what I tell you."

"I'll take your orders. I'll take whatever you have. But only if I'm yours, understand? I'm in this."

"You're not."

"I'm in this, you bastard. You can't stop me. You let me in this, you let me help you, I'll obey you like a slave. I'll do whatever you say. But if you don't, I swear I'll go back to work tomorrow night. And I'll tell every man in the place that I'm your girlfriend. I'll tell my boss. I'll put it on the street. I'll take an ad in the fucking newspapers, I have to! You don't want me in the pattern, you have to let me in your life."

I propped myself on one elbow, looking straight ahead. "You big, stupid bitch." It was all I could say.

I wasn't watching her face, but I could feel the flash of her smile. "I'm a beautiful young girl," she whispered, "and you taught me that. I'm a woman. Your woman. And you're going to see just what a stand-up woman is all about."

I closed my eyes again.

109

When I came around again Belle was standing in the same place, hands on her hips. "What time is it?" I asked her.

"Time to get up," she said, kneeling down next to the couch, pressing her mouth against me, hands fumbling at my belt. I stroked her back, smooth and moist, like she just stepped out of a bath. She smelled of jasmine.

She unbuttoned my shirt, her face against my chest. The necklace shone against her skin. She licked my chest, my belly. Then she took me in her mouth.

I knew what she was doing. I knew it wouldn't work. But I felt myself grow in her mouth. Swell to bursting. I looked at the ceiling. Shadows. I closed my eyes.

She took her mouth from me. "Almost ready," she whispered.

"I'm ready now."

"Not yet. Wait." She stroked me with something slippery in her hand, gently working it in from the root to the tip. She took my hand. "Come on," she said, pulling me from the couch, leading me to the bed.

She sat down on the bed, pulling me with her, pushing me onto my back again. She lit a cigarette, put it in my mouth. She lay down on her stomach, her face inches from mine.

"Will you do something for me?"

"What?"

"Never mind what - will you do it?"

''I . . ."

"Just listen to me, okay? Then decide. All right?"

"Yeah." I felt so tired. Like an old man starting another long sentence.

"Remember I told you about that man I was with once? That tough guy? The guy who wouldn't have a bitch dog?"

"Yeah."

"Remember I told you he said all bitches would turn tail? That's what he wanted me to do?"

I nodded, dragging on the cigarette.

"You know what he meant? He meant turn my tail. He wanted to fuck me in the ass."

"Uh."

"He said a real man could always find a piece of ass - said he'd heen in prison and he even found some there." She reached over, took the cigarette from me, drew on it. Handed it back. "Did you ever do that?"

"What?"

"Fuck a man. In prison."

"No."

"What'd you do?"

"I went steady with my fist," I snorted. Close to a laugh, but not there yet.

"Cause a real man doesn't do that?"

"I don't know what a real man does. It's like everything I know, Belle - I only know the dark side. I only know what a man doesn't do."

"Is that why you wouldn't taste me? The first time we made love?"

"I told you the truth then - it's the same truth. In prison . . . men do things. I don't put them down for it. Man wants to fuck another man, it doesn't say anything about him."

"What is it a man doesn't do, then?"

"He doesn't fuck someone who doesn't want to be fucked, okay? That's the only rule, the only real one. Fucking another man in the ass doesn't make you less of one. But taking it . . ."

"I know. It makes a man into a girl."

"That's bullshit. A kid who gets raped in prison, it says something about the guy who did it to him, that's all."

"But if the kid doesn't fight . . ."

"He has to fight. He doesn't have to win."

"What happens to a kid who's raped?"

"He can lock up, go into PC. Protective Custody. Or he can hang up. Take himself off the count. I guess he could even escape. But he can't walk the yard unless he squares it."

"How does he square it?"

"Kill the guy. Shank him, pipe him, poison him . . . it don't matter. Even it up. Get it back."

I sat up in the bed, lit another cigarette. "That's what I was trying to tell you. There's rules. For everything. They don't have to be fair ones. The first time I was in reform school, one of the bigger kids rolled on me. I never let him finish his pitch. We fought. He could beat me, but he knew he'd never turn me. The next time I went back inside, I was older. Smarter. They were running another game then. It was all gangs inside. They'd make one of the little kids run. Take off at night. Then they'd run out and catch him. Kick the shit out of him, drag him back. They used to get a go-home behind it. Just another way of being raped.

"When they came to me, I told this big guy I'd do it, but I wasn't doing it for nothing. He had to give me his radio. I watched his face - I could see he was thinking what a chump I was.

"He gave me his radio and I told him I'd run in a week. I spent a lot of time on the grounds. Looking around. Getting ready. When the night came, I took off. I told him I'd be waiting for him by this big tree. Made him promise not to hurt me when he brought me back. I kept watching his face - I knew he was lying.

"I took off. Climbed up in the tree with this cinder block I'd found. He came looking for me. Calling my name. Real quiet, so he'd be the one to bring me in. Get all the credit for himself."

I bit into the filter tip of the cigarette, feeling myself smile inside at the memory, my hand on Belle's hip.

"I dropped the cinder block right on his head. He went down. I jumped on top of him, stomped his face into the ground. I held the cinder block over my head and slammed it into his ribs a couple of times. Then I went back and told the Man that this guy had escaped and I'd stopped him, but he was too heavy for me to drag back.

"I got my parole. He went to the hospital."

"Good."

"Yeah, good. I know how things work. I had to pay for what I know, but I know."

"You can figure this out too, honey."

"I don't know.

"You're scared of this guy, but . . ."

"I'm always scared of something, Belle. The trick is not to let it get in the way. Like ego - ego gets in the way. I went there tonight to tell the guy I wasn't carrying a beef. Almost begged him to walk away, let it go. But it wasn't what he wanted."

Belle reached for me again. "How about what I want?"

"What do you want?"

She squirmed until she was next to me, one arm on my shoulder, still holding me in the other hand, slippery.

"I told you only two people hit me in my life. You and Sissy. I told you the truth - I told you why," she said, moving closer to me, whispering in the night. "I took my clothes off for men to watch. Everything I ever did with a man, I did with you. But special. From the very first time. I knew. Sometimes you just know something. I want you to do it to me. What he wanted. Nobody ever did."

Her voice dropped even lower, swamp-orchid soft. "I didn't know what I was saving it for, but I knew I had to save something. It's for you."

I kissed her cheek. "You saved it all for me, girl. Don't fuss about it."

"Burke, do it! Come on. I need you to do it. It's special. For you. Not for you to take . . . for me to give."

"Belle . . ."

Her mouth was against my ear, tongue darting inside. "Want me to get down on my knees and beg?"

I got off the bed, stood facing her. She was on her knees, taking me in her mouth. "Aagh!" she said, pulling her face away. "That stuff tastes awful."

"What is it?"

"K-Y Jelly. I bought it when I went shopping. It was supposed to be your surprise." She stroked me again, slathering the stuff on. "Yes?"

I nodded.

She turned, still on her knees, her backside to me. "Where's that stuff?" I asked her.

She handed it to me. I covered myself again. Patted her butt, squeezed a glob on my finger, worked it inside her. Softly, slowly. She wiggled her rear. "Uhmmmm . . ."

I put one hand on each side of her, gently pulling her apart. I felt the tip slide into her. Pushed forward.

"Easy, honey. A big house can have a little door." I pulled out of her.

"Come on."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"I was just teasing, baby. Come on, now. Come on."

I slipped in her again, working the tip back and forth, a little bit at a time. She rammed herself back against me, grunting, maybe in pain. I looked at her in the dark, split by my cock, her palms flat on the bed, elbows locked. She looked back over her shoulder. "Nice and easy," she said, smiling. The blue beads swinging from her neck.

I found the rhythm. She moved with me, just a little, working me deeper into her. "Just for you," she whispered, as I shot off inside her.

110

We were on the move before it got light outside. I swung the Plymouth into the garage, led Belle up the stairs, the pistol cocked in my hand.

Everything was as I left it. I let Pansy out to her roof, poured some food into her bowl. Belle stood next to me.

"You're not worried he'll try this place?"

"I don't think he wants anything to do with rooftops after last night."

"What happened?"

"It doesn't matter," I said, popping open file cabinets, handing her papers to put on the desk.

Pansy strolled into the room. Belle patted her head. The beast ignored her, demolishing the food. I opened the floorboard in a corner of the back closet. Belle knelt next to me. "Take this stuff over there," I told her, filling her arms with death.

She dumped it all on the couch like it was laundry. A sawed-off .12-gauge holding three-inch magnum shells. Double-O buckshot in one barrel, a rifled deer slug in the other. A Sig Sauer .45 - the closest thing to a jam-proof automatic they make. Six fragmentation grenades, little gray baseball-sized bombs. Four sticks of dynamite, wrapped together with duct tape. A heavy Ruger .357 magnum single-action revolver.

I went over to the desk, moved the papers to one side, reached for the phone. Belle was standing by the couch, watching.

"Come here," I said, watching her face. When she got close, I made one last try.

"I don't think he's coming here. But if he does, it'll take him a while to get through that door. He does, and this whole building's going up. You understand?"

"Yes."

"You sure? I can't use the guns. There's no way to shoot through that door, and if he gets inside, there's no room. No time. He's too fast. Mortay makes it inside here, there's no gunshots. Just one big boom."

"I know."

"You can work with me. I'll keep my promise. But I don't want you to stay here. You take the car, go back to your house. I'll call . . ."

"Forget it."

"I'll call you when I need you, okay? Not when it's over. Before that. When I need a driver," I said, trying my last hope.

She put her hands on her hips, her legs spread wide apart. "You want me to take Pansy with me?"

"No."

Her dark eyes were on fire. "One bitch is good enough to die with you, not the other, huh?"

"Belle . . . Pansy wouldn't go with you."

"That's bullshit. You could get her out of here. You just think she might do you some good."

I threw up my hands. "I give up," I told her.

"Burke, don't give up. I'm not asking you to give up. Let it play out, okay?"

"Okay," I said, reaching for her hand.

She sat on the corner of the desk, looking down at me. "Where do you think you go when you die? You think we all go to the same place?"

"I don't know."

"This guy comes here, we'll find out together," she said, holding my hand tight.

111

I started going through the papers piled on my desk.

Smoking and thinking. Belle put her hand on my shoulder. "You want some paper, write stuff down?"

"No. I'm not used to working like that. I have to do it in my head."

"Can I help?"

"Not yet."

I went back to the files, working over the clips on the Ghost Van, sorting what I had into little boxes inside my head. Stacking them in rows, building a foundation. You work from the ground up, brick by brick. When you reach out your hand for a brick and it's not there, you'ye found the door. Whatever's missing, that's where you have to look.

The man who played with death wanted Max. I wanted him. He had all the cards, but I had one edge. I knew something he never would. How to be afraid.

The edge burned at the corners of my guts. Seven-thirty. I picked up the phone. All clear. Dialed Mama. She answered in the middle of the first ring.

"Gardens."

"It's me. What?"

"Gone."

"All of them?"

"All gone. Maybe three weeks, okay?"

"Perfect."

"You have two calls. Man called Marques, couple hours ago. And the cop. McGowan. Maybe ten minutes ago."

She gave me the numbers. McGowan was calling from the Runaway Squad; I didn't recognize the other one.

"I'm off, Mama."

"You come soon?"

"Soon."

I lit a smoke. Ten minutes ago . . . I dialed McGowan. He answered himself.

"You called me?"

"We got to meet, pal. Now."

"I'm hot."

"Just say where."

"Battery Park. Where they park to go out to the Statue of Liberty. The benches facing the water."

"Thirty minutes?"

"I'll be there."

Belle was behind me, her hands on my shoulders. I told her the number Mama gave me for Marques.

"That the same one you have?"

She went into the back room, came out with her purse, fumbled around. Pulled out a little red leather book, thumbed through the pages. She looked up. "No."

I punched the number into the phone. A woman's voice came on the line.

"Mr. Dupree's office," she said, a coked-up giggle in her voice.

"Get Marques," I told her.

The pimp took the phone. "Yes?" Like an executive.

"You called me a couple of hours ago?"

"Who's this?"

"You called at the Chinese Embassy, okay?"

"Oh, yeah. I get you. Look, man, I got some dynamite stuff. This guy who hangs with him, he . . ."

"Hold up," I barked, listening hard. The phone didn't sound right. "Where you calling from?"

"From my ride, man. You ever see one of them car phones?"

"Yeah. It's a radio phone. It's not just me you're talking to now, get it?"

"It's cool."

"It's not cool. Give me a number to call you at."

"No way, Jose'. I got business out here, won't be back to the crib for hours. Give me your number, I'll ring you in an hour."

I pulled a looseleaf book from the desk drawer. "East Side or West Side?"

"What?"

"Where you going to be in an hour? In your car. Where?"

"Oh. East Side, man."

I ran my finger down the list of numbers. "Make it nine o'clock, okay? Rush hour, nobody's paying attention. There's a pay phone in the gas station at Ninety-fourth and Second. Go there, fill up your ride, I'll ring you there."

"You'll call me? On a pay phone?"

"Yeah, don't worry about it. We set?"

"They got super-premium gas in that station, man?" I hung up the phone.

112

Pansy put her two front paws on the desk, making her noises. I scratched behind her ears. "Not now, girl." She licked my face. I'd have to use disinfectant for an after-shave.

One more call. The Mole. I heard the phone picked up.

"It's me. I need another car. Can I make the switch in a couple of hours, leave mine there?"

"Okay."

I pulled my first-aid kit out of the bottom drawer. "Belle, come over here."

She came over. Quiet and watchful. "I have to meet some people. Can you take a cab over to the hospital? See the Prof? Just stay there until I call - three, four hours?"

"Why can't I go with you?"

"There's a thin line between a brat and a bitch," I said, holding an aluminum splint against my forearm, measuring. "A little girl can't be a bitch, an old woman can't be a brat."

I pulled a three-inch-wide roll of elastic bandage from the kit, put it aside. Started cutting pieces off a roll of Velcro, working fast. "Woman your age, she can be either one. Or both. Big as you are, you can still act like a little brat sometimes. You want something, you put your hands on your hips. Pout, stamp your feet. It's cute, okay? Makes me want to give that big rump of yours a slap."

She smiled her smile.

"But when you try and go back on a deal, you're over the line. Makes me want to dump you someplace. Not come back."

Her face went hard. "You better . . ."

"Shut up, Belle. We made a deal, right? You're in this, but you . . . Do. What. I. Tell. You. That's what you said - that's what you do."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I don't have time for sorry."

"Honey . . ."

"Get me one of the grenades."

"These?" she asked, holding one of the metal baseballs like it was an orange.

"Yeah."

She handed it to me. I put it down on the desk, rolled up my sleeve, fitted the aluminum splint into place. "Hold this," I told her, wrapping the tape around until I had a thick pad. I put the grenade in my hand, wrapped my fist around the blue lever. Pulled the pin.

"Burke."

"Yeah. That's right. I let go of this thing, everything blows up."

I wound the Velcro strips around my fist, leaving a loose tab at the end. It looked like I broke my hand punching a wall and drew a ham-fisted intern when they brought me to the emergency ward. I swung my hand back and forth, testing the tape. I relaxed my fist. The lever stayed tight.

I got to my feet. "Help me on with my jacket," I said to Belle. She took the surgical scissors, slit the left sleeve neatly. I slipped my arm through.

"Honey, why . . . ?"

"It's safe. Unless I pull this tab," I said, showing her how the Velcro worked to seal the lever. I put the pin in my pocket, handed her a spare. "Tape this to the inside of your wrist - we might need it in a hurry."

"I don't . . ."

I put my arm around her waist, pulling her close to me. "You go to the hospital, like I said. I'm out in the street, I could run into this freak. I'm trying to put it together. Like I promised you last night. But if he comes for me before I'm ready . . ."

"It's crazy! If that thing comes loose . . ."

"Everything's already come loose," I said, holding her. Making her see it in my face.

113

In the garage, I said goodbye. "I'm going out first. You wait a few minutes, then you slip out. Take a cab to the hospital. Wait for my call there. You won't see this car again until it's over."

She kissed me hard. "You be careful."

"That's what I do best."

She kissed me again, her hand rubbing my crotch. "Second-best," she whispered.

I backed out into the street, watching the garage door close through the windshield. I couldn't see Belle in the shadows.

114

I parked the Plymouth near the Vista Hotel and walked to where I said I'd meet McGowan. The grenade felt heavy swinging at the end of my arm - I'd have to rig up some kind of sling when I got the chance.

I found the bench, sat down. I one-handed a wooden match out of the little box, braced it between my taped-up hand and my knee, fired it up.

McGowan's car swung in. He popped out the passenger side, walking toward me fast. I heard tires on the pavement, flicked my eyes to the side. Another dark four-door sedan. Whip antenna, two guys in front. About as undercover as a blue-and-white with roof lights.

"You're here," he greeted me.

"Like I said I would be. And all by myself too."

His smile was hard. "Volunteers. Not your problem. What happened to your hand?"

"I grabbed something I shouldn't of."

"Not the first time, huh?"

"Nope. What'd you want, McGowan?"

He fired one of his stinking cigars. "You trust me?"

"So far."

"I'm not wired. The other guys, they're backup. Not for you. For me."

"Go."

He looked straight ahead, puffing on his cigar, keeping his voice low. "A man named Robert Morgan got himself killed last night."

"Never heard of him."

"Nine-one-one call came in around midnight. Uniforms found a dead man. In the playground by the Chelsea Projects."

"So?"

"He had seven slugs in him, maybe a four-inch group, all in the chest. High-tech stuff. Whoever smoked him was a pro."

"So?"

"Nobody heard a shot. This was no punk kid running around on the roof with a .22 - it was a hit."

"So?"

"The ground was all chewed up. Pieces of concrete ripped right out. The shooter had more than one target."

"This is real interesting McGowan. Give me a light, will you?" I leaned close to his lighter. His hands were steady.

"Where were you last night, Burke?"

"With someone. Far away."

"You're sure?"

"What's the big deal?"

McGowan's cigar steamed in the morning air. It smelled as bad as his story.

"The guy had ID. That's where we got the Robert Morgan handle. Since it looked like a pro hit, they ran his prints. Nothing. The lab guy's a good man - he was on the ball. I heard from him an hour ago."

"Heard what?"

"This Robert Morgan, his prints matched one we took off the switch - car. The one that snatched the baby hooker."

"Why tell me?"

He looked straight ahead. "You're good, Burke. I think they could wire you to a polygraph and you'd never bounce the needles." He tilted his head back, looking up at the sky. "This dead guy, he was in the Ghost Van. It's the first lead we got. I figure you left it there for us, but you didn't know it."

I dragged on my cigarette, waiting.

"I think you're already in the tunnel. We're coming from the other end. I don't want to meet you in the middle - somebody could get hurt."

I snapped my cigarette into the street. "Stay out of the tunnel," I told him, getting up to leave. "I'll call you."

I didn't look back.

115

Nobody followed me to the Plymouth. I took the East Side Drive to 61^st, hooked York Avenue, and kept on going uptown. I pulled over on 92^nd, checking the clock in the window of a boutique that hadn't opened yet. Eight-thirty-five. Plenty of time.

I made a sling out of a loop of Ace bandage, holding one end in my teeth to tighten the knot. Smoked a couple of cigarettes. Mortay was tied into the Ghost Van now for sure. For dead sure. And maybe it wasn't just bodyguard work he was doing. I was in a box -I had to get him in there with me. And know where the back door was.

I watched the cigarette smoke puddle against the windshield, playing with it. I was in Family Court once, listening to Davidson sum up on a case, watching him for the UGL - they wanted to know what he was made of before they hired him for a homicide case. They had this baby in foster care for years. Kept him there while the social workers tried to make parents out of the slime who tortured the kid. In this city, a pit bull bites two people, they gas it. To protect the public. A human cripples his own kid, they give him another bite.

Davidson was representing the kid. They call it being a "law guardian." The parents had their own lawyers; the city's lawyers represent the social workers. I still remember what he said:

"Judge, this baby will only be a child for a little while. Then he's an adult. We only have a few years to help him. The parents, they've had their chance. More than one. But this baby's not in foster care, he's in limbo. What about him? Isn't he entitled to some end to this? All butterflies, no matter how beautiful, have to land sometime. Or they die. The parents started this mess. The social workers kept it going. It's up to you to stop it. Stop it now. Let this baby have a real family."

The judge went along with it. He let the butterfly land. The baby was released for adoption. The mother cried. For herself. Davidson makes a living keeping criminals out of jail, but that day he kept someone from going to jail years later. I know.

My thoughts floating like that butterfly, looking for a safe place to land, I got out of the Plymouth. The clock said eight-fifty-five.

I started walking to the pay phone on the corner, snapping away my cigarette.

116

Marques answered on the first ring. "That you, Burke?"

"Yeah. I just wanted to make sure the phone was working at your end. I'll call you back in five minutes."

"Man, you think I got nothing better to do than to sit around here and . . ."

"Five minutes, Marques. No more. Then we'll talk. Be cool."

I hung up, started walking again.

I turned the corner, spotted the Rolls parked next to the pay phone. I came up to the driver's window from the back. It was open, a man's elbow resting on the sill. Diamonds on his wrist.

"Let's talk," I said.

Marques jumped. "What? How'd you . . . ?"

"Everything's cool. Just relax. I didn't want to talk on the phone. How about we go for a ride?"

"I ain't going anywhere with you, man," he said, eyes darting around.

"In your car, okay? Anywhere you want to go."

He got hold of himself. "In the back seat," he snapped to the blonde next to him.

I held the back door for her. One of the whores who'd been with him in Junior's. She didn't smile. I climbed in the front. Marques backed the car out of his spot, headed uptown, to Harlem. "What happened to your hand, man?"

"Nothing much."

"Yeah. Okay, look here, I . . ."

"You want to talk in front of Christina?" I asked him, tilting my head toward the back seat.

"I told you before, man. This is my bottom woman. Besides, she's the one got the dope."

I lit a smoke. The windows whispered up, sealing off the outside world. We stopped at a light. Two kids rolled up to the driver's side. Marques hit the switch. A black kid bent down. "You want your windows done, Mr. Dupree?"

"Later, baby," the pimp said, slapping a bill into the kid's hand.

We pulled away, cruising. I waited. If Christina wanted to listen to Marques, that was okay with me, but I wasn't adding to the conversation.

"Remember you asked about this guy with Mortay? Ramón?"

I nodded.

''He's a switch-hitter, man. Takes it up the chute from Mortay, hands it back the other way."

"To boys?"

"To girls, man. This Mortay, he pulls hard guys. Right off the street in Times Square. Takes the most macho guys he can find: rough-off boys, sluggers . . . you know what I mean?"

I nodded again.

"He's bent, man. Bent out of shape like you wouldn't believe. He takes the hard guys, makes them suck his cock. Turns them right around. Then he marks them. With that diamond in the ear. This Ramón, he's not the first. He had another boy. Guy they called Butcher. Mortay turns him over. One day this Butcher is shaking down street people, doing his thing - next day he's walking with Mortay, that diamond in his ear."

I opened my hand in a "What happened next?" gesture. "He just disappears, man. Poof! He's off the street. And Ramón - he's wearing the diamond."

"And he's an evil freak too!" Christina snarled, leaning forward between me and Marques.

"Tell him, baby," Marques said.

The blonde's voice was ugly. "He was known before. He wasn't a player, but he'd grab some little girl, slap her around, take her money. Like Marques said, a rough-off artist. Always carried a gun, let you see it. Times Square trash."

"Tell him the rest."

"He does the massage parlors now. All the girls know him. He pays big, so he got a lot of play at first. But he's a pain-freak, man. He has to hurt a girl to get off. You know Sabrina? Big fat Sabrina?"

I shook my head no.

"She does pain-for-gain. Whips and chains. She used to work at Sadie's Sexsational? Just off Eighth?"

I nodded.

"This Ramón had a date with her. Goes in the back. Stays a long time. Manager comes back to see what's taking so long, Ramón's just walking out. Points a piece in the manager's face and just keeps going. Sabrina was a mess, man. He tied her up, put a ball-gag in her mouth, whipped her till she was nothing but blood. Left a whiskey bottle sticking out of her ass."

I bit into my cigarette. I'd seen it before. They start out mean, they end up evil.

Christina sat back in her seat. Marques snorted a fat line of coke off his wrist. "That's the story, man. Nobody knows where Mortay lives. This Ramón, he's on the street most every night. Meets Mortay different places and they go off together."

"You did good," I said, dragging on the smoke.

"I'm out of it now, man. These people are too heavy for me. I'm a lover, not a killer. That's why I came to you."

I didn't say anything.

"Drop you someplace, man?"

"Thirty-ninth, anywhere near the river."

"Man, that's only a block away."

"Downtown. Not a Hundred and thirty-ninth."

"Oh, yeah. Right," Marques said, flashing his pimp-smile. "I forgot you was white."

Marques rambled on during the drive downtown. It's expensive to keep good women working. The IRS just took a major player off the street for back taxes. Bail bondsmen and lawyers were eating him alive. Couldn't find a decent mechanic for the Rolls.

I mumbled just enough to keep him talking, my mind floating someplace else. Like a butterfly.

Hawks have to land too.

117

Marques dropped me off where I asked him. "I'm out of it," he said again.

I leaned into the window, keeping my voice low. "You're out of it when the Ghost Van's off the streets. You did your piece. But if I need to talk to you again, I'm going to call."

He wouldn't meet my eyes. "Yeah, man. Right on. You know where to find me."

I watched Christina let herself into the front seat.

"I always will," I promised him.

I watched the Rolls pull into traffic.

118

He answered the phone like he always does.

"Morelli."

"It's Burke. I need to talk."

"Talk."

"Not on the phone."

I heard the groan in his voice. "And you won't come to the office, right?"

"Take a walk downstairs. I'll meet you on the benches in front of the UN. Right across from Forty-first."

"Now?"

"Now."

119

I had a good twenty minutes to myself, waiting for Morelli.

My mind was a rat, gnawing at the corner of a warehouse full of grain.

The UN towered behind me. Useless piece of junk. I wondered how long it would be before somebody turned it into a co-op.

I spotted Morelli across the street. Tall guy, looks ten years younger than he is. Never wears a hat, even in the winter. Dressing better now that he's married, but not much. He doesn't look like an investigative reporter. Hell, he doesn't look Italian. But he's the best of both.

He was twenty feet away when it hit me. Money. Where's the money? I filed the thought like a bitch-wolf hiding her cubs.

I shook hands with Morelli. "Let's walk," I said.

We found a place by the railing. Tourists flowed by. Security guards. People late for work. Morelli didn't waste time asking about my hand - it wasn't his way.

"What've you got?"

"I may have this fucking Ghost Van," I told him, watching his eyes light up. A hound on the scent.

"Tell me."

"There's a pattern. A karate-freak's been fighting duels all over the city. Challenging the leaders of every dojo. Killed at least a couple. He had a death-match. In the basement of Sin City. Every player made the scene. Big purse, side bets, the whole thing. Like a cockfight, only with people. I thought he was fronting off the van. Bodyguard work. He warned one of my people off. Broke his legs. Some other things happened, and now it's me he's looking for."

Morelli glanced at my left hand.

"Yeah," I said. "Like that. We're off the record now. Way off, okay?"

"Okay."

"A man got killed last night. The cops matched his prints to the switch-car for the Ghost Van."

"Yeah . . . ?"

"The guy that was killed, this karate-freak was with him when he bought it. It won't make the papers."

"Where do I come in?"

"We got two pieces left. Why the Ghost Van in the first place? What's it doing out there? That's my piece. Here's yours: where's the money?"

"What money?"

"There's always money. Somewhere, there's always money. This whole operation cost a bundle - somebody's scoring."

"I read the clips myself. It sounds like a sicko trip to me."

"You're reading it wrong. I know it. Let me do that bit, it's not for you."

"What's mine?"

"Sin City. Who owns it? Who's watching it? There's something about that place that ties it up. This karate-freak. Mortay. Nobody knows where he lives. But that's where he fought the duel. I'll work it through. I'm close now. I know it."

"I have to sit on the fingerprint story?"

"Yeah. But you're in on the kill when it all comes down. My word on it. No matter what happens, you'll get the whole story."

"First."

"From the horse's mouth."

"How much time I got?"

"Less than I got. And I got none."

He shook hands again, moved off.

I watched the street for a minute. Then I stepped on the uptown bus.

120

The Plymouth was where I left it. In some neighborhoods, I worry about amateurs trying to strip it for parts - in Yuppieville, the only danger is that some citizen will want it towed away as an eyesore.

I headed for the Bronx on automatic pilot, still working the puzzle in my head. Pulling the pain into a laser point to burn through the haze.

The junkyard looks the same, day or night. Terry walked past the dogs, motioning me to shove over. He got behind the wheel. "I know the way," he said, steering carefully through the mine field until we pulled up outside a row of corrugated-iron sheds. The kid drove right in. I stood to the side, watching him jockey a couple of wrecks back and forth, filling up the area. In five minutes, the Plymouth had disappeared.

We walked through the yard, heading for the Mole's bunker. Terry bummed a cigarette. "Shouldn't you be going to school?" I asked him, handing it over.

"I am," the kid said.

The Mole was waiting for us. "What kind of car do you need?"

"Something that won't make people look twice."

"Big car? Fast?"

"Doesn't matter."

He turned to Terry. "Get the brown Pontiac." The kid took off.

I sat down next to the Mole. If I waited for him to ask questions, I'd do a life sentence in the junkyard.

"Thanks for the car, Mole." He grunted, disinterested.

The kid rolled up. The Pontiac was a couple of years old. A chocolate-brown four-door sedan. A nice, clean, boring commuter's car. It had New York plates, a fresh inspection sticker.

"Registration's in the glove compartment. Insurance card too," Terry said.

"Good work." If I got dropped, I'd tell the cops I borrowed the car from a guy I met in a bar. The owner would never show up to claim it, and the Pontiac wouldn't be on any hot-car list.

I lit a smoke. "Mole, I need to talk to you for a minute."

"Talk."

"The kid . . ."

"He has to learn," the Mole said.

"I'm working on something. The wheels came off last night. This guy's looking for me -I'm looking for him."

The Mole tapped my left hand. "What's that?"

"Grenade."

"I have better stuff."

"It's okay for now. That's not what I need."

The Mole waited. Terry opened his mouth to ask a question, caught the Mole looking at him, shut it down.

"There's a tie-in to this whole mess I told you about before. I think it's inside a building. Times Square, on Eighth. Maybe the basement. I'm having some things checked out now." I dragged deep on the smoke. The Mole and the kid sat like twin toads.

"Can you get inside the building for me?"

Terry laughed. It was like asking Sonny Liston if he could punch.

"I'm hot. This freak, Mortay, he's got the area wired. He sees me, I'm gone. I'm not ready for him yet. I can't go in with you."

The Mole shrugged.

"And you can't use Max for backup. He's out of this until it's over."