Blue Belle

"Why?"

"I met the freak. Face to face. He wants Max, says he'll take out the baby to make Max fight. Mama sent him out of town for a few weeks."

"He knows?"

"No."

The Mole wiped his hands on his greasy jumpsuit. "You want something from inside?"

"Just a look around. A good look."

"When?"

"I'll get back to you. But soon, okay?"

"Okay."

I stomped out my cigarette. "You can't take out the electricity. It's right in the middle of the cesspool. Takes a lot of juice to run all that neon."

The Mole turned to Terry. "Get the master-blaster," he said.

I followed the Mole to the entrance of his bunker. There's a network of tunnels under the junkyard, shored up with I-beams. He led me down some steps. Bright light ahead. Terry came up behind us.

The Mole pointed ahead. "Streetlight," he said. "Like they have outside. Turns on at night - goes off in the daytime. You know how it works?"

"Con Edison?"

"No. Infrared sensor. When it gets light out, the sensor reads it. Shuts itself off."

"So?"

We turned the corner. Terry handed the Mole a portable spotlight. The kind you plug into the cigarette lighter in your car. The Mole aimed the spotlight, pressed the button. A flash of white-hot light. The streetlight went out. We stood in the pitch dark. I counted ninety seconds in my head. The streetlight came back on. I followed the Mole outside.

"Car headlights, maybe seventy-five thousand candlepower on high beams. Cop's spotlights, maybe a hundred and fifty thousand. This throws a million. Tricks the streetlight - tricks motion sensors - anything."

"Damn! What happens if you blast somebody in the face with it?"

"They go blind for a few minutes. Too close, you burn the eyeballs."

"Mole, you amaze me."

"Let Terry drive the car out of the yard," he said.

121

Belle was lying on her stomach across the hospital bed, chin in her hands. Her legs were bent at the knee, feet twirling behind her. Like a teenage girl talking on the phone. The Prof was in an easy chair, the casts on his legs still separated by the bar, propped on a footstool. He looked sharp - clean-shaven, bright-red robe.

"It's quiet?" I asked, stepping into the room.

"This is a hospital, fool."

"I mean . . ."

"We all know what you mean. Everything's cool. Too bad you showed so soon, I was just getting ready to show the lady your baby pictures."

I pulled up another chair. "You got something?"

Belle climbed off the bed, sat down on the floor between us, her hand on my knee.

The little man was back to himself. All business, but working in circles. "You remember J.T.?"

"Yeah."

He turned to Belle. "This J.T. was a real country boy when he came up here. A stone rookie. Wouldn't know a hoe-down from a throw-down. Couldn't decide if he was gonna be a yutz or a clutz. You follow?"

Belle tilted her chin to look up at me. "What's a throw-down?"

"A challenge. Or a fight."

"How do you tell the difference?"

"One you do with your mouth, the other with your hands. Now shut up - let the man finish."

Her lips turned into a perfect pout, like she'd been practicing all her life.

The Prof patted her arm. "Don't pay attention to this thug, girl. You can school a fool, but you can't make him cool. J.T., he's not what you call a mental heavyweight, but he's good people. A few years ago, he got into this beef over a girl. Working girl. He thought he was in love. Shot the pimp right on Forty-fourth Street. Girl starts screaming, J.T. starts running. I'm on my cart, see him flying. I told him to toss the piece. Buried it in my coat. The cops grabbed him a couple of blocks away, but they never found the gun. The pimp didn't die. We put together a package for J.T. Michelle talked to the girl, Burke talked to the pimp. Visited him right in the hospital. They held J.T. a few months, waiting for somebody to testify. Finally, they cut him loose. He's still a dumb-ass cowboy. Too dumb to hustle, and he's not cold enough for stickups. He's always out there, picking up spare change. You understand?"

Belle nodded, a serious look on her face. Like there was going to be a test later.

"Anyway, old J.T. hears what happened. Out there. He comes to see me. Like I said, he's good people, but he ain't swift. Wants to square the beef for me - take care of the people who busted me up. I tell him to back off, it's been handled. He gets a look on his face like I just downed him, you know? Like I think he ain't worth shit. So I give him this assignment, okay? Just do what he does, but keep his eyes open. Don't ask nobody nothing. Just watch. Last night, he walks in here. Brought me that radio," the Prof said, pointing to a suitcase-sized boom box sitting in the corner. "And he brought me this too."

He put it in my hand. An eight-sided gold metal coin. Embossed on one side was a nude woman, one hand behind her head, spike heels on her feet. I turned it over. On the other side it said "Sin City."

"It looks like a subway token," Belle said.

"It works the peep-show machines. Costs a quarter."

"So what's the . . ."

I chopped a hand in the air to cut her off, holding the coin in my fingers. "He say anything else?" I asked the Prof.

"Said he followed the guy - not Mortay, the Spanish dude - into the railroad yards. On Forty-third, off Tenth. Spanish guy disappears. J.T. figures, the hell with it, he'll go watch a movie. He goes right to Sin City, goes in the front door. Now, that's the only door, babe. And who does he see when he gets to the bar? The Spanish guy. J.T. says there ain't no way in the world that the Spanish guy could've got there first."

"So there has to be another way in?"

"Has to be."

"What time was this?"

"Like eleven in the morning, man. Broad daylight."

I lit a smoke. "He did good, Prof."

"When you cast bread upon the waters . . ."

"Yeah. You got anything else?"

"Just one more little piece. I reached out for Tabitha, asked her to make the run up to see Hortense, explain to her I was laid up. Now, you know Tabitha; she owes Hortense too. So she did it. Anyway, she comes back to see me. Said Hortense said she'd whip her ass when she got out, Tabitha didn't do something for me now. So Tabitha, she's in the life, but she's straight, she tells me she saw the duel."

"Mortay and the Jap?"

"Right on. In the basement. So I put it together, ask her how she got into the basement, dig? She says she and her man, they go downstairs from the main floor. Big metal spiral staircase. Everybody goes down that way, everybody goes out that way. Get it?"

"Yeah."

"One more thing, she says. This Spanish guy, she knows him too. Her man, Earl, he won't let none of his women anywhere near the Spanish guy. Word is he uses blood the way some freaks use Vaseline."

"I heard that too. Just today."

The Prof went on like he hadn't heard me. "But Tabitha, man, she thought that was funny. The Spanish guy, he don't want nothing to do with nothing that ain't white. No Puerto Ricans, no Chinese . . . nothing that's out there but white meat."

I drew on my smoke, watching Belle's face half hidden under the thatch of honey-taffy hair. Coming together.

"I'm out of here, Prof. It's coming down. I may not be back for a while."

"What's coming down, home?"

"A hard wind, brother. Hold tight to your alibi."

"You going to work solo? That ain't the way."

I bent close to him, lowering my voice even more. "What am I gonna do, wait till you're out of the hospital? Max is out of this - he has to be. I'm working on something . . . but I don't have it yet."

He tapped the end of my bandage. "That ain't much of a plan, man."

"That's the backup, not the plan. It all connects. Everything. But I can't call the shots. This is just in case he moves first."

The little man's eyes were hard, the yellowish cast gone. He was the Prophet again, the man who could see the future. "This freak feels froggy, he's gonna leap - I know you can't wait. But use your head, schoolboy. Pearl Harbor. When it comes to Nazis, the Mole don't play the role."

I squeezed his hand - his grip was hard as his eyes. Nothing more to say.

Belle bent to kiss him goodbye. "Remember what I told you, lady. Outside hell, blood don't tell."

"I'll remember."

When I looked back, he was pushing the button to call his nurse.

122

I walked Belle over to the Pontiac, let her in the passenger side.

"What happened to the Plymouth?"

"On vacation."

"I'm glad you didn't have to dump it. That's one fine machine."

"Yeah."

"What d'we do now?"

"Wait. There's stuff out there - I have to wait for a bite."

I drove back to Queens. Stopped at a deli in Forest Hills, waited in the car while Belle picked up some food. It was the first time I'd been to her house in the middle of the day. The street was quiet. Working people at work, kids at school. Belle saw me sweeping the street with my eyes.

"It's real quiet here until the summer. Once they start coming out to the water with their boats and all, it fills up."

"It'll all be over way before then."

"You're sure?"

I didn't answer her. I parked the Pontiac behind her Camaro. "That car's been moved since the last time."

"I took it down to the gas station. Changed the oil, front-end alignment."

I looked a question at her. "Just in case," she said.

"I don't need a driver on this, Belle."

This time she didn't answer me.

We brought the food inside. I called Mama. Nothing. Nobody looking for me. On the phone, anyway.

Belle made some sandwiches. Roast beef, boiled ham, lettuce and mustard. Opened a bottle of beer for herself, ginger ale for me. I opened the Daily News, scanned it quickly for any news of the Ghost Van. Nothing. I flipped to the race results out of habit, but I couldn't concentrate.

"Is it good?" she asked.

"What?"

"The food."

"Oh. Yeah. Great."

Her face went sad. "I'm not a good cook. Sissy was a fine cook. She was going to teach me. . ."

"Who cares?"

"I thought you would. Remember when I cleaned your place? I did a good job, didn't I?"

"Perfect."

"Well . . ."

"Let it go, Belle. It was so important to me, I would have learned how to do it myself."

She pulled her chair next to me. "You can't do everything for yourself."

"Where's this going?"

She got up, moved in little circles. Like she was lost. "You're walking around with that ugly thing in your hand . . . Maybe we won't have a little house with a white picket fence and all that . . . but I'm not gonna sit around and make plans for a funeral."

I slipped my hand around her waist, pulled her against me. "I know. But you got it wrong. I'm back on track now, I can feel it. This is just in case, like I told you. It's coming together. There's a way to take him down and walk away too. I need a couple more bits arid pieces.

"And you'll know where to look?"

"Yeah. In my head. I have to keep feeding stuff in, work it around. I can't go in the street and look for him - I have to figure it out. Where he is. This thing in my hand is only if he finds me first."

"What if you don't get any more information?"

"I have to. What I got, it's not enough. There's pieces missing. Maybe only one piece. I don't know yet. But if you don't feed the fire, it goes out. You get trapped."

She sat next to me again, her hand on my arm, watching me close.

"Trapped?"

"Patterns. Like I told you. I'm looking for a guy, right? I think he's holed up in a certain neighborhood. So I walk around, ask questions, leave notes. Sooner or later, he's looking for me."

123

Late afternoon. I called Morelli.

"Anything?"

"Yeah. I'm not finished. Can't talk now - I gotta work the phones before the record rooms shut down for the day."

"Can I call you later?"

"I'll be here till nine."

"Eight-thirty," I said, hanging up.

Mama said it was all quiet. Asked me when I was coming around. I told her soon.

I put the phone down. "I got to get out of here."

"Why, baby?"

"I wasn't kidding about inertia, Belle. If there's an answer, it's in my head. No matter what kind of bites I get out there, I have to put it together. I can't work here. I need my stuff."

"Stuff?"

"In my files. It's not that I can't think here. I can think in a cell. But that stuff I've collected - it's like having a conversation . . . I ask it questions, sometimes it talks back. Okay?"

"Okay," she said, opening her bureau drawers. "As long as I'm around when you have that talk."

124

Belle sat in the front bucket seat of the Pontiac, watching the road. She giggled to herself.

"What's so funny."

"The Prof. I told him. About me. Not the whole thing, but enough. That's what he meant about blood only tells in hell."

"What's funny about that?"

"He said when the Lord made people He made them all the same for starters. But life marks people. If you know the way, you can read them like maps. He said the Lord made you so ugly for a test."

"What?"

"That's what he said. I told him I thought you were real good-looking. He said that was the test - I wasn't deep in love with you, I couldn't say such an outrageous lie."

"He should fucking talk."

"Burke! He is a handsome little man. I thought that nurse was gonna claw my eyes, she saw me with him." She giggled again. "He told me God only made one mistake. He said, you see a red-haired, blue-eyed nigger, you're looking at a stone killer."

"Sure, everybody knows that."

"Don't be crazy. He was just playing."

"Hell if he was. Every one I ever saw was a life-taker."

"That's ridiculous."

I shrugged.

The highway slipped by. Battery Tunnel coming into view.

"Burke?"

"What?"

"Why would the Prof call somebody a nigger?"

"It's just a word. Anybody can use words. I can't really explain it . . . You say some words - say them the right way - they lose their power to hurt. The Prof, he'll say, 'That's my nigger,' he means that's his main man. Somebody else says the word, he's ready to rumble."

"But why . . ."

"I told you the truth. I really can't explain it. Maybe the Prof can, I never asked him, not really."

"Maybe I will, someday."

125

The office was quiet. Pansy was her usual sluggish self. She brightened a bit when I rolled the extra roast beef and ham into a fat ball and tossed it in the air for her.

Belle curled up on the couch with the newspapers. Pansy jumped up there too, growling. "What does she want?"

"Television."

"She wants to watch television?"

"Yeah. See if you can find pro wrestling; that's her favorite. But leave the sound on low, okay?"

Belle gave me one of her looks, hauled the portable over to the end of the couch. Pansy sat up, tail wagging. I went back to my work.

"Honey," Belle's voice broke through to me.

"What?"

"It's eight-thirty. Don't you have to make a call?"

I looked at my watch - I'd been out of it for three hours. I snatched the phone, hoping the hippies weren't discussing their latest dope deal. The line was quiet.

"Morelli."

"It's me."

"Come over to Paulo's tonight. Eleven. We'll have some supper.

I hung up quick. Looked over at the couch. Belle and Pansy were both watching me.

"Good girl," I said. Pansy came off the couch, strolled over to me. "I meant her," I told the beast, pointing at Belle. Pansy slammed a paw on the desk. "You too," I told her. I let Pansy out to her roof. Walked over to the couch, turned off the TV set.

"That's one strange dog, honey. She really does like pro wrestling. I thought dogs couldn't see TV. Something about their eyes."

"I don't know if that's true or not. Maybe she just likes the sound."

I lit a smoke. "Was I asleep?"

"I don't think so - I think you were somewhere else. Your eyes were closed some of the time. But you smoked a lot of cigarettes."

I rubbed my face, trying to go back. I gave it up - it'd come when it was ready.

"Burke, could I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"You know about this?" she said, pointing to a head-line in the paper. I knew the story -it had been running for weeks. High-school cheerleader, sixteen years old. Father started raping her when she was eleven years old. While her mother was dying of cancer in the hospital. She finally told her boyfriend, he told somebody else. Ended up she hired another kid to kill her father. For five hundred bucks. Drilled the old man right in his driveway. Everybody pleaded guilty. The kid who did the shooting got a jackpot sentence, seven to twenty-one years. The radio talk shows took calls from freaks who said the little girl should have told the social workers - that is, if it "really" happened. Some people thought the father got what was coming to him. Not many. The judge sentenced her to a year in jail.

"Yeah. I know about it."

Her eyes burned. A little girl asking a priest if there really was a god. "Burke, do you think the little girl did anything wrong?"

"Yeah."

Belle's face twisted. "What?"

"She hired an amateur."

"The lawyer . . . the one who pleaded her guilty?"

"Not the lawyer. The shooter."

Her face calmed, but she was still struggling with it. "But he killed the guy . . ."

"He wasn't a pro, Belle. Left a trail Ray Charles could follow. Talked about it to everyone who'd listen. Kept the gun. And he opened up when they popped him. You hire a killer, you buy silence too."

She took the cigarette from my mouth, pulled on it. "I'd like to break her out of that jail."

"Forget it, Belle. She wouldn't go. The kid's no outlaw. She's a nice middle-class girl. It wasn't simple for her - she didn't work it through. She still feels guilty about the guy getting killed. Incest, you don't just walk away from it like if a stranger raped you. That was her father. He's dead. Her mother's dead. She's gonna need a lot of help - she can't go on the run."

Tears spilled down her face. "My mother saved me from that."

"I know," I said, holding her.

126

Ten-thirty. I put on a dark-gray suit, black felt hat. I hated to rip the sleeve, but I had to make the sacrifice. Belle did a neat, clean job. "I'll sew it back together later," she said, concentrating, the tip of her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth.

"I'll he back in a couple of hours.'

"I'll be here."

I kissed her. Her lips were soft. I slipped my fingers around her neck, pulling at the necklace, making it bounce against her chest, coaxing a smile.

"Me and Pansy, we'll have a beer, watch some TV."

127

Paulo's isn't one of those new restaurants in Little Italy. It was built when they were working on the third chapter of the Bible. When Morelli started working the police beat as a reporter, he would eat there every day. His mother came over, made sure her son was eating the right food. Marched right into ihe kitchen, told them what was what. They still have a couple of dishes on the menu named after her.

He was there when I walked in at eleven, sitting in a far corner. I started over to him. Two guys with cement-mixer eyes got in my way. I nodded over to Morelli's corner. One of the guys stayed planted in front of me; the other turned, caught the signal. They moved aside.

Morelli had a thick sheaf of papers next to him, glass of red wine half empty. I sat down. The waiter came over, looking at me like I was his parole officer.

"What?"

"Veal milanese. Side of spaghetti. Meat sauce. No cheese."

"No cheese?"

"No cheese."

"No wine?"

"No."

He moved off, mumbling something in Italian. When he came back, he had my food. Morelli had linguini with white clam sauce. The waiter said something to Morelli, moved off again.

I cut into the veal. It was perfect, light and sweet. We ate quietly, talking about the magazine he worked for, his kids, the neighborhood.

The waiter cleared the plates. "You want a hot fudge sundae?" he asked me.

"Tortoni," I said.

He bowed. I never saw a guy do that and sneer at the same time before.

When we finished, I lit a smoke, waiting. Morelli leaned forward. "We have a deal?"

I nodded.

He spoke quietly, one hand protectively guarding his papers. "You want the whole package or just the bottom line?"

"Bottom line."

His finger traced a path through the bread crumbs the waiter left behind on the white tablecloth. "Sally Lou," he said.

"Yeah."

"Adds up?"

"I think so."

Morelli sipped his espresso. "Burke, explain something to me. I grew up with these guys, I got no illusions. That dog you got . . . the Neapolitan? I know one of the old boys, has one just like yours. Keeps him in the back of the house. Every day he sends one of the kids to the pet store. Comes back with a couple of live white rabbits. The old man, he throws the rabbits over the fence. The dog catches them in the air, crunches them like a trash compactor. The old man, he thinks it's the funniest thing he ever saw." He took another sip of his espresso. "I know they put up with Sally 'cause he's a good earner. What I don't understand . . . where's the market?"

"You know where it is."

"No. I really don't. This whole porno business, most of it's bullshit. They make this triple-X film, tell the world it grossed fifty million dollars - it's just a laundry for dope money."

"So?"

"So why mess with the heavy stuff? Kiddie porn, stuff like that? The penalties are stiffer, they're taking all kinds of risks. There can't be that many freaks out there?"

Morelli's face was tight. Maybe having your own kids raises the stakes.

"There don't need to be that many," I told him. "Every one of them is a bottomless pit. It's not like dope - too much dope and you die, right? But these freaks, they can never get enough. One little piece of videotape, they can sell it again and again."

"Sally Lou, he's bent that way?"

"I don't think so. That's the hell of it - the market's so good, the wise guys are getting into it. It used to be just the freaks, making their own stuff. Mostly with their own kids. Now it's a business. The Postal Inspectors, they nail the end users. That's all. It's like when the DEA busts a bunch of mules - the processing plant keeps making the coke."

I ground out my smoke. "I'll let you know," I said.

His eyes held me. "Where do they get the kids? For the videos?"

"Same way they get anything else. Some they buy, some they steal."

"You going after Sally Lou?"

"No. He's not on my list."

"He's on mine," Morelli said.

128

The Pontiac didn't drive itself the way the Plymouth did. I poked it carefully through Little Italy, heading for home. Salvatore Lucastro. Sally Lou. A made man in one of the Manhattan families, but not a heavyweight. Years ago, he started moving in on the porno joints in Times Square. Nobody paid that much attention - he was operating with permission. It wasn't one mobster, it would be another. The sleaze-sellers paid off, the way they were supposed to. Then he went into business for himself, actually producing the peep-show loops, branching into full-length films, videos. Nobody had a good line on where his studio was. He was making so much money, the bosses let him run. The kiddie-porn stuff was recent, maybe last year. From what I heard around, it was his biggest grosser ever.

Sally Lou owned Sin City.

129

I swung by Mama's, parked in the back. I went into the kitchen, waited there while they brought her back. We went into the hall, near the entrance to the basement, standing by the bank of pay phones.

"I can't hang around, Mama."

"What is this with Flower?"

"Just give me a minute, okay? One call."

I dialed the Mole. Heard him pick up. "Go," I said. Hung up.

I turned to Mama. "It's complicated. There's a man wants to fight Max. Like a duel, understand?"

She watched my face, waiting.

"He made, like, this public challenge, okay? So it's all over the street. Max fights him, he has to kill him. And everybody knows. Big trouble."

Mama wasn't worried about Max killing someone. "Flower." It was all she had to say.

"This guy, he wanted to make sure Max would fight him. He said if Max didn't he'd kill the baby."

Mama's eyes were black marble. A fire flared; then it was gone. "Tell him Max here. Come any time."

"It won't work, Mama. It won't go down that easy. I've got it put together now. Just a few more days, maybe a little bit more. He couldn't find Max in Boston?"

She shook her head.

"I'll take care of it."

Mama bowed, showing respect. That I could bring it off. I turned to go, felt her hand on my arm.

"What name?"

"Mortay," I said. "Mor-tay."

"What that mean?"

"In Spanish, it means 'death.'

Mama bowed again. "In Chinese, means 'dead man.' I bowed back. Goodbye.

130

The back staircase was quiet. I checked the pieces of tape I left behind. Still in place. The trip-wires were still attached in the hall. I let myself in. Pansy was at her post. "Where's Belle?" I asked her. The beast let out a halfhearted snarl. I bent to give her a pat. Her breath smelled like formaldehyde.

Belle was in the next room. On her back on the gym mat I keep there. Nude, covered with a sheen of sweat. "Twenty more," she said, her hands locked behind her head. She was doing killer sit-ups, up fast, down slow. Muscles rippled under the soft skin.

"How many do you do?"

"Two hundred a day, six days a week. The only difference between me and a fat pig is a small waist. I damn near killed myself to get this light, I'm not gonna be backsliding."

I lit a smoke, went back into the office room. Pansy didn't want to go out.

Belle came back inside, toweling herself off. "Pansy was watching me work out for a while - I guess she got bored."

"She heard the door."

"Oh." She slapped the outside of a thigh. "Only way I can get these any smaller is plastic surgery."

"They're peffect just the way they are.

She moved next to me. "I'm glad you said that."

"Because you weren't getting plastic surgery no matter what, right?"

"No, because I would if you wanted."

I gave her a kiss. "Help me off with this," I said, taking the pin from my jacket pocket. Belle slowly peeled back the bandage, working her way to the Velcro tab. "When I pull the tab, you wrap your hand around mine while I slip in the pin; my hand may be cramped."

Her forehead furrowed in concentration - her hands were steady. I popped the tab, squeezing the lever as hard as I could. My hand felt dead. Belle wrapped both of her hands around mine. Her knuckles were white. I slipped in the pin. "Let go," I said.

Her face was sweaty. "I can't."

"Come on, Belle. It's okay. Come on.

I watched her hands unlock slowly. Suddenly she pulled them away, closing her eyes. I grabbed the grenade in my right hand, slipped it into the desk drawer. My left hand was a claw.

"Go in the bathroom. Get me the little jar of Tiger Balm, okay?"

She opened her eyes. Went off without a word. Came back with the jar of red ointment. "Rub it into my hand. All over, hard as you can."

She worked my hand like she was rubbing oil into leather. I couldn't feel a thing. "Does it burn?" she asked.

"It'll get warm, that's all. Once you're done, I need to wrap it."

I sat on the couch. Belle came back with a towel. Sat down next to me on my left side, squirmed against me so my right arm was around her. She twisted sideways, took my left hand, and put it between her breasts. She pressed them together. "Pull the blanket over me," she said. I did it. In a few minutes, I could feel the heat. I wiggled my fingers, working the cramps out. "That stuff won't burn you," I promised. "Don't care if it does," she said, making sweet little sounds in her throat.

"How many beers did you give Pansy?"

"Just three."

"Damn! That's the most she's ever had. No wonder she looks glazed."

"I wanted her to like me."

"You can't buy stuff like that."

"I wasn't buying it. I just wanted to do something nice for her."

"Okay."

"You sleepy?"

"A little bit."

"Go to sleep, baby," she said.

I closed my eyes, my hand between her breasts, warm.

131

Pansy's growl woke me up, her snout inches from my face. It wasn't an emergency; she just wanted to use her roof.

"All that beer, huh?" I asked her, disentangling myself from Belle.

When I came back inside, Belle was on the couch, the blanket pulled up to her chin.

"Where're we going to sleep?"

"You sleep right there. Go ahead, I got work to do."

"You going out?"

"No. I got to put things together," I said, working my left hand. It was fine. I stacked the news clips in a pile, started to sort through what I had so far. The street maps were still on the wall where Belle had tacked them. I started working. The Mole was going into the basement in Sin City - it had to he the last piece.

Pansy came downstairs, strolled to a corner, and closed her eyes. Belle threw off the blanket, came to where I was working at the desk.

"I want to help."

"You want to help, put some clothes on."

"Why?"

"Because you're distracting me. And because I told you to."

She leaned over the desk, her breasts against my face. "Do they smell like that Tiger stuff?"

"No,"

"Take a deep breath," she said, pushing the back of my head to her.

"They smell like you."

"Still want me to put my clothes on?"

"Yeah."

She threw me a pout, switched her hips hard walking away. I heard the shower go on, went back to work.

I covered a yellow legal pad with scrawls, but the list was in my head. Ghost Van. Baby hookers. Mortay. Ramón. The dead man El Caňonero left in the Chelsea playground. Pain-for-gain. Ghost Van won't eat dark meat. Chilly menace like fog, working close to the ground. The peep-show token. Sin City. Church where they worship the ice god. Basement duel. And Sally Lou.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. Belle, a yellow sweatshirt covering her to her thighs. "You said I could help."

"Sit down," I said, patting the desk. "Listen to me play it out."

She planted herself on the desk, hands in her lap. Watchful.

"This all started with the Ghost Van, remember? Comes off the river, shoots some little girls. Marques doesn't care why; he just wants it off the streets. So he reaches out for me. I start looking around, and this Mortay shows up. Puts the Prof in the hospital. So he's linked to the van some kind of way."

She lit a cigarette, nodding to show me she was following along.

"Except that he's not just a bodyguard - he's a freak. Hitting dojos, challenging the leaders. We know he fought a duel with some Japanese karateka. In the Sin City ba- sement. You ever work there?"

"No. You have to mix with the customers."

"Okay. The Ghost Van, it only hits young girls. And only white girls. The night I went out to meet Mortay, when I came back so scared? A guy got killed. The cops pulled his prints. One of them matched one they got from the switch-car for the Ghost Van. So this Mortay, he's not just linked, he's connected too."

I lit a smoke for myself. It was good to use two hands. Belle was listening so hard her shoulders shook.

"Mortay's stooge, this Ramón guy. With the diamond in his ear. He's a pain-junkie. Likes to hurt women, gets off on it. He's the gunman - Mortay only uses his hands. And now I find out that Sin City's owned by this mob guy. Sally Lou. He's a sleaze-dealer. Hardcore stuff. Kiddie porn, snuff - you want it, he makes it."

"You think this Mortay works for the mob?"

"No. I looked in his eyes. He don't work for anyone. But that doesn't mean he wouldn't do stuff . . ."

"Why would he . . . ?"

"I'm not sure. But it all adds up. Look at the maps. The Ghost Van has to have a place to land. Someplace close by where it hunts. Times Square. Sin City - the basement's big enough for hundreds of people to watch a duel. That's where it's got to be."

"I don't get it."

"Mortay has to be doing something for Sally Lou. If the Ghost Van's down there, then they're all hooked in. The reason the cops can't catch freaks, they don't know them. They don't ask people who do. Wasn't for informants, the federales couldn't find a donkey in Tijuana. Sex-death freaks, they love vans. I don't know why, but they do. And they feed each other - put two of them together, you got more than twice as much evil as two people could do on their own. Ramón loves pain, Mortay deals death. I don't know what the third guy was into. It doesn't matter. The Hillside Strangler - it was two freaks. That Green River Killer? The one who's been murdering all those street girls out in Washington State for years?"

She nodded.

"I think the cops are making a mistake. Looking for one guy. It sounds like a team to me. Feels that way."

Belle shuddered. I put my hand on her bare thigh. It was cold.

"People always think they know what to do," I told her. "Ever hear of chemical castration?"

"Arggh! It sounds disgusting."

"They get a chronic sex offender. One of those guys who's never going to stop, okay? Then they make him take these injections. DepoProvera. Lowers the sex drive, so he won't be thinking about jumping on some little kid."

"Does it work?"

"Who knows? What's the difference? This one old freak, he was still raping little kids when he was seventy years old. Started on the shots years ago. He figured out how to beat the deal - got some bootleg doctor to shoot him up with hormones. And remember that baby-raper on the Coast? Instead of dumping him into prison, the judge made him post a sign on his house. Child Molester Inside - Kids Stay Away. Something like that."

"Yeah. Like a brand."

"Some brand. All the guy has to do is move to another neighborhood. Where they don't read English. Plenty of them around."

"It's so sick."

I grabbed her eyes. "You think your father was sick?"

"He's a dirty, evil man."

"They all are. It's their choice, Belle. Blood didn't make them that way. You're not that way."

"How do you know so much?"

"I never figured out what I was, but I figured out I was going to go the distance. Survive. Knowing is how you do it." I lit another smoke. "Mortay, he won't be living down there. Too risky. But Ramón, he'll lead me right to him."

"How you going to find out?"

"The Mole's going in. Tonight, tomorrow morning." I took a deep drag of my cigarette, thinking about the letters in my files from freaks. Always interested in the real thing. "I know what he's going to find."

"What?"

"I met this guy once. State senator. Spent so much time kissing ass, his face looked like it was split down the middle. But he told me something that was true. Where's the money? That's always the question. Where's the money? To the little whores on the street, the Ghost Van's a killer shark. But to Sally Lou, it's a money machine."

"How can he make money from shooting whores?"

"I got to wait for the Mole to be sure, but I think I see it. And if I'm right, I know how to do it."

My voice trailed off, tangled in my thoughts. Belle shifted her hips, sliding along the desk until she was right in front of me. "You're different now."

"How?"

"When you came to my house - shaking and all - you got past it. Whatever it was. And taping that grenade in your hand. Like you wanted to die. Just blow yourself up and go to a better place. But now . . . it's like you're getting cold inside. Like you're not scared anymore."

"I'm still scared. But I'm back to myself now. Whatever that is, that's where I am. It's true, I feel calm inside. But not dead. Just . . . centered, you know?"

"Yeah. It feels right."

"There's lot of things I can't do. I stopped feeling bad about them a long time ago."

"But you can do this?"

"I can do this."

132

Belle came back inside, a glass of ice water in her hand. "Want some?"

I took the glass from her, sipped it slowly. "It's late, Belle. Go to sleep."

She bumped a rounded hip against my shoulder. "Come with me."

"I'm still putting it together."

"But you told me . . ."

"I think I know what it is. I have to play with it some more. Get it straight. We're playing for keeps now."

"Just lie down with me. Let me hold you. In my mouth. Like I did before. Until I fall asleep." Her eyes were sadness. "I'm so cold, honey."

I took her hand, led her to the back room.

133

The room had a faint glow when I came around – the closest thing this joint gets to sunlight. Belle's head was against my chest, the gym mat hard against my back.

"I'm awake," she said, before I could ask her.

"How long?"

"I don't know. I've just been lying here. Thinking. Does Pansy always walk around at night?"

"Yeah."

"She's restless?"

"Pansy? She'd spend all her time sleeping and eating, it was up to her. She's just patrolling. Watching over me."

"I'm jealous of her."

"You're a dope."

She snuggled in against me, warm, smelling like soap. "Burke, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Can you love two people? At the same time? Love them both?"

Flood came into my mind. Flash-images. Flood standing in a Times Square alley, facing three skells, her purse on the ground. Waving them in, daring them to come close enough. Blond hair flying. Chubby little hands that could chop or caress. The crosshatched scar on her face. Fire-scar on her butt. The duel to avenge her sister's baby. Flower. The name Max gave his child to honor the warrior-woman he'd never see again. I felt her spirit in me, sunburst smile covering my soul.

"I don't know," I said; "I don't know enough about love. It came so late to me."

"It's come again, darling. I asked the Prof."

"About what?"

"Love. He knows about love. Blood love. I remember what he said: Life ain't dice - they don't roll nice, you can roll 'em twice."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nobody's stuck. Me and Sissy were walking back of the house one day. When I was just a little girl. This old coon was down by the water. Hunting. I saw he only had one front paw. Sissy told me he must have been caught in a trap. Bit his own paw off to get out. It costs something to be free." A tear welled, rolled down her cheek. "I didn't know what she meant then."

I kissed the tear track. She slid on top of me, reached down, fitted me inside. "The way people talk, it's not the truth," she whispered. "You can't make love. It's there or it isn't."

Her hips flicked against me, slow-sliding, one arm around my neck, her face buried against me. "I know it's there. You know it's there. Take it."

"Belle . . ."

"Take it!" Grinding hard, her teeth against my neck.

134

Belle was getting dressed. I was watching television with Pansy. The late-morning news. Some people tried to escape the Dominican Republic in an overloaded wooden boat, heading for Puerto Rico. The boat went down in shark-infested water. Another boat came alongside. Somebody had a video camera. The TV showed some of the footage. Living color. Blood thick in the water, like pus from a wound. Screams. Chunks torn out of humans. Sharks hitting again and again. Sound of shots fired. Belle stood behind me, hand on my shoulder.

"God! How can people watch something like that?" Right then I knew. Why the Ghost Van hunted.

135

We waited until almost noon. "Ready to go?" I asked Belle. When she nodded, I took the grenade out of the drawer, rolled up my sleeve. "Come over here; give me a hand with this."

She took the grenade from the desk, bounced it up and down in her hand. "Let me hold it."

"Forget it."

"Listen to me . . . just for a minute?"

I said nothing, feeling the stone in my face.

"I'll carry it in my lap. Cover it with a scarf. You can carry your gun. If it happens . . . if he comes too soon you get two chances."

"He's too fast, Belle. I'd probably never get a shot off. You want a gun, I'll give you one."

"I'm no good with a gun. Never shot one. I could stab him, but if he's too fast for you . . ."

"No."

"Listen to me! I'll get out of the way. He gets past the gun, puts his hands on you, I'll toss it."

"You'd toss it right at me? Blow me up too?"

"He gets to you, you're going to die anyway. I wouldn't let you go alone."

I watched her face. "You don't have the heart for it - you'd never pull the pin."

"I would!"

I lit a smoke. "Stay here, Belle. I'm going to the junkyard."

"I thought I was going with you."

"You were going with me. Not now. Stay here."

"You can't make me."

"Don't make me laugh."

"I'm telling the truth. You can't make me. You'd have to hurt me to do it. Really hurt me. And you can't do that."

I walked away from the desk. Belle stood, arms folded over her breasts. I snapped my fingers. Pansy's head came up. "Watch!" I said, pointing two fingers in front of me. I turned to the door. Belle stepped forward. Pansy bounded between us, an ugly snarl ripping from her throat, teeth snapping. "Pansy!" Belle said, like her feelings were hurt. "Don't try her," I warned.

The muscles stood out across Pansy's shoulders, hair rigid on the back of her neck. Belle snatched the grenade from the desk, cupped the blue handle, pulled the pin. She tossed the pin in a gentle arc over Pansy's head. I caught it in my hand. The beast never moved.

"I'll just hold this until you come back," she said, her voice quiet and steady.

I let out a breath, the pin in my hand.

"Pansy, jump!" She hit the ground. I snapped my fingers again, calling her to me. Gave her the command that everything was okay. She started to walk over to Belle. I held up my hand for her to stay.

I crossed the room, fast. "Hold it steady," I told her, slipping the pin back in. She put it on the desk, went in the back room, came out with a blue chiffon scarf. Wrapped it around the little metal bomb. "Let's go," she said.

I pushed her back against the desk, making her sit on it. Moved in so close her eyes were out of focus. "Swear on your mother," I said. "Swear on Sissy that you'll throw it if he gets to me."

"I swear."

I buried my hands in her thick hair, snatching a handful on either side of her face, pulling her nose against mine. "When we get back here . . ."

She licked my mouth, pushed her lips against me. I couldn't make out what she was saying.

136

Belle followed me down the stairs into the garage. I snapped her seat belt in place for her, arranged a shawl over her lap. I worked my way through Lower Manhattan, grabbing the East Side Drive off Pearl Street. Belle was as good as gold, quiet and peaceful in the bucket seat, hands in her lap, little smile on her face. Like a kid who threw a successful tantrum - got her way and didn't want to brag about it.

"Call off the directions," I told her.

She was right on the money, every step of the way. I lit a smoke. "Me too," she said. I held the filter to her mouth.

"Don't get spoiled. It won't work every time."

"I know." Phony contrite tone in her voice, the Southern twang not softening it much.

"I'm not kidding."

"I know. Turn right up ahead."

I turned into Hunts Point, heading for the junkyard.

"You know something, Burk - you're not exactly what they call a well-rounded personality."

"Well-rounded's nice, long as you don't have to cut something."

She stuck out her tongue. A queen-sized brat. With a bomb in her lap.

I rolled the Pontiac up to the gates. "Will the dogs know it's a different car?" she asked.

"They won't care."

Simba made his move first. Sitting patiently while I rolled down the window. I talked to him, waiting for someone to come and let us through.

It was Terry, shoving his way through the pack just like the Mole. He saw who it was, stuck his head in the window.

"Hi, Belle!"

"Hi, good-looking. You gonna show this lug how to drive a car?"

The kid looked at me. I opened the door, climbed in the back seat. He piloted the Pontiac in an elaborate weave, showing off for Belle.

"Are you Burke's girlfriend?"

"Hey! The Mole teach you about asking questions?"

"I just . . ."

"Shut up, Burke. I sure am, sweetie. But if you were a few years older . . ."

"I'm getting older." the kid said, his voice squeaking, looking over at her.

She saw where he was looking. "I know you are, honey," she said, flashing a smile.

He pulled the car into a safe area. Jumped out, held the door for Belle. I lit a cigarette. The kid was so entranced he forgot to glom one off me.

"We don't need it here," I told Belle. "Hand it over."

She pulled the scarf from the grenade, put it in my hand. Terry paid no attention, chattering away, explaining all the features of the junkyard to Belle. I followed behind them.

The Mole was outside his bunker. He tilted his head. We all followed him downstairs, Belle's hand on my shoulder, Terry bringing up the rear. I hoped the view wouldn't stunt his growth.

The tunnel sloped, curved gently back and forth. Lights flicked on each time we came close to a curve. The Mole's living room was always the same. A thin concrete slab over hard-packed dirt, old throw-rugs on the floor. The walls are all bookshelves. Tables covered with electrical motors, lab beakers, other stuff I couldn't recognize. A tired old couch in the middle of the room, easy chairs from the same dump. All covered with white oilcloth. I caught the quiet whirr of the electric fans built into the ceiling, venting to the outside. It looked the same, but it felt different. The Mole built it to live underground - before Terry came along.

I sat on the couch, Belle next to me. The Mole pulled up a chair. Terry sat on the arm. Took his eyes off Belle long enough to ask me for a cigarette.

The Mole took off his glasses, rubbed them with a rag he pulled from his belt. No point asking him if he got into Sin City - he would have said so in front, if he hadn't.

"I found it," he said.

"You sure?"

His eyes were dim behind the heavy lenses, head solid on his stubby neck. "In the back, anchor holes. For a tripod. Video camera. Professional quality, heavy. Arc lights over the top. Cross-bolted brace. Beanbag rest."

"For the shooter."

"For the killer. The back doors work off a hydraulic valve. One switch - open and close."

"You understand what it is, Mole?"

"I understand. Killing machine. They go past the girls, hit the switch. Doors pop open. Killer shoots. Door closes." He took a breath. "And the camera is rolling. Taking the pictures."

"Snuff films," I said. "Live and up close. The real thing."

"Who does this?" Belle asked, her voice shaking. "What kind of freaks?"

The Mole pinned her with his eyes. "Nazis," he said. "They took pictures of us going into the ovens. Pictures of their evil. Treasures of filth."

"You find anything else?"

"Three more cars. Dark sedans. Another room. More cameras, lights. Drain in the floor."

That's where the baby pross they snatched off the street went. Down the drain.

I bit into the cigarette. I'd been ready for it, but red dots danced behind my eyes. I waited for the calm. For the hate to push out the fear.

"They have to go down, Mole. Can you get back inside?"

He didn't bother to answer me. Waiting.

"Can you wire it so it all goes up?"

He still waited - I hadn't asked him a question yet.

"Off a radio transmitter? So you push a button and . . ."

"How far away?"

"You tell me."

"It's all steel and concrete, that part of the city. The basement is deep. No more than four, five blocks to be sure. Easier to wire it to the ignition. They start the van . . ."

"That's no good. There's two freaks left who work the van. The shooter, and the man who wants Max. I think the driver's already dead. The van could sit there for weeks."

"Okay."

I got to my feet, stalking the underground bunker. Like they must have done in the Resistance a lifetime ago. "I got a plan. The shooter's bent - I think I can bring him in. Make him tell me where the other one is. Soon as I know, you can blow the basement."

"How long?"

"Couple of days - couple of weeks. I need more peopIe," I said, catching his eye.

He knew what I meant. Didn't want to say Michelle's name in front of the kid. The Mole nodded again.

"I'll call you soon as I'm ready."

The Mole grabbed Terry's arm, pulled him around so the kid was facing him.

"Remember what I told you? About the Nazis? About our people?"

"Yes."

"Tonight," said the Mole, holding the boy's arms. "Tonight is Bar Mitzvah."

137

I banked the Pontiac across the on-ramp for the Triboro. Belle was quiet, smoking one cigarette after another, staring straight out the windshield.

"Go ahead," I told her. "Say it."

She turned in her seat. "You never gave me the grenade back."

"I know."

"You don't trust me?"

"I do trust you. I have to get out of the car, I'll hand it back to you." I glanced her way. "Okay?"

"Okay."

"Don't sulk."

"I'm not."

"Then you're a hell of an actress."

She tapped her fingers against one knee, keeping it under control. I lit a smoke for myself.

"What's the rest of it?"

She didn't answer me. Manhattan high-rises flew by on our right, river to our left. Mid-afternoon traffic still light.

"Burke, he's going to take that boy inside with him? Wire up a bunch of bombs?"

"Yeah."

"He's just a kid."

"It's his time. Like it was yours once."

"I wish . . ."

"Don't wish. It's a poison inside you."

"You don't wish for things?"

"Not anymore."

We were in midtown, heading for the Times Square cutoff. I rolled on past. Belle craned her neck, looking through the Pontiac's moon roof at the luxury apartments, balconies overlooking the river, high above it all. "You think it's true? That it's lonely at the top?"

"I've never been there. All I know, it can be lonely at the bottom."

"But not always," she said, her left hand resting on my right thigh.

I covered her hand with mine. "Not always,"

We passed under the Manhattan Bridge. I ignored the exit, taking it all the way downtown.

"Was the Prof really a shotgun bandit?"

"Where'd you hear that?"

"From him."

"I don't know if it's true or not. Ever since I've known him, he's been on the hustle. Maybe when he was younger, a long time ago . . . Why'd he tell you?"

"I was telling him about me. That I was a driver. He said he used to cowboy liquor stores."

"Old as he is, he probably robbed stage coaches."

Belle giggled. "He's not so old."

"Anyone older than me is old."

"You don't feel old to me," she said, her hand shifting into my lap.

I grabbed her wrist, pulled her off. "Cut it out. Pay attention."

"I am."

"We got bigger things to think about."

"Bigger than this?" Grabbing me again.

I snarled at her. She giggled again. I turned off at the Brooklyn Bridge exit, took Centre Street to Worth, skirting the edge of Chinatown. I needed to make some calls, and I couldn't use the basement under Max's warehouse. Not now.

138

I pulled in behind Mama's. A black Buick sedan rolled across the entrance to the alley behind us, blocking us in. Its back doors opened. Three young Chinese jumped out. Long, shiny, swept-back black hair, red shirts under black leather jackets. They stepped into a triangle, using their car for cover. Two of them braced their elbows, locking their hands around automatics. The other crouched against the alley wall, an Uzi resting on one knee. No way out.

Belle caught it in the side mirror. "Burke!" she whispered.

"Don't move," I told her. I knew what it was.

The back door to the kitchen popped open. A monster walked out. He looked like a pair of sumo wrestlers. Shaved head, eyes buried in fat. He grabbed our car, shook it like a kid with a toy. He looked into my face.

"Mor-Tay?" It sounded like someone had taken his tonsils out with razor wire.

I put my hands on the dashboard, keeping my eyes on his face.

"Burke," is all I said.

He shook the car again. Mama came out into the alley, said something to the monster. He let go, stepped aside. I motioned to Belle to get out. We followed Mama inside. Took my booth in the back. I lit a smoke. A waiter came up, a tureen of soup in his hands. When he leaned over, I could see the magnum under his arm.

"Where'd you find 'Zilla, Mama?"

"Always around. Good friend."

"I see you taught him some English."

Mama bowed. "Teach him everything." Most Orientals are fatalists - Mama was fatal.

I sipped the soup. Mama was serene. Greeted Belle, reached over, held her hand for a second. I left them there, went in the back to make some calls.

"Runaway Squad."

"McGowan. It's me. I got something. Can you meet me at the end of Maiden Lane, by the pier?"

"I can roll now."

"Make it in an hour."

"Right."

I tossed in another quarter, rang the private number for the phone-sex joint where Michelle worked.

"Yeah?"

"Michelle?"

"We got no Michelle here, pal."

"I know. Tell her to call Mama."

A sleepy woman's voice answered the next call.

"Put Marques on."

"He's not here."

"Right. Tell him Burke's going to call him. In two hours. Tell him to be in his car. In two hours, you got it?"

"I'm not sure . . ."

"This is Christina, right? You be sure. Two hours. I'll call him. Tell him to be in the car."

I hung up, not waiting for a whore's promise.

Back inside, Mama and Belle were huddled together, talking. I sat down across from them. Mama spooned some meat-stuffed dumplings onto my plate, still talking to Belle.

"Dim sum. Burke's favorite."

"How do you make them?"

Mama shrugged her shoulders - she wasn't a cook.

I ate slowly, one eye on my watch. The Maiden Lane pier was just a few minutes away.

"Mama, Michelle's going to call here. If she doesn't do it before we leave, make sure you get a number where I can reach her. Tonight. Very, very important, okay'?"

"She help you. On this?"

"We'll see."

Mama bowed. More food came. Belle ate like Pansy, only with better table manners. I never felt so safe.

Finally, I pushed the plates away. Belle was still eating. "You hear from Mac?" I asked Mama.

She smiled. Made a gesture with her hands like a flower opening to the sun.

"Boston quiet?"

"Quiet soon. Max working."

I bowed. Held out my hand to Belle. She looked unhappy, not wanting to leave the warmth any more than I did.

Mama walked us out to the back. "I'll call later - check on Michelle."

The monster was still standing by the door. The Buick was still across the alley mouth, no gunners in sight. I backed up the Pontiac slowly, watching the Buick move out of the way in the rearview mirror. Pointed the car toward the pier.

139

Belle was finishing off a last egg roll. She delicately wiped her mouth with the chiffon scarf, tossed it into the back seat.

"How come you call her Mama?"

"It's what she calls herself."

"Where're we going?"

"Meet some cops."

"Cops?"

"They're okay. For this, they're okay. They want him too." I handed her the grenade. "You stay in the car."

"But . . ."

"Shut up. I let you have your grenade, took you for a nice drive to the Bronx, gave you a nice meal. That's all the babying you're going to get today."

She reached into the back seat, put the greasy scarf in her lap, covering the grenade. I turned in to the pier and backed the Pontiac into an empty space, watching for McGowan. We were early.

"Burke?"

"What?"

"That huge guy . . . the one who came out the back door?"

"Yeah?"

"If he's Chinese, how come he has an Italian name. 'Zilla'?"

"It's not his name, just what people call him. Short for 'Godzilla.'

"Oh. Why'd he say that name? Mor-Tay?"

"He was asking a question. That pimp, Marques. He wants to know about putting a bounty out on someone, he should talk to Mama."

140

McGowan's car pulled up. I got out of the Pontiac, making sure he could see me, walking toward him, both hands in sight. His partner reached behind him; the back door popped open. I climbed in. His partner closed it behind me - no door handles on the inside.

"You know Morales?" McGowan asked.

"Yeah."

"He's with me on this. Understand?"

"Yeah."

"You called me out here."

I lit a smoke. "You sure you want your partner to hear this?"

They looked at each other. Morales said, "I need some cigarettes. Be right back. You need anything?"

McGowan shook his head. Morales stepped out.

"I found the Ghost Van."

"Where?"

"It's underground. There's three men in on the front end. One's the dead guy you found in the Chelsea playground. Two more left. I got a plan to trap one, work him until he shows me where the other one is."

"You saw the van?"

"Not with my eyes. I know where it is."

"That's enough for a warrant."

"The guy who saw it, he's not coming in. Neither am I. I got a deal. You interested?"

"Go."

"I need some things from you. Everything works out, I take this guy who wants Max. And the Ghost Van goes boom."

"What's mine?"

"The shooter," I said. "And Sally Lou."

McGowan knew the name. He puffed furiously on his cigar. I could see where they got the idea for smoked glass. "What do you need?"

"A massage parlor. In Times Square. And for the cops to stay away. A week, maybe two."

"Where am I gonna get a massage parlor?"

"McGowan, don't negotiate. I got no slack in my rope. You already got a couple of them. Maybe not you personally, but the cops have. That joint just off Forty-sixth - that was yours, right?"

"That was a sting. The tax boys. And it's all closed down now."

"But you got more. You've been after Sally Lou for years.

"There is one. But it's not ours."

"The federales?"

"Yeah."

"Tell them you need it. Couple of weeks. I'll staff it myself."

"With what?"

"Marques Dupree. He'll lend me some girls."

"He's in this?"

"It started with him. Like I told you. I'll be calling him in an hour. Get him over here. I want you to tell him it's okay."

"Now you want me to make a deal with a pimp."

"McGowan, you'd make a deal with the devil to drop Sally Lou."

"Spell it out - what do I get?"

"The shooter comes to the massage parlor. I talk to him. He turns over this other guy I want. We dump the shooter anyplace you say. The Ghost Van goes up in smoke. And you find everything you need to take Sally Lou down."

"This other guy . . . What if it doesn't work out?"

"I got one more deal. One more piece. You and me take a walk over to that brown Pontiac. The one I came out of. There's a girl sitting in the front seat. You take a good long look at her. Whatever happens, you make sure she walks away. In exchange, I leave you a letter. With everything in it. The Ghost Van, the shooter, this karate-freak, the shooting in the Chelsea playground, Sally Lou."

"And I let the girl walk?"

"She'll be the one mailing you the letter. Enough for a dozen cases."

"Let's take a look," he said.

141

We strolled to the Pontiac. I motioned for Belle to roll down her window.

"This is Detective McGowan, NYPD," I told her. She didn't take her hands out of her lap. "He's the one you're going to mail that letter to, okay?"

"Okay." No expression on her face.

We walked back to McGowan's car. Morales was halfway across the parking lot. McGowan waved him in.

"One more thing," I said.

"What now?"

"You know Morelli? The reporter?"

"Sure."

"He gets it first. Exclusive. He'll take care of you."

"And your people."

I nodded.

"Okay," he said.

Morales joined us. "Take a walk with me," McGowan said. "I'll fill you in."

I went back to the Pontiac, let myself in, watched McGowan and Morales standing by the pay phone on the pier.

"Good girl."

"What's in this letter I'm supposed to mail?"

"A free pass - I'll tell you later."

I watched McGowan pick up the phone. He talked for a couple of minutes. Stood where he was. Picked up the phone again. Talked some more. Waved.

"Be right back," I told Belle.

I walked up to McGowan. "Call the pimp," he said.

142

Marques was on his car phone. Answered it himself.

"You know who this is?"

"Yeah, man. What . . . ?"

"The Maiden Lane pier. Now. It's coming down."

"I ain't walking into no . . ."

"This is a safe place, Marques. The only fucking safe place for you in the city, you don't show up."

I hung up.

McGowan stood on one side of me, Morales close on the other.

"You know Sadie's Sexsational?"

I laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"Girl got beat up there. Real bad, right? So bad the cops moved in, closed it down."

Morales turned to me. "You think that's funny?"

"I think you're funny," I said to McGowan. "You've been running the place ever since, right? That joint doesn't belong to the federales. You called One Police Plaza, not the FBI."

McGowan touched the brim of his hat. "What d'you care?"

"I don't. in fact, that joint is perfect."

"Why?"

"Good location," I told him, eyes flat.

Morales didn't like any of this. His eyes scanned the pier, waiting for the pimp.

"You guys know what to do?" I asked McGowan.

"We'll make it clear to him." I lit a smoke.

"How you gonna get the shooter into this one massage parlor?" McGowan asked.

"I know what he wants."

143

The Rolls purred into the parking lot.

"That's him," I said.

"We know. Go and get him."

Marques was behind the wheel, Christina next to him.

"Thanks for showing."

"You didn't give me much motherfucking choice."

"Be cool, Marques. Be yourself - show your class. Walk over to the water with me."

"I don't like this."

I leaned in the window. "I wanted you off the count, you'd be in the morgue. You know it, I know it. This is legit. Come on."

He exchanged a look with Christina. Got out of the Rolls. We walked to the water. I couldn't see McGowan or his partner.

"I'm taking over a massage parlor," I said.

"You?"

"Me. And I need some girls. For a couple of weeks."

"You crazy, man."

"I got the van, Marques. I got it pinned to the wall. Start counting that bounty money; it'll be mine soon."

"What's that got to do with . . ."

"The van didn't move by itself. You wanted it off the street, you think I was gonna give it a flat tire?"

"Look, man . . ."

"I need the girls. Fill the joint up, make it look righteous. They can keep everything they score. The guy who did Sabrina? The painfreak? He's the one - the lead to the van. I got to pull him in.

"My girls don't . . ."

"I know they don't. But you know some who do, right? I just need one. She takes the pain-tricks, your girls take the rest. You keep the cash. This one guy comes in, the show's over."

"My girls don't . . . Hey!"

McGowan stepped in behind me; I saw Morales roll up behind Marques.

"You know who this is?" I asked Marques.

"Yeah, man," he sneered. "Every player knows Delective McGowan."

"You don't want to know him better, you'll shut up and listen. He's here to tell you something."

McGowan leaned over my shoulder. "Nobody's going to bother Sadie's Sexsational for a couple of weeks, Mister Dupree. Nobody. Not the wise guys, not the heat. Got it?"

"I got it."

Morales pressed in against Marques. "Get this. You go along, you get along. You don't, I got a little girl. Says you tried to pull her. Says you had mucho coke in your ride. More than enough for a warrant. I toss your car, I find a couple of fucking kilos. Any fucking time I want."

Marques nodded. "I'm in. You got it."

McGowan spoke to him. "You got two days. Friday night, nine o'clock, you be there. With your girls."

"It's in the bank, man."

Morales pressed closer. "Or you're in the joint."

Marques walked back to his car alone. He didn't look back.

"I see your hand got better," McGowan said.

"I got more cards in it," I told him.

144

I waited until McGowan and his partner pulled off before I went back to the Pontiac.

"What's going on?" Belle asked.

"It's coming together, little girl."

I drove a few feet to the pay phone, left the engine running, dialed Mama.

"It's me. Michelle call?"

"Yes. Come here tonight. Eleven."

145

Back in the office, I let Pansy out, told Belle to stay where she was. I went down to the basement, came back with a big metal box. Belle watched as I laid the stuff out. I lit a smoke, left it smoldering on the edge of the desk while I worked. My hands were moving on the equipment, but I was watching a different picture in my mind. Seeing it happen. I picked up the cigarette, took a last drag. "Belle, honey, would you take off your top?" She pulled it over her head.

"The bra too, okay?"

She unsnapped it, waited. Her breasts made a joke of gravity, the blue necklace falling just to the cleft. It wouldn't work like that. "Wait here," I told her.

I came back with a white T-shirt of mine. "Try this." She slipped into it. Her breasts fought the thin material, the cleavage gone. No good.

"You have any real thin tops? Gauzy, maybe? The kind you can see through?"

"Like a nightgown?"

"That might work . . . if you have a real short one."

"I have a couple. Some teddies too."

"No. I need something that kind of opens down the middle. So your breasts stay separated."

"Why, baby? I can go buy anything you want."

I held up a pistol. From the side, it looked exactly like a Colt Python .357 magnum, even down to the ventilated rib across the top of the barrel. "You know what this is?"

"A gun."

"It's not, though. It's a gas gun. Works off CO2 cartridges. It shoots these things," I said, showing her a handful of red plastic balls.

"What are they?"

"Paint pellets. Sixty-two-caliber. The survival-freaks use them when they play their little war games. The pellet hits you, it leaves a red splat, so you know who got hit."

"Do they hurt?"

"They sting. Especially up close. And you can feel them smack into you."

"What'd you want with it?"

"I got a plan, Belle. And part of it, I got to pretend to shoot you. Up close. Real close."

She pulled the T-shirt over her head. "Go ahead. Let me see how it feels."

"No. When it happens, you've got to feel it for the first time. You know it doesn't hurt, you won't act nervous enough."

"Honey . . ."

"You don't want to do it, say so."

"There's nothing I wouldn't do for you."

"I know," I said, holding her against me. I gave her a kiss. "Let me work now. I have to see it."

"See what?"

"See it happen. Like in karate, when they train you to punch. You don't punch at something, you punch through it. You have to see it happening, see your fist go right through the board. You don't see it, it doesn't happen. Something goes wrong in your head and it stops your hands. Okay?"

She nodded, solemn-faced.

I went back to work. The paint gun would need something that looked like a silencer. I fitted a piece of aluminum tubing, trying it out. Coming to it.

146

We pulled into the alley behind Mama's just before eleven. Instant replay: the Buick rolling in behind us, the monster coming out the door. At least this time he didn't rattle the car.

Michelle was already inside, sitting in my booth. She looked pristine and elegant in a white double-breasted wool jacket, black blouse underneath. I let Belle in first. Michelle took Belle's face in her hands, turning it to catch the light.

"Much better. I think we could go for a little stronger look around the eyes. And your hair . . ."

"Michelle, we don't have a lot of time."

"You drag me down to this godforsaken neighborhood - no offense, Mama - right in the middle of my working hours, and you're in a hurry." She flashed her smile at Belle. "Men are always in a hurry, but they never have that much to do. That's a beautiful necklace," she cooed. Belle leaned forward so Michelle could hold it. "Burke bought it for me."

"Unbelievable. It's a beautiful thing, perfect for you. Maybe he's learning some class."

Belle was throwing off more wattage than the lights. Clothes weren't the only thing Michelle did right.

I got out of the booth. Bowed to Mama. "We can use the basement? Talk?"

She bowed.

The women followed me downstairs. "Very chic," said Michelle, pointing at the wall of stainless-steel vats. "Is that high-tech?"

I ignored her. The basement is well lighted. The subbasement isn't. Max keeps things down there. I never asked what.

Mama bowed again, leaving us alone. Michelle perched on a wooden crate, crossed her silky legs. "You didn't bring me down here to talk about our stock investments."

"No. It's the Ghost Van. We're all in it now. All that's left. I have to pull a sting. Smoke out a freak. It's all worked out, but I need you to run it."

"Tell me."

"There's a massage parlor in Times Square. Sadie's Sexsational, it's called. You know it?"

"Nasty place."

"Yeah, it is. Our place, for the next couple of weeks. McGowan cleared out the trash -nobody'll bother us."

"Us?"

"Marques Dupree; we're going to run his girls out of the place. There's two guys left from the Ghost Van. The shooter, he's into pain. Other people's pain. He's the one that tortured that girl before the cops moved in to close the place. So we're opening up again. I want to pull him in.

"I know Marques. His girls . . ."

"He's going to get one more. A free-lancer. She'll do all the whip-jobs. The rest, we run it like a regular joint. Customers come in, say what they want, pick a girl, pay the money. Guy comes in, asks for some freak-fun, we turn him over to this other girl. I'll be there - it won't get out of hand. But when this other guy comes, this guy we're looking for, he gets Belle."

Michelle's eyes flicked to Belle, back to me. She took a long black cigarette from her purse, tapped it on a fingernail.

"Belle takes him to the back. We'll have a place fixed up."

"What then?"

"Then he tells me where to find the other guy. And I go find him."

"Tere's no other way?"

"No. He walks back with Belle, I'm ready for him. We'll have it all worked out. You see this guy go back with Belle, you're gone. Just walk out. The other girls too."

"Who else is in on it?"

"The Mole. He found the van. I can talk him into it, he'll work the front desk."

Michelle's lovely face was serious, not playing now. "I always wanted to be a madam. Of course, I envisioned nicer surroundings, but . . . this'll do. I'm in charge?"

"You're in charge. The girls get to keep what they make, but pull the money at the front desk to make it look correct."

"You have pictures?"

"Pictures?"

"Of the girls. We need a book of pictures, show the johns when they come in. Let them pick the ones they want."

"I don't know."

"I'll take the pictures once they get in there. The Mole has the stuff. When does it happen?"

"Friday night we start. McGowan will put the word out. Sadie's Sexsational is the spot, you want to beat up a girl. It'll get around. We got two weeks tops. I'll be staying there. Once I go in, I can't go out. Can't take a chance of getting spotted. You bring food in with you every day. I'll be there until it's over."

"What if the freak doesn't bite?"

I shrugged. "I'm not thinking that way."

"Okay."

"We're playing for everything on the table, Michelle."

"I know. What if we need some operating cash?"

"Take it out of my share of the last score."

She dragged on her cigarette. "You worked with the Mole . . . You see my boy?"

"He's fine" I assured her.

"A real doll," Belle chipped in.

Michelle smiled. Gave me a kiss. Kissed Belle. "I'll get a cab," she said.

147

"Take everything you're going to need," I told Belle. We were back in her cottage, two in the morning. She bustled around, filling two big suitcases.

"What about my car?"

"You follow me back to the city with it when we go in for the last time. Day after tomorrow. I'll stash the Pontiac on the street. We'll keep your car in the garage."

She was on her hands and knees, poking around in a corner near her bed. She came up with two handfuls of cash. "I've got about fifteen thousand here," she said.

"I'll show you where to hide it."

"You want . . ."

''No."

I walked out onto the deck, lighting a smoke. I felt Belle behind me. "How's this?"

I turned around. She was wearing a flimsy red wrapper, tied at the waist with a thin ribbon. Her breasts were barely veiled, slash of white skin down the middle.

"You'll freeze out here."

She moved into my arms. She was warm, soft. Her hips trembled against me. My hand slid to her butt.

"Doesn't this thing come with pants?"

"I'd just have to take them off," she said. "Come on."

148

In the car heading back, Belle fiddled with the radio. Full-throated, late-night blues. "I'm a stranger, and afraid" - the singer well within himself, coming to grips, looking it in the eye.

"He's telling the truth," Belle whispered. "I've been both all my life."

I found her hand in the darkness.

The disc jockey broke in. "That was Johnny Adams, out of New Orleans. Singing a new Doc Pomus tune, 'A World I Never Made.' You all remember Doc Pomus, the man who gave us 'Save the Last Dance for Me,' 'Little Sister,' and so many other monster hits. Doc's one of the world's great bluesmen. Now here's the flip side. Down and dirty. Like they don't do anymore." Rattling soft piano, sinuous spiking guitar notes dancing on the top, teasing. Johnny Adams, making his promises, bragging his brag. "I'm your body and fender man, let me pound out your dents." In case anyone listening had maple syrup for brains, he spelled it out:

I don't care if your body's brand new

Or it's been knocked around . . .

I swear they're all the same, babe,

When you turn them upside down.

"He's off the mark there," Belle said.

"No, he's right. There's no such thing as a golden snapper - the difference is in here," I said, tapping my chest.

"Here," she said, pulling my hand to her breast.

I lit a smoke. Doc Pomus on the radio again. Like that night I left my basement. Full circle.

149

The Pontiac slipped into the garage. I showed Belle the circuit-breaker panel in the back corner. "You know what this is?"

"Sure. Like a fuse box."

"Watch." I punched the switch marked Hall. Then Lobby. Then Second Floor. The box popped open, flat plate inside. I used a thumbnail to open the setscrews. Behind it was a deep, lead-lined box. A revolver rested on a neat stack of bills. "Put your money in there."

"That's neat. It has wires running from it and everything."

"The wires run to the house current. Electromagnetic switches. Like a combination lock. You remember?"

"Hall, lobby, second floor."

I patted her butt. "Good girl."

"If I tell you again, will you pat me some more?"

"Upstairs."

150

"You ready to go over it again?"

"Honey, I got it down pat."

"One more time - it's got to be pertect."

"Okay," she sighed.

I took the handcuffs from the drawer, hooked one cuff to her right wrist, the other to the back of a chair. She took the long-handled speed key from the desk, holding it in her left hand.

"Go!"

She twisted her wrist, exposing the key slot, slammed the speed key home, twisted it, pulled free.

"Beautiful."

She stood up. "I am. A beautiful young girl. Like you taught me."

151

Late that night. Belle on her knees in front of me, her head bent between my legs. Licking me like a cat cleans her kittens. Thick thatch of hair falling. I felt the beads of the necklace lapping against my thigh.

Her head came up. Whispering in the dark. "You think it's too much?"

"What?"

"This. The way I am. I'm just like this with you. I swear it."

"What're you talking about?"

"I want your hands on me - want you inside me. All the time. Everyplace inside me. When you just pat me on the bottom, I get wet."

"It's your way of dealing with it. Everybody's lying but you and me, Belle. To each other. This all started out with a lie. Some punk lawyer, chumping me off, he thought. And Marques, with his fifty-grand bounty. He probably collected a hundred. Maybe made a side bet about taking the van off the street. I lied to Max to get him out of the way. Mama helped me. McGowan trying to tell me the federales had the massage parlor. Me telling him I'm going to give him the van, and Sally Lou too. There's no letter for him - there never will be. The Mole, he could never tell Michelle he's made a Nazi-hunter out of the boy. Morelli, he thinks there's a story in this for him. Mortay. He's the only one who told the truth."

His name hung over us in the dark. I could see it. Neon-red, dripping.

"I looked in his eyes. He wasn't lying. He's earned his name. Scared me past death. Till I came out the other side. My old friend's there. On the other side. Hate. It didn't save my basement, but it saved my life. Plenty of times. You got your way, I got mine."

"Will it stop? When it's over?"

"It might for you," I told her. "It won't for me."

152

I called Mama at seven the next morning.

"Anything?"

"Nobody call."

"Good."

"Nobody come either," she said. "Too bad."

I left Belle a note, telling her I'd be back soon with something to eat. Took my time about it. Fresh rolls, big slab of cream cheese, two six-packs of beer, pineapple juice, seltzer. I grabbed a copy of the Daily News. Bob Herbert's column came out on Thursday - he'd been pounding the cops about the Ghost Van, the only one writing about it.

When I got back to the office, Pansy let me in, a distracted look on her face. She sniffed the food. "You been out?" I asked her.

"She sure has." Belle's voice from the back room. "Come on back here, you nasty old thing, let's finish this."

Pansy loped off. Belle was on her hands and knees, wearing just a bra and pants. Pansy ran over to her, lowering her head like a charging bull. They butted each other back and forth, going nose to nose. Belle was bigger and heavier, but Pansy wouldn't budge an inch, snarling happily.

"Are you nuts? What if she snaps at you?"

"She won't do that - this is a fair fight."

They pushed at each other, faces pressed together, Belle making grunting sounds of her own. Finally she dropped to the floor, face-down. Pansy sniffed the back of her neck. "You win," Belle muttered.

I put the food together. "What was that all about?"

"I told her I didn't mind her threatening me before, but if she messed with me again, I was gonna kick her ass."

"You're out of your mind."

"It was fun. You want to try?"

"Not this year. With either of you."

Belle went into the shower. I mixed the pineapple juice and seltzer, added some ice. Then I stuffed a roll full of cream cheese and gave it to Pansy. Belle came out, wrapped in a towel. Helped herself to the food.

"Beer for breakfast?"

"Save it for later. And don't give Pansy any.

Belle dropped to her knees, hands in front of her like a dog's paws. "Just one?"

Pansy stood next to her, watching me closely.

"Yeah, all right. I give up."

Belle's laugh was sweetness on the morning.

153

Pansy prowled the floor, sniffing the corners, snarling at nothing in particular. Our last night in the cottage. Belle was stuffing another pair of suitcases.

"Why'd you bring that old dog anyway?"

"I wanted to get her used to sleeping outside the office - she's going to be at the massage parlor with us."

"In case somebody wants something special?"

I didn't answer her. I dialed the Runaway Squad. They told me McGowan was in the street - they'd take a message. I hung up. Mama had nothing to tell me. I had nothing to tell the Mole.

"Don't make it look like you moved out," I warned Belle.

'I'm just taking a few things. The rent's paid till the end of the month, and I got two months security down. I'll throw another money order in the mail to the land-lord. People mind their own business out here."

I went out on the deck, minding mine. Pansy trotted along next to me. She jumped up on her hind legs, hooking her front paws to the railing. I scratched the back of her neck. "You want to see the junkyard, girl? Meet a few new guys?" She made a happy rumble in her throat. The sound rippled across the water. I smoked a couple of cigarettes, calm inside. Once you jump off the bridge, everything's smooth until you hit the water.

It was past midnight when we came back inside. Belle was wearing a gauzy blue nightgown, her face fresh-scrubbed and clean. Ready for bed. She took a bottle of beer from the refrigerator, poured herself a glass. Pansy made a pitiful moaning noise, brushing her head against Belle's thigh.

"Oh! Now you wanna be pals, huh?"

She found a cereal bowl, another bottle of beer. Took them both into a far corner. Bent from the waist and filled it up. Pansy got about half of it, the floor got the rest.

I lit a cigarette. "You taught me something."

"What, honey?"

"The poison-proofing I did with her . . . so she won't take food unless she hears the right word?"

"Yes?"

"I'm a jerk. I never thought about liquids. She'll drink any goddamned thing."

"Can't you . . ."

"Yeah. You take the time, the patience, you can train a dog like Pansy to do just about anything. I didn't do it. And l just figured out why."

Belle was next to me, my arm around her waist, listening like I was saying something important.

"There's no way to throw liquid under a door. She wouldn't take it anyway - not unless it was in a bowl, or in a pool. I never figured on anyone being inside, you understand?"

"I'm inside," she said softly.

"Yeah, you are. Let's go to sleep."

She gently twirled away from me. Turned off the lights. "Not yet, honey. Sit in the chair. This is our last night here. Until it's over. I want to say my prayers."

She knelt before the bed, hands clasped in front of her. Her skin glowed under the nightgown. Blue light.

Belle looked over her shoulder. She played with the sash at her waist. The nightgown floated to the floor.

"Rescue me," she whispered.

154

It was still dark when l watched Belle slip the Camaro into my garage. I stashed the Pontiac a few blocks away, in a safe spot near the river.

I didn't like the walk back to the garage. Pinprick tingles all across my back. But it was quiet - my fear was just picking up long-distance signals.

The garage was dark when I stepped inside. I headed for the stairs, sending Pansy ahead, Belle right behind me. She pulled at my arm. "Wait."

She stood before the circuit-breaker box. Punched the three buttons in the right sequence, puffing out her chest like a proud little girl when the box popped open. If little girls looked like that when they got a question right, I might have stayed in school. She slipped off the necklace, holding the blue glow in her hands. I watched her, one foot on the first rung of the stairs.

"I can't do it," she said. Slamming the box closed. "It don't seem right to wear it inside a whorehouse, but . . ." She patted the front of her thigh. Where her mother's gravestone was etched in her flesh.

155

Upstairs I dialed McGowan again. This time he was around.

"It's me. Everything okay?"

"It's empty right now. There's an alley running behind it. Room for three cars, four if they're packed tight. Chain-link fence, barbed wire on the top. They used to keep a German shepherd out there."

"Okay. I'm rolling."

"Wait. There's one more thing. The joint next to it. The video store. That's ours too. You can walk in, go down to the basement, and walk through. We punched a tunnel through. You can go in and out."

"Thanks, McGowan."

"I should've been straight with you." His honey-Irish voice was soft around the edges. "Square it up, now."

"For all of them," I promised, hanging up.

I called the Mole, gave him the word. Whoever was listening at the other end hung up when I was finished.

Belle was unpacking her clothes, laying them across the couch, bumping Pansy out of the way with her hip.

I called Mama.

"I'm going in. You know where everything is. Max knows the rest. I'm putting it all down. In a letter. To the Jersey box."

Mama said something in Cantonese.

"What was that?"

"If the letter come, I fix everything."

"I know. Goodbye, Mama."

She hung up. A sadness-shudder passed through me, leaving me chilled. I lit a cigarette and started to write.

156

Friday night. Eight o'clock. I followed Pansy down the back stairs, a heavy suitcase in each hand. Belle behind me, carrying two more. I left her in the garage with all the stuff, snapped the lead on Pansy, and went for a walk.

Electric fear-jolts danced through me. Pansy felt it. Her massive head swung back and forth, pinning everyone she saw. Her teeth snapped together in little clicks, kill noises slipping through. Her eyes were ice cubes.

A yuppie couple approached, her hand through his arm. They crossed the street. A wino was propped against the car right next to the Pontiac. I tightened the leash. Pansy lunged, snarling. He sobered up, moved off. I opened the door, put Pansy in the back seat.

Belle was ready when I pulled up in front of the garage. I popped the trunk; we threw the suitcases inside and moved off.

West Side Highway to Tenth Avenue. Across 30^th down to Twelfth. And then a right turn back into what the tour guides would call the heart of Times Square.

The fear-jolts were spiking inside me. Pansy prowled the back seat, side to side; her face loomed at the windows.

"Jump!" I snapped at her. Nobody'd remember the Pontiac, but nobody'd forget Pansy. She went down, snarling her hate for whatever was frightening me.

I found the alley, nosed the car in, creeping forward, driving with my left hand, the pistol cocked in my right. The fenced-off section was where McGowan said it would be - huge padlock in place. I stopped the car, popped the door for Pansy, calling to her. "Watch!"

I walked to the fence, the gun in front, poking its way through the darkness.

A flashlight beam behind the fence. I hit the ground, leveling the pistol as Pansy charged past me, throwing herself at the chain links. "Don't shoot - it's me." The Mole's voice. I called Pansy off, met him at the fence. He reached through, opened the padlock, swung the gate open. I pulled the Pontiac inside, between a white panel truck with the name of some kosher butcher shop on the side and a dark station wagon. "All ours?" I asked the Mole.

"Sure," he said.

157

We followed him inside. Big room, dim lights, cartons stacked against the walls, steel shelving loaded with video cassettes.

"Basement," the Mole said.

"You know about the video store next door? Like I told you over the phone?"

The Mole barely kept the sneer from his voice. "I was in last night." He held up a ring of keys. We could go visit the cops, but they couldn't come see us.

Upstairs, we walked through the place. The front door was between two windows, one a little square patch of glass, the other running down the length of the place. All the glass was blacked out except for the little square near the door. Lights flashed outside.

"One-way glass," the Mole explained.

The joint was a long hall, L-shaped at the far end. Rooms opened off the corridor. Tiny hook-and-eye locks inside. Vinyl massage tables set up for quick-change sheets. Wood benches in some, leather chairs in others. They all had tables in a corner, bottles of lotions, perfumes, air fresheners. Tiny sinks against the wall. Heavy mats on the walls. All class. The L-shaped area was much larger. Bathrooms off to the side. Big ones, complete with glassed-in stall showers. Partitions made a private office in one corner. Red leather executive's chair, blond wood desk, red leather couch, white two-line phone. Even had a view - dirt-streaked window, thick bars running the full width across.

I walked back through the place, the Mole behind me. Wall-to-wall industrial-grade carpeting that had once been pink covered every square inch of floor. Recessed lighting ran the length of the hall. A desk was set up against the wall right across from the door. A wood railing made two gates - one to the desk, one to the corridor. Huge blowup pictures covered the walls of the entryway. Only two chairs, both against the left-hand wall. No Waiting. A giant round mirror was in the upper right-hand corner, cocked at the angle formed by the wall and the ceiling. I sat at the desk, looked up. You could see the length of the corridor.

"We need a . . ."

"Periscope," the Mole stepped on my lines. "You stay in the back room, see every face that comes in."

"Okay. What's that?" I asked, pointing to a light on the desk.

"Switch in every room. Girl has trouble, she pushes it."

The phone on the desk rang. I picked it up. "Yeah?"

"It's me." McGowan's voice. "I'm next door. I see you managed to get in."

"We're in." I looked around. "One more thing. I can't work the bouncer job in here. Got to stay out of sight. I'm going to have some boys sent over."

"What kind of boys?"

"Chinese boys."

"No way! That's all I need. Can you rig up a buzzer? Between us? Your man hits it, we'll have someone through the basement in a minute."

I looked at the Mole. He nodded. Rigging a buzzer wasn't going to overload his brain cells.

"Okay, we'll take care of it right away."

"Hey, Burke?"

"What?"

"Tell your man to leave the door open, okay?"

I hung up on him.

158

Michelle showed a little later. You could see her through the square piece of glass. The Mole buzzed her inside. She was wearing a scarlet pants suit over a white turtleneck sweater, black spikes on her feet. The Mole and I stayed out of her way as she stalked the length of the corridor. Me smoking, watching the door, the Mole starting to set up the periscope.

Michelle came back to the front room, hands on hips. "This place is the pits. Mole, I need everything out of the first room. That'll be my office. And put that disgusting tool belt someplace - you're supposed to be the manager, not the janitor."

"I have to fix things," the Mole said, mildly.

"Well, go ahead and fix things. I'll go out tomorrow, get you some decent clothes."

"Michelle . . ."

"Don't you Michelle me. I work my beautiful butt off to keep my kid in nice clothes, and every time I see him he looks more like you, God forbid."

"He's my boy too."

"Sure. Next thing, you'll want him Bar Mitzvahed."

The Mole said nothing - even a lunatic knows the limit. I left them to fight over who was going to go back to the junkyard every morning to check on the kid.

159

Belle and Pansy were in the back. Pansy was stretched out on the couch, Belle in the chair. "You okay?" I asked her.

"I'm fine, baby."

I gave her a kiss. Heard the buzzer. Female noises, Michelle's voice cutting through the chatter. I heard someone coming back, stepped outside into the big room. It was Michelle.

"I have to have a meeting with my girls. And take some pictures. It's gonna be a while -you both just stay back here, keep it quiet."

I nodded, putting my finger to my lips. Pansy closed her eyes.

A couple of minutes later, I heard Michelle bossing the Mole, telling him where she wanted the light stands, not to get his greasy hands on the lens. One day she was going to push him over the edge.

The room filled with girls. Pansy's face wrinkled at the overpowering smells. Michelle's voice:

"Okay, now, I understand you ladies have not worked inside before. Which one of you is Christina?"

"Marques says Miss Bitch don't have to do this. Just us."

Murmur of voices.

"Well, girls, it seems to me that opportunity is knocking. Here's the way we work it: the trick pays thirty bucks - he gets fifteen minutes. Straight massage, that's a handshake. He wants something more, anything more, that's an extra, got it? The trick pays at the front desk; whatever he tips, that's up to you."

"How much for the extras?" one girl asked.

"You decide. Set your own list. And don't do anything you don't want to do, got it? You turn over your tips to Marques, you don't turn them over, it's not my problem."

"But Marques . . ."

"Marques isn't running this show. I am. And I run it my way. Now, which one of you turns the hard tricks?"

"That's me." A husky grown-woman's voice.

"What's your name, honey?"

"Bambi."

"Okay, Bambi. You set your prices, you keep the coin. And listen to me, girl. This is a no-risk gig, you follow me? There's a button in each of your rooms - I'll show you where it is. You hit the button, and we have some nasty men to take care of any problem."

"The guy with the tool belt?" one of them giggled.

Michelle's voice went from sweet cream to barbed wire without missing a beat. "That man with the tool belt, honey, he makes people disappear. You watch your smart mouth, bitch. Your idea of a hard guy's some half-ass nigger pimp with a coat hanger in his hands."

"Hey!"

"You want to get down, go for it. Right now."

The room went quiet.

Michelle let the silence hang. Then she sheathed her claws. "Honey, I've been around longer than this sweet young face shows. Now, I want to treat all of you like the ladies you are. Nobody's going to mistreat you while you work for me. Nobody's going to disrespect you. You work your shift, you mind your business, and you make some nice money. We're just moving the stroll indoors for a couple of weeks, that's all. But anyone gets the idea they can fuck with my friends, they go back to work without a face."

The room was quiet again.

"Okay?"

The girls stepped on themselves agreeing with her.

"Fine. Now, the next thing, we have to put together some portfolios for each of you."

"Like models?"

"Of course, like models. Isn't that what we are? Are we any different from those walking sticks in the magazines? A john comes in, he comes to the desk. We show him the book. Pictures of each of you. He picks the one he wants."

"We don't have to line up?"

"This isn't the precinct, honey. A trick wants to see live skin, he puts his money down. Now, there's five girls, we got nine rooms. The first one, the one near the desk, that's mine. Leave the last two empty, the ones right across from here. You divide the rest the way you want - Bambi, you take the one furthest back. And no fighting! Tomorrow I'll go out and get some decent furnishings. Okay? Now, we are not open for business tonight. You come back, one at a time, we'll put the portfolios together. When we're done, you can hang around or you can split. Be back tomorrow. Four o'clock. We'll work twelve-hour shifts; you leave at four in the morning. Any questions?"

Nobody said a word.

"One more thing. This place is under heavy protection. You'll never see a cop in here. You play this right, it's a working girl's dream."

160

"What's your name, honey?" Michelle asked.

"Mary Anne."

"Let's lose the black stockings, honey. Your legs are already so nice and slim - the black won't show them off."

"Okay."

"And just a touch more rouge . . . there! Brings out your color. Now, sit straight in the chair. Cross your legs. Elegant!"

"Michelle?"

"Yes, honey?"

"The guy with the tool belt? The one out front? Boy, you were right about him. He had this jar of water on the desk, fiddling with some locks. Marcy flashed her ass at him, sat on the desk. Asked him if he ever sampled the merchandise. He drops a key in the glass of water, and it disappeared! "

"I told you not to play with him."

"I won't. Does he ever . . ."

"He's not for hire," Michelle snapped. "Now, flash me a smile."

161

Bambi was the last one in.

"Any special way you want this?" Michelle asked her.

"I've got my own handcuffs. I can twist right out of them if I have to. Can I loop them around the back of this chair?"

"Sure, honey. Go ahead. Bend forward. More. Give your butt a little shake. Beautiful."

Sound of handcuffs clicking. "You don't put me down for it?"

"Why should I?"

"Some of the other girls . . ."

"You got a pimp?"

"No."

"So who's the masochist?"

Bambi laughed.

162

The girls were gone by one in the morning. "You're next," she told Belle.

I snapped the lead on Pansy, taking her to the basement. The Mole followed me down, shining his flash. "All fixed," he said.

"Okay, Mole. We roll tomorrow for real. Any way I can get Pansy down here without going past the other rooms?"

"Only to the basement, not outside."

"We'll do it that way. Over in that corner," I said, pointing. "Watch where you step from now on."

We went back upstairs. "Try the buzzer," I told him. He hit the switch. I counted in my head. Thirty-five seconds, Morales burst through the door, gun in his hand. "Which way?" he snapped.

"Just testing it," I said.

"Next time make it real. I'm looking forward to it."

163

In the back room. Michelle was still working on Belle's face. Cat's-eye makeup, pancaked cheeks, slash of red across her mouth. It didn't look like her. "This is mousse - it'll wash right out," said Michelle, spraying it over Belle's hair, working it through with her fingers. "Let's see. You'll turn over your right shoulder" - pancaking that side of her face. "Try it."

Belle peeked over her right shoulder. Her hair was dark, face a stranger's mask.

"Okay, let's do it."

Belle unhooked her bra, knelt before the chair, hands on either side. Michelle wrapped a black scarf around each hand. "Slide further back to me," she said. "Let them swing free. Turn your head . . . Not so much."

She went over to Belle, pulling the big girl's panties over her rump. Belle lifted a leg to help her get them off.

"Leave them that way - like they've just been pulled down - it'll work better."

Michelle went back to the camera. "Okay, turn your head again. Just a little bit. Can you look a little scared? Oh, forget it - I'll open the lens, blur your face. Nobody'd look past that ass anyway."

Belle giggled. Twin dimples at the top of her butt, strip of black cloth around her thighs. The shutter clicked. Again. She shook her butt at the camera.

"Got it," Michelle said, then snapped off the lights, carried the camera out to the front.

The cigarette burned my mouth. I ground the tip out in the ashtray. Belle was still on her knees, watching me.

"Make you think of something good?" she asked, wiggling again. Then she saw my face. "What's wrong, boney?"

I walked over to her, took the loops off her hands. She put her arms around my neck. I stood up, hauling her to her feet. Reached behind me, pulled the panties back into place.

"Go wash that crap off your face."

"You're mad at me?"

I held her against me. "I'm not mad at you."

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. Truly sorry. I thought it would be a turn-on for you."

"It made me sick to look at it."

Her teats against my face. "I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry . . ."

I squeezed her rear with both hands. "Shut up," I said, quietly.

164

The joint was open and rolling the next afternoon. Michelle was there by eleven in the morning, her arms full of bags. She and Belle worked like maniacs cleaning. The dump even smelled clean when they were done.

I stayed in the back room. The Mole would buzz me if any Hispanic male came in, anyone that could come within a half-mile of Ramón. I checked the periscope a few times on the little TV screen the Mole put on the desk. It worked perfectly.

I spent my time checking my tools. Supermarket shopping cart full of empty plastic one-liter bottles. The kind street bums collect from garbage cans - turn them in for a nickel apiece. I ran a few copies of the Daily News through a paper shredder. Packed a half-dozen of the bottles with the paper. I filed the front sight off the long-barreled .38. A couple of tiny slits with a razor blade and the barrel fit deep into the mouth of a bottle of Coke. I felt an ugly smile inside me - the real thing. I wrapped duct tape around the mouth of the bottle, sealing the pistol barrel inside. Pointed it at the wall, holding the bottle in my left hand. Pulled the trigger. It made a sound like snapping fingers. Plaster flew off the wall.

I lined up twelve bullets. Mole specials - super-speed hot loads, mercury tips. Any one of them would total whatever it hit. Six bullets went into the long-barreled .38, another six into the two-inch revolver next to it.

The guns were ice-cold, brand-new. No serial numbers. A pair of the fragmentation grenades sat on the desk, the blue handles winking at me.

The Mole stashed a new car for me every morning. All along the river, one block apart. We had four cars now. I fingered the ignition key - it would work in all of them.

A tattered khaki raincoat hung on a hook. It would reach well past my knees. A long blond wig was on top of the hook. Straight hair. A blue golf hat, wine-stained. An old pair of white running shoes. Baggy black pants. Black sweatshirt with a hood. Black gloves. A slap-on mustache.

I clipped two nails on my left hand at a sharp angle. A drop of Permabond under each one. I held the razor-filed steel slivers in place against each nail, waiting for the super-glue to dry. It only took a few minutes. I brushed my left hand against a piece of paper. It fell into three pieces.

I slid back the lid on a flat metal box, looked at the colorless paste inside. I'd pass the razors through the paste before I hit the street. Mortay had to get his hands on me to kill me - one scratch, and I wouldn't go alone.

Belle watched me work, cat's-eye makeup on her face.

165

Business boomed. Men got buzzed in, looked through the book. Came and went.

We cleaned up Sunday's business at five in the morning. The Mole was wearing a black silk shirt, red suspenders, cream-colored suit. Dark glasses on his face. Michelle counted a wad of cash and credit-card slips. "You look like death," she told me.

"Good," I said.

166

Monday, Bambi turned her first hard trick. The Mole buzzed me - the video screen showed a middle-aged white male, blobby face, light-colored sport coat. Not Ramón. I heard the slash of the belt, cutting through the sound-proofed walls.

Later that night, one of the tricks got off the wall. I don't know what he did. I heard Morales' voice in the corridor. "How do you like it, motherfucker?" Metal slamming into a face. I heard whining, Morales' voice cutting harsh through it. "Whatever you want here, we got it, see? But we got different girls for different stuff. You want hard stuff, you ask for Bambi, understand? Bambi."

It got quiet after that.

167

He came Wedneday evening. Seven o'clock. The buzzer sounded. Ramón's face on the screen. I hit the switch. The light would glow on the Mole's desk.

"It's time," I said to Belle.

She was covered with body makeup head to toe. Fishnet stockings, black spike heels, black panties. She slipped into the red gown, belted it at her waist. A stranger - her face a hard mask.

I watched the screen. Ramón. Wearing a black leather bomber jacket, looking through the book. There was no sound on the screen.

"Monique!" the Mole called.

Belle walked past me into the corridor.

I held the sawed-off shotgun in my left hand, the paint pistol with the phony silencer in my right. Waiting.

I heard them come back. Belle's voice. "I get an extra hundred for hard stuff, honey."

Ramón's voice - couldn't make out the words.

The door to the last room closed.

I sucked air in through my nose, filling my stomach. Let it out, expanding my chest. Stepped into the corridor.

I couldn't hear through the door. The hook-and-eye lock was held in with paste. Every square inch of the room was burning in my mind. I slipped the pistol into a side pocket, cut deep enough to hold the silencer. Counted to five. I hit the door with my shoulder, stepping inside, sweeping the scattergun corner to corner. Belle was on the couch to my right, the red nightgown hiked over her hips Ramón froze, a thick leather belt dangling from his hand.

The snout of the scattergun froze his balls down to dots. His hands shot into the air, belt still dangling. I stepped to him, the gun leveled at his gut. Five feet away.

"Drop it. Slow."

"Hey, man . . ."

"One more word, I'll blow you all over the walls."

The belt dropped from his hand.

His leather jacket was hanging from a hook in the corner. I could see the shoulder rig inside.

"Got any more guns on you, Ramón?"

He shook his head no.

"Take off your clothes. Real, real slow. I want to see for myself."

Belle's voice from the side of the room. "Mister . . ."

"Shut up, bitch!" I snapped at her.

Ramón dropped his pants. Black bikini briefs. Very macho. "Those too," I said. "Watch your hands."

He pulled off his cowboy boots, one at a time, standing on one leg, never taking his eyes from me.

"Sit on the couch," I said quietly. "Next to the cunt." He sat down. I pulled the handcuffs off my belt, flipped them into Belle's lap. "Put them on. One cuff on your wrist, one on his. Now!"

Belle snapped the cuff on Ramón first, her hands shaking. Her left hand slid to the back of the couch cushion.

I took out the paint pistol. Slowly, letting Ramón get a good look. He didn't want one.

"You know what this is, shooter?"

"I know what it is." His voice shaking like Belle's hands.

"You got two choices. You live. Or you die. Pick one."

"I want to live, man." Thin, weak, soft voice. If he recognized me, he was keeping it to himself. Holding that card.

"Your pal Mortay, he stepped in some shit, understand? Sally Lou's decided to take him off the count."

"But . . ."

"That's the way it plays. I got my money, I got to come back with a head. His head. One more don't mean a thing to me. I'm gonna waste him. Tonight. You tell me what I want to know, you take that fucking diamond out of your ear, and you make tracks. Got it?"

"Man, I don't know where he lives!"

"You're going to meet him. Tonight. Where?"

"He'll kill me."

"Ramón, he's a dead man. I don't find him tonight, I find him some other time. But you don't tell me what I want to know, he won't get a chance to kill you."

"Man, I don't know where he is. I'm serious!"

"So am I," I said, leveling the pistol at Belle's chest. I pulled the trigger. Splat! Belle slammed back against the couch, a red stain running between her breasts. I aimed the gun at Ramón - he never looked at Belle. The sound I made cocking it was the loudest thing he ever heard.

"Where?"

"Under the New York Times clock! Between Seventh and Eighth! On Forty-third! Don't!"

"What time?"

"Ten-thirty!" Piss flowed down his legs.

"Who gets there first?"

"He does, man. He always does . . ."

Belle's left hand flashed, plunging the hypo deep into his thigh, her thumb driving the plunger home as I fired a paint ball into his face.

"I . . ." and he was out. Belle rammed the speed key home, unsnapping her cuff. I pulled his free arm behind his back, locked the other cuff. Belle jumped off the couch, rubbing her breasts. I kicked Ramón onto the floor.

"Go get the Mole," I told her.

168

Michelle and the Mole stood on either side of me. Ramón was in the corner, breathing deeply, out.

"The joint is closed," I told Michelle. "How many of the girls have customers?"

"Just Mary Anne."

"When he's finished, let him out. Tell the glrls the show's over - the cops are going to hit in an hour. Get them out the door. You have any trouble, you hit the buzzer, they'll come from next door. Then take off yourself."

She kissed me. "Call as soon as it's over."

"I will.''

She went out the door. I knelt down, pulled Ramón over my shoulder by one of his arms, positioned his weight. "The basement," I said to the Mole. Fuck McGowan and his deals - I wasn't going to leave a body around for the cops to hang me with.

He led the way. Pansy met us at the bottom of the steps. "Speak!" I told her, tossed a slab of steak through the air. She caught it on the fly.

"Is the panel truck ours?"

"Yes."

"I'm going to throw this garbage in the back. That shot'll keep him out for hours. You get stopped, it's not a murder beef. He won't testify."

"Where should I dump him?"

"He's the shooter, Mole. One of the Nazis."

He nodded.

"Take Pansy too."

"She won't . . ."

"Yes, she will. That last piece of meat I gave her was laced. She should be asleep by now. Keep her with you - lock her up in one of the sheds. Leave water for her. I'll be back in the junkyard sometime late tonight. Belle will get there before me. Your piece is done."

"The basement?"

"Eleven o'clock. You can do it?"

"Yes. Me and the boy."

"He's a good boy, Mole. You should be proud."

"You too."

"Yeah. Look, Mole. If I don't come back, do something for me. Tell Belle I love her."

He nodded.

"And Pansy, let her loose. Let her run with your pack. Let her and Simba-witz make puppies."

I dumped Ramón's body in the back of the panel truck. The Mole snapped a heavy padlock across the back.

I went back for Pansy. I scooped her up in my arms, carried her to the truck. "Open the front door," I told the Mole. "I don't want her to ride with garbage."

I laid her gently across the front seat. Kissed her snout. "See you soon, girl."

The Mole wrapped his stubby arms around me, squeezed hard. "Sei Gesund," he said. Go with God.

169

Michelle was pushing the girls out the door when I slipped back upstairs. It sounded like sorority girls saying goodbye for the summer.

Belle was in the back room, toweling herself off, the cat's-eye mask still on her face.

"You were perfect," I said, holding her close.

"I was scared."

"I still am. It's almost over. Get out of here. Take the Pontiac. Don't leave the office until past midnight. I'll see you at the junkyard."

"Where's Pansy?"

"She's with the Mole. It's okay. Go."

"What'd you do with the freak?"

"He's gone."

"But you're working with the cops, right? They're right next door. He's not dead - why don't you just leave him for them?"

I cupped her chin, making her watch my face. "I'm not working with the cops, Belle. A cop sees me doing my work on the street tonight, I'm going down. McGowan, he can't call off the whole fucking force. He wouldn't do it if he could. I'm not leaving that freak around to tell his story."

I felt a pulse in her throat, just under her chin. Steady beat.

"We're outlaws, little girl. We can step over the line to the other side, but we're not welcome there. We can't stay. The next cop I see, he'll be trying to stop me from coming home."

She nodded, knowing it was the truth. "Burke, it's not even eight o'clock. You have until ten-thirty. Let me wait here with you."

"No."

"I knew you'd say that."

"It's all right, Belle. Smooth as silk. I'll meet this Mortay at ten-thirty, I'll be in one of the cars by eleven. That's when the Ghost Van goes. I'll be with you soon . . ."

"And you'll never leave."

"And I'll never leave."

I lit a smoke, watching her dress.

"Burke?"

"You're going, Belle."

"I know. I will, promise. Remember when you came back to me? After you met that man?"

"Yeah."

"I want you inside me. To keep with me until I see you again. I want my smell on you when you kill him."

170

I carried two of the suitcases out to the back. Tossed in the scattergun. Closed the trunk. I held her next to me.

"Belle . . ."

"Don't you say it! Whatever you're going to say, don't say it. Tell me tonight."

I kissed her. There was blood in my heart. When she drove away, I was alone.

171

In the back room, I put it all together. Cut two fingertips off the black gloves. Buried the plastic bottle in the cart, pistol handle sticking up, wrapped in black tape. I put on the black pants, the black sweatshirt. Worked the blond wig over my hair, stuck on the mustache. The blue golf cap was a tight fit. The black pants had cargo pockets - I put a grenade in each one. The two-inch pistol in my belt.

Pain plucked at me. Fear. I climbed down into my center. Stayed there, feeling the calm.

Mortay wanted what was mine.

If you can't stand to read the weight, you don't climb on the scales.

Ten o'clock. I pulled on the gloves, ran the two razor-tipped nails through the poison paste.

It was a struggle getting the shopping cart down the stairs.

Then I was in the street. All my people safe behind me. Whatever happened.

I reached down, deep as I could go. Telling myself it would be over soon. I'd be Home Free.

But I knew. Knew why I was pushing a shopping cart filled with homicide through Times Square. No home is free.

172

I pushed my shopping cart along, smoking a cigarette, mumbling to myself. The clock in the package store on 43^rd said ten-twenty. I slowed my pace.

Three kids came up the street toward me, wearing matching red silk jackets. I watched their eyes, praying they wouldn't think it was funny to tip over my cart. They went on by.

I turned the corner. Moving slow, checking doorways for bottles, picking one up, tossing it into my cart.

The Times clock was a round light in the distance. I pushed the cart ahead of me, one hand on the pistol.

He was standing under the clock. A long white vertical ribbon in the dark doorway. The clock said ten-twenty-eight. I kept rolling.

A hundred feet away. Mortay saw me. A used-up bum, collecting empties.

Fifty feet. I saw his hands hanging loose in front of him. Head turning, scanning the street. Almost home.

I looked him full in the face. Pushed my cart into his life. Felt the chill. His eyes flicked past me, over my shoulder. I pulled the gun loose, snapped off a shot at his chest, the bottle popping off the front of the pistol. A piece of his coat flew as he spun to the side, moving right at me. I kicked the cart toward him, fired again. The gun cracked alive. Missed. Mortay spun in his tracks, shoulder-rolled against the wall. I leveled the gun. He took off, running the other way.

I jumped past the cart and took off after him. Four shots left. Humans jumped off the sidewalk. He wasn't used to running - all his speed was short-range. I was forty feet behind him at the corner of 43^rd and Eighth. Mortay glanced west, gave it up, charged across 44^th for the Playbill Bar. I was right behind him, the long-barreled pistol looking for his back. He chopped through people, heading for the side door. I fired another shot to clear the way, coming through. The street was clogged. He couldn't lose me.

A cop was on the corner of Eighth and 46^th. Mortay took him out with one chop. I jumped over the body, holding the pistol high to clear the street, locked on him.

At 48^th I was close enough. He felt it, dodging behind cars, weaving through humans. He was running out of gas. When he turned . . .

Construction site at 49^th, high chain-link fence. Mortay ripped his way over the top, white coat flying as I missed another shot.

Couldn't follow him. I raced along Eighth until I found an opening, stepped through, gun up.

I dropped about five feet - they must have started the excavation. No lights. Street noises over my head. Quiet. No sirens.

I was safe there. Scared to be safe. He couldn't come up on me without getting blown away. But if he got out . . .

It was like being back in Biafra. Focus on the sounds, separate the jungle-noises from the man-noises. Breathe shallow. Don't fight the fear.

I heard him, moving west, toward Ninth Avenue. Machine-gun thoughts ripping at me. Did he know how to do this?

Something moved - flash of white in the night. I fired at the sound. The gun barked - the bullet whined close to the ground, disappointed. I heard him move again.

I got to my feet, running right at the sounds he made, cracking off another shot. One left.

Quiet now. I cocked the pistol. Man-sounds to my right.

"I'm still here, pussy." Snake voice hissing out of the night. He wasn't in a hurry.

I dropped to my knees, crawling forward toward the voice. Another flash of white. I fired. Another crack.

Then a dry, audible click! I pulled the trigger again. Notliing.

I felt my guts lock. "Fuck!" Letting him smell my fear, throwing the empty pistol as hard as I could in the directlon of the noise.

"My turn!" he screamed, coming for me.

I ran for my life, pulling the little backup pistol from my belt. I dived for the ground, rolled onto my back, pushed myself backward by driving my legs into the dirt. Making panic sounds. Leaving a blood-spoor.

Begging him to come in my mind.

He flew out of the darkness in a twisting, spinning series of kick-thrusts, a ghost target if I had a knife. I came to my knees, holding the pistol in both hands. He saw the gun, threw himself flat, already tucking his shoulde'r under to kick upward when the hollow-point slug caught him in the chest, pinning him to the ground.

The noise from the tiny gun was deafening; the dirt bowl we were in made it sound like a cannon. The street noises all seemed to stop at once. I walked slowly toward Mortay. He was choking on his own blood - the slug must have caught a lung.

I stood over him, legs shaking. His eyes were ice-pick dots under the shelf of bone, holding me the way the slug held him.

"You can't kill me," he whispered. Stone-carved ice. "Death can't die."

"You still want Max?" I asked, cocking the gun.

He launched himself off the ground, the knife edge of his hand extended. I fired twice more, blowing him off his feet.

I heard a siren in the distance. Mortay was on his side. I dropped to my knees next to him. Blood bubbled from his mouth, killing his last words. I pumped two more shots into his chest. His body jumped. I turned him over with my foot. His eyes were open. I fired again, right into the ridge of bone that covered his eyebrows. His eyes wouldn't close.

The sirens were closer. More than one now. I pocketed the gun, pulled the pin from one of the grenades, holding it tightly in my hand. I slammed the metal ball hard into his face, cracking past his teeth, holding it there. With my other hand, I folded his hands so they were on either side of his face.

I let go of the lever and ran toward Ninth Avenue. Passed a white coat, swinging gently from a steel girder. The target Mortay had left while he moved in on me. I was almost to the fence on 50^th when I heard the explosion. I hit the fence, sirens screaming to my right. Dropped over the top, feeling the breath burst out of my lungs. I popped the pin on the last grenade, side-armed it back over the fence, crouching in the dark. The sirens shrieked at each other - wolfpack sounds, telling each other the prey was dangerous. The grenade exploded, buying me a little time.

I ran up 50^th, the pistol in my hand, driving my knees up to my chest, trying for a burst of speed that wouldn't come. I crossed Ninth, heading for the river, still blocks away from any of the cars we had stashed. Tires shrieked behind me. Cops? I dropped to one knee, leveling the gun. Back over the line - me or them. Belle's Camaro smoked to a stop.

"Come on, brother!" The Prof.

I ran for the car, diving headfirst into the window. Belle stomped the gas, charging for the river. She shot through red lights, standing on the brakes to make the car squat at Twelfth, nailed it again, power-sliding around the corner. She pulled off at 45^th, right behind the black Cadillac the Mole had left for me. I jumped out, scooping up the Prof. His legs were still bolted together in casts, the scattergun steady in his hands. I unlocked the door, threw him in the back.

Blue lights flashed on 45^th, couple of blocks away and moving in.

I started the engine. Looked over my shoulder. Where was she? "Belle! Let's go!" I yelled at her.

The Camaro's engine roared an answer as she peeled out. Right up 45^th.

The blue lights came closer. A phalanx of squad cars screaming down the block, at least three deep, spread out to block the way. I wheeled the Cadillac across the highway after her. The Camaro's taillights blazed - she was flying at the cop cars. Head on. I heard her little-girl voice, singing hard-edged in my head. Calling to the cops. "Come on!"

The Camaro was a red rocket.

"Hit the brakes! She ain't gonna stop," the Prof yelled. The Camaro shot right down the middle of the street, going the wrong way. The police car in the lead charged to meet her.

Time stopped. The squad car swerved at the last second. Too late. It fireballed against a row of cars on the left as the Camaro shot past. Gunfire cut through the siren's song, a roadblock of wreckage in its wake.

"They'll never catch that girl," the Prof whispered. A prayer.

I threw a U-turn and headed for the junkyard.

173

On the West Side Highway I tried to light a cigarette. My hands wouldn't work.

"I can light one for you, bro', but I can't drive the car."

I straightened the wheel. Reached for the smoke he handed me.

"What happened?"

"Girl walks in my hospital room, shotgun in her hand. Comes right in my room. 'What's this?' the doc asks her. 'Jailbreak,' she says. Throws me over one shoulder like a sack of cement, carries me down in the elevator, walks right out the front door. Puts me in that red car. 'Burke needs us,' that's all she said."

Nothing in the rearview mirror.

"She knew I needed it too," the Prof said, hands on the scattergun. "He took something from me. She was giving me a chance to get it back. Said you were going to take out that motherfucker - our job was the cops."

I dragged on the cigarette, seeing the fireball.

The Prof read my thoughts. "Ain't nothing God or the devil put on this earth gonna catch Belle, brother. She's coming home."

174

I wheeled the Caddy into the junkyard. The gate swung open. Terry jumped in, steered us through.

"Belle?" I asked him.

"Not yet," the kid said, his mouth hard.

The Mole was waiting. "Where's Ramón?" I asked him.

He pointed at the wolf pack. Fighting over what was left.

I lit a smoke. Carried the Prof out of the Caddy, put him on top of an oil drum. I stood with my people.

"Mortay's dead."

"You make sure?" the Prof asked.

"They'll need a microscope for the autopsy. It's over. You blow the basement?" I asked the Mole.

"You didn't hear it?" Terry said.

"No."

"It'll be on the news," the Mole said.

I looked at the Prof. "She was well away. They weren't looking for her. Why didn't she just run?"

His eyes shone in the fire. "Why didn't you?"

I couldn't answer him. Fists clenched so tight my arms ached.

The little man dragged on his smoke. "Her dice, brother. Hers to hold, hers to roll."

175

Tortured rubber screamed on concrete.

"Belle. The back way!" the kid shouted, taking off. We ran to the fence. The Camaro shot through, skidding past us. It stopped where the Prof was sitting. Belle didn't get out.

I ran back to her. Bullet holes stitched the driver's door. I wrenched it open. Belle fell into my arms. The Mole reached past me, unsnapped the seat belt. I carried her to the bunker. "Don't talk," I said, lowering her to the ground.

Her gray sweatshirt was one big dark stain. The Mole cut it away. She was torn to pieces, the blue necklace around her neck. "Get the medical kit," he said to Terry.

I bent close to her. "Hold on, Belle. You'll be okay in just a minute."

Her eyes were closed. They flicked open. "Burke?"

"You're home now, Belle. It's all right."

Her voice was soft. "My race is run, honey. I'm done."

"Shut up! Save your strength."

"Tell me."

"I love you, Belle."

"I'll be waiting for you," she said. Her eyes closed. The Mole shouldered me out of the way, plunged a needle into her chest, his fingers at her neck. I was on my knees, watching him work, begging in my mind.

He turned to me. "She's gone."

176

They left me alone with her then.

I couldn't hold it in me - screaming curses at the night. The dogs went quiet.

I lay down next to her, wrapping her in my arms. Tears on blood.

177

The sky was getting light when they came back. The Mole. Terry. The Prof, riding a wheelchair.

I stood next to the little man, my hand on his shoulder. Felt his hand on mine.

"Pull it together, brother. The way she'd want it. She's with the Lord now. And He's one lucky son of a bitch."

The Mole covered her with a prayer rug.

I gripped my brother's hand, and said goodbye to my Blue Belle.