Blue Belle Page 10

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

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

  "Maybe it's all they have?"

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

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

  "You ever find the van?"

  "No. So?"

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

  "Where'd you hear that?"

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

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

  "Anything else?"

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

  "Any mail?"

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

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

  I met his stare. "No."

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

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

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

  His eyes were ball bearings.

  41

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

  Called Mama from a pay phone. Nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Yeah?"

  "It's Burke."

  "This a social call, or what?"

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

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

  "Right. How you doing, Maurice?"

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

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

  "Morelli."

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

  "Bullshit gossip. Cop talk. Nothing good."

  "The cops think they're close?"

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

  "Can you pull the clips for me?"

  "You looking?"

  "Looking around, anyway. "

  "You'll clue me in front?"

  "If I can."

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

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

  "You think it's a group?"

  "No, but check anyway."

  "You got it."

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

  "Hello?"

  "It's me. Want to get some dinner?"

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

  "I know. Why didn't you go out?"

  "I knew you were going to call."

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

  "Hurry up," she said.

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

  42

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

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

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

  "I was working, Belle."

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

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

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

  "You did miss me?"

  "I did miss you."

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

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

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

  "Belle."

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

  "You're going out like that?"

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

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

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

  "So?"

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

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

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

  "Yes?"

  "Yes!" I said, slapping her rear.

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

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

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

  "Will you put on a pair of pants?"

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

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

  "You look beautiful," I said.

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

  "Belle…"

  "What now?"

  "Could you put on a bra too?"

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

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

  "Boobs?"

  "Bras."

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

  43

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Where're we going, honey?"

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

  44

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

  She knew how to act—didn't make a sound on the way up.

  When we got to the office door, I gently pushed her to one side while I worked the locks. I went in first, saying "Pansy, jump!" as soon as I did. She hit the floor, paws out in front, her monster's head tilted up to watch Belle.

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

  "This is Pansy," I said.

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

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

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

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

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

  "She won't hurt you," I said.

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

  "She just wants to be friends."

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

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

  "How much does she weigh?"

  "About the same as you."

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

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

  "Why won't she eat it?"

  "She's waiting for the word."

  "What you just said?"

  "Yep."

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

  "That's right."

  "Well, say it, then. The poor dog's dying for the meat."

  Pansy flashed Belle a grateful look as I gave her the word. As soon as she polished off the steak, she came back to the couch. Belle patted her with a bit more confidence. "I think she likes me, Burke. Does she do any more tricks?"

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

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

  "Where's she going?"

  "To the roof."

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

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

  "Can I get up?"

  "Sure. It's okay—Pansy understands."

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

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

  "Sure."

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

  "She'd rip you to pieces, Belle."

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

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

  "Want some dinner?"

  "If you do, baby."

  "I thought you were starving."

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

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

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

  "Sh
e couldn't care less."

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

  45

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

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

  "Anything?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

  "I waited for you, honey."

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

  "We have some real nice shell steaks."

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

  "What brand?"

  "Cold," Belle said, smiling at her.

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

  MaryEllen cleared the plates off. I lit a smoke.

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

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

  "Can I have ice cream later?"

  "Sure."

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