Blue Belle Read online

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

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

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

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

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

  He walked away, slapping five with one of his buddies.

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

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

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

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

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

  I shook my head no.

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

  "That's a lot of weight."

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

  "What?"

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

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

  51

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

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

  "About five."

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

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

  "Belle…"

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

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

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

  "I don't…"

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

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

  52

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

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

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

  "Who'd hire me?"

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

  "No way."

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

  "I don't know."

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

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

  "And you always knew you were coming."

  "I always knew."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Ice–cold.

  Stone–hard.

  And I worked at that too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  53

  THE PHONE woke me. I snatched it off the hook on the first ring.

  "Yeah?"

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

  "Thanks, Mama."

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

  "He called?"

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

  "Let me use the bathroom for a minute first."

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

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

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

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

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

  "It's not quite six, honey."

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

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

  I went over to her.

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

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

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

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

  "Try not to get so excited about it," I told her.

  She giggled. Her whole body shook. "I mean I'm coming with you. To the hospital…oh!"

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

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

  I didn't argue with her.

  54

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Pansy growled agreement, always eager for praise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "I like your face," I told her.

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

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

  "You mean like plastic surgery?"

  "No."

  "Oh. You think…?"

  "Now's not the time, little girl."

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

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

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

  "You want a beer?" I asked Belle.

  "Who drinks beer at this hour?"

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

  55

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

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

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

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

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

  "Burke?" His voice was calm. Drugged?

  "It's me, brother."

  "You got my message?"

  "Yeah. What happened?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  I let out a breath. "Kuo's good."

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

  "I heard about it."

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

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

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

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

  "For hire?"

  "That's the word."

  "He did this to you?"

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

  "Yeah."

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

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

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

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

  "That thin?"

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

  "Mortay?"

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