Blue Belle Page 17

"That seals the deal," he said.

  "Right. You getting anything over the wire?"

  "Not yet. It'll come, though. I got a lot of hooks floating."

  I stood up to leave. "You need anything?" I asked.

  "I need a nurse," he said.

  75

  BELLE WAS behind the wheel of the Plymouth as I came through the parking lot, reading a newspaper spread over the steering wheel. She had the car moving before I closed the door.

  "Very nice," I told her.

  "This is some lovely car."

  "You're some lovely woman. You call Marques?"

  "No answer. Can't we try him from your office?"

  "That phone's no good past eight in the morning. You can't stay on the line more than a minute anyway. I'll show you where to pull over."

  We found an open pay phone by the river. I handed Belle a quarter. She took one of those premoistened towelettes from her purse, ripped off the foil, wiped down the mouthpiece.

  She dialed the number. Waited. Somebody picked up. I only heard her end of the conversation.

  "Could I speak to Marques, please?"

  …

  "Belle."

  We waited a couple of minutes. I opened my palm to show her I had another quarter ready.

  "Hi. Remember that man you wanted me to call for you? Burke? He came by the club. Said he wanted to meet with you. About what you talked about the last time."

  …

  "He said it was up to you. Any time. Any place."

  …

  "No, he didn't seem mad at all. He just said he needed information about the scene, and you were the best person….He didn't want to poke around without checking with you, he said."

  …

  "Okay. Wait, let me write this down," she said, signaling to me. I nodded. "Go ahead," she said into the phone.

  …

  "Junior's? Where's that? Oh, he'll know."

  I nodded to her again.

  "What time?"

  …

  "Eleven. Okay. And tell him not to bring his friends? Sure. Okay, thanks. I'll tell him—he said he'd call me before I go to work tonight."

  She put down the phone.

  "Good girl," I told her.

  She tossed her head, smile flashing in the sun. "You just wait and see," she promised.

  76

  I TOOK the wheel. As I pulled out, I noticed the back seat full of cartons. "What's all that stuff?" I asked her.

  "Stuff I needed," she said. Case closed.

  "You hungry?"

  She made a noise like Pansy does when you ask her the same question.

  I pulled in behind Mama's, taking Belle by the hand as we walked through the kitchen. Mama's collection of thugs watched us impassively—they'd seen stranger things come through the back room.

  The joint had a few customers—no way to keep them all out at lunchtime—but my booth was empty, the way it always is.

  The waiter came over to us, blocking Belle's side of the booth, looking a question at me with his eyes. I shook my head, telling him Belle wasn't trouble. He flicked his eyes toward the front of the room. I nodded—send Mama over.

  Mama's dress was a deep shade of red. Opal earrings matched the ring on her hand. She returned my bow, face a mask.

  "Mama, this is Belle," I said. "Belle, this is Mama." I said it carefully. Nice and even, same tone of voice. Mama was stone–solid reliable when it came down to a crunch, but she was funny about women.

  She bowed. "Friend of Burke, friend of Mama."

  Belle started to reach out her hand, thought better of it. Bowed gently. "Thank you, ma'am." Polite as a little girl in church.

  Mama slid into the booth next to me, barking something in Cantonese over her shoulder.

  The waiter brought the soup. Mama served me, then Belle, then herself. Watched carefully, smiling with approval as the bowl emptied. "You have more soup?"

  "Yes, please. It's delicious."

  Mama bowed again. "Very good soup—good for strength. Special for my people. Always here."

  Belle looked a question.

  "Burke my people," Mama said. No expression on her face, nothing in her tone. But a low–grade moron would have caught the warning.

  Belle quietly worked her way through beef in oyster sauce, snow–pea pods, water chestnuts, fried rice, hard noodles, paying no attention to us.

  Mama took a look at the empty plates, raised her eyebrows, called the waiter over again. Belle had a portion of lemon chicken, washing it all down with some Chinese beer. She patted her face with her napkin. "Oh, that was good!"

  "You want more?" Mama asked. Belle smiled. "No, thank you."

  "You come back sometime. When no more trouble, okay? See my granddaughter, yes?"

  "You have a granddaughter?"

  "Why not?" Mama asked, her face hardening.

  "You don't look old enough."

  A smile flashed. Disappeared. "Plenty old enough. Burke explain to you sometime.

  "Do you have pictures of her?"

  Mama scanned Belle's face, taking her time. "Many pictures," she said, tapping her head. "All in here."

  Belle walked past the warning like she hadn't heard it. "What's the baby's name?"

  "Flower."

  Belle sipped her tea, prim and proper. Her eyes were soft. "If I was a flower, I know what kind I'd be," she said, half to herself. "A bluebell."

  Mama bowed, as though she understood. The way she always looks.

  77

  "I HAVE to go in the street for a while," I told Belle as we climbed in the Plymouth. "I'll call you when I'm done with Marques. Late, okay?"

  "Can't I wait at your office?"

  "It's only a little after two now—I'll be coming back there to change around eight. It's a long time to be cooped up."

  "I won't be cooped up."

  "Yeah, you would. I could leave you there with Pansy, but she wouldn't let you out."

  "It's okay."

  I drove back to the office, helping Belle carry her boxes up the back stairs.

  "I'm not playing, girl. Pansy lets people in, but they're always there when I come back, understand?"

  "Sure. Go ahead. I'll just take a nap."

  "Don't use the phone. And don't open any of the file cabinets."

  "O–kay!! I got it."

  I gave her a kiss.

  78

  I FOUND Michelle at The Very Idea, a transsexual bar on the East Side. I walked through a jungle of hard looks until I got to her table, feeling them fall away when she kissed me on the cheek.

  "Hi, handsome." She smiled. "Looking for me?"

  I sat down next to her, lit a cigarette, waiting patiently for her two girlfriends to leave. Michelle didn't introduce me.

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

  "What's the rest of it?"

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

  "You know who?"

  "Guy named Mortay."

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

  "It's Spanish for 'death.'"

  "Honey, you know my language is French."

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

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

  "He wants to fight Max?"

  "That's what he said."

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

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

  "Burke!"

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

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

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

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

  "You know the Ghost Van?"

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

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

  "So they're connected?"

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

  "How'd you find him?"

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

  "Where are you now?"

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

  "Yes?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "I have to turn him away from Max."

  "It doesn't sound like…"

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

  "So?"

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

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

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

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

  "I thought you were going to walk away."

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

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

  "Ex–gunfighter," I said, quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  79

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

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

  "Not everything makes sense."

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

  "Okay, honey. I'm with you."

  "Thanks, Michelle."

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

  "You still with that big girl?"

  "Yeah."

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

  "I'm nice to her."

  She smiled. "Are you?"

  "Yeah, I am. She took your advice."

  "Vertical stripes."

  I laughed. "You should have seen them on her."

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

  "I know."

  "Okay. You got some cash on you?"

  "Yeah."

  "Then let's do some shopping."

  "Shopping? For what?"

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

  "I have to…"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Does the geography lesson cost extra?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "This is true?"

  I nodded.

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

  "Ah, I see. Eight hundred, then."

  "Did you say five?"

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

  "Can we split the difference?"

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

  "Give him the money," Michelle ordered me.

  I handed it over. Mahmud slipped the necklace into a soft leather pouch, handed it to me. "You take this too," he said, rummaging around under the coun
ter. He came up with a tiny round wood box.

  He unscrewed it, holding it out to me. It was filled with a fragrant paste, colorless in the dark wood.

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

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

  80

  "WHERE TO?" I asked Michelle.

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

  "Michelle… you'll look?"

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

  "Debts."

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

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

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

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

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

  "Michelle…"

  "What?"

  "Use a telescope, okay?"

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

  81

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