Blue Belle Page 18

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

  "You came home too early."

  "What in hell is this?"

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

  "Belle…"

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

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

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

  "I…"

  "Honey, don't you like it?"

  "Yeah. I mean, it's great. I just…"

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

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

  "Damn!"

  "It's good, huh?"

  "It's unbelievable."

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

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

  "How'd you do all this?"

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

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

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

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

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

  "Trust me."

  "I do."

  "Well…?"

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

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

  "I'm all clean."

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

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

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

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

  "Turn around," I said.

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

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

  "I thought…"

  "Sssh. Close your eyes."

  "Okay, I…"

  "And be quiet."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "It's your baby I want to be," she said, pushing me to the couch. She dropped into my lap, sprawling across me, covering me, knowing she wouldn't fit and not giving a damn. I snaked a hand around her hip and pulled out the jasmine box. Handed it to her.

  "What's this?"

  "Open it."

  "Oh, it's perfume!"

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

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

  "Like juicy flowers," I told her.

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

  82

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

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

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

  "I do love you," is all she said.

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

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

  "Can I help you, Officer?"

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

  "Nobody by that name here, friend."

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

  "What name should I call?"

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

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

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

  "Yeah."

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

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

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

  I nodded to him, not answering.

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

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

  "You packing?"

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

  "Mind if Christina takes a look?"

  "Whatever it takes to get on with this."

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

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

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

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

  "Ready to talk now?"

  "Fire away."

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

  "My ladies are cool—you can talk in fron
t of them."

  I shrugged, putting a pack of cigarettes and a butane lighter on the table in front of me. I lit another smoke, snapping off a wooden match. He didn't pay attention. That's why he was a pimp and I was what I was.

  "You know a man named Mortay?"

  "The fighter?"

  "Yeah."

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

  "What's that mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

  "That may be the connect, Marques."

  "I'm not reading you, man."

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

  "Yeah?"

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

  "So?"

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

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

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

  "Could be. What if I'm not?"

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

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

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

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

  "How would I know?"

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

  "I don't know, man."

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

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

  "None at all," I agreed.

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

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

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

  83

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

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

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

  But only to those he marked.

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

  "You want some action, baby?"

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

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

  I looked in her face, keeping my voice low.

  "You got a room?"

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

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

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

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

  84

  PAST MIDNIGHT. I found a phone, rang Mama's.

  "It's me."

  "Nobody call."

  "Okay."

  "Max has your money."

  "You keeping him close?"

  "Yes. Keep close. Waiting for you."

  "I'll call you tomorrow."

  "Burke?"

  "What?"

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

  "Yeah."

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

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

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

  85

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

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

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

  "What happened?" I asked her.

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

  "Somebody coming up the stairs."

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

  "Anybody try and get in?"

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

  "She was."

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

/>   "You hear what they said?"

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

  "How long'd they stay?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "It's yours."

  "Which?" I asked, squeezing her breast.

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

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

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

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

  86

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

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

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

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