Blue Belle Page 19

  The Plymouth tracked through the empty streets. Belle handled it like it was a baby carriage. I lit a cigarette, putting it together. Any fool could get into my building from the front—just press the hippies' bell in the middle of the night and they'd buzz you in. It wasn't a customer—they'd come in even when my bell hadn't been answered. Spanish accent. Pounding on the door, but they hadn't tried to break in. Lupe would have told them about my dog.

  "Anybody with us?" I asked Belle, not looking around.

  "No," she said, her eyes flicking to the mirrors. "Not since we pulled out."

  87

  ASS SOON as we walked in the door, I grabbed the phone. Mama answered like it was noon.

  "They called, right?"

  "Yes. Man say playground, behind the Chelsea Projects. Midnight tomorrow."

  "Spanish accent?"

  "Yes. Nasty man. Whisper on phone, like those men who call women, you know?"

  "Yeah, I know. You say anything to him?"

  "Nothing to say. You want Max now?"

  "No! Mama, this is a bad play. You keep him close, like we said."

  "If…"

  "Mama, listen. Listen to me. If Max comes in now, it could be trouble for the baby, okay?"

  She said something in Chinese. I didn't need a translator. "Later, Mama," I told her, hanging up.

  Belle came over to the phone as I was lighting a smoke. "Me too," she said, holding my hand, guiding the match. She was wearing a white T–shirt that came halfway down to her thighs, the blue necklace around her neck.

  "I'll be right back," I told her, reaching for my car keys.

  "Let me…"

  "Stay here," I told her.

  She dropped to her knees, holding her hands out in front of her, bent at the wrists like dog's paws.

  "Don't be so fucking smart," I said. "I'll be back in a couple of minutes—I need a pay phone."

  88

  I THREW in a quarter, listened to the woman say something in Spanish.

  "Dr. Pablo Cintrone," I said. Waited patiently for a long rap about how the doctor wasn't in at that hour of the night, but if it was an emergency…

  "Attention!" I barked into the receiver. "Dr. Cintrone. Burke. Teléfono cuatro. Ten o'clock tomorrow morning, por favor. Okay?"

  The voice never changed tone. "Burke. Teléfono cuatro. Ten o'clock tomorrow morning."

  "Gracias."

  She hung up.

  When a citizen's scared, he calls the cops. Where I live, you call a terrorist.

  89

  THE FRONT door was unlocked. I shut it behind me, walked through the cottage. Belle was out on the deck. I leaned on the railing, looking across the black water. Belle moved in next to me, fingering the necklace.

  "You know why I danced in front of men?"

  "Yes."

  "I know you do. You're the first man who ever looked at my face after I took my clothes off." She pulled the cigarette from my mouth. Took a drag, handed it back.

  "Nothing on this earth means anything all by itself. You know those orchids they sell in fancy flower shops? They grow wild in the swamp near where I was raised. And gator hide…It costs so much to make a little purse out of it, but the big old things are out there thick as mosquitoes. You know about gators?"

  "Not much."

  "Baby gators, they ain't got much of a chance. It's easy to find the eggs—the mama gators just bury 'em and they walk away. Most of them don't make it even if the eggs do hatch. When they're born, they're only a couple of inches long. The big birds grab them up. Bobcats, panthers, coons, damn near everything in the swamp feasts on them. Baby gators, they're not like puppies or kittens. You know the difference between a six–inch baby gator and a six–foot bull?"

  "No," I said. Her face was turned in profile, tiny flat nose just a bump.

  "Five and a half feet. They don't grow, they just get bigger, you understand?"

  "Yeah."

  "What they say about gators…Most of the little ones, they never get to be big ones, what with everything out there trying to eat them and all. The ones that do get their full growth—they spend the rest of their lives getting even."

  "I know people like that."

  "I thought I was like that too, once. But it's not the whole world I need to get square with."

  "I know."

  She moved against me, hip bumping gently. "There's things inside me. Bad things. In my blood and in my bones. I'll never have babies and I'll never get old. You're good with words, but there's things you don't like to say."

  "I don't understand."

  "Yeah, you do. Remember when I wanted you to taste me? When we first came together? I've met plenty of men good at romance, but I never met one any good at love. You're what I want, and you can't do things but one way. Your way."

  "Belle, I…"

  She pressed her fingers against my mouth. "Don't say anything. You already said all I need you to say. I'm with you to the end. Just make me one promise?"

  "What?"

  Tears rolled down her face, but her voice was steady. "I know you have people. I don't have anybody. If my time comes, you settle my debts. Pay them off."

  "I will."

  "One more thing. Just one more thing, and I'm going to give you my life, Burke. I'll never take my clothes off for another man again. And I'll never take this necklace off either. You see that I'm buried in it."

  "Cut it out," I said, smacking her on the rump, trying for a smile.

  She turned her face to me, holding my shirt with both hands. "Now's not the time for that. You can't change what's going to happen. You promise me. Promise me right now. I married the outlaw life—I've got a right to be buried in my wedding dress."

  "I promise, Belle."

  She pulled me close, her mouth butterfly–soft against mine. "My mother saved my heart for me. She died to do it. I waited a long time. I'm giving it to you now. And I'll die to do it too."

  I held her against me in the dark. For that little piece of time, I didn't have to call on the ice god of hate to fight the fear.

  90

  BELLE FELL asleep holding me in her mouth. The bedside clock said four. I set it for six, stubbed out my last cigarette, and drifted off.

  When the alarm went off, I was sleeping on my side. Belle was wrapped around my back. I slapped the clock to shut off the buzzer. The morning light was just coming through. Belle reached down for me, holding me in her hand, whispering in my ear.

  "When I went shopping…to buy all that stuff to clean your office…I bought something else. A surprise for you. Something to give you nobody else has ever had. I was going to give it to you last night, when you came back. But you came back with my necklace. And all that other stuff happened. It's still here for you. Special. But not now," she said, stroking me, "not now. When your blood's up."

  I felt myself grow in her hand. "Seems like it's up to me," I said.

  She laughed, a rich laugh from her belly, moving against me. "When your blood's up, honey. I'll know. But as far as this other thing…" The big girl pushed against my shoulder, shoving me flat on my back, swinging one huge leg over me, her hand guiding me inside. "Come on, now," she whispered, her teeth in my shoulder.

  91

  AN HOUR later, we were moving into the city. I had to be at the pay phone in the lobby of the Criminal Court before ten. The last phone in the long bank near the back wall. Teléfono cuatro.

  There were only two places in the city I could go for what I needed. This freak I had to meet could call himself "death" if that's what got his rocks off, but I knew a guy who earned the title. A guy we did time with years ago. A guy who let the ice god into his soul like I'd wanted to. A guy named Wesley. Even saying his name in my mind made my hands shake. The other choice was the UGL.

  Una Gente Libre—A Free People. Puerto Rican terrorists to the federales, hard–core independentistas to their people. The FBI had been trying to get a man inside for years—they'd have better luck getting Jimmy Hoffa to testify. The
UGL didn't blow up buildings. They didn't write letters to the newspapers. Some of them fought in the mountains of their home, some in the city canyons of America. Their New York territory stretched from East Harlem to the Bronx. They kept their plate clean. You try to sell crack on their streets, you get cracked. You come back again, you get iced. The Colombians didn't like that much. One of their honchos sent a crew into UGL turf. Sprayed the streets with machine guns. Dropped five people, one of them a pregnant woman. The next day, the crack salesmen were back, stopping the BMWs and Mercedeses full of mobile slime on their way to the suburbs. Smiling. Three days later, the first salesman who showed up pushed his way through a crowd packed around a fire hydrant. The honcho's head was sitting on top of the fireplug like a bust in a museum display case. Whoever hacked it off hadn't been a surgeon. The last thing the salesman left on that street was his puke.

  Dr. Pablo Cintrone was a psychiatrist. New York magazine did a profile on him once. Harvard Medical School graduate who returned to the mean streets to minister to his people. It made him sort of a hero to the upscale crowd for a couple of weeks. Not too many people in Spanish Harlem or the South Bronx read the magazine, but they knew El Jefe of the UGL.

  92

  INSIDE THE office, I let Pansy out to the roof while I checked the security systems. Nobody'd made a move on the place last night.

  I changed into a dark pin–striped suit, grabbed a leather attaché case. It wouldn't get anybody's attention if I stood by the pay phone in the Criminal Court waiting for it to ring.

  When Pansy saw the leash, she spun in a circle, dancing for joy. I hooked her up and we all went down the back stairs.

  First stop was the hospital. I left Pansy in the back seat, taking Belle's hand.

  "Is she going to be all right back there?"

  "What could happen to her?" I asked, reasonably enough.

  The Prof was sitting up in bed, half a dozen pillows propped up behind him. His legs were still in casts, but lying flat on the bed. A metal bar ran between the casts. I looked a question.

  "To make sure they stay straight until the casts come off," he said.

  "How you doing?"

  "Not as sweet as drinking wine, not as bad as doing time."

  "We got something," I said, moving close to the bed.

  The little man's eyes shifted to where Belle was standing against the wall. I held out my hand behind me, not turning my head. She came up and took it. "She's with us," I told him. "She's in this."

  He flashed his smile at her. "This your man, little girl?"

  Her smile blazed back. "He surely is."

  "That makes me your brother–in–law, darlin'. Soon's we finish this fight, I'll show you the sights."

  She leaned over and kissed him. "I'll be waiting."

  Belle sat on the bed. It didn't shift more than half a foot. I pulled up the chair, keeping my voice down.

  "Mortay called. We got a meet tonight."

  "Where?"

  "Playground back of the Chelsea Projects."

  "Skinner heaven."

  "I know."

  "I don't like it. If he don't buy the play, how you gonna walk away?"

  "I need a shooter. With a night scope. On the roof."

  "The only one I know is…"

  "Not Wesley. I'll get someone else—I got it covered." The Prof didn't know about my connect to UGL.

  His voice dropped even lower. "You going to dust him?"

  "No way. Just make sure he gets the word—I want to tell him we got no beef. Walk away. The shooter is in case he wants to try and send another of his freakish messages."

  "Burke, I'm telling you, this Mortay…"

  "I got it covered," I told him again. "You hear anything?"

  "Got some promises, but no product."

  "I'll see you tomorrow."

  He put his hand on mine. "Burke, listen to me like you used to on the yard. You want to roll the dice, make it nice."

  "I got it," I said, throwing him a salute.

  93

  I HELD the door for Belle to get into the car. "He's really so much better, isn't he?"

  "He's better, but he's not back to himself yet."

  "You'd expected him to be dancing by now?"

  "Not the physical thing. The Prof, he's like two people. Half is this rhyming–time, upbeat thing you see, okay? The other half is how he got his name. Like a religious thing—I don't have a name for it. He got his name because he can see things."

  "Like what's going to happen?"

  "Sort of. Like I said, I can't really explain it. But he can preach, square business. Talk that religion like he means it. Strong enough to make you buy a piece sometimes, when he really gets on a roll. That's what's missing now."

  Belle tapped fingernails on one knee, paying attention, listening close. She turned to look at me. "Maybe he don't like what he sees comin'," she said, the Southern–swamp tang strong in her voice.

  94

  I PULLED the Plymouth into the parking lot across from the Criminal Court. The parking lot where I met Strega for the first time. The court where I first saw Wolfe in action. It was nine–forty–five—all the spaces were taken.

  "Cruise around the lot like you're looking for a place to park," told Belle. "You find one, pull in. Watch for me—I'll be coming down those steps," I said, pointing across Centre Street. "You see me coming, catch my eye. We may have to move out right away."

  I gave Pansy the signal. She flopped down in the back seat, filling it to capacity.

  I crossed the street, grabbed the phone I wanted. I picked up the receiver, holding down the hook, and acted like I was listening to someone on the other end, glancing at my watch.

  I knew my watch was accurate, because it read ten o'clock just as the phone rang. I released the hook.

  "Can I see you? Today?"

  "Muy importante?"

  "Sí."

  "Handball court closest to Metropolitan. One o'clock."

  "Thanks."

  I was talking to a dead line.

  95

  I CAME down the steps, spotted the Plymouth making a slow circuit. I caught it on the second pass, opened the door. Belle rolled out to Lafayette Street, turned south, in the direction of the office.

  "I don't have to get moving until around noon," I told her. "But I need the car when I do."

  "I'll go with you."

  "No, you won't. And get that pout off your face."

  She didn't. "Make a right," I told her as we came to Worth Street. "Head down to the river."

  Pansy poked her head over the top of the front seat. "Want to run, girl?" I asked her. She growled.

  I showed Belle where to pull in. There were only a few cars on the broad strip of concrete, the usual collection of humans minding other people's business. I opened the back door, hooked Pansy's leash, and we strolled along the river. Her snout wrinkled at the smells, but she held her position. On my left side, slightly ahead. Every time I stopped, she sat. When we got to the deserted pier, I let her off the lead, making a circle with my hand, telling her not to roam far. Freed of the restraint of the leash, she did what comes naturally to her. Lay down.

  "You lazy old thing," Belle said. She looked around, her eyes sweeping the Jersey shore on the other side. "Sure doesn't smell like any water I ever saw."

  "It's not water—just a liquid toxic–waste dump."

  "You can't swim in it?"

  "No. But on a good day, you could walk on it."

  "Ugh!"

  A sailboat went by, loaded with yuppies in yachting gear. Sailboats down here make about as much sense as No Smoking sections in L.A. restaurants, so you see a lot of them.

  Belle pointed to one of the round beams that held up the pier. "Boost me up," she said, one foot in the air. I cupped my hands and she stepped in, reaching to the top of the beam. I heaved, and up she went. It wasn't as bad as loading trucks, and the view was a lot better. I lit a smoke, handed it up to her. The breeze pulled at her hair, pulling it off h
er face. She turned to the side, sucking in a deep breath. I took one of my own—no Viking ship ever had a prouder figurehead. Two teenagers pulled up, riding those little motor scooters you see everyplace. They stopped a decent distance, watching Pansy.

  "What kind of dog is that?" the taller one asked.

  "One that bites," I told him.

  "He looks like a giant pit bull."

  "Close enough."

  "Where could I get one?"

  "You can't."

  The shorter one piped up. "He looks like a big lump to me. That ain't no pit bull."

  "Pansy, watch!" I snapped at her.

  She came slowly to her feet and strolled toward the kids, making her noises. I never heard an alligator eat a pig, but I knew what Belle meant. She pinned the boys with her ice–water eyes, one skull–crusher of a paw pulling at the concrete.

  "Jump!" I yelled at her. The kids took off before she hit the deck. She looked over at me, bored to death. I made a circle sign again. This time she took off, loping the length of the boards, peering over the edge into the water. She jogged back, stopping at the beam where Belle perched. The beast leaped up, her paws locking into the wood a foot below Belle. She reached down and patted her. "Does she want me to come down?"

  "I think she wants to come up."

  "There's no room."

  "Maybe that's a message."

  Belle jumped down from her perch, landing next to me. "What message?" she said, bunching a small fist.

  "That they should make those beams bigger."

  "Or these smaller?" she asked, smacking herself on the rear.

  "Wouldn't be my choice," I assured her.

  She took my arm and we walked around some more, Pansy hanging close.

  "She's so beautiful. She really is like a panther, the way she moves. So smooth."

  I lit a smoke, thinking it was the truth.

  "Burke, how come you got a female dog?"

  I shrugged.

  "Well, she's for protection, right? A guard dog? I thought they were all males. I thought they were tougher, you know? A man I knew once, he had a German shepherd. Wouldn't have a female dog around him—said a bitch would turn tail and run from a fight."