Blue Belle Read online

  Belle shuddered. I put my hand on her bare thigh. It was cold.

  "People always think they know what to do," I told her. "Ever hear of chemical castration?"

  "Arggh! It sounds disgusting."

  "They get a chronic sex offender. One of those guys who's never going to stop, okay? Then they make him take these injections. Depo–Provera. Lowers the sex drive, so he won't be thinking about jumping on some little kid."

  "Does it work?"

  "Who knows? What's the difference? This one old freak, he was still raping little kids when he was seventy years old. Started on the shots years ago. He figured out how to beat the deal—got some bootleg doctor to shoot him up with hormones. And remember that baby–raper on the Coast? Instead of dumping him into prison, the judge made him post a sign on his house. Child Molester Inside—Kids Stay Away. Something like that."

  "Yeah. Like a brand."

  "Some brand. All the guy has to do is move to another neighborhood. Where they don't read English. Plenty of them around."

  "It's so sick."

  I grabbed her eyes. "You think your father was sick?"

  "He's a dirty, evil man."

  "They all are. It's their choice, Belle. Blood didn't make them that way. You're not that way."

  "How do you know so much?"

  "I never figured out what I was, but I figured out I was going to go the distance. Survive. Knowing is how you do it." I lit another smoke. "Mortay, he won't be living down there. Too risky. But Ramón, he'll lead me right to him."

  "How you going to find out?"

  "The Mole's going in. Tonight, tomorrow morning." I took a deep drag of my cigarette, thinking about the letters in my files from freaks. Always interested in the real thing. "I know what he's going to find."

  "What?"

  "I met this guy once. State senator. Spent so much time kissing ass, his face looked like it was split down the middle. But he told me something that was true. Where's the money? That's always the question. Where's the money? To the little whores on the street, the Ghost Van's a killer shark. But to Sally Lou, it's a money machine."

  "How can he make money from shooting whores?"

  "I got to wait for the Mole to be sure, but I think I see it. And if I'm right, I know how to do it."

  My voice trailed off, tangled in my thoughts. Belle shifted her hips, sliding along the desk until she was right in front of me. "You're different now."

  "How?"

  "When you came to my house—shaking and all—you got past it. Whatever it was. And taping that grenade in your hand. Like you wanted to die. Just blow yourself up and go to a better place. But now…it's like you're getting cold inside. Like you're not scared anymore."

  "I'm still scared. But I'm back to myself now. Whatever that is, that's where I am. It's true, I feel calm inside. But not dead. Just…centered, you know?"

  "Yeah. It feels right."

  "There's lot of things I can't do. I stopped feeling bad about them a long time ago."

  "But you can do this?"

  "I can do this."

  132

  BELLE CAME back inside, a glass of ice water in her hand. "Want some?"

  I took the glass from her, sipped it slowly. "It's late, Belle. Go to sleep."

  She bumped a rounded hip against my shoulder. "Come with me."

  "I'm still putting it together."

  "But you told me…"

  "I think I know what it is. I have to play with it some more. Get it straight. We're playing for keeps now."

  "Just lie down with me. Let me hold you. In my mouth. Like I did before. Until I fall asleep." Her eyes were sadness. "I'm so cold, honey."

  I took her hand, led her to the back room.

  133

  THE ROOM had a faint glow when I came around—the closest thing this joint gets to sunlight. Belle's head was against my chest, the gym mat hard against my back.

  "I'm awake," she said, before I could ask her.

  "How long?"

  "I don't know. I've just been lying here. Thinking. Does Pansy always walk around at night?"

  "Yeah."

  "She's restless?"

  "Pansy? She'd spend all her time sleeping and eating, it was up to her. She's just patrolling. Watching over me."

  "I'm jealous of her."

  "You're a dope."

  She snuggled in against me, warm, smelling like soap. "Burke, can I ask you something?"

  "Sure."

  "Can you love two people? At the same time? Love them both?"

  Flood came into my mind. Flash–images. Flood standing in a Times Square alley, facing three skells, her purse on the ground. Waving them in, daring them to come close enough. Blond hair flying. Chubby little hands that could chop or caress. The crosshatched scar on her face. Fire–scar on her butt. The duel to avenge her sister's baby. Flower. The name Max gave his child to honor the warrior–woman he'd never see again. I felt her spirit in me, sunburst smile covering my soul.

  "I don't know," I said. "I don't know enough about love. It came so late to me."

  "It's come again, darling. I asked the Prof."

  "About what?"

  "Love. He knows about love. Blood love. I remember what he said: Life ain't dice—they don't roll nice, you can roll 'em twice."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Nobody's stuck. Me and Sissy were walking back of the house one day. When I was just a little girl. This old coon was down by the water. Hunting. I saw he only had one front paw. Sissy told me he must have been caught in a trap. Bit his own paw off to get out. It costs something to be free." A tear welled, rolled down her cheek. "I didn't know what she meant then."

  I kissed the tear track. She slid on top of me, reached down, fitted me inside. "The way people talk, it's not the truth," she whispered. "You can't make love. It's there or it isn't."

  Her hips flicked against me, slow–sliding, one arm around my neck, her face buried against me. "I know it's there. You know it's there. Take it."

  "Belle…"

  "Take it!" Grinding hard, her teeth against my neck.

  134

  BELLE WAS getting dressed. I was watching television with Pansy. The late–morning news. Some people tried to escape the Dominican Republic in an overloaded wooden boat, heading for Puerto Rico. The boat went down in shark–infested water. Another boat came alongside. Somebody had a video camera. The TV showed some of the footage. Living color. Blood thick in the water, like pus from a wound. Screams. Chunks torn out of humans. Sharks hitting again and again. Sound of shots fired. Belle stood behind me, hand on my shoulder.

  "God! How can people watch something like that?" Right then I knew. Why the Ghost Van hunted.

  135

  WE WAITED until almost noon.

  "Ready to go?" I asked Belle. When she nodded, I took the grenade out of the drawer, rolled up my sleeve. "Come over here; give me a hand with this."

  She took the grenade from the desk, bounced it up and down in her hand. "Let me hold it."

  "Forget it."

  "Listen to me… just for a minute?"

  I said nothing, feeling the stone in my face.

  "I'll carry it in my lap. Cover it with a scarf. You can carry your gun. If it happens… if he comes too soon… you get two chances."

  "He's too fast, Belle. I'd probably never get a shot off. You want a gun, I'll give you one."

  "I'm no good with a gun. Never shot one. I could stab him, but if he's too fast for you…"

  "No."

  "Listen to me! I'll get out of the way. He gets past the gun, puts his hands on you, I'll toss it."

  "You'd toss it right at me? Blow me up too?"

  "He gets to you, you're going to die anyway. I wouldn't let you go alone."

  I watched her face. "You don't have the heart for it—you'd never pull the pin."

  "I would!"

  I lit a smoke. "Stay here, Belle. I'm going to the junkyard."

  "I thought I was going with you."

&
nbsp; "You were going with me. Not now. Stay here."

  "You can't make me."

  "Don't make me laugh."

  "I'm telling the truth. You can't make me. You'd have to hurt me to do it. Really hurt me. And you can't do that."

  I walked away from the desk. Belle stood, arms folded over her breasts. I snapped my fingers. Pansy's head came up. "Watch!" I said, pointing two fingers in front of me. I turned to the door. Belle stepped forward. Pansy bounded between us, an ugly snarl ripping from her throat, teeth snapping. "Pansy!" Belle said, like her feelings were hurt. "Don't try her," I warned.

  The muscles stood out across Pansy's shoulders, hair rigid on the back of her neck. Belle snatched the grenade from the desk, cupped the blue handle, pulled the pin. She tossed the pin in a gentle arc over Pansy's head. I caught it in my hand. The beast never moved.

  "I'll just hold this until you come back," she said, her voice quiet and steady.

  I let out a breath, the pin in my hand.

  "Pansy, jump!" She hit the ground. I snapped my fingers again, calling her to me. Gave her the command that everything was okay. She started to walk over to Belle. I held up my hand for her to stay.

  I crossed the room, fast. "Hold it steady," I told her, slipping the pin back in. She put it on the desk, went in the back room, came out with a blue chiffon scarf. Wrapped it around the little metal bomb. "Let's go," she said.

  I pushed her back against the desk, making her sit on it. Moved in so close her eyes were out of focus. "Swear on your mother," I said. "Swear on Sissy that you'll throw it if he gets to me."

  "I swear."

  I buried my hands in her thick hair, snatching a handful on either side of her face, pulling her nose against mine. "When we get back here…"

  She licked my mouth, pushed her lips against me. I couldn't make out what she was saying.

  136

  BELLE FOLLOWED me down the stairs into the garage. I snapped her seat belt in place for her, arranged a shawl over her lap. I worked my way through Lower Manhattan, grabbing the East Side Drive off Pearl Street. Belle was as good as gold, quiet and peaceful in the bucket seat, hands in her lap, little smile on her face. Like a kid who threw a successful tantrum—got her way and didn't want to brag about it.

  "Call off the directions," I told her.

  She was right on the money, every step of the way. I lit a smoke. "Me too," she said. I held the filter to her mouth.

  "Don't get spoiled. It won't work every time."

  "I know." Phony contrite tone in her voice, the Southern twang not softening it much.

  "I'm not kidding."

  "I know. Turn right up ahead."

  I turned into Hunts Point, heading for the junkyard.

  "You know something, Burke—you're not exactly what they call a well–rounded personality."

  "Well–rounded's nice, long as you don't have to cut something."

  She stuck out her tongue. A queen–sized brat. With a bomb in her lap.

  I rolled the Pontiac up to the gates. "Will the dogs know it's a different car?" she asked.

  "They won't care.

  Simba made his move first. Sitting patiently while I rolled down the window. I talked to him, waiting for someone to come and let us through.

  It was Terry, shoving his way through the pack just like the Mole. He saw who it was, stuck his head in the window.

  "Hi, Belle!"

  "Hi, good–looking. You gonna show this lug how to drive a car?"

  The kid looked at me. I opened the door, climbed in the back seat. He piloted the Pontiac in an elaborate weave, showing off for Belle.

  "Are you Burke's girlfriend?"

  "Hey! The Mole teach you about asking questions?"

  "I just…"

  "Shut up, Burke. I sure am, sweetie. But if you were a few years older…"

  "I'm getting older," the kid said, his voice squeaking, looking over at her.

  She saw where he was looking. "I know you are, honey," she said, flashing a smile.

  He pulled the car into a safe area. Jumped out, held the door for Belle. I lit a cigarette. The kid was so entranced he forgot to glom one off me.

  "We don't need it here," I told Belle. "Hand it over."

  She pulled the scarf from the grenade, put it in my hand. Terry paid no attention, chattering away, explaining all the features of the junkyard to Belle. I followed behind them.

  The Mole was outside his bunker. He tilted his head. We all followed him downstairs, Belle's hand on my shoulder, Terry bringing up the rear. I hoped the view wouldn't stunt his growth.

  The tunnel sloped, curved gently back and forth. Lights flicked on each time we came close to a curve. The Mole's living room was always the same. A thin concrete slab over hard–packed dirt, old throw–rugs on the floor. The walls are all bookshelves. Tables covered with electrical motors, lab beakers, other stuff I couldn't recognize. A tired old couch in the middle of the room, easy chairs from the same dump. All covered with white oilcloth. I caught the quiet whirr of the electric fans built into the ceiling, venting to the outside. It looked the same, but it felt different. The Mole built it to live underground—before Terry came along.

  I sat on the couch, Belle next to me. The Mole pulled up a chair. Terry sat on the arm. Took his eyes off Belle long enough to ask me for a cigarette.

  The Mole took off his glasses, rubbed them with a rag he pulled from his belt. No point asking him if he got into Sin City—he would have said so in front, if he hadn't.

  "I found it," he said.

  "You sure?"

  His eyes were dim behind the heavy lenses, head solid on his stubby neck. "In the back, anchor holes. For a tripod. Video camera. Professional quality, heavy. Arc lights over the top. Cross–bolted brace. Beanbag rest."

  "For the shooter."

  "For the killer. The back doors work off a hydraulic valve. One switch—open and close."

  "You understand what it is, Mole?"

  "I understand. Killing machine. They go past the girls, hit the switch. Doors pop open. Killer shoots. Door closes." He took a breath. "And the camera is rolling. Taking the pictures."

  "Snuff films," I said. "Live and up close. The real thing."

  "Who does this?" Belle asked, her voice shaking. "What kind of freaks?"

  The Mole pinned her with his eyes. "Nazis," he said. "They took pictures of us going into the ovens. Pictures of their evil. Treasures of filth."

  "You find anything else?"

  "Three more cars. Dark sedans. Another room. More cameras, lights. Drain in the floor."

  That's where the baby pross they snatched off the street went. Down the drain.

  I bit into the cigarette. I'd been ready for it, but red dots danced behind my eyes. I waited for the calm. For the hate to push out the fear.

  "They have to go down, Mole. Can you get back inside?" He didn't bother to answer me. Waiting.

  "Can you wire it so it all goes up?"

  He still waited—I hadn't asked him a question yet.

  "Off a radio transmitter? So you push a button and…"

  "How far away?"

  "You tell me."

  "It's all steel and concrete, that part of the city. The basement is deep. No more than four, five blocks to be sure. Easier to wire it to the ignition. They start the van…"

  "That's no good. There's two freaks left who work the van. The shooter, and the man who wants Max. I think the driver's already dead. The van could sit there for weeks."

  "Okay."

  I got to my feet, stalking the underground bunker. Like they must have done in the Resistance a lifetime ago. "I got a plan. The shooter's bent—I think I can bring him in. Make him tell me where the other one is. Soon as I know, you can blow the basement."

  "How long?"

  "Couple of days—couple of weeks. I need more people," I said, catching his eye.

  He knew what I meant. Didn't want to say Michelle's name in front of the kid. The Mole nodded again.

  "I'll ca
ll you soon as I'm ready."

  The Mole grabbed Terry's arm, pulled him around so the kid was facing him.

  "Remember what I told you? About the Nazis? About our people?"

  "Yes."

  "Tonight," said the Mole, holding the boy's arms. "Tonight is Bar Mitzvah."

  137

  I BANKED the Pontiac across the on–ramp for the Triboro. Belle was quiet, smoking one cigarette after another, staring straight out the windshield.

  "Go ahead," I told her. "Say it."

  She turned in her seat. "You never gave me the grenade back."

  "I know."

  "You don't trust me?"

  "I do trust you. I have to get out of the car, I'll hand it back to you." I glanced her way. "Okay?"

  "Okay."

  "Don't sulk."

  "I'm not."

  "Then you're a hell of an actress."

  She tapped her fingers against one knee, keeping it under control. I lit a smoke for myself.

  "What's the rest of it?"

  She didn't answer me. Manhattan high–rises flew by on our right, river to our left. Midafternoon traffic still light.

  "Burke, he's going to take that boy inside with him? Wire up a bunch of bombs?"

  "Yeah."

  "He's just a kid."

  "It's his time. Like it was yours once."

  "I wish…"

  "Don't wish. It's a poison inside you."

  "You don't wish for things?"

  "Not anymore."

  We were in midtown, heading for the Times Square cutoff. I rolled on past. Belle craned her neck, looking through the Pontiac s moon roof at the luxury apartments, balconies overlooking the river, high above it all.

  "You think it's true? That it's lonely at the top?"

  "I've never been there. All I know, it can be lonely at the bottom."

  "But not always," she said, her left hand resting on my right thigh.

  I covered her hand with mine. "Not always."

  We passed under the Manhattan Bridge. I ignored the exit, taking it all the way downtown.

  "Was the Prof really a shotgun bandit?"

  "Where'd you hear that?"

  "From him."

  "I don't know if it's true or not. Ever since I've known him, he's been on the hustle. Maybe when he was younger, a long time ago…Why'd he tell you?"