Blue Belle Read online

  "I was telling him about me. That I was a driver. He said he used to cowboy liquor stores."

  "Old as he is, he probably robbed stage coaches."

  Belle giggled. "He's not so old."

  "Anyone older than me is old."

  "You don't feel old to me," she said, her hand shifting into my lap.

  I grabbed her wrist, pulled her off. "Cut it out. Pay attention."

  "I am."

  "We got bigger things to think about."

  "Bigger than this?" Grabbing me again.

  I snarled at her. She giggled again. I turned off at the Brooklyn Bridge exit, took Centre Street to Worth, skirting the edge of Chinatown. I needed to make some calls, and I couldn't use the basement under Max's warehouse. Not now.

  138

  I PULLED in behind Mama's. A black Buick sedan rolled across the entrance to the alley behind us, blocking us in. Its back doors opened. Three young Chinese jumped out. Long, shiny, swept–back black hair, red shirts under black leather jackets. They stepped into a triangle, using their car for cover. Two of them braced their elbows, locking their hands around automatics. The other crouched against the alley wall, an Uzi resting on one knee. No way out.

  Belle caught it in the side mirror. "Burke!" she whispered.

  "Don't move," I told her. I knew what it was.

  The back door to the kitchen popped open. A monster walked out. He looked like a pair of sumo wrestlers. Shaved head, eyes buried in fat. He grabbed our car, shook it like a kid with a toy. He looked into my face.

  "Mor–Tay?" It sounded like someone had taken his tonsils out with razor wire.

  I put my hands on the dashboard, keeping my eyes on his face.

  "Burke," is all I said.

  He shook the car again. Mama came out into the alley, said something to the monster. He let go, stepped aside. I motioned to Belle to get out. We followed Mama inside. Took my booth in the back. I lit a smoke. A waiter came up, a tureen of soup in his hands. When he leaned over, I could see the magnum under his arm.

  "Where'd you find 'Zilla, Mama?"

  "Always around. Good friend."

  "I see you taught him some English."

  Mama bowed. "Teach him everything." Most Orientals are fatalists—Mama was fatal.

  I sipped the soup. Mama was serene. Greeted Belle, reached over, held her hand for a second. I left them there, went in the back to make some calls.

  "Runaway Squad."

  "McGowan. It's me. I got something. Can you meet me at the end of Maiden Lane, by the pier?"

  "I can roll now."

  "Make it in an hour."

  "Right."

  I tossed in another quarter, rang the private number for the phone–sex joint where Michelle worked.

  "Yeah?"

  "Michelle?"

  "We got no Michelle here, pal."

  "I know. Tell her to call Mama."

  A sleepy woman's voice answered the next call.

  "Put Marques on."

  "He's not here."

  "Right. Tell him Burke's going to call him. In two hours. Tell him to be in his car. In two hours, you got it?"

  "I'm not sure…"

  "This is Christina, right? You be sure. Two hours, I'll call him. Tell him to be in the car."

  I hung up, not waiting for a whore's promise.

  Back inside, Mama and Belle were huddled together, talking. I sat down across from them. Mama spooned some meat–stuffed dumplings onto my plate, still talking to Belle.

  "Dim sum. Burke's favorite."

  "How do you make them?"

  Mama shrugged her shoulders—she wasn't a cook.

  I ate slowly, one eye on my watch. The Maiden Lane pier was just a few minutes away.

  "Mama, Michelle's going to call here. If she doesn't do it before we leave, make sure you get a number where I can reach her. Tonight. Very, very important, okay?"

  "She help you. On this?"

  "We'll see."

  Mama bowed. More food came. Belle ate like Pansy, only with better table manners. I never felt so safe.

  Finally, I pushed the plates away. Belle was still eating. "You hear from Mac?" I asked Mama.

  She smiled. Made a gesture with her hands like a flower opening to the sun.

  "Boston quiet?"

  "Quiet soon. Max working."

  I bowed. Held out my hand to Belle. She looked unhappy, not wanting to leave the warmth any more than I did.

  Mama walked us out to the back. "I'll call later—check on Michelle."

  The monster was still standing by the door. The Buick was still across the alley mouth, no gunners in sight. I backed up the Pontiac slowly, watching the Buick move out of the way in the rearview mirror. Pointed the car toward the pier.

  139

  BELLE WAS finishing off a last egg roll. She delicately wiped her mouth with the chiffon scarf, tossed it into the back seat.

  "How come you call her Mama?"

  "It's what she calls herself."

  "Where're we going?"

  "Meet some cops."

  "Cops?"

  "They're okay. For this, they're okay. They want him too." I handed her the grenade. "You stay in the car."

  "But…"

  "Shut up. I let you have your grenade, took you for a nice drive to the Bronx, gave you a nice meal. That's all the babying you're going to get today."

  She reached into the back seat, put the greasy scarf in her lap, covering the grenade. I turned in to the pier and backed the Pontiac into an empty space, watching for McGowan. We were early.

  "Burke?"

  "What?"

  "That huge guy…the one who came out the back door?"

  "Yeah?"

  "If he's Chinese, how come he has an Italian name. 'Zilla'?"

  "It's not his name, just what people call him. Short for 'Godzilla.'"

  "Oh. Why'd he say that name? Mor–Tay?"

  "He was asking a question. That pimp, Marques. He wants to know about putting a bounty out on someone, he should talk to Mama."

  140

  MCGOWAN'S CAR pulled up. I got out of the Pontiac, making sure he could see me, walking toward him, both hands in sight. His partner reached behind him; the back door popped open. I climbed in. His partner closed it behind me—no door handles on the inside.

  "You know Morales?" McGowan asked.

  "Yeah."

  "He's with me on this. Understand?"

  "Yeah."

  "You called me out here."

  I lit a smoke. "You sure you want your partner to hear this?"

  They looked at each other. Morales said, "I need some cigarettes. Be right back. You need anything?"

  McGowan shook his head. Morales stepped out.

  "I found the Ghost Van."

  "Where?"

  "It's underground. There's three men in on the front end. One's the dead guy you found in the Chelsea playground. Two more left. I got a plan to trap one, work him until he shows me where the other one is."

  "You saw the van?"

  "Not with my eyes. I know where it is."

  "That's enough for a warrant."

  "The guy who saw it, he's not coming in. Neither am I. I got a deal. You interested?"

  "Go."

  "I need some things from you. Everything works out, I take this guy who wants Max. And the Ghost Van goes boom."

  "What's mine?"

  "The shooter," I said. "And Sally Lou."

  McGowan knew the name. He puffed furiously on his cigar. I could see where they got the idea for smoked glass. "What do you need?"

  "A massage parlor. In Times Square. And for the cops to stay away. A week, maybe two."

  "Where am I gonna get a massage parlor?"

  "McGowan, don't negotiate. I got no slack in my rope. You already got a couple of them. Maybe not you personally, but the cops have. That joint just off Forty–sixth—that was yours, right?"

  "That was a sting. The tax boys. And it's all closed down now."

  "But you got more. Yo
u've been after Sally Lou for years."

  "There is one. But it's not ours."

  "The federales?"

  "Yeah."

  "Tell them you need it. Couple of weeks. I'll staff it myself."

  "With what?"

  "Marques Dupree. He'll lend me some girls."

  "He's in this?"

  "It started with him. Like I told you. I'll be calling him in an hour. Get him over here. I want you to tell him it's okay."

  "Now you want me to make a deal with a pimp."

  "McGowan, you'd make a deal with the devil to drop Sally Lou."

  "Spell it out—what do I get?"

  "The shooter comes to the massage parlor. I talk to him. He turns over this other guy I want. We dump the shooter anyplace you say. The Ghost Van goes up in smoke. And you find everything you need to take Sally Lou down."

  "This other guy …What if it doesn't work out?"

  "I got one more deal. One more piece. You and me take a walk over to that brown Pontiac. The one I came out of. There's a girl sitting in the front seat. You take a good long look at her. Whatever happens, you make sure she walks away. In exchange, I leave you a letter. With everything in it. The Ghost Van, the shooter, this karate–freak, the shooting in the Chelsea playground, Sally Lou."

  "And I let the girl walk?"

  "She'll be the one mailing you the letter. Enough for a dozen cases."

  "Let's take a look," he said.

  141

  WE STROLLED to the Pontiac. I motioned for Belle to roll down her window.

  "This is Detective McGowan, NYPD," I told her. She didn't take her hands out of her lap. "He's the one you're going to mail that letter to, okay?"

  "Okay." No expression on her face.

  We walked back to McGowan's car. Morales was halfway across the parking lot. McGowan waved him in.

  "One more thing," I said.

  "What now?"

  "You know Morelli? The reporter?"

  "Sure."

  "He gets it first. Exclusive. He'll take care of you."

  "And your people."

  I nodded.

  "Okay," he said.

  Morales joined us. "Take a walk with me," McGowan said. "I'll fill you in."

  I went back to the Pontiac, let myself in, watched McGowan and Morales standing by the pay phone on the pier.

  "Good girl."

  "What's in this letter I'm supposed to mail?"

  "A free pass—I'll tell you later."

  I watched McGowan pick up the phone. He talked for a couple of minutes. Stood where he was. Picked up the phone again. Talked some more. Waved.

  "Be right back," I told Belle.

  I walked up to McGowan. "Call the pimp," he said.

  142

  MARQUES WAS on his car phone. Answered it himself.

  "You know who this is?"

  "Yeah, man. What…"

  "The Maiden Lane pier. Now. It's coming down."

  "I ain't walking into no…"

  "This is a safe place, Marques. The only fucking safe place for you in the city, you don't show up."

  I hung up.

  McGowan stood on one side of me, Morales close on the other.

  "You know Sadie's Sexsational?"

  I laughed.

  "What's so funny?"

  "Girl got beat up there. Real bad, right? So bad the cops moved in, closed it down."

  Morales turned to me. "You think that's funny?"

  "I think you're funny," I said to McGowan. "You've been running the place ever since, right? That joint doesn't belong to the federales. You called One Police Plaza, not the FBI."

  McGowan touched the brim of his hat. "What d'you care?"

  "I don't. In fact, that joint is perfect."

  "Why?"

  "Good location," I told him, eyes flat.

  Morales didn't like any of this. His eyes scanned the pier, waiting for the pimp.

  "You guys know what to do?" I asked McGowan.

  "We'll make it clear to him."

  I lit a smoke.

  "How you gonna get the shooter into this one massage parlor?" McGowan asked.

  "I know what he wants."

  143

  The Rolls purred into the parking lot.

  "That's him," I said.

  "We know. Go and get him."

  Marques was behind the wheel, Christina next to him.

  "Thanks for showing."

  "You didn't give me much motherfucking choice."

  "Be cool, Marques. Be yourself—show your class. Walk over to the water with me."

  "I don't like this."

  I leaned in the window. "I wanted you off the count, you'd be in the morgue. You know it, I know it. This is legit. Come on."

  He exchanged a look with Christina. Got out of the Rolls. We walked to the water. I couldn't see McGowan or his partner.

  "I'm taking over a massage parlor," I said.

  "You?"

  "Me. And I need some girls. For a couple of weeks."

  "You crazy, man."

  "I got the van, Marques. I got it pinned to the wall. Start counting that bounty money; it'll be mine soon."

  "What's that got to do with…"

  "The van didn't move by itself. You wanted it off the street, you think I was gonna give it a flat tire?"

  "Look, man…"

  "I need the girls. Fill the joint up, make it look righteous. They can keep everything they score. The guy who did Sabrina? The pain–freak? He's the one—the lead to the van. I got to pull him in."

  "My girls don't…"

  "I know they don't. But you know some who do, right? I just need one. She takes the pain–tricks, your girls take the rest. You keep the cash. This one guy comes in, the show's over."

  "My girls don't…Hey!"

  McGowan stepped in behind me; I saw Morales roll up behind Marques.

  "You know who this is?" I asked Marques.

  "Yeah, man," he sneered. "Every player knows Detective McGowan."

  "You don't want to know him better, you'll shut up and listen. He's here to tell you something."

  McGowan leaned over my shoulder. "Nobody's going to bother Sadie's Sexsational for a couple of weeks, Mister Dupree. Nobody. Not the wise guys, not the heat. Got it?"

  "I got it."

  Morales pressed in against Marques. "Get this. You go along, you get along. You don't, I got a little girl. Says you tried to pull her. Says you had mucho coke in your ride. More than enough for a warrant. I toss your car, I find a couple of fucking kilos. Any fucking time I want."

  Marques nodded. "I'm in. You got it."

  McGowan spoke to him. "You got two days. Friday night, nine o'clock, you be there. With your girls."

  "It's in the bank, man."

  Morales pressed closer. "Or you're in the joint."

  Marques walked back to his car alone. He didn't look back.

  "I see your hand got better," McGowan said.

  "I got more cards in it," I told him.

  144

  I WAITED until McGowan and his partner pulled off before I went back to the Pontiac.

  "What's going on?" Belle asked.

  "It's coming together, little girl."

  I drove a few feet to the pay phone, left the engine running, dialed Mama.

  "It's me. Michelle call?"

  "Yes. Come here tonight. Eleven."

  145

  BACK IN the office, I let Pansy out, told Belle to stay where she was. I went down to the basement, came back with a big metal box. Belle watched as I laid the stuff out. I lit a smoke, left it smoldering on the edge of the desk while I worked. My hands were moving on the equipment, but I was watching a different picture in my mind. Seeing it happen.

  I picked up the cigarette, took a last drag.

  "Belle, honey, would you take off your top?"

  She pulled it over her head.

  "The bra too, okay?"

  She unsnapped it, waited. Her breasts made a joke of gravity, the blue necklace falling just
to the cleft. It wouldn't work like that. "Wait here," I told her.

  I came back with a white T–shirt of mine. "Try this."

  She slipped into it. Her breasts fought the thin material, the cleavage gone. No good.

  "You have any real thin tops? Gauzy, maybe? The kind you can see through?"

  "Like a nightgown?"

  "That might work…if you have a real short one."

  "I have a couple. Some teddies too."

  "No. I need something that kind of opens down the middle. So your breasts stay separated."

  "Why, baby? I can go buy anything you want."

  I held up a pistol. From the side, it looked exactly like a Colt Python .357 magnum, even down to the ventilated rib across the top of the barrel. "You know what this is?"

  "A gun."

  "It's not, though. It's a gas gun. Works off CO2 cartridges. It shoots these things," I said, showing her a handful of red plastic balls.

  "What are they?"

  "Paint pellets. Sixty–two–caliber. The survival–freaks use them when they play their little war games. The pellet hits you, it leaves a red splat, so you know who got hit."

  "Do they hurt?"

  "They sting. Especially up close. And you can feel them smack into you."

  "What'd you want with it?"

  "I got a plan, Belle. And part of it, I got to pretend to shoot you. Up close. Real close."

  She pulled the T–shirt over her head. "Go ahead. Let me see how it feels."

  "No. When it happens, you've got to feel it for the first time. You know it doesn't hurt, you won't act nervous enough."

  "Honey…

  "You don't want to do it, say so."

  "There's nothing I wouldn't do for you."

  "I know," I said, holding her against me. I gave her a kiss. "Let me work now. I have to see it."

  "See what?"

  "See it happen. Like in karate, when they train you to punch. You don't punch at something, you punch through it. You have to see it happening, see your fist go right through the board. You don't see it, it doesn't happen. Something goes wrong in your head and it stops your hands. Okay?"

  She nodded, solemn–faced.

  I went back to work. The paint gun would need something that looked like a silencer. I fitted a piece of aluminum tubing, trying it out. Coming to it.