Blue Belle Read online

  "I know. Goodbye, Mama."

  She hung up. A sadness–shudder passed through me, leaving me chilled. I lit a cigarette and started to write.

  156

  FRIDAY NIGHT. Eight o'clock. I followed Pansy down the back stairs, a heavy suitcase in each hand. Belle behind me, carrying two more. I left her in the garage with all the stuff, snapped the lead on Pansy, and went for a walk.

  Electric fear–jolts danced through me. Pansy felt it. Her massive head swung back and forth, pinning everyone she saw. Her teeth snapped together in little clicks, kill noises slipping through. Her eyes were ice cubes.

  A yuppie couple approached, her hand through his arm. They crossed the street. A wino was propped against the car right next to the Pontiac. I tightened the leash. Pansy lunged, snarling. He sobered up, moved off. I opened the door, put Pansy in the back seat.

  Belle was ready when I pulled up in front of the garage. I popped the trunk; we threw the suitcases inside and moved off.

  West Side Highway to Tenth Avenue. Across 30th down to Twelfth. And then a right turn back into what the tour guides would call the heart of Times Square.

  The fear–jolts were spiking inside me. Pansy prowled the back seat, side to side; her face loomed at the windows.

  "Jump!" I snapped at her. Nobody'd remember the Pontiac, but nobody'd forget Pansy. She went down, snarling her hate for whatever was frightening me.

  I found the alley, nosed the car in, creeping forward, driving with my left hand, the pistol cocked in my right. The fenced–off section was where McGowan said it would be—huge padlock in place. I stopped the car, popped the door for Pansy, calling to her. "Watch!"

  I walked to the fence, the gun in front, poking its way through the darkness.

  A flashlight beam behind the fence. I hit the ground, leveling the pistol as Pansy charged past me, throwing herself at the chain links. "Don't shoot—it's me." The Mole's voice. I called Pansy off, met him at the fence. He reached through, opened the padlock, swung the gate open. I pulled the Pontiac inside, between a white panel truck with the name of some kosher butcher shop on the side and a dark station wagon. "All ours?" I asked the Mole.

  "Sure," he said.

  157

  WE FOLLOWED him inside. Big room, dim lights, cartons stacked against the walls, steel shelving loaded with video cassettes.

  "Basement," the Mole said.

  "You know about the video store next door? Like I told you over the phone?"

  The Mole barely kept the sneer from his voice. "I was in last night." He held up a ring of keys. We could go visit the cops, but they couldn't come see us.

  Upstairs, we walked through the place. The front door was between two windows, one a little square patch of glass, the other running down the length of the place. All the glass was blacked out except for the little square near the door. Lights flashed outside.

  "One–way glass," the Mole explained.

  The joint was a long hall, L–shaped at the far end. Rooms opened off the corridor. Tiny hook–and–eye locks inside. Vinyl massage tables set up for quick–change sheets. Wood benches in some, leather chairs in others. They all had tables in a corner, bottles of lotions, perfumes, air fresheners. Tiny sinks against the wall. Heavy mats on the walls. All class. The L–shaped area was much larger. Bathrooms off to the side. Big ones, complete with glassed–in stall showers. Partitions made a private office in one corner. Red leather executive's chair, blond wood desk, red leather couch, white two–line phone. Even had a view—dirt–streaked window, thick bars running the full width across.

  I walked back through the place, the Mole behind me. Wall–to–wall industrial–grade carpeting that had once been pink covered every square inch of floor. Recessed lighting ran the length of the hall. A desk was set up against the wall right across from the door. A wood railing made two gates—one to the desk, one to the corridor. Huge blowup pictures covered the walls of the entryway. Only two chairs, both against the left–hand wall. No Waiting. A giant round mirror was in the upper right–hand corner, cocked at the angle formed by the wall and the ceiling. I sat at the desk, looked up. You could see the length of the corridor.

  "We need a …"

  "Periscope," the Mole stepped on my lines. "You stay in the back room, see every face that comes in."

  "Okay. What's that?" I asked, pointing to a light on the desk.

  "Switch in every room. Girl has trouble, she pushes it."

  The phone on the desk rang. I picked it up. "Yeah?"

  "It's me." McGowan's voice. "I'm next door. I see you managed to get in."

  "We're in." I looked around. "One more thing. I can't work the bouncer job in here. Got to stay out of sight. I'm going to have some boys sent over."

  "What kind of boys?"

  "Chinese boys."

  "No way! That's all I need. Can you rig up a buzzer? Between us? Your man hits it, we'll have someone through the basement in a minute."

  I looked at the Mole. He nodded. Rigging a buzzer wasn't going to overload his brain cells.

  "Okay, we'll take care of it right away."

  "Hey, Burke?"

  "What?"

  "Tell your man to leave the door open, okay?"

  I hung up on him.

  158

  MICHELLE SHOWED a little later. You could see her through the square piece of glass. The Mole buzzed her inside. She was wearing a scarlet pants suit over a white turtleneck sweater, black spikes on her feet. The Mole and I stayed out of her way as she stalked the length of the corridor. Me smoking, watching the door, the Mole starting to set up the periscope.

  Michelle came back to the front room, hands on hips. "This place is the pits. Mole, I need everything out of the first room. That'll be my office. And put that disgusting tool belt someplace—you're supposed to be the manager, not the janitor."

  "I have to fix things," the Mole said, mildly.

  "Well, go ahead and fix things. I'll go out tomorrow, get you some decent clothes."

  "Michelle…"

  "Don't you Michelle me. I work my beautiful butt off to keep my kid in nice clothes, and every time I see him he looks more like you, God forbid."

  "He's my boy too."

  "Sure. Next thing, you'll want him Bar Mitzvahed."

  The Mole said nothing—even a lunatic knows the limit.

  I left them to fight over who was going to go back to the junkyard every morning to check on the kid.

  159

  BELLE AND Pansy were in the back. Pansy was stretched out on the couch, Belle in the chair. "You okay?" I asked her.

  "I'm fine, baby."

  I gave her a kiss. Heard the buzzer. Female noises, Michelle's voice cutting through the chatter. I heard someone coming back, stepped outside into the big room. It was Michelle.

  "I have to have a meeting with my girls. And take some pictures. It's gonna be a while—you both just stay back here, keep it quiet."

  I nodded, putting my finger to my lips. Pansy closed her eyes.

  A couple of minutes later, I heard Michelle bossing the Mole, telling him where she wanted the light stands, not to get his greasy hands on the lens. One day she was going to push him over the edge.

  The room filled with girls. Pansy's face wrinkled at the overpowering smells. Michelle's voice:

  "Okay, now, I understand you ladies have not worked inside before. Which one of you is Christina?"

  "Marques says Miss Bitch don't have to do this. Just us."

  Murmur of voices.

  "Well, girls, it seems to me that opportunity is knocking. Here's the way we work it: the trick pays thirty bucks—he gets fifteen minutes. Straight massage, that's a handshake. He wants something more, anything more, that's an extra, got it? The trick pays at the front desk; whatever he tips, that's up to you."

  "How much for the extras?" one girl asked.

  "You decide. Set your own list. And don't do anything you don't want to do, got it? You turn over your tips to Marques, you don't turn them over, it's
not my problem."

  "But Marques…"

  "Marques isn't running this show. I am. And I run it my way. Now, which one of you turns the hard tricks?"

  "That's me." A husky grown–woman's voice.

  "What's your name, honey?"

  "Bambi."

  "Okay, Bambi. You set your prices, you keep the coin. And listen :o me, girl. This is a no–risk gig, you follow me? There's a button in each of your rooms—I'll show you where it is. You hit the button, and we have some nasty men to take care of any problem."

  "The guy with the tool belt?" one of them giggled.

  Michelle's voice went from sweet cream to barbed wire without missing a beat. "That man with the tool belt, honey, he makes people disappear. You watch your smart mouth, bitch. Your idea of a hard guy's some half–ass nigger pimp with a coat hanger in his hands."

  "Hey!"

  "You want to get down, go for it. Right now."

  The room went quiet.

  Michelle let the silence hang. Then she sheathed her claws. "Honey, I've been around longer than this sweet young face shows. Now, I want to treat all of you like the ladies you are. Nobody's going to mistreat you while you work for me. Nobody's going to disrespect you. You work your shift, you mind your business, and you make some nice money. We're just moving the stroll indoors for a couple of weeks, that's all. But anyone gets the idea they can fuck with my friends, they go back to work without a face."

  The room was quiet again.

  "Okay?"

  The girls stepped on themselves agreeing with her.

  "Fine. Now, the next thing, we have to put together some portfolios for each of you."

  "Like models?"

  "Of course, like models. Isn't that what we are? Are we any different from those walking sticks in the magazines? A john comes in, he comes to the desk. We show him the book. Pictures of each of you. He picks the one he wants."

  "We don't have to line up?"

  "This isn't the precinct, honey. A trick wants to see live skin, he puts his money down. Now, there's five girls, we got nine rooms. The first one, the one near the desk, that's mine. Leave the last two empty, the ones right across from here. You divide the rest the way you want—Bambi, you take the one furthest back. And no fighting! Tomorrow I'll go out and get some decent furnishings. Okay? Now, we are not open for business tonight. You come back, one at a time, we'll put the portfolios together. When we're done, you can hang around or you can split. Be back tomorrow. Four o'clock. We'll work twelve–hour shifts; you leave at four in the morning. Any questions?"

  Nobody said a word.

  "One more thing. This place is under heavy protection. You'll never see a cop in here. You play this right, it's a working girl's dream."

  160

  "WHAT'S YOUR name, honey?" Michelle asked.

  "MaryAnne."

  "Let's lose the black stockings, honey. Your legs are already so nice and slim—the black won't show them off."

  "Okay."

  "And just a touch more rouge… there! Brings out your color. Now, sit straight in the chair. Cross your legs. Elegant!"

  "Michelle?"

  "Yes, honey?"

  "The guy with the tool belt? The one out front? Boy, you were right about him. He had this jar of water on the desk, fiddling with some locks. Marcy flashed her ass at him, sat on the desk. Asked him if he ever sampled the merchandise. He drops a key in the glass of water, and it disappeared!"

  "I told you not to play with him."

  "I won't. Does he ever…"

  "He's not for hire," Michelle snapped. "Now, flash me a smile."

  161

  BAMBI WAS the last one in. "Any special way you want this?" Michelle asked her.

  "I've got my own handcuffs. I can twist right out of them if I have to. Can I loop them around the back of this chair?"

  "Sure, honey. Go ahead. Bend forward. More. Give your butt a little shake. Beautiful."

  Sound of handcuffs clicking. "You don't put me down for it?"

  "Why should I?"

  "Some of the other girls…"

  "You got a pimp?"

  "No."

  "So who's the masochist?"

  Bambi laughed.

  162

  THE GIRLS were gone by one in the morning. "You're next," she told Belle.

  I snapped the lead on Pansy, taking her to the basement. The Mole followed me down, shining his flash. "All fixed," he said.

  "Okay, Mole. We roll tomorrow for real. Any way I can get Pansy down here without going past the other rooms?"

  "Only to the basement, not outside."

  "We'll do it that way. Over in that corner," I said, pointing. "Watch where you step from now on."

  We went back upstairs. "Try the buzzer," I told him. He hit the switch. I counted in my head. Thirty–five seconds, Morales burst through the door, gun in his hand. "Which way?" he snapped.

  "Just testing it," I said.

  "Next time make it real. I'm looking forward to it."

  163

  IN THE back room. Michelle was working on Belle's face. Cat's–eye makeup, pancaked cheeks, slash of red across her mouth. It didn't look like her. "This is mousse—it'll wash right out," said Michelle, spraying it over Belle's hair, working it through with her fingers. "Let's see…You'll turn over your right shoulder"—pancaking that side of her face. "Try it."

  Belle peeked over her right shoulder. Her hair was dark, face a stranger's mask.

  "Okay, let's do it."

  Belle unhooked her bra, knelt before the chair, hands on either side. Michelle wrapped a black scarf around each hand. "Slide further back to me," she said. "Let them swing free. Turn your head….Not so much."

  She went over to Belle, pulling the big girl's panties over her rump. Belle lifted a leg to help her get them off.

  "Leave them that way—like they've just been pulled down—it'll work better."

  Michelle went back to the camera. "Okay, turn your head again. Just a little bit. Can you look a little scared? Oh, forget it—I'll open the lens, blur your face. Nobody'd look past that ass anyway."

  Belle giggled. Twin dimples at the top of her butt, strip of black cloth around her thighs. The shutter clicked. Again. She shook her butt at the camera.

  "Got it," Michelle said, then snapped off the lights, carried the camera out to the front.

  The cigarette burned my mouth. I ground the tip out in the ashtray. Belle was still on her knees, watching me.

  "Make you think of something good?" she asked, wiggling again. Then she saw my face. "What's wrong, honey?"

  I walked over to her, took the loops off her hands. She put her arms around my neck. I stood up, hauling her to her feet. Reached behind me, pulled the panties back into place.

  "Go wash that crap off your face."

  "You're mad at me?"

  I held her against me. "I'm not mad at you."

  "I'm sorry, sweetheart. Truly sorry. I thought it would be a turn–on for you."

  "It made me sick to look at it."

  Her tears against my face. "I'm sorry….I'm sorry…."

  I squeezed her rear with both hands. "Shut up," I said, quietly.

  164

  THE JOINT was open and rolling the next afternoon. Michelle was there by eleven in the morning, her arms full of bags. She and Belle worked like maniacs cleaning. The dump even smelled clean when they were done.

  I stayed in the back room. The Mole would buzz me if any Hispanic male came in, anyone that could come within a half–mile of Ramón. I checked the periscope a few times on the little TV screen the Mole put on the desk. It worked perfectly.

  I spent my time checking my tools. Supermarket shopping cart full of empty plastic one–liter bottles. The kind street bums collect from garbage cans—turn them in for a nickel apiece. I ran a few copies of the Daily News through a paper shredder. Packed a half–dozen of the bottles with the paper. I filed the front sight off the long–barreled .38. A couple of tiny slits with a razor blade and the ba
rrel fit deep into the mouth of a bottle of Coke. I felt an ugly smile inside me—the real thing. I wrapped duct tape around the mouth of the bottle, sealing the pistol barrel inside. Pointed it at the wall, holding the bottle in my left hand. Pulled the trigger. It made a sound like snapping fingers. Plaster flew off the wall.

  I lined up twelve bullets. Mole specials—super–speed hot loads, mercury tips. Any one of them would total whatever it hit. Six bullets went into the long–barreled .38, another six into the two–inch revolver next to it.

  The guns were ice–cold, brand–new. No serial numbers.

  A pair of the fragmentation grenades sat on the desk, the blue handles winking at me.

  The Mole stashed a new car for me every morning. All along the river, one block apart. We had four cars now. I fingered the ignition key—it would work in all of them.

  A tattered khaki raincoat hung on a hook. It would reach well past my knees. A long blond wig was on top of the hook. Straight hair. A blue golf hat, wine–stained. An old pair of white running shoes. Baggy black pants. Black sweatshirt with a hood. Black gloves. A slap–on mustache.

  I clipped two nails on my left hand at a sharp angle. A drop of Permabond under each one. I held the razor–filed steel slivers in place against each nail, waiting for the super–glue to dry. It only took a few minutes. I brushed my left hand against a piece of paper. It fell into three pieces.

  I slid back the lid on a flat metal box, looked at the colorless paste inside. I'd pass the razors through the paste before I hit the street. Mortay had to get his hands on me to kill me—one scratch, and I wouldn't go alone.

  Belle watched me work, cat's–eye makeup on her face.

  165

  BUSINESS BOOMED. Men got buzzed in, looked through the book. Came and went.

  We cleaned up Sunday's business at five in the morning. The Mole was wearing a black silk shirt, red suspenders, cream–colored suit. Dark glasses on his face. Michelle counted a wad of cash and credit–card slips. "You look like death," she told me.