Blue Belle Page 4

  I didn't fill the silence with the radio or my tapes. The radio works, but the faceplate is really just to disguise the police–band scanner built into the dash.

  And all my tapes are the blues.

  Kids can't sing the blues; when they try, it sounds wrong. They have the pain, but not the range.

  We rolled over the Triboro to the Bronx. The kid watched as I tossed a token into the basket in the Exact Change lane. Learning. Don't call attention to yourself. When we pulled up to the junkyard, Terry made a circle with his finger. Go around to the back.

  The back fence was heavy–gauge cyclone mesh, with three twisted bands of razor wire running across the top. Everything was two–tone: pollution–gray and rust.

  A big dog the same color as the fence was basking in a patch of late–afternoon sunlight. His lupine face was impassive as we approached, but his ears stood straight up. Yellow eyes tracked the car, locking onto the target like a heat–seeking missile. An American Junkyard Dog. Best of a breed the American Kennel Club never imagined. City wolf.

  I pulled the car parallel to the fence, Terry's door closest to the dog. The beast growled deep in his chest. Dark shapes moved behind the fence. Dots of light and flashes of white. Eyes and teeth, both ready.

  "Tell the Mole Michelle has his money."

  "Okay, Burke."

  Terry climbed out of the Plymouth, flipped the door closed behind him. Walked over to the dog, talking in a low voice. The beast walked over to meet him. Terry scratched the dog behind his ear, standing next to him. I knew the dog wouldn't move until I did, so I wheeled the car in a tight circle, heading back the way I came. When I looked back, Terry was down on all fours, following the dog through a cut–out section of the fence. He had to twist sideways to get in.

  16

  IT WAS dark by the time l turned into the narrow street behind the old paper–tube factory where I have my office. The garage is set into the building just past the sidewalk. When the landlord converted the joint into living lofts, he bricked up the old loading bay, where the trucks used to pull in, to make room for storefronts. The garage only has room for one car, right at the end of a row of little shops. I pulled in, hit the switch; the door rattled down, leaving me in darkness. I locked the car, took the steel steps up four flights, walking quietly past the entrance to each hallway. The doors lock from the outside and I keep them that way. There's another flight of stairs at the far end of each floor. If there's a fire, the tenants know which way to go.

  When I got to the top floor, I let myself into the hall. I closed the door behind me. It looked like a blank wall.

  There's no sign on my door. My name's not on the directory downstairs. As far as the tenants know, the fifth floor is sealed off. Most of it is.

  I don't have a lease. I don't pay rent. The landlord's son did something very stupid a few years ago. The landlord is a rich man, and he spent the right money in the right places. The kid has a new name, a new face, and a new life. Home free. Until I found him. I wasn't looking for the little weasel, but I knew who was. They still are.

  It's not a home, it's where I live for now. When the time comes I have to leave, I won't look back. I'll take everything I need with me.

  And when I walk away, there won't even be a fingerprint left for them to play with.

  17

  I TURNED the key ,listening to the bolts snap back. Three dead bolts: one into the steel frame on the side, another at the top, the final one directly into the floor. The hall's too narrow for a battering ram. By the time anyone broke in, I'd have long enough to do anything I needed to do.

  Another key for the doorknob. I turned it twice to the right and once to the left, and stepped inside.

  "It's me, Pansy," I said to the monster sitting in the middle of the dark room.

  The monster made a noise somewhere between a snarl and a growl. A Neapolitan mastiff, maybe 140 pounds of muscle and bone, topped with a head the size of a cannonball and just about as thick. So dark she was almost black, Pansy blended into the room like a malevolent shadow, teeth shielded, cold–water eyes unflickering. Pansy can't handle complex thoughts. She wasn't sure if she was glad to see me or sorry she wasn't going to get to tear some flesh. Then she smelled the Chinese food and the issue was settled. The snarl changed to a whine, and slobber poured from her jaws. I threw her the hand signal for "Stay!" and hit the light switch.

  The office is one small room. Desk facing the door, one chair behind, one in front. No windows. Couch against one wall. To the left, there's another door, leading to the office where my secretary works. The door's a fake. So's the secretary. The other wall is covered with a Persian rug that never got closer to Iran than 14th Street. The floor is covered with Astroturf. I told my decorator I wanted low–maintenance modern.

  I pulled the rug aside and stepped into another room, even smaller than the office. Tiny stand–up shower I installed myself, sink and toilet in one corner. Hot plate and refrigerator in another. A cot between them. The back door opens out to a landing. The fire escape rusted off years ago.

  I opened the back door, calling for Pansy, and stepped out to the landing. Watched the Hudson River slime–flow to the west, patting my dog's head as she stood next to me. Three rooms, with view.

  Pansy ambled past me, taking the stairs to the roof. She's been lumping her loads up there for years. There's stuff growing on the roof I don't even want to think about.

  Pansy came back downstairs as I was putting away the food Mama packed for me. I pulled a big slab of roast pork from a container, held it in front of her. Every fiber of her dim brain focused on that pork. An icicle of drool formed in one corner of her gaping mouth, but she didn't move. She wouldn't take the food until she heard the magic word. It's called poison–proofing.

  "Speak!" I yelled at her, tossing the slab of pork in a gentle arc toward her face. It didn't last as long as a politician's promise. I tried a big fat egg roll. One chomp, and Pansy was swallowing in ecstasy, pieces of egg roll all over the floor. "You're a slob," I told her. She nodded happily.

  Pansy's food–supply system is against the wall. A pair of hollowed–out cement cinder blocks with a forty–pound sack of dry dog food suspended above one and a tube connected to the sink above the other. When either bowl is empty, she pushes against the tube with her snout and it fills again.

  I filled a big ceramic bowl with three quarts of Mama's cooking and told her to make a pig of herself. She buried her face up to the eyes in the steaming mess, making noises Stephen King never dreamed of. I threw some of the marrow bones into a pot and put them on the hot plate to boil.

  I went inside to my desk. It was almost seven–thirty, and the woman Mama had spoken to said to call before nine. There was a phone on my desk. It never rang, and I never got a bill from Ma Bell—the Mole had it connected to the trust–fund hippies who lived downstairs. I could use it early in the morning, when the sensitive artists were still recovering from trying to find the light at the end of the marijuana tunnel they'd explored the night before, but not otherwise.

  I'd had the phone for years. No problems. I never used it for long–distance calls. That's why God made other people's credit cards.

  The office looked the same way it always does. I don't get clients coming here much. The last one was Flood. The day I let her in, she came in too deep. I lit a cigarette, not wanting to think about the chubby little blonde headhunter. She came into my life, got what she came for, and left me empty.

  I didn't want to think about Flood. She came too often in my sleep. "I'm for you, Burke," I can still hear her saying. The way only a woman can say. And only say it once, if it's the truth.

  It was.

  Part of the full bloom I was still waiting for.

  I went out to make my phone call.

  18

  ALMOST EIGHT by the time I found the pay phone I wanted. Near the river, just a couple of blocks from the Yuppietown the developers had built by reclaiming a piece of the Hudson. Within eyeshot of
the bullshit "security lights" flanking the high–rise but safe in a pool of darkness.

  Like I was.

  I don't like cold calls. My phone number's circulated all over this city. The phone's listed to Juan Rodriguez, and the address is the back end of a junkyard I own. The old man who runs it draws me a paycheck every two weeks. I cash it and give him back the money. It makes me a citizen—I pay my taxes, build up my Social Security, all that. Having a citizen's name is important. The name opens the door to all the goodies: legit address, driver's license, Social Security card. don't lose any sleep worrying about the FBI, but the IRS is another game. I have a birth certificate too. It's so phony it even has a father's tame on it.

  My credit with Ma Bell is excellent. Never miss a payment. Never make any toll calls. I never make any calls at all. Anyone who calls the junkyard number activates the call diverter I have set up. The signal bounces over to one of the phones at Mama's.

  I unscrewed the mouthpiece of the pay phone and slipped in the flat disk the Mole gave me. It changes my voice just enough to throw off the machines, in case anyone's listening. I pulled the tiny tape recorder from my coat and hit the switch; the booth was flooded with the background noise from a bowling alley. The number had a 718 area code. Brooklyn or Queens. I dropped a quarter and dialed the number.

  She answered on the third ring. A young girl's voice, with the hard twang that sounds Southern unless you've spent some time in Detroit.

  "Hello?"

  "Belle?"

  "Who's this?"

  "Burke. Returning your call."

  "Oh. I didn't think it would be so fast. I'm doing a favor for someone. Someone who wants to talk to you."

  "Who?"

  "I'd rather tell you in person."

  "I'd rather you tell me over the phone."

  "I can't do that. I promised."

  "What's in it for me?"

  "Money."

  "How much money?"

  "That depends. You'd have to work it out with him. I just said I'd talk to you. Tell you about it. See if you're interested in getting together."

  "You get paid win or lose?"

  "Yes."

  "Tell him I said no, and collect your money."

  "You have to hear me out. Tell me to my face. That's the deal."

  "That's not my deal."

  Her voice shifted, dropped a note. "What is your deal?"

  "Time is money. My time is your money, okay?"

  "How much money?"

  "How much time?"

  "Fifteen minutes."

  "Five yards."

  "That's a lot of money."

  I didn't say anything, listening to the silence at her end, the sound of pins falling at mine.

  "Can you meet me? Tonight?"

  "Is he there with you?"

  "No."

  "How do you know he'll go for the cash?"

  "I don't. I have to make some calls. I work at…"

  "I don't care where you work," I said, cutting her off. "Do what you have to do. Speak to the man. I'll call you tomorrow morning."

  "Not before eleven, okay? I get in late."

  "You have a car?"

  "Yes."

  "I'll call you tomorrow. Tell you where to come and meet me. You bring the money—we'll talk."

  "Thank you," the young girl's voice said, and she broke the connection.

  19

  WHEN I called her the next morning, her voice sounded the same. Not breathy, or trying to be sexy. Short–winded.

  "I got the go–ahead."

  "And the money?"

  "Yes."

  "What kind of car do you drive?"

  "A Camaro. A red one. With a T–top."

  "You know Metropolitan Avenue?"

  "In Queens? By the cemeteries?"

  "Yeah. Take it west. Like you're going to the city, okay? Just keep going until it crosses over into Brooklyn. You'll come to a little drawbridge. Go over the bridge and look for a gas station on your right. Just pull up to the pumps—I'll meet you there."

  "What time?"

  "Three."

  "How will I know you?"

  "I'll be the man asking for the money."

  20

  I TOOK the Delancey Street Bridge out of Manhattan, hooked back around to Metropolitan Avenue. I cruised past the gas station. At two in the afternoon, it looked the way it always does—a wino asleep in the sun, a dead bottle of T–bird half out of a paper bag next to him. A pair of red–brown dogs that had never been pets swept the empty concrete, all legs and ribs, looking for food. A black guy wearing a winter coat, tattered cowboy hat on his head, pushing a supermarket basket full of cans and bottles, checking the alleys for more nuggets. Grayish dust from the concrete plant on the other side of the drawbridge settled over everything. The sun hit hard. The wino was half in shadow—he'd been sleeping a long time.

  I parked the Plymouth a few blocks away, backed in against the metallic strip of water that carried the ore barges under the drawbridge. It took me less than five minutes to get back to the gas station. I found myself a comfortable spot against the wall and sat down to wait.

  The skinny dogs circled, watchful. I reached into the paper bag next to me and took out a piece of cheese. I unwrapped it slowly, watching them from beneath the brim of my battered felt hat. I tossed the cheese in their direction, arcing it gently so they'd know it was no threat. The bigger dog moved in, sniffed it quickly, and took it into his mouth. He moved away, chewing slowly. I unwrapped another piece, tossed it the same way. The big dog's partner dashed in, snatched it, and moved back to where the other one was standing.

  I lit a cigarette, watching the dogs sniff the air, trying to do the same. From where I sat, there was no way to approach the gas station without me seeing it. I wasn't worried about customers—the only gas in the place was in the plastic bottle in my paper bag.

  Almost an hour passed. I'd gone through several smokes, and the dogs had exhausted my supply of cheese. They wouldn't come close enough for me to touch, but the big guy sat about ten feet away, watching me; his partner stretched out next to him.

  I was completely in shadow when the red Camaro pulled up to the pumps. The windows were down. A woman in the front seat. She turned off the engine. The dogs left me, ambling over to the car. Trucks rumbled by on Metropolitan.

  She got out of the car. A big woman. Honey–taffy hair, hacked off near her shoulders, bangs covering her forehead almost to her eyes. She was wearing a peach–colored sweatshirt over a pair of loose white pants. Hands on hips, she turned one complete circle, sweeping the area.

  I came to my feet quietly, moved to her. She saw me coming, a wino with a paper bag in one hand. She stood her ground.

  "Hello, Belle," I said.

  "You're Burke?"

  I nodded, watching her eyes to see if she was expecting company of her own. Her eyes were small, dark, set close together. Her face was round, smooth—unformed except for a tiny pointed chin. She was as tall as I was, wider through the shoulders and hips. I glanced at her feet. White running shoes, small, like her hands. No watch. No rings.

  The back seat of the Camaro was empty. "Would you open the trunk?" I asked her.

  "Why?"

  "I want to see if you've got a spare."

  She bobbed her head like she understood. Bent inside the car to pull the keys from the ignition. Her hips flexed under the loose white pants. She handed me the keys. The trunk held only a blue overnight case.

  I motioned her to get in the car, climbed behind the wheel, and started it up. She walked around the front of the car, opened the passenger door, turned her back to me, swung her butt inside, and dropped it into the seat. Pulled her legs in and closed the door. She filled the seat. Sat there, tiny hands in her lap. Waiting.

  I drove aimlessly around the area for a few minutes. Nothing out of place. The second time I passed the spot where I'd parked the Plymouth, I pulled in next to it, nose toward the water. I got out, walked around to the back of the car, lea
ned against the trunk. Belle followed me. Stood next to me. Put her hands behind her, palms against the trunk. Hoisted herself up. The trunk bounced a few times with her weight. If the hot metal was burning into her backside, she didn't show it.

  "The man who wants to meet you…"

  I held up my hand like a traffic cop. "We had a deal."

  She pulled up her sweatshirt. A bunch of bills was folded into the waistband of her pants. Green on milk. She pulled the sheaf of bills out, handed it to me. All fifties. Ten of them. Used. I slipped them into my shirt pocket.

  "Fifteen minutes," I told her.

  "There's a man who wants to meet with you. He doesn't want you to get the wrong idea."

  "This man have a name?"

  I watched her face in profile. Her nose was barely a bump—lost on her broad, round face. A bead of clear sweat ran down one cheek. "Marques Dupree," she said.

  I took a drag on my cigarette. "I already have the wrong idea," I told her.

  "You said you'd hear me out."

  I took another drag.

  "He has a problem. A big problem. He said you're the man to help him—you'd know what to do."

  "I know what to do. Why should I do it?"

  "He said this is something you'd want to do."

  "You know what it is?"

  "No."

  "So what's there to talk about?"

  "Marques wants to meet with you. He said you wouldn't come if he called."

  "He's right."

  "He sent me to show you he's on the square. It's a job, okay? That's all."

  "I don't work for Marques."

  "He said you'd say that too. All he wants is for you to meet with him."

  I bit into the cigarette, thinking. Marques was doing this the right way. He wouldn't be stupid enough to just roll up on me—he didn't have the weight for that. If Marques Dupree was coming to me, he had to have real troubles.

  "You one of his ladies?" I asked her.

  Her tiny chin came up. She turned full–face to me. Her close–set eyes were almost black; I couldn't see the pupils. "I'm not a whore." She wasn't mad—just setting it straight.