Blue Belle Page 5

  "So why you doing this?"

  She reached out a tiny hand, patted my shirt pocket. Where the money was.

  "I'll think about it, okay? Where can I find you?"

  "Me?"

  "Yeah. You. I know how to find Marques."

  "I work at The Satellite Dish. Out by JFK."

  "That's a strip joint," I said.

  Something must have shown in my face. Her tiny rosebud mouth made a quick kissing motion. "You think I'm overqualified?"

  I shrugged.

  "I work every night except Tuesday."

  I put my hand on her wrist. Gently, holding her attention. "Tell Marques not to call me. If I want to meet him, I'll come and tell you first."

  "What if you don't want to see him?"

  "Then I won't," I told her, guiding her back into the driver's seat, motioning for her to take off.

  I started walking in the opposite direction. The Camaro drove off. I watched over my shoulder as she turned the corner; then I went back to the Plymouth.

  21

  THE WAREHOUSE off Division Street in Chinatown looked like it always does. Empty. Deserted. I pulled in, turned off the engine. Waited. When I heard the door close behind me, I knew Max was home.

  The warehouse was furnished with dim shadows. I followed Max up the back stairs to the second floor. He usually went to the back room, where we'd work on our life–sentence gin game. Something different today. Max stopped on the landing. His temple was upstairs. The dojo where he practiced, the teak floor marked with a white–pine border. The sacred ground where Flood met a freak who called himself the Cobra. The killing floor.

  Immaculata was sitting in a low chair in a corner of the white room. A black lacquer table covered with books and papers at her elbow. The baby sat across from her, wearing only a diaper, her little face grave as she watched her mother work. A butcher–block table ran the length of one wall, with hardwood straight–back chairs at each end. Max gestured to one of the chairs. I sat down as Immaculata put her notes aside and rose to her feet.

  "Hello, Burke."

  "Hi, Mac. How's Flower?"

  "She is a perfect child," Mac said, as though she'd carefully considered all the other possibilities. "Some tea?"

  "Thank you," I said, knowing what she meant.

  Mac started to walk into the next room. The baby made a sound, less than a cry, maybe a question. Mac knelt next to her child, speaking quietly, her voice steel–cored. "Mother will come back, baby. Always come back, yes? Never leave you." She kissed the infant gravely on the forehead. Waved a goodbye gesture to the child. Again and again, patiently, until the child moved her hand too. "Smart baby!" Immaculata clapped.

  I took out a cigarette, held it up for Max to see, asking if it was okay to smoke near the child.

  Max pointed to an ashtray the size of a dinner plate, aluminum on the outside, glazed red ceramic on the inside. He lit a cigarette of his own, blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. Spreading his arms to say the whole world smoked and the baby wasn't going to spend the rest of her life in the house.

  Immaculata came back inside. She had a pot of tea with two cups, a glass of iced ginger ale for me. "I have your mail," she said, handing me a stack of letters. I use a P.O. box over in Jersey. One of Mama's drivers empties it for me about every two weeks, leaves the letters in Mama's basement. Max picks them up when he has the chance and holds them for me. I shuffled through them. Nothing from Japan. Nothing from Flood. I put them in my coat.

  Immaculata pulled up a chair, joined us, one eye on her baby. Flower was gurgling happily to herself. It sounded like singing.

  Max held up one finger, catching my eye. Pay attention.

  He moved off his chair without a sound, crouched behind the baby. Suddenly he slapped his hands together. It sounded like a gunshot. The baby jumped, trying to turn her head in the direction of the sound. Max scooped her up and held her against his chest, nuzzling her, his horn–callused hands now soft as a cloud. The baby's tiny hands searched—found one of his fingers, grabbed, and held.

  Max carried the baby back to his chair, held her on his lap. Smiling.

  Immaculata stood watching him, hands on hips. "Max!" she snapped, stamping her foot. He ignored her, watching me.

  Immaculata sighed. "When I was pregnant, he'd do that all the time. He said the baby could hear him. When she came out of my body, he made everyone be quiet. He waited until she was nursing.…Then he clapped his hands like that. When she moved—when she heard him—I thought he was going to burst, he was so happy."

  "She recognized his voice," I said.

  "Sure. That's what he said."

  "What else could it be?"

  "I think"—she looked at her husband—"I think he was afraid our baby would be born deaf."

  "Was Max born deaf?"

  "I never asked him," she said, a slight warning tone in her voice.

  He was my brother. I had earned the right to know. Earned it in a prison cell. I pointed at Max. Made a gesture as if I was rocking a baby. Pointed at him again. At my ear.

  His face went hard, eyes slitted, mouth a straight line. He shook his head. No.

  I opened my hands. "How?"

  Max gently picked up his baby, carried her back over to the floor, put her down. Kissed her. He stood between Immaculata and me. Pointed to himself again. A fist flashed into his palm so quickly I only saw the vapor trail. A sharp crack. He pointed to his ear. Held his palm thigh–high. A little child. His hand became a claw, snatched something, lifted it off the ground. Threw it against the wall. Walked away. Pointed to himself again.

  He wasn't born deaf.

  I tapped my heart twice, bowed my head. My eyes felt funny.

  Max pointed at Flower, playing by herself on the floor. Reached his hand across the table. Immaculata put her hand in his. He circled his thumb and forefinger. Okay. Okay, now.

  Yeah. He was ahead of the game.

  I took a sip of the ginger ale. Lit another smoke. I held my palms close together, not touching. A meeting.

  Max did the same. The palms became fists.

  I shrugged. Maybe. Who knows?

  I pointed at him. At myself. Waved a pointing finger. A meeting outside. In the street.

  He looked a question.

  I rubbed my first two fingers and thumb together. Money. Maybe a job.

  Max hissed an inhale through his nose.

  I shook my head. Not cocaine. I made the sign of injecting something into my arm. Shook my head again. Not heroin. Held an imaginary joint in my mouth, triple–inhaled fast. Shook my head again. Not marijuana.

  Max took a dollar from his pocket. Held up three fingers. I shook my head again. Not funny–money.

  Immaculata watched us, like a spectator at a tennis match. Waiting for the punch line.

  Max pointed a finger, cocked his thumb. I told him no again. Not guns. I weaved my fingers in the air, making an hourglass. Women.

  His face went hard again as he held his hand chest–high, asking.

  I put my palm to my forehead, like a salute, measuring for him. Not kids. I made a gesture like I was talking to someone, negotiating. Showed money changing hands. I took some cash from my pocket, put it on the table. Made one big pile with a single bill off to the side. Pocketed the pile. Pushed the remaining bill across the table to my left. Made the hourglass sign again. Her share.

  Max circled his hands around his head, tilted a hat brim forward.

  I nodded. A pimp.

  Max smiled. He made a gesture like he was pulling a wristwatch off. Pulled rings off fingers. Reached inside his shirt for a wallet.

  I shook my head. Not a shakedown. Not a rough–off. I held my palms together again, not touching. Just a meeting. Okay?

  He nodded.

  I pointed at my watch. Made an "I don't know" gesture. I'd let him know when it was going down.

  The baby cried. Immaculata went over to her, picked her up, and sat her down on her lap to nurse. I bowed to Max, to Immaculata,
to my brother's baby.

  I went down the stairs to my car, thinking of Flood. Back to being alone.

  22

  I WENT through the mail back in the office. The usual stuff. Congenital defectives replying to my ad promising "south of the border" opportunities for "qualified adventurers." Most of the mercenary action is in Central America now; the Cubans have made it real clear that Africa isn't the promised land. The good scams concentrate on "training exercises." There's decent money in stinging maladroits who want to dress up in camouflage gear and run around the New Jersey swamps learning how to "survive." I don't run one of the camps—I don't want to meet any of my customers face to face. But, for a reasonable fee, I'm always happy to process their applications.

  The pedophile letters always have P.O. boxes of their own for return addresses. One was neatly typed on creamy bond paper, the monogram "CX" engraved in one corner. "I'm always interested in the real thing. Especially discipline, golden showers, and snuff. I hope we can be friends." I put the letter aside. If it wasn't from a Postal Inspector, I had a genuine freak—the kind who expected to pay for his fun. Scumbags. They always manage to get what they pay for. Sometimes I get lucky; then they pay for what they get.

  The rest of the mail was replies to our new series of personal ads. We run them everyplace—from literary journals to hard–core slime–sheets. Variations on the same theme: young girl, serving a prison sentence, getting out soon. Lonely, broke, needs a friend.

  Honey Blaine is the sweet young girl's name. If any of the suckers bothered to write directly, they'd find an "H. Blaine, #86–B–9757," doing time at Bedford Hills. Just the way it said in the ad. Honey would set them straight right away. She'd explain that she couldn't write the kind of letter she'd really like to: the prison censors wouldn't permit it. Honey had a secret P.O. box, though, and if a sincere man was willing to be a little patient, well…

  I screened the letters. Michelle answered them. We had a few dozen different photos we used. All Polaroids ("That's the only kind they let us take here, darling"). Whatever the suckers wanted, that's what they got. Honey could be a nineteen–year–old victimized by a cruel pimp. A lesbian whose lover informed on her in a drug deal. A car thief. Anything but a scam artist. She could be the answer to an old man's prayer or the bottom of a minister's ugly fantasy. A very flexible girl, this Honey. All it took was Michelle's never–miss instincts and some creative writing. Honey would play the sucker, work the hook in deep, turning up the heat to full boil. Then the poor girl would start to have problems: a bull dyke hitting on her, demanding her body or her life; a threatened transfer to another section of the prison, where she wouldn't be able to correspond. Overdue rent on the P.O. box. A nice piece of cash needed to bribe the Parole Board. Gate money. And the money orders would start to come in.

  After a while, the sucker would get his last letter returned. Unopened. An official prison stamp on the outside. Black–bordered. "Return to sender. Inmate deceased." The suckers always bought it—if it was a scam, why wouldn't sweet Honey have cashed the last money order?

  H. Blame, #86–B–9757, wasn't allowed visitors. Good thing. The name and the number were legit, but Hortense Blame is a fifty–five–year–old, three–hundred–pound black woman. She raised three generations of foster kids. From babies dropped down incinerators who didn't die, to kiddie prostitutes who never lived. She never had a kid of her own, but she was mother to dozens. Her boyfriend raped one of the kids. A twelve–year–old girl named Princess.

  I have a copy of the trial transcript. I got it from the lawyer who's working on the appeal. A hard–blues lyric they'll never put to music.

  DIRECT EXAMINATION

  BY MR. DAVIDSON:

  Q: What, if anything, did you do after Princess told you about the rape?

  A: I told the child he was never going to hurt her again. I carried her into my room. Put her in my bed.

  Q: The same bed you shared with Mr. Jackson?

  A: He wasn't going to be using it no more.

  Q: And then?

  A: I waited for Jackson to come home. He was out gambling someplace. He comes in the door, sits at the kitchen table. Tells me to get him a beer.

  Q: Did you get him a beer?

  A: Yeah.

  Q: Tell the jury what happened next.

  A: I asked him why he did this. I said…

  Q: Excuse me for interrupting you, Mrs. Blame. You asked him why he raped the child? Not if he did it?

  A: There was blood in the child's bed.

  Q: I see. Please continue.

  A: I asked him why he did what he did. He tells me Princess going to be a woman soon. Won't hurt her none. Get her ready for what life's all about, he said. He said she was walking around in her nightgown when I was out working. Said she asked for it.

  Q: Did you see the expression on his face when he said this?

  MR. HAYNES: Objection. Calls for a conclusion of the witness.

  MR. DAVIDSON: An observation of demeanor is not a conclusion, Judge.

  MR. HAYNES: Your Honor, counsel for the defense is trying to introduce blatant hearsay. This is an attempt to impugn the character of a dead man.

  MR. DAVIDSON: This Court has already heard the testimony of the child Princess. The character of this rapist is already in evidence.

  MR. HAYNES: Objection! Mr. Jackson is not on trial

  MR. DAVIDSON: That's right. He's already been tried.

  THE COURT: Gentlemen, that will be quite enough. The objection is overruled.

  Q: I ask you again, Mrs. Blame. Did you see the expression on his face when he admitted to you that he raped Princess?

  A: Yeah. He was smiling. Like it was nothing.

  MR. HAYNES: Objection.

  THE COURT: Overruled.

  Q: Did he say anything else?

  A: He said the little bitch got what she deserved.

  Q: What happened then?

  A: I picked up the kitchen knife and I stabbed him in his heart.

  Q: Did you mean to kill him?

  A: Yes.

  Q: Why?

  A: So he'd never hurt my baby no more.

  MR. DAVIDSON: Your witness.

  Defending a murder charge wasn't a job for a courthouse gonif. Too many of our people had spent time with Hortense when we were coming up. Like the Prof. Short for "Professor." Or "Prophet." A tiny black omen–master who'd been on the hustle since before I was born, he talked rhyme and he walked crime. The Prof only stood as high as my chest, but he always stood up.

  "Cutting up slime ain't no crime," was all he said, dealing himself in on whatever we had to do to raise the cash.

  Davidson was the man for the job. A husky guy with a full beard, he plays the game hard. I first heard about him when he defended one of the UGL gunmen years ago. Davidson told us the only way to roll on this one was to do what he called a "psychiatric autopsy" on the dead man.

  And he pulled it off. When he was finished, the jury knew Jackson had been a piece of living scum before he died. They came back with a verdict of Manslaughter, Second Degree. You could feel the weight lift—murder carries a twenty–five–to–life top in this state. But Davidson slammed his fist down on the defense table hard enough to break it. He never raised his eyes.

  One of the jurors walked over to him. A fat guy in a brown suit. Said Davidson did a great job, asked him for his card. Davidson raised his face to look at the juror. His eyes were wet. "I'm particular about who I defend," he said, turning his back on the juror's outstretched hand.

  The judge hit Hortense with two–to–six upstate. Only child molesters get probation in New York. One of her foster sons stood next to her when she got the sentence. All grown up now, he works in a bank, lives in the suburbs. When he heard she was going down, he started to cry. Hortense put a big hand on his shoulder. She had to reach up to do it.

  "Be a man," she told him. Not giving an inch.

  She gave Davidson a kiss on the cheek and held out her hands for the cuffs.
/>
  Davidson's working on the appeal. Working hard, the way he always does. While he's working on the appeal, we're working on putting together some cash for when Hortense walks out. Once a month, the Prof visits her at the prison, bringing a batch of money orders for her to sign. There's a check–cashing joint in the Bronx that doesn't ask a lot of questions. Hortense gets half the money; Michelle and I split the rest. It was supposed to be a four–way split, but the Prof gives his piece to Hortense. "Not all payback's a bitch," he said when we asked him.

  Michelle doesn't work the streets anymore. I thought it was AIDS, but she said she couldn't risk a bust now. Now that she's a mother.

  So she does phone jobs, suckers letting their credit cards run wild while she talks them over the top. Or she visits her clients indoors.

  It was only right that she and Hortense would work a sting together. Walking different sides of the same one–way street.

  23

  I FELT bad, and I didn't know why. I was some cash ahead, for a change. The last job went down like sweet syrup, and maybe there would be some more of that kind of work down the road. Nobody was looking for me.

  I didn't spend time thinking about it. I used to do that. I used to do time. A couple of bad habits.

  Pansy ambled over to where I was sitting, put her huge head on my lap. She made a noise that sounded like a growl, but I knew what she wanted.

  "Not today, girl," I told her, scratching her head between her eyes. Max and I were training her to stay low when she hit. Most dogs leave their feet when they attack, some deep instinct forcing them to go for the throat. That doesn't work on people: human throats are too far off the ground. We take Pansy over to this vacant lot in Brooklyn. Pay some kid ten bucks and talk him into putting on the agitator's suit—leather covered with padded canvas. I hold Pansy on a snap leash, facing the agitator. Max stands to the side with a long bamboo pole. When I send Pansy, Max brings the pole down. Hard.

  If she stays low, about groin–height, she can nail the kid wearing the suit. If she leaves her feet, Max cracks her in the head. Lately she's been getting through most of the time. I call her off as soon as she gets a good bite.