Blue Belle Page 8

  The Prof's hand worked on my shoulder again. "Yeah," I said.

  "It's good money, Burke. I'll work out any collateral you want."

  "You're carrying your collateral."

  Marques looked puzzled. "My jewelry?"

  "Your head," I told him.

  He took another deep breath. "You'll do it?"

  "I'll think about it."

  "You need to know anything else?" he asked.

  "When the van goes down, we'll be around," said the Prof.

  "Let's go, bitch," Marques said to Belle.

  "She'll go with me," I said.

  Marques Dupree smiled. "You like cows?"

  "Go home and play with your coat hangers," I told him, waving to the Mole. So Marques could open his trunk later without losing his collateral.

  32

  THE ROLLS moved off. "Wait in the car," I told Belle. She waggled her fingers at the Prof in a goodbye. "Good night, pretty lady," he said. Max stood stone–still.

  I watched her walk away.

  "Prof, you know what he was running down?"

  "The van's for real, Burke. It's been all over the street for weeks."

  "You know something?"

  "Something. When I know it all, I'll give you the call."

  I gave Max his five hundred, a thousand to the Prof. "Take care of the Mole—he'll drop you off."

  Max bowed. I shook hands with the Prof. "Watch yourself," I told him.

  I got into the Plymouth. Belle was sitting against the passenger door, looking out at the river through the open window.

  "Where to?" I asked her, watching the dark sedan pull away.

  33

  BELLE REACHED into the waistband of her sweatsuit, pulled out pack of smokes. I handed her my little box of wooden matches, waiting. She inhaled deeply. It was like watching the Alps shift.

  "You know Broad Channel?"

  "Sure."

  "I'll show you once we get on to Cross Bay Boulevard."

  I pointed the Plymouth downtown, heading for the Battery Tunnel.

  "How'd you meet Marques?"

  "When I first came to New York. I was working at Rosie's Show Bar."

  "Dancing?"

  "I was a barmaid."

  "He try and turn you out?"

  "He thinks I'm a lesbian. Okay?"

  She knew the score. Plenty of lesbians turn tricks, but a smart pimp doesn't want one in his stable. One day he turns around and he's missing two girls.

  "They think the same thing at that joint you work at?"

  "The boss doesn't care one way or the other."

  "So why did Marques pick you for a messenger?"

  "It's one of the things I do. I carry stuff, drive a car, deliver a message… like that, you know?"

  "You carry powder?"

  "No."

  "That's where the money is."

  "The fall's too far."

  "You ever been down?"

  "Just overnight a couple of times. Once for a week. In West Virginia."

  "What for?"

  "The cops thought I drove on a bank job. They didn't want me—I was just a kid—they wanted the gunman."

  "They only held you a week?"

  She caught something in my tone. "I stood up, Burke. The P.D. got bail for me and I caught a bus north. I know how to do it—if I go to jail, I go by myself."

  "You never did time—where'd you learn the rules?"

  Belle smiled in the dark. Slapped the side of one thigh. "Maybe I'm too heavy to roll over."

  I looped the Plymouth onto the Belt Parkway, heading east to Queens. A red panel truck ahead of me changed lanes suddenly, cutting me off. I tapped the brakes, flicked the wheel to the right, touched the gas. The Plymouth flowed around the panel truck like a shark passing a rowboat. Belle wiggled her hips deep into the seat, testing her balance.

  "This car's a lot more than it looks."

  "So are you."

  Her smile flashed again. A prim smile, showing just the tips of her teeth.

  I wheeled the Plymouth off the Belt, picking my way through Ozone Park. No reason for Marques to have the car followed, but Belle said she played by our rules—she wouldn't want the pimp knowing where she lived. We stopped at a light. An abandoned factory stood to the side, waiting for a developer to finish the job a fire started years ago. It was wallpapered with graffiti except for a broad rectangle in the center that somebody had carefully whitewashed. On that white canvas was a message, lovingly slash–scripted by a gifted graffiti–writer. Day–Glo orange letters, shadowed in black so they screamed off the wall.

  DISS AT YOUR OWN RISK!

  Belle read the message, fascinated, going over every word, biting her lower lip. "What does it mean. 'Diss'?"

  "It's short for 'disrespect.' This is a border town. Black and white."

  She didn't say another word until we turned onto the Boulevard. followed her directions into Broad Channel. Mostly little bungalows, set close together, right on the water. Years ago they were summer shacks, but most of them had been fixed up now, and people lived here year–round.

  The cottage was at the end of a short block. White with blue rim around the one window, the dark roof almost flat across the top. Her red Camaro was parked in front.

  "This is me," she said.

  34

  I slid the Plymouth to the curb, killed the engine. The block was quiet, every house dark.

  "Come in with me?" Belle asked.

  The cottage was set close to the sidewalk, the path to her front door only a few feet long. She turned her key in the door, pushed it open, stepped aside. The inside of the house was in shadow; a soft light coming from the back. Belle motioned me to go ahead of her.

  "You first," I said.

  A little smile. "You being polite? Or scared?"

  "Scared."

  She walked in ahead of me. I watched from the doorway, gently pushing the door back and forth with my left hand, feeling for resistance. Belle bent from the waist in the shadows. I heard a click. A lamp came to life. She moved a few feet. Another.

  "Close the door behind you," she said.

  The cottage was one big room. A long modular couch took up one wall, side tables with lamps on either end. The kitchen was strung out along the opposite wall, Hollywood–style, everything half–size. The side walls were blank, no windows.

  "You want coffee?"

  "No, thanks."

  I lit a cigarette, walking toward the couch. The back of the house was still dark. I could see a triple–width window next to a door on the far left, a bed on the right.

  Belle pulled the top of the sweatsuit over her head, tossing it into a white plastic basket next to the refrigerator. Her black bra was some kind of jersey material, the straps crossing behind her back so her shoulders were bare. She stepped out of the sweatpants. Underneath she had what looked like a pair of men's white boxer shorts.

  She took her coffee cup in one hand, a pack of cigarettes in the other. Walked to the back door.

  I opened it for her, followed her outside. A wood deck stretched out in the black water, a waist–high railing on both sides. The other cottages had decks too. I saw a small sailboat tied to one, a rowboat with an outboard to another. Belle walked out to the end, carefully balancing her coffee cup.

  "Hold this," she said, handing the coffee and cigarettes to me. She turned her back to the water, one palm out to each side, and vaulted herself onto the railing. I put the coffee cup on one side of her perch, handed her back the smokes. She kicked one out, leaned forward, one hand on my shoulder for balance. I lit it for her.

  I could feel the night air's chill through my jacket. Belle didn't seem to notice. I leaned my elbows on the railing next to her, watching the harbor lights a half–mile away. I felt her hand on my shoulder again.

  "Did you really do all that stuff?" A soft voice, loaded with her breath. A girl's voice. The twisted snake tattoo stood out sharply on her thigh, inches from my face.

  "What stuff?"

&nbs
p; "What that guy said tonight."

  "No."

  She giggled the way kids do when they know you're playing with them.

  "Yes, you did," she said.

  I shrugged.

  "I have something you might be interested in," she said, her voice quiet.

  "You got something anybody'd be interested in."

  She giggled. "I didn't mean that. Business. Can I tell you about it?"

  "Not here."

  "Why?"

  "Sound carries over water."

  She put an arm around my neck, pulling her face close to mine. Whispering. "You think I don't know that? I was raised on the water. Inside."

  "Okay."

  I turned toward the house, slipping an arm around her waist. She slid off the railing against me, her legs pointing straight out. I threw up my other arm instinctively, grabbing her thighs. Belle nestled into my arms. "Carry me," she said, soft–voiced.

  "I'll get a double hernia," I growled at her, leaning against the railing for support.

  "Please."

  I would have shrugged again, but I needed all my strength.

  She ducked her head into my chest as we went through the door, pushing it closed with her toe. I tried to put her down on the couch gently, but I dropped her the last couple of feet.

  I flopped down next to her. "I love to be carried," she said, leaning over and kissing my cheek.

  "Don't get used to it."

  Belle bounced off the couch. She came back in a minute. Put her coffee cup in the sink, lit two cigarettes off the gas burner, walked over, and handed one to me.

  "You first," she said.

  I dragged deep on the cigarette, wondering how she knew.

  "That music…"

  "In my act?"

  "Yeah. Swamp blues. I never heard it before. Louisiana?"

  "Florida. It's an old record. I don't even know the singer. I found it in a store in the city."

  "How do you know it's from Florida?"

  Belle got off the couch. Walked over to the darkened bed. She hit a light switch. The bed was low, covered in white, a white rug on the floor. It was the bed in her act.

  She came back to the couch, pulling her bra over her head as she walked. Turned off the two lamps on the end tables, one by one. She stretched out full–length on the couch, her head in my lap, facing up at me, eyes closed. Even with her arms at her sides, her breasts stood straight up at me, carved in flesh.

  Her face was indistinct in the soft light, her eyes lost in the sheaf of taffy–honey hair. No lipstick on her mouth. Only the tiny chin with its sharp point moving.

  "I'm from Florida. When I heard that song, I knew it was a home call. Understand?"

  "Yeah."

  She took my hand, pressed it to where her breast covered her heart. I could feel the beat. Strong, slow, steady.

  "What did you think of my act?"

  "I never saw anything like it before."

  "Each girl gets to design her own. As long as our clothes come off before the lights go out."

  "It's a psychiatric mirror."

  "A what?"

  "A psychiatric mirror. You do your act—people watch it—they all see something different—if you knew what they were thinking, you'd know them."

  "Like that inkblot test?"

  "Just like that."

  Belle sighed. A tiny slash of white across her face where she chewed her lower lip. "It's true. Men send notes backstage."

  "You ever answer them?"

  "No. I'm like you."

  "What does that mean?"

  "I don't work for pimps either."

  "You could work for yourself."

  "I do work for myself—I'm not for sale."

  She reached for my cigarette, ignoring her own. Put it in her mouth, took a deep drag. The smoke shot out her nose. I watched her stomach muscles flex.

  "Did it work on you?"

  "What?"

  "My act—did you think of something?"

  I bit into the cigarette filter. "I saw it like a play. Young girl coming into herself. Things pulling at her. Evil calling."

  "Tell the truth—you saw a play?"

  "Like a play. It all meant something."

  "Not what you think."

  "Yeah, exactly what I think. That's the way the mirror works."

  Belle pulled herself into a sitting position, her back to me. She got to her feet, took my hand. "Come on," she said.

  She walked over to the bed. Put a hand against my chest. "Stay here," she said. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the shorts, pulling them over her hips, dropping them to her feet. She stepped out of the shorts and padded to the bed. She fell to her knees, bent forward onto the bed, her hands clasped in front of her.

  "Tell the truth," she said again, her little–girl voice almost hissing. Demanding. "What did you see?"

  I looked at the shadows play over her body. "I saw a young girl. Praying."

  "What did it make you want to do?" she whispered, looking back at me over one shoulder, wiggling her butt.

  I took a breath. Telling the truth. "Answer your prayers," I told her.

  Her little chin came up, smile flashing.

  "Come on," she said.

  35

  SHE STAYED on her knees, watching me over her shoulder. She cocked her head to one side, listening as my clothes hit the floor.

  "Where's your gun?"

  "I don't have one."

  "Marques did."

  "I know—in his left–hand pocket," I said, standing next to her, my hand on her shoulder.

  She came to her feet, facing me. Without the heels, she was maybe a half–inch shorter than me. Her eyes were set so close together it was hard to look into them. I ran two fingers along her jawline, feeling for bone lost in the soft flesh, cupping her little chin. I kissed her softly, feeling her lips swell. Her teeth clicked against mine.

  "How'd you know he had a gun?" she asked, her tongue darting out, whispering into my mouth.

  I moved my hands to her waist, and down to her sculptured butt, feeling the soft skin, squeezing the hard muscles beneath the surface. She locked her hands behind my head and fell backward, pulling me down with her.

  The bed was hard. No springs squeaked when our weight came down. I landed on top of her, but she slid out from underneath me slick as an otter leaving a rock in the water. She snuggled into my chest, nudging me onto my back with her shoulder, one hand trailing across my stomach, throwing a thigh over mine. She burrowed her face into my neck, her whole body quivering.

  "You have to tell me," she whispered. "I have to know those things."

  "Why?"

  She reached her free hand between my legs, wrapping it around me, rubbing the tip with the pad of her thumb. "You think this is the answer to my prayers?"

  "I had hopes," I said.

  "Come on, honey. How'd you know?"

  "When you walked up with him, he didn't want you on his left side. When you moved away, he was more relaxed."

  "So?"

  "So either he was carrying on his left side or you were holding a piece for him."

  "How'd you know I wasn't?"

  "You kept your hands free. The clothes you had on—that sweatsuit—you couldn't get to it in time. Besides, you weren't his woman."

  "Because I said so?"

  "The way you carried yourself."

  She stroked me gently, her mind somewhere else. Mine wasn't.

  "What if you were wrong?"

  "Huh?"

  "What if I was carrying?"

  "You're not fast enough to make it work."

  "Not fast enough for you?"

  "For Max."

  "Which one was Max?"

  "The guy that didn't speak."

  "He was ten feet away from me."

  I shrugged.

  She shifted her weight, holding her head in one hand, her elbow cocked against the bed. Her breast was an inch from my face. The dark nipple looked tiny against the white globe. I kissed it. Her
hand pulled against me in response.

  "He's really that fast?"

  "Faster."

  Belle moved her head into my chest again. Her hand slid down the shaft, cupping my balls, lifting them gently, like she was trying to guess their weight. Her voice was all soft curves, hardness flexing underneath, the same as her body. "Tell the truth. When you saw me in the club—in the play—and you wanted to answer my prayers?"

  "Yeah?"

  "What did you want to do?"

  "I'm not sure…."

  "Tell me!" she whispered hard against my chest, her hand closing on me.

  "I wanted to rescue you," I said.

  She moved her hand back to the shaft, shifting her body on top of mine, fitting me inside her. She was wet—I slid in like a bullet being chambered. Her hands were on either side of me, taking her weight, her breasts brushing my face. I moved my hands to her butt as she started to grind against me.

  Her mouth came down to mine. "Rescue me," she said.

  36

  WHEN I woke up a while later, Belle's face was on the pillow next to mine, her body still covering me. I couldn't see my watch. I flexed my shoulders to see if I could slide from under her without waking her up.

  "You want a cigarette, baby?"

  "I didn't know you were awake," I said.

  "I never went to sleep. I've been here all along."

  "How come you didn't get up?"

  "I was guarding you," she said, her face close to mine. "I knew the only way you'd sleep is if I didn't move."

  She padded over to the kitchen, opened a door next to the refrigerator. I heard water running. Belle came back with a big glass ashtray, cigarettes and matches inside, a washcloth over one shoulder. She bent over me, set the ashtray on the far side. She put a cigarette in her mouth, fired it up, handed it to me. Lit one for herself.

  She smiled down at me in the darkness. "Are you my boyfriend now?"

  I thought I was going to laugh—it came out kind of a snort. "Your boyfriend?"

  "Yes, my boyfriend."

  "What does that mean?"

  "I don't know. I never had a boyfriend. But if you rescued me, you have to be my boyfriend, right?"

  "If that's what it takes to rescue you, there must have been a thousand applicants for the job."