Blue Belle (21 page)

99

I HEADED back downtown, stopped at Mama's. She took a long time to come to my booth. When she did, Immaculata was with her. They slid across from me. Mac didn't waste any time.

"Burke, is there trouble for Max?"

"I don't know. I'll know soon," I told her, stabbing Mama with my eyes. She stared right back. I shouldn't have mentioned the baby.

"You'll tell me as soon as you know?"

"Will you give me a fucking
chance
to head it off first?"

She reached across the table, took, my hand. "I will. And I'll keep Max close for a few more days. Don't blame Mama. She told him you were working on something and he keeps pushing her. He thinks it's you who's in trouble. She needed my help."

"No hard feelings," I told her, remembering Michelle's words. "Where's Max now?"

"He's home with Flower." She got up to leave. Kissed me. "Be careful," is all she said.

Mama gave me about thirty pounds of Chinese food to take with me. I bowed to her as I left. Her eyes asked if I understood.

"It's okay," I said.

100

"ANYBODY COME calling?" I asked Belle, stepping past Pansy.

"Been real quiet," she said, taking the cartons of food from me. Pansy followed her into the back room, ignoring me. The bitch.

Belle cleared off the desk so we could eat. "What's all that?" I asked her, pointing to yellow legal pads covered with scrawls.

"Just some charts I made. I have to see the streets for myself—the maps don't do it all. But I wrote down some ideas."

"Is it easier for you to memorize directions if you're driving or if you're a passenger?"

"Driving is best."

"Okay," I said, digging into the hot–and–sour soup, "you drive tonight."

"Where're we going?"

"To a place you might have to come back to by yourself someday. A safe place."

She nodded, her mouth full of food. I tossed an egg roll over my shoulder, saying "Speak!" as I did. It never hit the ground.

I smoked a cigarette while Belle put the dishes away, playing with the few pieces I had. I put the thoughts down—after tonight, I'd have more pieces.

Six o'clock. I let Pansy out to the roof, went to the back to put things together. Steel–toed boots with soft rubber soles. Black cotton pants. A black sweatshirt. I took a white jacket from the closet, checked the Velcro tearaways at the shoulders. Slipped the orange headband into a pocket. I put a clean set of papers together: driver's license, registration, Social Security card, all that crap. Six hundred bucks in used bills, nothing bigger than a fifty. A cheap black plastic digital wristwatch.

I let Pansy back inside. Took a shower. Put on a terry–cloth robe.

When I came out, Belle was lying on the couch, her hands locked behind her head, long legs up on the backrest. Wearing one of my shirts over a pair of little red panties. She couldn't button the shirt.

I sat down. She dropped her legs across my lap.

"Burke, this is it, isn't it?"

"What're you talking about?"

"This place. This office. That's all there is, right? This is where you live."

"Yep."

She rolled over on her stomach, pushing her hands against the couch until her hips were across my lap. There's a new kind of stove they make. Induction coil, they call it. You don't have to turn it on—the burner stays cold until you touch it with a copper–bottom pot. I knew how the stove felt.

Belle leaned her head on her folded arms, talking back over her shoulder at me. "I thought you had a house. I thought you wouldn't take me there… wouldn't let me sleep in your bed. Because you had a woman there. The woman you talked about."

I lit a cigarette, watching my shirt move on Belle's rump every time she readjusted herself.

"But she's gone, isn't she? Like you said. You told me the truth."

"Yeah. I told you the truth."

"I'm a bitch. I know that's not all bad—it's what I am. But I should have believed you, there's no excuse."

"Outlaws only lie to citizens."

"No, I met plenty of outlaws who lie. But I know you don't. Not to me."

She wiggled her hips, snuggling tight against me, feeling the heat.

"Is she dead?"

"I don't know, Belle," I said, my voice hardening. "I told you all this before. There's no more to tell."

"Are you mad at me?"

"No."

"I'm sorry, honey."

"Forget it."

She pulled the shirt off her hips. "Why don't you give me a smack? You'll feel better."

"I feel fine," I said.

Belle wiggled again. "Come on, please."

I put my hand on her rump, patting her gently.

"Come on. Do it, just a couple of times. I swear you'll feel better."

I brought my hand down hard. A sharp crack. "Do it again," she whispered, "come on."

I smacked her twice more in the same place. She slid off my lap to her knees, looked up at me. "Feel better?" she asked.

"No."

"You will," she promised, taking me in her mouth.

101

WE WERE on the East Side Drive, heading for the Triboro Bridge. Belle took a drag of her cigarette, watching the road.

"How do I turn up the dashboard lights?"

I told her. She peered at the speedometer. "I can tell how fast we're going without it, but I need to know the mileage."

"There's a trip odometer."

"It's okay, I'm keeping count."

We motored over the bridge. I showed her the cutoff, led her through the twisting South Bronx streets, past the warehouses, past the burned–out buildings, into the flatlands. "Next corner, left," I told her. "That's the spot."

She pulled to the side of the road. No streetlights here—we were in darkness.

Belle turned to me. "You think I'm a freak?" she asked, her voice shaking a little bit.

"Why would I think that?"

"Don't play with me—you know why I asked you. I liked it when you pinched me so hard—when you made me say what I saw in the mirror. I liked it when you spanked me before. I like it when you do that. Makes me feel like you love me. Special." She took another drag. "You think that makes me a freak?"

I lit a smoke of my own. "You want the truth?"

"Tell me."

"I think
you
think you're a freak. I think you believe your life is a damn dice game. Genetic dice, rolling down the table, and all you can do is watch."

"My blood…"

"Your blood may have done something to your face. Your blood tells you not to have babies. But it doesn't tell you how to act. You still have your choices."

"You don't understand."

"You're the one who doesn't understand, girl. You see it but you don't get it. Remember what you told me about alligators—the difference between a six–inch gator and a six–foot one?"

"I remember."

"What's the difference between a puppy and a dog? The same thing? Just size?"

"Isn't it?"

"How you raise the puppy, how you treat it, what you feed it—it all makes a different dog when it grows up. Two puppies from the same litter, they could be real different dogs when they grow up."

"Okay."

"Don't give me that 'okay' bullshit. You don't get it, we'll sit right here until you do."

"I get it."

"Then explain it to me."

She started to cry, her face in her hands. "I
can't
," she sobbed.

"Come over here," I told her. "Come on."

She unbuckled her seat belt, slid over against me, still crying. "I'm sorry…."

"Shut up. Just be quiet and listen, okay?"

"Okay," she gulped.

"Telling you about dogs and puppies wasn't the way to do it. You think blood will out, don't you?"

She nodded. "Yes." Still crying.

"You know about Dobermans… how they're supposed to turn on their owners?"

"Yes, I heard that."

"It's a lie, Belle. People get Dobermans, they're afraid of them. They've all heard the stories. So they beat the hell out of them when they're still puppies. Show them who's boss, right? One day, the dog gets his full growth, the owner goes to hit him, the dog says, 'Uh uh. Not today, pal,' and he rips the guy up. So this fool, this creep who's been beating up on his own dog, mistreating him all this time, he says, 'Well, the son of a bitch
turned
on me.'"

Belle giggled. "He sowed his own crop."

"Sure did. There's nothing
genetic
about Dobermans' turning on their masters. What's genetic about them is that they don't take a whole lot of shit once they get their growth. That's the truth."

"I thought…"

"We're people, Belle. Not alligators. I know people so cold, so evil, you meet them, you'd swear they came out of their mothers' wombs like that. But that's not the way it is. All the human monsters have to be
made
—they can't be born that way. You can't be born bad, no matter what the fucking government thinks."

"But if he…"

I cut her off sharp—I knew who "he" was. "It was his choice, Belle. No matter how he was raised, no matter what was done to him. There's no law says he has to repeat the pattern. He's not off the hook. I came up with guys raised by monsters. Did time with them when I was a kid. They still had choices."

I lit a cigarette. "Hard choices. The only kind people like us get. But choices still…You understand?"

"I do. I swear I do this time." She nestled against me. "I knew you were going to rescue me."

She kissed me full on the mouth, stabbing me with her tongue. I pulled back from her, watching the lights dance in her dark eyes. "The man we're going to see, millions of his people died because some slimy little psychopath decided their blood was bad. The psychopath, he's in the ground. The maggots are eating his body, and if there's a god, his soul is burning. And there's a country called Israel where there used to be only desert."

I squeezed her gently. "Okay?"

She let the whole smile go this time. "Okay."

102

I SHOWED Belle where to pull in. "Flash the high beams three times, then shut the lights off."

"Something's coming," she said, peering into the darkness.

"Dogs," I told her. "Just be quiet."

They came in a pack. Simba didn't wait to make his entrance like he usually does. There was a tawny flash and a light thump as he landed on the hood of the Plymouth, baring his fangs as he looked through the windshield. Belle looked back at him. "Is that a wolf?"

"City wolf," I told her. "And that's his pack"—pointing to the river of beasts flowing around the car.

"What d'we do?"

"Wait."

The kid came through the crowd, bumping dogs out of his way like the Mole does. He called to Simba. The dog jumped off the hood, followed the kid around to the driver's side. "Switch places with me," I told Belle. I hit the switch. The window came down. Simba's lupine face popped into the opening.

"Simba–witz!" I greeted him.

Simba sniffed, poking his nose past me to look at Belle. A low growl came out of his throat. The pack went quiet. "It's okay, Terry," I told the boy. "This is Belle—she's with me."

The kid was wearing a dirty jumpsuit, a tool belt around his waist. A regular mini–Mole. Michelle would be thrilled.

"I'll open the gate," he said.

I drove the Plymouth a few feet into the yard, watching the gates close behind us. "I'm going to get out now," I told Belle. "I'll come around and let you out. The dogs will be with us, but they're okay. Don't be scared."

"Too late for that," she muttered.

When I let her out, she stepped to the ground. The dogs moved in close. "Should I pat them?" she asked.

Terry laughed. "Follow me," he said.

I took Belle's hand as we moved through the junkyard. Simba flashed ahead of us in a Z pattern, working the ground. The dogs came close, barking at each other, not paying much attention to us.

The Mole was sitting on a cut–down oil drum a few feet from his underground bunker. He got up when he saw us coming, pulling a slab of something white from his overalls. He threw it in a loping motion, like it was a grenade. The dogs chased off.

Before I could open my mouth, Terry took over. "Mole, this is Belle. Belle is Burke's friend. She came with him. I'm Terry," he said, holding out his hand. Belle shook it, gravely.

The Mole didn't offer to shake hands, pointing at more of the cut–down oil drums like they were deck chairs on his yacht.

"I should stay?" Terry asked.

The Mole looked at me. I nodded. The kid reached in his tool belt, pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a wooden match. He gets something from everyone in his family.

"Mole, I brought Belle here because she may need a place to run to. Soon. She's our people. She's mine, okay?"

"Okay."

"I wanted you to get a look at her. She has to come back in a hurry, you'll know her."

He nodded.

"Can Terry take her around—show her the other ways in?"

He nodded at the boy. Terry came over to Belle, holding out his hand. "Come on," he said. She went meekly as a child, towering over the kid.

I moved my oil–drum seat closer to the Mole. "I'm working on something. The Ghost Van. The Prof was nosing around. Guy named Mortay caught him. Broke both his legs. Told him to stay away."

The Mole nodded, waiting.

"I don't know if this Mortay is fronting off the van or he's got his own list. He told the Prof he wanted Max. In a duel. He's been moving on other
karateka
around the city. I can't bring Max into this until I know what the score is."

The Mole watched me as if I was one of his experiments. Waiting for something to happen.

"I'm meeting him. Tonight. Midnight. I've got backup. I'll call you when I get back. You don't hear from me, you call Davidson. The lawyer. You know him, right?"

"Yes."

"If I don't call you, I'll probably be locked up. Tell Davidson I'm good for the cash. Tell him to call Mama if he needs bail money."

"Okay."

"Thanks, Mole."

"There's more?" he asked. I couldn't see his eyes through the Coke–bottle lenses.

"Maybe. Maybe a lot more. I got pieces, but they may be two different puzzles. After tonight, I should know enough to come and ask you."

He nodded. Terry came back, leading Belle by the hand. "She knows the way," he said, standing by the Mole.

"Take them back to the car," the Mole told him. Nodding goodbye to me and Belle.