"Marques said you were a hijacker."
"Marques is a pimp."
"I know. Not my pimp. I work for me. That's why that bitch made that crack about me not liking men. I don't sell sex."
"If you did, you'd be rich."
That bought me another smile. Then, "You came out here to tell me you're going to meet with him?"
"Tuesday night."
"Why Tuesday?"
"That's your night off, right?"
"So?"
"So you're coming along."
"Says who?"
"That's the deal, Belle. Tuesday night. Pier 47. Marques knows where it is. Eleven o'clock. Tell him to bring two grand. Tell him that's mine. For the talk."
"That's a lot of money for talk."
"You get paid for your work—I get paid for mine."
Belle took another drag. "What time will you pick me up?"
"I won't. Tell Marques it's gunfighters' rules—we each bring one person with us. He gets to bring you."
"I don't use guns."
"Neither does the guy I'm bringing with me. Tell Marques what I said. He'll get it."
"I don't want Marques knowing where I live."
"Tell him to meet you someplace."
"And after…"
"I'll take you home," I told her.
"Should I call you and tell you if he…?"
"Don't call me. I'll be at the pier. Just tell him if he doesn't show not to call me again."
"You take me home anyway."
"Yes."
Belle leaned against me. A big, sweet–smelling girl with a snake tattoo on her thigh. She pushed her hand against my chest, holding me against the seat. Kissed me hard on the mouth, saying, "See you Tuesday," at the same time.
I watched the white shift dance in the dark parking lot until it disappeared behind the blue building.
29
MAS WAS already dealt in on the meeting with Marques. I could get a message to the Mole easy enough, even if he didn't answer his phone. That still left me a few days to find the Prof.
It might take that long. The little man could be sleeping in doorways or prowling hotel corridors. He could be working the subway tunnels or the after–hours joints. He never had an address, but you couldn't call him "homeless." I asked him once why he didn't find himself a crib somewhere—why he lived in the street. "I got the balls, and I don't like walls," he told me. He didn't have to explain any more than that—we'd met in prison.
I think "Prof" was once short for "Professor," because he always seemed so much older and smarter than the rest of us. But somewhere along the line, he started telling the kind of truth they never write down in books, and now it stands for "Prophet."
A citizen couldn't find the Prof, but I knew where he picked up his paycheck. A few years ago, I'd fixed him up with SSI. Psychiatric disability. His official diagnosis was "Schizophrenia. Chronic, undifferentiated." The resident at Bellevue noted the Prof's grossly disorganized thought pattern, his grandiose pronouncements, his delusion that he was getting his marching orders from the dead spirit of Marcus Garvey. A typical microwave case. They tried medication and it did what it usually does—the Prof got sleepy. It was worth the thirty–day investment. When they discharged the Prof, they gave him a one–week supply of medication, a standing appointment at the clinic, and what the little man called his "crazy papers."
Once a year, the federales would send a letter to the Prof demanding a "face to face." He had to make a personal appearance at the clinic. Not to prove that he was still crazy, just that he was still alive. Uncle Sam likes to keep a close watch on his money.
It was a two–sided scam. Not only did the Prof get a disability check every month, but the diagnosis was a Get Out of Jail Free card in case he ever went down for something major. Nothing like putting an insanity defense together before you commit the crime. The government mails him the check to General Delivery, at the giant post office on Eighth Avenue, right across from Madison Square Garden. There are so many homeless people in New York that the General Delivery window does more business than most small towns.
I addressed a postcard to the Prof. Wrote "Call home" on the back, and dropped it in the box.
30
BY LATE Tuesday evening, I had everything in place. I ate dinner at Mama's, working over my copy of Harness Lines, looking for a horse that would make me rich. Max came in, carrying his baby, Immaculata at his side. Mama snatched the baby from Max and pushed him toward my booth. She took Immaculata into a corner of her own. I saw a flash of pink as the purse changed hands.
I explained to Max that there'd be five hundred apiece for us no matter what Marques wanted. We weren't going to rough off any extras unless the pimp got stupid. He pointed at the racing sheet I had spread out in front of me, looked a question. I shook my head—there was nothing worth an investment.
Max held up five fingers, looked a question. He knew Marques was paying four times that—where was the rest of the money going? It wasn't like Max to ask. Maybe a baby changes everything. I held one hand chest–high, waving the other in sweeping gestures. The Prof. Then I made goggles of my hands, held them over my eyes. Max looked a question. I made the sign of pushing a plunger with both hands, setting off an explosion. The Mole. He looked another question—why all these people for a meeting? I spilled salt on the table, drew a circle. I put two coins inside the circle. Marques plus one coin. He was bringing somebody with him. I put down two more. Me and Max. Then I added the Prof, tapping the side of my head. I didn't know what Marques wanted and I might have to give him an answer right there. The Prof knew the hustling scene—he'd be more on top of Marques than I would.
I picked up one more coin, gesturing that it was the Mole. Put it on the table, deliberately outside the circle. Patted my back. Insurance policy. Max nodded.
Immaculata came over to the table, put her hand on Max's shoulder.
"Burke, is this dangerous?"
"Not a chance, Mac," I said, making the sign of steering a car. "You think I'm going to let Max drive?"
She laughed. Max looked burned. He thought he could drive the same way he walked: with people stepping aside when they saw him coming. But weasels who wouldn't meet his eyes on the street get big balls when they're behind the wheel. Driving a car, he was a rhino on angel dust.
Max kissed Flower goodbye. Mac held the baby's little hand at the wrist, helping her wave goodbye to her father.
31
WE FOUND the Prof where he said he'd be, standing by a bench at the east end of the park in Union Square. When he saw the Plymouth pull up, he hoisted a canvas sack over one shoulder and walked to us. The Prof was wearing a formal black tuxedo, complete with a white carnation in the lapel. The shiny coat reached almost to his feet, like a cattleman's duster. Some chump was going to be poorly dressed for his senior prom.
"Yo, bro', what you know?" he greeted us, climbing in the back of the Plymouth like it was the limo he'd been waiting for.
I turned west on 14th, heading for the river. The Prof poked his head between me and Max, linking our shoulders with his hands. "What's down, Burke?"
"Like I told you, Prof. Marques Dupree wants a meet. He went to a lot of trouble to get to me—walking around the edges. He's supposed to bring two G's with him. Four–way split. All we have to do is listen to his pitch."
"Who's the fourth?"
"The Mole will be there. Off to the side."
"You want me to ride the trunk?"
"No, we go in square. I don't know what he wants, okay? I may need a translator."
"The street is my beat," said the Prof.
Max looked straight ahead.
We got to the pier around ten–thirty. I pulled the Plymouth against the railing, parked it parallel. The pier was deserted except for a dark, boxy sedan parked about a hundred feet behind us.
We all got out. Max was dressed in flowing black parachute pants and a black sweatshirt.. Thin–soled black leather shoes on his feet. He disappeared
into the shadows. The Prof stood next to him. I leaned against the railing a few feet away. We waited. Max and the Prof took turns smoking, Max bending forward every time he took a drag when it was his turn. A watcher would see the little red dots, murky shapes. Two people.
Headlights hit the pier. A big old Rolls–Royce, plum–colored, with black fenders. I could see two heads behind the windshield. The Rolls parked at right angles to the Plymouth. Two doors opened. The Prof and I stepped into the outer fringe of the headlights, letting whoever was in the car see us.
Two people came toward us. Belle was a shapeless hulk in a gray sweatsuit. Even with sneakers on her feet, she was as tall as the man next to her.
Marques Dupree. A chesty mahogany man with a smooth, round face. He was wearing a dove–gray silk suit with a metallic pinstripe. Deep–slashed lapels over a peach–colored shirt. Sprayed in diamonds. He and Belle stopped in front of me.
"You're Burke?"
"Yeah."
"Who's this?" Indicating the Prof.
"My brother."
"You don't look like brothers."
"We had the same father."
Marques smiled. I caught the flash of a diamond in his mouth. "I never did time, myself."
I didn't want to swap life stories. "You want to do business?" I asked him.
Marques put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a roll of bills. A car door slammed. He didn't turn around. "What's that?"
"Just checking your car. Making sure you didn't bring friends."
"You said one friend apiece."
"You said you never did time."
Another door slammed. I lit a cigarette. Two more slamming doors. A bright burning dot of light fired where the dark sedan was parked. Okay.
"Your trunk is locked," I said. "I don't need to open it. Let's walk over this way."
I moved to my left, farther away from the parked cars. Marques kept his cash in his fist.
"Here it is," I said. "If anyone opens your trunk, there's a big bang. Okay? Everything goes right here tonight, goes like it's supposed to, my friend takes the package off your trunk. Understand?"
"No problem. You said two large?"
I nodded.
Marques peeled hundreds off his roll, letting me see the two thousand was nothing. I pocketed the cash.
Marques turned to Belle. "Go sit in the car."
She turned to go, nothing on her face. "Stay where you are," I said.
Marques shrugged, his face showing nothing. I knew what was in his mind—if Belle was a hostage, she was a worthless one.
I lit a cigarette. Max materialized out of the night. Marques jumped, his hands flying to his face. Max reached out one hand, picked up the Prof by the back of his jacket, and hoisted him to the railing.
Marques slowly dropped his hands. "You got a lot of friends, huh?"
"A lot of friends," I assured him.
He adjusted his cuffs, letting me see the diamond watch, getting his rap down smooth before he laid it out. Pimps don't like talking on their feet. "I paid for some time."
"Here it is."
Marques took a breath through his nose. It sounded hollow. Cocaine does that. His voice had that hard–sweet pimp sound, promise and threat twisting together like snakes in a basket. "We never met, but we know each other. I know what you do—you know what I do. I have a problem. A business problem."
I watched his face. His eyes were narrow slits in folds of hard flesh. I backed up so the Prof could put his hand on my shoulder.
"I'm listening."
"I am a player. A major player. I got a stable of racehorses, you follow me? All my girls are stars. All white, and all right."
The Prof laughed. "You got nothing but tire–biters and street–scarfers, my man. One of your beasts sees the front seat of a car, she thinks it's the Hilton."
Marques looked at me. "Who's this, man? Your designated hitter?"
"No, pal. He's a polygraph machine."
"You know my action or not?"
I felt the Prof's hand on my shoulder. A quick squeeze.
"Yes," I said.
"Then you know I don't run no jail bait, right? No kiddie pross in my string?"
Another squeeze from the Prof. I nodded agreement.
"I am an elevated player, you understand? That ride cost me over a hundred grand, and I got a better one back at my crib. I wear the best, I eat the best, and I live the best. I don't associate with these half–ass simps who think they can run on the fast track. I don't hang around the Port Authority snatching runaways. I don't wear no leopardskin hats, I don't flash no zircons, and that ain't no Kansas City bankroll in my pocket. My ladies are clean machines, and they're all of righteous age. I got lawyers, I got a bondsman, and I got my act together, all right? I don't make trouble, and I don't take trouble."
The Prof spoke up, his voice a near–perfect imitation of the pimp's. "Okay, Jim, you ain't Iceberg Slim. We got the beat, get to the meat."
Marques smiled. "You got some rhythm, man. The little nigger does the rapping, you just stand there."
"I talk the talk, Burke walks the walk," the Prof told him.
Marques wasn't a good listener. "What's the chink do, man? You going to send out for Chinese food?"
The Prof's voice went soft. "This is Max the Silent, pimp. You hear the name, you should know the game."
Recognition flashed in the pimp's eyes. "He's the one…"
"That's right, fool," said the Prof, cutting him off. "Max ain't Chinese, but he sure as hell does take–out work."
"You done with the dozens?" I asked.
"Yeah, man, let's drop the games. I know you're a hijacker, I now you run guns, I know you do work on people. I need some work done."
"I don't work for pimps."
"I know that, man. You think everybody on the street don't know who shot Merlin?"
"I don't know any Merlin."
"Yeah, right. 'Course you don't. But I know Merlin was no player, man. He was a stone rapist—that's what he was. Jumping on those little girls like an animal. Whoever shot him did all the real players a favor."
"So?"
"So you got no beef with me, man. I know you used to rough off trollers in Times Square—take them down right in the bus station. know you chase runaways. See what I'm saying? I know you. That's why I didn't call myself. Didn't want you to get the wrong idea." He waved his hand at Belle. "I paid this bitch real money just to put you and me together."
"That lady don't look like no bitch to me," the Prof said. "Don't look like one of yours either."
Belle stepped slightly to the side, flashing a tiny smile at the Prof.
"She don't need to be mine to be a bitch, man. They all sell their time."
"I didn't know you were a philosopher, Marques," I told him. "And I don't give a fuck. The only time you bought here is mine. And you've about used it up."
Marques locked eyes with me. "You know the Ghost Van?" he asked.
The Prof's hand bit into my shoulder.
I nodded.
The pimp went on as though I'd said no. "Big smoke–colored van. No windows. A few weeks ago, it comes off the river on Twentyninth. I got ladies working that block. Van pulls past the pack. Stops. One of the baby girls, not mine, she trots over. The doors swing open and she drops in the street. Nobody heard a shot. The other girls get in the wind. Papers say the little girl was fourteen. Shot in the chest. Dead."
I lit another smoke. Beads of sweat on the pimp's smooth face, his hands working like he didn't know where to put them.
"The next week, two more shootings. Two dead girls. One fifteen, one nineteen. I move my girls over to the East Side, but the pickings too slim there. This van must come off the river. The girls say it's like a ghost. One minute everything's cool; the next this gray thing is on the street. Taking life.
"Last week, one of the little girls gets in a blue Caddy. The Caddy goes up the street. One of my ladies gets curious; she pokes her head around the corner. Two guys get out of
the Caddy, holding the girl. She's kicking and screaming. They throw her into the Ghost Van. The Caddy drives off and the van just fucking disappears.
"My ladies don't want to work. The street's like a church social, man. I move the girls again. Way downtown. Brooklyn. The Bronx. Everyplace, man. Three more girls been shot, one more snatched. All near the river. But even out of the city, working girls be saying they seen the van. Like a hawk coming down. The girls see the shadow, they run."
"What do you want from me?"
"Cops is all over the street. My ladies got to work someplace. If they can't work near the river, I got a serious deficit, you follow me? Between the Man and the van, I'm up against it. Until they take that van off, my girls are running scared, jumping at shadows. That hurts me, man."
"In the pocket."
"Yeah, okay, Burke. You a good citizen, right? You look down on me—that's your business. But this is your business too, the way I hear it."
"How's that?"
"The van is full of shooters and snatchers, man. And babies is what they hit. Right up your alley, right?"
"Wrong."
"Look, man, let's all be telling the truth here. The word's been out a long time—you got a kiddie problem, you call Burke. I know you ain't no social worker. You an outlaw, like me. You just work a different side of the street."
"I work for money."
"You think I'm here for myself? The players got together. This is bad for everyone, not just Marques Dupree. We put up a kitty."
"Pussy put up the kitty," said the Prof.
"Call it like you see it, it make you feel better. I call it what it is."
I waited.
"A bounty. Fifty thousand bucks. Dead or alive. The van's got to go. Goes to Attica, goes to Forest Lawn, makes no difference to us."
"Hire a private eye."
"I said a bounty, man. I look like a fucking trick to you? We not paying anyone by the hour."
"Put the money out on the street."
"Can't do that."
"Why?"
"We can't wait for some faggot to drop a dime. And we can't be sure the Man will do the work anyway."
"Why not?"
"We heard the van's protected. That's all I know. But the word is out, all over the street. Uptown, downtown. The van has to have a parking place, you got it?"
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