"Hi, baby. Who's your friend?"
"Michelle, this is Belle."
Michelle held out a manicured hand. "Hi, honey."
"Hello," Belle said, shaking her hand. Holding on to it too long, watching my face.
Michelle took her hand back, figuring it all out in a split second. "Don't look at me like that, girl. This ugly thug's my brother, not my lover."
Belle's mouth twitched into a half–smile. "He's not so ugly."
"Honey, please!"
Belle laughed. "He's got other fine qualities."
"I know," Michelle said.
Belle's face went hard. "Do you?"
Michelle stiffened, her claws coming out. "Look, country girl, I say what I mean. And I mean what I say. Let's put it all out, okay? I never had a brother until Burke came along. I love him—I don't sleep with him. Wherever you go with him, I don't want to go. And where I go with him, you can't go. Get it?"
"I get it."
"Get this too. You want to be my friend, you come with the best recommendation," Michelle said, patting my forearm. "You want to be a bitch, you came to the right place. I'll be here after you're gone, girl."
"I'm not going anywhere," Belle said.
"Then let's be friends, yes?" Michelle said, her sculptured face flashing a deadly smile.
"Yes," Belle said, reaching over and taking my hand.
Michelle took one of her long black cigarettes from a thin lacquer case and tapped the filter, waiting for a light. I cracked a wooden match. She cupped my hand around the fire, gently pulling in the smoke. Belle watched Michelle as if she had the answer to all her questions.
Michelle fumbled in her huge black patent–leather purse. She pulled out a sheaf of photographs. Terry. In a blue blazer with gold buttons, wearing a white shirt and a striped tie, his hair slicked down. "Isn't he handsome?" she asked me.
"A living doll," I assured her.
Michelle jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow. "Pig," she snapped. She held the photos out to Belle. "My boy."
Belle took the pictures. "He is handsome. Does he go to boarding school?"
I laughed. Michelle jabbed me again. "He most certainly does, honey. One of the most exclusive in the country, I might add. And if it wasn't for certain people teaching him bad habits…"
"Don't look at me," I said.
"The Mole does not smoke," Michelle said, ending the discussion.
"How old is he?" Belle asked.
"He's almost twelve."
"He's going to be a heartbreaker when he gets older."
"Just like his mother," Michelle said, ready to talk about her favorite subject for the next few days.
"I can't find the Prof," I told her, bringing her back to the real world.
"Well, honey, you know the Prof. He could be anywhere."
"He was supposed to call in, Michelle. We're working on something."
"Oh."
"Yeah. Will you…?"
"I run on a different track now, baby. But I still have my associates in the right spots. I'll throw out some lines, okay?"
"Tonight?"
"I have a late date—I'll make some calls before I start. If you don't hear by tomorrow, give me a call and I'll take a look myself."
"Thanks, Michelle." She waved it off.
I got up to call Mama again. She answered the same way.
"Anything at all?"
"Nothing. You worried?"
"Yes."
"Call later. Leave number, okay?"
"Okay."
When I got back to the booth, Michelle and Belle were yakking it up like old pals. Michelle had Belle's face in her hand, twisting it different ways to catch the light. The big girl didn't seem to mind. I sat down, lit another smoke, listening to Michelle rattle on.
"You draw the eyeliner away from the center, honey. Separate those eyes. And we use a sharper line here"—drawing her fingernail across Belle's cheekbone—"for an accent. Are you with me so far?"
Belle nodded vigorously, not trying to talk while Michelle was grabbing her face.
"Now the mouth… we use a brush, yes? We paint a thin line just past the lips, then we fill it in with a nice dark shade. Widen that mouth a bit. Then we …Oh, come on," Michelle said, standing up, dragging Belle by the hand. "We'll be back in a minute," she said to me.
I ignored her. I knew what a minute meant to Michelle. I knew what it meant when the Prof didn't call in.
It was two ginger ales and a half–dozen cigarettes before they came out of the ladies' room, Michelle still leading Belle by the hand. They both sat across from me. I had to look twice. Belle's soft face was sharpened, different. Her eyes looked set farther apart, bigger. Her cheekbones stood out, her tiny mouth was more generous. And her hair was pulled over to one side, tied with Michelle's scarf.
"You look beautiful," I said.
"You really like it?" she asked.
"Honey, face it, you're a traffic–stopper," Michelle told her. "All it takes is a little work."
"Michelle, you're a doll," Belle said.
"They all say that." Michelle smiled. "Don't they, Burke?"
"Among other things."
Michelle was in too good a mood to pay attention to me. "Stripes," she said to Belle. "Vertical stripes. You're big enough to be two showgirls, sweetie. And watch the waist—you cinch it too tight, your hips look huge."
"He likes my hips," Belle said, smiling at me.
"All lower–class men like big hips, honey. Don't pay attention to him."
Belle looked at me. "You've got some family. A little black brother and a big Chinese one. And a gorgeous sister."
Michelle flashed her perfect smile. "It's the truth, girl."
She gave each of us a kiss. "I've got to go to work—my baby needs violin lessons."
Belle kissed her back. "Thanks, Michelle. For everything."
"Fry their brain cells, honey," she said, "and watch the walk."
A quick over–the–shoulder wave and she was gone.
46
I WAS stopped at a light at 43rd and Ninth when Belle's baby voice poked through the mist in my brain.
"Honey …"
"What?"
"We've been driving around for two hours. Around and around. You haven't said a word to me—you mad at me for something?"
I took a breath, glanced at my watch; it was past eleven. I was just going to make one quick sweep of the city, see if I could spot the Prof. I replayed the path in my head: both sides of the river, Christopher Street to Sheridan Square, across Sixth Avenue to 8th Street, back downtown to Houston, across to First, through the Lower East Side to Tompkins Square Park, outside the poolroom on 14th up to Union Square, across to Eighth Avenue and up into Times Square, working river to river into midtown. And back again. Driving through the marketplace, somebody selling something every time the Plymouth rolled to a stop. Crack, smoke, gravity knives, cheap handguns, watches with Rolex faces and Taiwan guts, little boys, girls, women, men dressed like women. Cheap promises—high prices. Murphy Men selling the New York version of safe sex—the hotel–room key they sold you wouldn't open the door, and they wouldn't be standing on the same corner when you went back to ask for better directions. Islands of light where flesh waited to take your money—pools of darkness where wolf packs waited to take your life. And vultures to pick your bones.
Something else out there too. Something that would make the wolves step aside when it walked.
I looked over at Belle. She was facing out the windshield as though she didn't want to see my face, twisting her hands together in her lap. It hurt my heart to watch her—it wasn't her fault. "You're a good, sweet girl," I told her. "It has nothing to do with you; I'm looking for my friend."
"The little black guy?"
"Yeah."
"I've been looking too," she said, her voice serious. "You think we should get out? Ask around?"
I patted her thigh. She was down for whatever it took—knew I had to do this. I couldn't explain how
it worked to her. Asking around or the Prof could get him in deeper than he already was.
I drove back to the river, turned downtown until I saw a pay phone. Mama still had nothing for me. If the Prof had been swept up by the cops, he'd get a call out sooner or later. Nothing to do but wait.
I sat on the hood of the Plymouth, feeling the warmth of the engine through my clothes, watching the Jersey lights across the river. I felt compressed. Things were moving too fast—not like they were supposed to. Belle was inside my life without the preliminaries. We'd made some deals without talking them over—she'd been in my office, Michelle was showing her baby pictures and giving her makeup advice. I was going to help her hijack some hijackers. All too fast.
The Prof was lost somewhere in the freak pipeline under the city, and I couldn't go after him without spooking the shadows.
I got back into the car, started the engine.
"I'll take you home," I said.
"Will you stay with me?"
"I have to leave a phone number. Where I can be reached tonight."
"Why don't we go to your house?"
"There's no phone there," I told her. She hadn't put it together that I live in my office.
She lit a smoke, watching me, her voice soft. Not pushing. "What if I don't want my number given out?"
"It's okay. I'll drop you off. See you soon, all right?"
"No!" It sounded like she'd start crying in a minute. "You can leave my phone number. I know it's important, Burke. I'm sorry, okay?"
"Yeah."
"Can't we go to your house first?"
I looked a question at her.
"So you can pack a suitcase."
I tried to smile at her, not knowing if I pulled it off. "I can't stay with you, Belle. Not while this is going down."
"But when it's over…?"
"Let's see what happens."
She moved close to me, gave me a quick kiss. "Whatever happens," she said.
I pointed the Plymouth out of the city.
47
IT WAS past two when I called Mama from Belle's phone. I gave her the number where I'd be, told her I'd call when I went on the move again. She didn't tie up the phone lines telling me not to worry.
"Where's the nearest pay phone?" I asked Belle.
"About four blocks down. Outside the grocery store on the right."
"I'll be back in a few minutes," I told her.
"Honey, why don't you use this phone? If it's none of my business, I can step outside on the deck until you're finished."
"It's you I'll be calling. Make sure your phone works, okay?"
She watched my face. "Whatever you say."
I found the pay phone, called Belle's number, listened to her answer, hung up.
The walk back didn't help—I could work it out in my head easy enough, but the answers were no good. The Prof was dead reliable. If he hadn't called in, he was in trouble, or he was dead. Either way, I had a debt.
Belle let me back in. I checked the phone; the cord was long enough to reach anyplace in the little cottage, even out onto the deck.I asked Belle for a fingernail file. Then I flipped the phone over, opened it up, checked the contact points, making sure the bell would work. I closed it back up, turned the dial on the underside to the loudest setting. I put the phone back on the end table near the couch, watched it.
Belle's voice came through the fog. "You can do everything to phones but make them ring, huh?"
The room came back into focus. Her face was scrubbed clean, but the glow was gone. "What is it, Belle? You look like you're afraid of me."
"I'm afraid of you shutting me out."
"This isn't yours," I told her, my voice flat.
Belle's hands went to her hips. Her little chin tilted up, eyes glistening. "What kind of a woman do you think I am?" she demanded.
I shrugged, knowing it was cruel, locked into my own course.
She moved closer, taking up all the space between us. "I said I was going to love you, Burke. You think I'd make you tell the truth and not do it myself?"
"No."
"You think I told you the truth?"
"Yes."
"You know what I want?"
"Sure."
She bent down to where I was sitting, pulled the cigarette out of my mouth, pressed her nose against mine.
"Tell me what I want."
I didn't move, didn't change expression. "The back of the joint where you work—it's like a suitcase with a false bottom. Plenty of room back there. Armored car gets hit at the airport—the hijackers take off running. But they don't go far, right? They pull in the back of the joint, stash the getaway car, and walk into the club. When the cops come looking, they've been there for hours. An alibi and a hideout all in one. Easy to come back in a few weeks. Move the cash out." I took the cigarette out of her hand, leaned back, took a deep drag. "How do they get rid of the getaway car—chop it down? repaint it back there? drive it into the back of a moving van, dump it in the swamp one night?"
She didn't answer me. Just watched.
"All that money just sitting there. Clean, unmarked bills. Probably two or three good jobs stashed in one place. Couple of hundred grand, minimum. Wouldn't be the first time somebody turned around and hit the syndicate. Hijackers aren't like numbers runners—that's why they don't make good employees."
I took a last drag, stubbed out the butt. Feeling her eyes burn on my skin.
"Whoever set this up, it's a big operation. Costs a lot of cash to front. The syndicate probably takes a piece from every hijacking at the airport. That's the way they'd do it. I know how things work. All the young mob guys want to do today is move product. They leave the armored cars and the banks to the independents."
I lit another cigarette, thinking back to the way I used to be. Telling the truth, the way she wanted it.
"A good thief, he can't stand to see a big lump of cash sitting around. Just a matter of time before some crew takes a shot."
Belle took the cigarette away from me again, put it to her lips. A red dot glowed in front of my face. Two more in her eyes.
"You didn't answer me, Burke. Tell me what I want. Tell me the truth."
"You want me to hijack the cash."
I saw her right shoulder drop, but I kept my eyes on her face. Her hand came around in a blur, her little clenched fist catching me high on the cheekbone just under the eye. She drew back her fist again. "That's enough," I said.
Her mouth trembled. The firelights went out of her eyes. She pulled away from me, fell face–down on her big white bed. Cried softly to herself as I pulled some ice cubes from the refrigerator. I wrapped the ice cubes in a towel and held it to my face. Sat by the phone.
48
WHEN I woke up, it was past four o'clock in the morning. My jacket was soaking wet on the left side. I snatched the phone. Dial tone.
"It didn't ring." A soft voice from the bed. "I've been listening since you fell asleep."
"Thanks."
"I'll stay by the phone now. When you get where you're going, you can call me. If you don't get your call by then, you can switch the numbers, okay?"
"Yeah."
"I've got an electric heater: it gets cold by the water in the winter. You can dry your clothes first."
I pulled off my jacket, unbuttoned my shirt. Belle came off the bed. I handed them to her. "Your face is swollen," she said, her voice a breathy whisper, the way you tell a secret.
"It's no big deal. Nothing's broken."
"My heart is broken," she said. Like she was saying it was Wednesday morning.
"Belle…"
"Don't say anything. It's my fault. I made a mistake. I wanted a hard man. A hard man, not a cold man."
I lit a smoke. She came back over to me, her voice sad now. Sad for all of us. "Not a cold man, Burke. Not a man who wouldn't take my love."
"I just…"
"Yeah, I know. You think telling the truth's not a game for a woman to play."
"That's not it."
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"No?" she challenged, her little–girl's voice laced with acid. "You think I couldn't find a cowboy to stick up a liquor store for me? You don't think I could pussy–whip some guido into picking up a gun? Sweet–talk some cockhound into showing me what a big man he is?"
"I know you could."
Belle stalked the room, unsnapping the suspender straps, pulling the T–shirt over her head, unhooking the bra. She worked the zipper, pulled the white pants over her hips. She sat down on the bed. Unlaced her sneakers, threw them into a corner. She went over to the kitchen corner, where my shirt and jacket were stretched on coat hangers, baking in the glow from the electric heater. She picked up my shirt. "It'll dry better this way," she said, slipping into it. She tried to button it; it wouldn't close over her breasts.
She fell to her knees beside me, hands on my thigh, looking up at my face.
"Can we have another chance?"
"Who's 'we'?"
"You and me."
"To do what?"
"To tell the truth. Let me tell you the truth. The real truth. I swear on my mother," she whispered, one hand making an X on her breast. "That's my sacred oath."
"Belle…"
"Don't hurt me like this, Burke. I'd never hurt you. You don't know what I want. You don't have any idea. Let me say what I have to say."
She got to her feet, held out her hand.
I took it.
She pulled me to her bed. "Sit down," she said. She took a fat black candle, grounded it in a glass ashtray, positioned it on top of the headboard of the bed. "Light it," she said.
I fired a wooden match. I heard a click—the electric heater snapping off. Belle laid back on the bed, her hands behind her head. I sat next to her, watching the tiny candle flame.
"This is the truth," she began. "I grew up in a little place you never heard of. In South Florida. Just me, my father, and my big sister. Sissy. We lived on the edge of the swamp in a tiny house. Not much bigger than this one. My father did a little bit of this, a little bit of that. Like everyone there. Grew some vegetables out back. Made some liquor. There was a mill nearby—he'd work when they had work. Shoot him some gator for the hides. Fix boats. We lived poor, but nice. When my father would make a good score, he'd always buy something for the house. Had a big old freezer, nice color TV. Good boat too. Mercury outboard." Her voice trailed off, remembering. I lit a cigarette, handed it to her.
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