"I rap to him. Try my crazy act. He don't go for it. He says he knows me too. Calls my name—the Prophet. Asks, if I know the Word, why I can't cure myself. Fix my own legs.
"I tell him no man can change the will of the Lord. He comes over to me, kneels down, starts on me with his hands, pressing spots on my face, watching me. Then he says, You lie. Just like that. You lie. He slaps me right off the cart, tells me to stand up. For a minute, I thought my legs stopped working for real…but I got to my feet.
"He says he's going to have to show me it's a mistake to ask questions. I know bodywork's coming up. I got no place to go. I fucked up, brother," the little man said, his voice shaking. "I was scared. You know I don't spook easy, but this freak… It was like he was sending out waves. Hurting me inside, and he wasn't even touching me."
I felt Belle behind me. "Wait outside," I told her. I didn't know what was coming, but it wasn't for her to hear.
"It's all right, Prof," I said to my brother, squeezing his arm.
His voice went sad. Shamed. "No, it ain't all right. I lost control, Burke. I put Max's name out. I told this freak the Silent One was my brother. I ran the whole rap. Told him the widow–making wind would tear down his house if he messed with me. I figured if he knew I was hooked up with Max…"
"It's the truth. And he's not the only one."
The Prof's face was deep–down sad. "You know what he did? He smiled, man. He said he wanted Max. In a match. Said he made me walk, he could make Max talk. The freak said he had word out for months that he wanted to meet Max—that Max was dog–yellow.
"I went dumb. It wasn't no act. It was the devil talking to me, standing right there. He said he's been looking for Max's dojo. When he finds it, he's going to take it for himself.
"And then he asked me where it was. Smiling at me. Saying since Max was my brother and all, I had to know.
"I told him I didn't. I know when a man is lying, he says. Looks at me. Right through me.
"The Spanish guy says something. Mortay flicks his wrist at the Spanish guy's face like he's brushing away a fly. Blood jumps out on the Spanish guy's face.
"Then the freak says to me he sees I don't know where Max's dojo is. So he wants me to give him a message.
"I say okay—tell me the message. He takes this fucking machete from someplace. Hands it to me. Test the blade, he says. Big smile on his face. I touch the edge—it goes right into my hand, draws blood.
"Sharp enough? he asks me. For what? I say.
"I'm going to fix your legs, he says.
"I try and stall him. Put the blade down, take off my coat. Like I'm getting ready to duel with him. I pick up the blade, swing it in both hands. Like I'm testing it? I check the door where they brought me in. Spanish guy standing there, holding the gun. No place to go.
"I was scared, Burke. But shamed too. I knew I put Max's name out. Broke the rules. I'm a man. I never cried when they broke me up in the joint. I have a name too."
"Your name is gold, Prof."
The little man wasn't listening; tears on his face.
"I pulled it together. I called his name: Come on, pussy! He came at me. I hit the floor, flipped onto my back, flashing the blade up at him with both hands—hard. Going to cut his balls off."
The Prof's arm trembled in my hand.
"He floated right over me. Musta been six feet off the ground. He comes again. I step to him, blade going side to side, razor–circle. No way in for him. He comes inside the blade, chops me on the wrist. The blade goes flying.
"Fun's over, nigger, he says."
The Prof's eyes closed.
"I grab for his eyes. White mist comes. I hear a crack—I know it's my leg. I go down."
His eyes opened.
"When I come around, I'm in the back of the station wagon. Mortay—he's sitting like Max sits. Against the back door, facing me. Taking you to the hospital, he said. Put you in a nice private room—everything's on me. Tell Max I did this. Says his name real slow. Two pieces. Like More–Tay. Get it right, he said. Give him my message."
The Prof bit into his lip, reaching inside for what he needed. "You're the only one I called," he said.
"I know."
"I fucked up. Fucked up bad."
"You did the job, brother. This Mortay…he's got to be locked into the van somehow."
"But Max…?"
"He knew about Max before he ever grabbed you, Prof. That's his own scene. You gave him nothing he didn't already have."
"Burke… I never saw nothing move so fast in all my life."
I patted his arm, feeling the little man's fear vibrate through to me.
"I need you on this one, brother," I told him.
"I won't be running no races for a while," he said, looking at his legs.
"It's your brain I need. Knife–fighters are a dime a dozen."
The ghost of the Prof's old smile showed. "If you got a plan, I'm your man."
"They still have the death–matches in the basement under Sin City?"
"They move them around, what I heard."
"Who'll know?"
The Prof thought a minute. "Got to be Lupe, brother. That dude's a battle–freak. Cockfighting, pit bulls, rope–dancing… it's a good bet he'll be on the set."
"Where's he hang?"
A bigger smile this time. "Your favorite place, Ace. Every weeknight, he's at the end grandstand at Yonkers."
"Which end?"
"Way past the finish line…where it looks like bleachers?"
"Yeah, I know it."
"Every night. He sets up matches. Takes a piece."
The little man's eyes moved into stronger focus. Working again. "Light me a smoke."
I fired one for him, held it to his lips. He took a deep drag.
"Lupe's about fifty. Greasy 'do, wears it in an old–style D.A. Pachuco cross on his hand. Short, fat dude. Bad teeth. Got him?"
"Yeah."
The Prof looked up at me, eyes clear. "All the faggot broke was my legs, Burke."
"I know."
"No rhyme this time. This is the true word: he'll be sorry."
"For breaking your legs?"
"For not killing me when he had the chance," the little man promised. Back to himself.
I heard loud voices in the corridor. Pushed open the door a crack. A big black nurse was trying to push her way past Belle and not having any luck.
"It's okay," I told Belle, holding open the door.
The nurse came in, pushing a cart with a metal tray on it. "Time for your medicine," she told the Prof, a West Indian tang to her voice.
The little man winked at her.
"You better hope that ain't no dope," he said, pointing his chin at the hypo on her tray.
"And why is that?" she said, a smile creeping onto her broad face.
"Dope makes me sexy, Mama. I couldn't trust myself around a fine cup of Jamaican coffee like you."
"Never mind with a smart mouth, mahn," she snapped, still smiling, loading the syringe.
The Prof looked at me and Belle. "Look here, fools, can't you see me and this lady want to be alone?"
I waved goodbye. Belle bent over and kissed him.
He was already deep into his rap with the nurse by the time we got the door closed.
56
BELLE RESTED her hand lightly on my arm as we waited for the elevator, not saying a word. She stayed quiet until we got in the car.
"What happened to him?"
"He was in an accident."
Her face went sulky. "I told you the truth. I told you my secrets. You don't have to tell me yours." She lit a cigarette. "But don't lie to me—I'm a big girl, not a baby. It's none of my business, just say that. Don't tell me stories, you want me to trust you."
"It's none of your business," I said.
She didn't say another word until I hit the highway and she saw where I was headed.
"No."
"No what?"
"No good. What happened to your friend—it's none
of my business, okay. But you're going to do something now. I know you have to."
"And?"
"And that's my business. I'm in too."
"No, you're not."
"Yes, I am. Don't you tell me I'm not. I can do things. I can help."
"Look, Belle…"
"You look. You think I'm just a piece of ass with a sad story? I'm a woman. A woman who loves you. You don't want my love, you say so. Say so right now."
"I…"
"Just shut up. I don't sell my love. I never gave it away before. I said I was going to love you. That means something. My love is worth something—you have to give me a chance to show you."
"You'll get your chance."
"How? Coming to see you on visiting day?"
"If that's what it comes down to."
"No! I love you. I swear I love you. I pay attention when you talk. I learn things. You want to mistreat me, I'll still love you. I play for keeps. But you can't disrespect me. Like on that wall you showed me."
"I'm not disrespecting you."
"No? You've got work to do, I should stay at home, right? I'm too fat for an apron, and I don't know how to cook."
I lit a cigarette, blew smoke at the windshield, driving mechanically.
Belle moved in close to me, her hip against mine, both arms around my neck, talking softly into my ear. "You have to love me. And you won't…not really love me…unless you let me in. I won't get in the way—I'll just do my piece. You say what it is. But you have to let me in or you'll never see what I am…you'll never love me, Burke."
I took a deep breath. Let it out slow.
"You won't freelance? You'll do what I tell you?"
"I swear."
"I'll pick you up tonight. Around seven."
"Where're we going?"
"The racetrack."
"I thought…"
"That's not the deal," I reminded her.
She gave me a kiss, nuzzled against me for a minute, moved back to the passenger side.
"You're the boss." She smiled.
Sure.
57
WHEN WE got to her house, Belle bounded out of the car like she was going to a fire sale on salvation. I wheeled the car around and shot back to the city. Lots of work to do.
I pulled in behind Mama's. Grabbed the Daily News from under the register and sat in my booth. The waiter brought me some hot–and–sour soup, not even pretending I had a choice. I read the paper, waiting for Mama. Nothing about any new Ghost Van murders. I flipped through to the back. The race results. Mystery Mary came out on top. Wired the field, trotting the mile in 2:00.3. She was three lengths up at the top of the stretch and held on by a neck. Paid $14.10. I was up almost a grand and a half. I couldn't remember the last time I figured a race so perfectly. I waited for the rush. It didn't come. Mama moved into the booth. Greeted me, her eyes shifting to the newspaper.
"You win?"
"Yeah."
"I tell Max pick up the money?"
"Yeah. And tell him to lay low for a few days. Stay off the street, okay? I'm working on something—a nice sweet score. Let people think he's gone away for a while."
Mama looked at me, waiting.
"I got to go," I told her.
She didn't say anything.
58
I HIT the post office. Told Melvin where the Prof was, gave him the phone number of the private room. Anyone comes around asking for the Prof, he should call me at Mama's, leave the word.
The City Planning Office had the detailed grid maps I needed. I paid for them in cash.
I spent another couple of hours at the library, groping around, not sure what I was looking for.
I drove to the junkyard. Turned around before I got there. It wasn't time for the Mole yet.
I went back to the office. I put the grid maps of the city on the wall. Spread out the clips Morelli got for me. I couldn't make them work.
I went into myself, deep as I could go. I came back empty.
Pansy and I shared some roast beef.
When I looked at my watch, it was time to go.
59
THE DOOR opened before l could knock. "Close your eyes," Belle said. "Keep them closed."
She led me over to the couch, pushed me into it. "Just sit for a minute, honey—I'm not done yet."
I lit a smoke, looking around. The whole place was a mess—boxes and paper all over the floor, bed not made, ashtrays overflowing.
Belle came out of the bathroom, prancing on a pair of shiny black spikes. Her hair was swept to one side, held together with a black clip. Her face was so different I had to look twice: dark eye liner pulled her eyes apart, sharp lines over her cheekbones. Her mouth was a wide, dark slash. She was wearing a black silk top over a pair of skin–tight pants in a wide black–and–white stripe. Two heavy white ropes tied loosely around her waist. She twirled before me, as pretty–proud as a little girl in her first party dress.
"See. Just like Michelle said."
I stared at her.
"Burke. Say something!"
"Damn!"
"What does that mean?" she demanded, moving closer.
"I think my heart stopped. You want to try some mouth–to–mouth?"
The smile lit up her face. "Isn't it great? Michelle's so smart." she twirled again. Stood hip–shot, her back to me. "Vertical stripes," she boasted, patting her hip.
The black–and–white stripes were vertical all the way up her legs. But when they got to her butt, they stopped going parallel and ran for their lives in opposite directions. Flesh stomps fashion every time.
"You're the loveliest thing I've ever seen in my life," I told her, reaching out my hand.
She slapped it away. "No, you don't." She laughed. "I didn't put all this on for you to pull it off."
I got to my feet, reaching in my pocket for the car keys. Belle moved in close to me, holding the lapel of my jacket with one hand. Dark–red polish on her nails.
"Burke, I was only teasing. You want to stay here, it's okay."
I patted her on the rear. "I wish we could stay here. We're working, remember?"
"Then why'd you say…?"
"I lost my head."
She gave me a quick kiss. "Wait till later," she promised.
60
I ROLLED onto the Belt Parkway, taking it past the crossover for the airport, heading for the Whitestone Bridge. When I saw a break in traffic, I pulled over on the shoulder. Turned off the engine. Belle sat quietly, black–and–white–striped legs crossed, waiting patiently.
"Were you really a driver?" I asked her.
"Oh, yes," she said, her eyes opening wide, watching me close.
"Want to show me?"
She was behind the wheel in a flash, almost shoving me out the door. I went around to the other side, let myself in. Lit a smoke, watching her.
Belle kicked off the spike heels, wiggling her hips in the seat. She wasn't playing around, just getting the feel of the machine. "Can I move the seat back a bit?"
I showed her where the lever was. She took it back an inch or two, extending her arms toward the wheel, looking another question at me. I threw a toggle switch and the wheel dropped into her lap. "Move it to where you want it and I'll lock it in place."
She played with the wheel for a minute, getting it just the way she wanted it, squirming around in the seat, checking the mirrors, rolling her shoulders to get the stiffness out. "Anything I should know?" she asked.
"Like what?"
"Do the brakes grab? Does it pull to one side?"
"No. It tracks like a train. Stops straight. But watch the gas—it's a lot stronger than it looks."
She nodded. Turned the key. Blipped the throttle a couple of times. "No tach?" she asked.
"It's built for torque, not revs. You want to drop it down a gear, just kick the pedal. Or you can move the lever down one from D."
Belle gave herself plenty of room, waited until the traffic was quiet in the right lane. She came down hard on the
gas, adjusting the wheel when the rear started to slide, and pulled out onto the highway hard and smooth. She merged with traffic and flowed along, getting the feel.
"Where's the flasher for the headlights?"
"Flick the turn signal toward you. But be careful—the high beams are real monsters."
"Horn?"
"There's two. The hub on the wheel is the regular one; the little button near the rim—see it?—that's for moving trucks out of the way."
She flicked a glance over her right shoulder. "Okay to play?"
"Go," I told her.
She spotted an opening, mashed the gas, shot all the way across to the far–left lane, blew past a dozen cars, backed off the gas, and rolled into the center lane. She pulled the Plymouth so close behind the car in front that it looked like we were going to hit. Kept it right there until the guy in front of us pulled over.
"Follow the signs to the Whitestone Bridge," I told her.
Belle handled the big car like it was part of her, cutting through traffic, moving from one clot of cars to another, staying in the pack each time. When we got to the bridge, she pulled into the Exact Change lane without me saying a word. I handed her a token. She flicked it into the basket without looking. We motored along the Hutchinson River Parkway, Belle still putting the Plymouth through its paces, not talking to me. We came to the last toll before the hook–turn to the Cross County. A guy in a white Corvette was in the lane next to us, coming out of the chute at the same time. Belle goosed the Plymouth, heading for the left lane. The 'Vette jumped out ahead of us. Belle kicked it down—both cars were flying to the same lane, the 'Vette a half–length in front. Belle kept coming. The gap got narrow. I heard the scream of rubber—the 'Vette's driver stood on the brakes as we shot through.
A minute later, the 'Vette steamed by in the right lane, cutting sharply in front of us as soon as he passed. Belle flicked the brights, punching the horn button at the same time. The sky lit up. The twin air horns under the horn blasted the warning call of a runaway semi. The 'Vette ducked out of the way as we went by. Belle slashed over into his lane. I heard the shriek of brakes again.
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