Blue Belle

by Andrew Vachss

  Belle brought it down to about seventy. We were in the right lane, heading for the hook–turn at Exit 13. Bright lights flooded the back window. Belle reached up, turned the rearview mirror to the side. She hit the hook–turn with the 'Vette boiling up behind us.

  "Come on, sucker," she muttered as the 'Vette pulled into the outside lane behind us. She nailed it around the sweeping turn, holding the inside track. The 'Vette roared behind us, closing fast. Belle's mouth was a straight line. She slid the Plymouth into a piece of the outside lane, but this time the 'Vette was ready for her—he darted back to the inside. Belle slashed the wheel back to the right, carrying the 'Vette right off the road onto the grass. She pulled the Plymouth together for the straightaway, swept under the overpass, and slid into the new traffic stream as smoothly as a pickpocket working a crowd.

  She patted the steering wheel hard—like you'd do a horse who'd run a strong race. "Good girl," she said.

  "You took the words out of my mouth."

  She flashed me her smile.

  We exited the Cross County and hooked back to the racetrack. I showed her where to pull in: around the back, near the stable area. Nobody parks there except the horse vans—it's a long distance to the entrance. I gave Belle the buck and a half for the guy collecting the entrance fee, and we motored slowly through, stopping for grooms to walk their horses across the road.

  "Park over there," I told her, pointing at a blacktop road that runs behind the paddock. "Leave the nose pointing out."

  There are a couple of hundred acres of gravel behind the road. Pitch–dark. Belle turned off the road, stomped the gas, blasting straight into the darkness. She floored the brakes, feathering the gas at the same time, spinning the Plymouth into a perfect bootlegger's turn right into the spot I'd pointed to. She turned off the engine. A whirlwind of dirt and dust flew outside the windows, settling on the car.

  "What'd you think, honey?"

  "You're a natural," I told her.

  Her face went sad. "No. No, I'm not."

  I took her hand, squeezed it. "Don't disrespect your mother," I told her.

  She gulped. Took a breath. "You always know what to say, Burke."

  "I know what to do too," I promised her.

  I walked her past the paddock, holding her hand. The black–and–white stripes swayed in the night. I bet some of the mares were jealous.

  61

  I PAID our way past the turnstiles. Stopped in the open area to toss a dollar at the guy selling programs from behind a little desk. There was a box of tiny pencils next to the stack of programs. Belle reached past me and took one.

  "That's a quarter for the pencil, lady," the guy called out.

  Belle looked at him like he was deranged. "For this little thing?" She tossed it back into the box.

  "Behave yourself," I told her, taking her hand to lead her outside. A booth about the size of a one–bedroom apartment was set up outside, open along the sides, canvas across the top. Barbecue grill inside. "Want something?" I asked her.

  Smart move. She ordered four hamburgers with everything, two beers. The guy behind the counter finally stopped staring and barked the order over his shoulder, not moving his eyes from her chest.

  "What're you getting, pal?" the counter geek asked me.

  "He gets it later," Belle assured him.

  The guy's jaw went from gaping to unhinged.

  I paid the money, carrying a beer in each hand, motioning for Belle to climb the stairs ahead of me, admiring the view. We found seats in the outside grandstand, right near the top of the stretch.

  Belle put her hamburgers on one seat, took some napkins, and thoroughly cleaned off two more. She took a slug of beer, then handed it back to me to hold for her while she worked on the burgers.

  "You see that guy's face?" she asked innocently. "Michelle was right about the makeup."

  When she finished eating, I stowed the refuse under our seats, lit a smoke, and opened the program. Belle slouched against me, her head on my shoulder, holding the last beer in one hand.

  "What do all those little numbers mean?"

  "They all mean something different. You really want to know?"

  "Yes," she said, sounding injured.

  I went through it quickly, just once over lightly. Showed her how you could tell the horse's age, sex, color, breeding, all that kind of thing. I was up to the comparative speed ratings at the different tracks and she was still paying attention.

  "What's the most important?" she wanted to know.

  "What d'you mean?"

  "Like, all that stuff. It can't all mean the same thing."

  "Belle, that's the trick of it. It all means different things to different people. Some people like speed, some people like breeding, some people…"

  She cut me off. "What about you? You think breeding is important?"

  I looked at her face against my shoulder. "Class is what's important to me. Heart. Going the distance. Breeding don't mean a thing."

  "But breeding has to count for something, right? Or they wouldn't put it there," she said, pointing to the program.

  "They put everything on the program, girl. Because the gamblers want to know, see? What possible difference could a horse's color make? That's on there too."

  "But it must..

  "It does mean something, Belle. I've been looking at horses since I was a kid—I'll tell you what it means—you want to tell if a horse has real class, you look at its mother."

  She tilted her head up to me, a smile growing. "Truly?"

  "That's the way nature made it, girl. You can never know for sure who the father of a baby is, but there's never a doubt about the mother."

  "Never a doubt," she agreed, patting my thigh.

  The P.A. system blared into life; the horses were on the track for the first race. Belle watched as they paraded in front of the grandstand behind the marshal. She lit a cigarette, watching everything, leaning forward in her seat, her hand on my knee.

  The tote board said two minutes to post time. "Are you going to make a bet, honey?"

  "Not this race," I told her, watching.

  Belle sipped delicately at her second beer. The very image of a lady, about ten percent past life–size.

  The race wasn't much. If I'd had binoculars, I would have looked for Lupe.

  Belle finished her beer. "Who's going to win the next race?" she demanded.

  I studied the program. Same class, same crop. Mostly older horses on the way down. But there was one four–year–old, a Warm Breeze mare; Hurricane was her name. I pointed her out on the program.

  "This one's getting stronger all the time—maybe she's a late bloomer."

  Belle lit a smoke. "I like this," she said, watching the horses come out for the post parade. "Which one is ours?"

  "The five horse," I told her. "The one with the white blanket."

  "She's pretty. Kind of small, though."

  At five minutes to post, Hurricane was up to 15–1.

  "Let's bet on her," Belle said.

  "Okay. I'll be right back," I said, getting up.

  "Can't I come too?"

  "Come on," I said, ripping the front and back covers off the program and folding the pages into the rungs of our seats to mark them as ours.

  She held my hand as we walked to the windows. A group of Latins were standing against a pole, arguing about the race in Spanish. One blurted out "Mira, mira!" as we walked by. Belle stiffened. "It just means 'Look at that!'" I said to her, squeezing her hand. "Must be those vertical stripes."

  I threw a double–sawbuck down on the mare.

  Back in our seats, Belle squirmed, swiveling her head so she wouldn't miss anything. I lit a smoke as they called the horses to the gate. As the car pulled off, the horses charged into the first turn, fighting for position. Hurricane didn't get off quickly—she was pushed to the outside, deep in the pack.

  "Oh, she's losing!"

  Hurricane moved wide on the paddock turn, gaining a little ground. The thre
e horse was in front, the six next to him, Hurricane running behind the six.

  Belle was pounding her fist on my knee, bouncing a little in her seat. "Come on!"

  Hurricane fired on the back stretch, going three–wide around the horse in front of her, collaring the leader. But she couldn't pull ahead, and the three horse looked fresh. The two of them ran away from the pack into the final turn and pounded for home, not giving an inch.

  "Don't quit, baby!" Belle yelled.

  The three horse pulled a neck ahead, but the mare wouldn't give it up. She reached down and found something, shot forward again. The crowd roared—the three horse was the odds–on favorite. They crossed the finish line together—too far down the track for me to see who came out on top. "Photo" shot up on the board.

  "Did she win?"

  "I don't know, Belle. It was close—we have to wait for the photo."

  "She didn't quit, though, did she?"

  "Sure as hell didn't."

  The crowd buzzed. The "Photo" came down and the numbers went up: "5–3–4."

  Belle stood up, her hands on the railing, leaning out into the night. "Good girl!" she shouted to the mare. Heads turned toward the sound; the male heads stayed turned. I grabbed her hand, pulled her back into her seat.

  Hurricane drove past us, heading for the stable. Belle stood up again, clapping her hands. "Oh, she's beautiful!" she said, happy as a kid at Christmas. The kind of Christmas the Cosby kids have.

  I lit a smoke. Almost $350 to the good. With Mystery Mary last night, I was on the longest winning streak of my career.

  "Burke, it's just like you said. Heart. She had heart—she went the distance."

  62

  "ANYTHING YOU want to bet in the next race?" I asked her, keeping my voice as neutral as possible under the circumstances.

  "No, honey. I don't want to bet anymore. Let's just watch, okay?"

  "I'll be right back," I said.

  I cashed in the ticket. "Nice hit," the teller congratulated me. The money made a sweet roll.

  I sat down next to Belle. "Now, listen—I have to go and see someone. On the other side of the track. You stay here. Don't get out of your seat. Okay?"

  "Yes."

  "The next race is going to start soon. I'll get up like I'm making a bet. I'll be back as soon as I can."

  "Okay."

  "Now, listen, Belle. And don't tell me anything. If I'm not back by the end of the seventh race, you get up and leave." I pressed the car keys into her hand. "Drive to your house. Call the number you called me at the first time. Ask for Mama. Tell her I met with a man named Lupe. Tell her everything you know."

  "When will you be back?"

  "I don't know. I'm going down a tunnel. If you don't hear from me in a couple of days, call Mama again. She'll tell you what to do."

  "Burke…"

  I held her face in my hand, grabbing her eyes. "You want to be my woman?"

  She nodded.

  "This is part of what it costs," I told her.

  I didn't look back.

  63

  I WENT to the betting windows, put down ten to win on the six horse, slipped the ticket into my pocket. I hadn't looked at the program. I made my way through the track until I was past the finish line. Then I went downstairs, paid an extra buck, and went into the Clubhouse area. I stayed outside, climbing into the dark grandstand at the end, working my way to the top row.

  I spotted Lupe in a couple of minutes, sitting by himself in the far corner, wearing a neon–green jacket with some writing on the back. I moved down until I was across from him, making sure. The Prof's description was right on the money.

  I lit a smoke, stuck it in my mouth, and moved over to him, both hands in front of me.

  "Lupe?"

  "Who wants to know, man?"

  "Name's Burke," I said, sitting down.

  He grinned, showing me his lousy teeth. "I know you, man. I heard of you. You got that monster dog, right? You want to put her in the ring?"

  "Only if you get in there with her," I said, keeping my voice even.

  "I got no beef with you," he said quickly.

  "I got no beef with you either. I heard you were the man to see about a match, that's all."

  "What you got?"

  "I got nothing. I want to get down on some action."

  "You know Van Cortlandt Park?"

  "I don't mean dogs, pal. Or roosters either."

  "So?"

  "I heard this guy Mortay—he's been doing some duels. Heavy action."

  "Mucho action, man. But this motherfucker Mortay—he only had that one match."

  "With the Jap?"

  "Yeah! You saw it?"

  "No, just heard about it."

  His eyes glittered, crazy–cold eyes. "You got someone wants to meet Mortay, man?"

  "Yeah. Me."

  Lupe laughed. "With what, man? A machine gun?"

  "I don't want to fight him—just have a talk. I figured you could set it up."

  "No, man," he said, sadness in his voice. "I don't find him—he finds me. He's got this guy, Ramón. He's the one who makes the meets."

  "How'd he find the Jap?"

  "The Jap found him, man. Guy rolls in from the Coast, puts the word out. I hear this Mortay totaled his brother out there. He was looking for payback."

  "Didn't have much luck, did he?"

  "Man, Mortay don't take prisoners. He earned his name. Mortay, man. You get it? Muerte. Death. He deals death, man. Eats it alive."

  "You don't know where to find him?"

  "Man, I don't want to know where to find him."

  "Yeah. Okay. This Ramón comes around, you tell him I'd like to meet Mortay. Public place, no problems. Just want to talk to him for a minute."

  Lupe shrugged. "He comes, I ask him, man. Where you gonna be?"

  "Just give him my name. I'm in the phone book," I told him, walking off.

  64

  I WAS back next to Belle before the start of the fifth race.

  "Not so bad, huh?" I asked her.

  "I waited here, just like you said."

  "Good girl."

  "But if you hadn't come back, I was going looking."

  "That's not what I told you to do."

  "I wasn't going to make trouble. Just poke around."

  "Yeah, you got a great disguise all right. Nobody'd remember seeing you."

  "Burke, I love you. I had to…"

  "You had to listen. Like I told you to. Like you promised. Stupid bitch."

  "Honey!"

  "You don't want to listen, you can walk. We made a deal."

  "I'm sorry, baby. I am. I just…"

  "Just. Fucking. Nothing. I'm not going to tell you again."

  She leaned into me, her hand near the inside of my thigh, whispering. "You want to take me home, beat my ass, teach me a lesson?"

  "I thought you said no man ever hit you."

  "It'd be worth it," she whispered. "You know why?"

  "Why, dopey?"

  "You'd have to be there to do it," she said.

  I stood up, held out my hand. She took it, meek as a lamb, a little smile on her face.

  65

  I DROVE the Plymouth on the way back. Belle was quiet. "You mad at me?"

  "I'm not mad at you—I'm not going to be mad at you. That's not the way I work. You want to be with me, I have to trust you. That's all there is."

  I turned to look at her. A tear rolled down her cheek, tracking through the makeup.

  "Okay?" I asked her.

  "I swear," she promised, lying down on the front seat, curling up next to my leg. She didn't say another word all the way back to her house.

  66

  WHEN I pulled in behind the red Camaro, Belle was still lying across the front seat, her head against my leg. She put her hand on my thigh, grabbed hard enough to hurt.

  "You have to come in with me."

  "Pretty bossy, aren't you?"

  She looked up at me, her face wet, the lovely makeup ruined. />
  "Just come inside, honey. Come inside—you can be all the boss you want to be, but don't go away now."

  I opened my door, got out. Walked around to her side of the car to let her out. I held my hand out to her. "Come on," I told her.

  She piled out of the Plymouth faster than I thought she could move.

  67

  "DON'T TURN on the lights," she said, pushing me to the couch. She patted my pockets, found cigarettes and matches. Lit one for each of us. The little flame shot highlights into her hair.

  "I don't know what to do," she said, sounding lost.

  "About what?"

  "I want to wash my face. Take these tears off. But if I do, the makeup won't stay."

  "Wash your face."

  "But you liked the way I looked. You said so."

  "I like the way you look in those pants too—does that mean you'll never take them off while I'm around?"

  "It's not the same thing," she sniffled.

  "Yeah, it is," I told her. "Exactly the same thing. Underneath whatever you put on there's still you."

  "But…"

  "But what?"

  "That's not the way it is, honey. All my life… it's been the same thing. I have to take off my clothes to make a man forget my face."

  I held her against me, her face pressed into my chest, talking softly into her ear.

  "Listen to me, Belle. You said you'd listen to me, yes?"

  Her head nodded against me.

  "You're the one who doesn't like your face. Because you don't understand it's your own face. I know whose face it is, okay?"

  She nodded against me again.

  "Go take off the makeup," I said, patting her gently.

  While she was in the bathroom, I called the Prof. His voice sounded much stronger.

  "I'm on the line with plenty of time."

  "It's me."

  "Back from the track?"

  "Yeah. I spoke to the man."

  "So we got a plan?"

  "No. Not yet. I want to see the guy you talked with. Square the beef. Drop the case. Walk away."

  "He's got to pay, but not today?"

  "Right. And we don't want anyone else in the game—just you and me."

  "He's not going to stop till he gets to the top."