Blue Belle

by Andrew Vachss

  "I'm not sure that's right, Prof. I think this dueling shit isn't the real story—he was riding shotgun on this other thing, and you stumbled into the line of fire."

  "Could be, man. But…"

  "No names, we'll talk later. I'll come and see you. On the first shift, okay?"

  "I can't run, son."

  I hung up.

  68

  BELLE CAME out of the bathroom wearing a black bra over the striped pants, a doubtful look on her freshly scrubbed face. She lit another of her fat black candles, propping it on the sink.

  "I'm ugly again," she said.

  I gave her a hard look but she didn't flinch. "I looked for myself," she said, her voice sad.

  I took a drag of my cigarette. "You want me to fix it?"

  "How? Put a bag over my head?"

  "Come here," I said, keeping my voice even.

  She walked over to the couch.

  "Take off those pants."

  She reached back to unhook her bra. "Just the pants," I told her.

  She stepped out of her spike heels. Even with the zipper all the way down, getting the pants off was a struggle. She stood there in her bra and panties, hands on her hips. "You want these off too?" she asked, her thumbs hooked in the waistband.

  "Yeah."

  She did, watching me every second. "Now what?"

  "Come with me," I said, taking her hand. I led her back to the bathroom, posing her in front of the sink. The candle's flickering glow carried through the open door.

  "Lean forward," I told her, my hand on her shoulder. "Look into the mirror."

  "I still think…"

  "Shut up. Just do what I tell you, okay?"

  "Okay."

  "I'm going to ask you some questions," I said, sliding my hand down to her waist. "Soon as you get the right answer, I'll stop. Got it?"

  "Yes."

  "Look in the mirror—tell me what you see."

  "An ugly old girl."

  I slid my hand to her butt, took a plump cheek in my right hand, gave her a hard, sharp pinch.

  "Ow!" she yelped.

  "Wrong answer," I told her. "What do you see now?"

  "The same thing," she snapped, her voice set and stubborn.

  I pinched her harder.

  She yelped again. "Take another look," I told her. She tried to rub herself—I slapped her hand away.

  "I don't care if you pinch it right off, I'm not…Burke!" she squealed as I pinched her again. My hand was getting tired.

  "I see a beautiful young girl," I whispered to her. "You sure I'm wrong?"

  Tears rolled down her face. "You mean it? You swear you mean it?"

  I squeezed her butt, gently this time. "I've got all night," I promised her.

  "This isn't fair," she said, a smile peeking out from beneath the pout.

  "Tell me what you see," I said, still holding her in the same place, tightening my hand. "Last chance."

  "I see a beautiful young girl," she said. Like a robot.

  I pinched the sweet flesh hard. She tried to push past me but I blocked her way.

  "Okay!"

  I stroked her butt gently. "Tell me."

  "I see a beautiful young girl."

  "Me too," I said, kissing her.

  She came into my arms, baby–soft. I kissed her for a long time. "I'm going to be black and blue," she said against my chest.

  "I'm sorry."

  "I'm not," she said, pulling me toward the bed. "It's a lot better than being just blue."

  69

  SOMETHING FLICKED at my brain just before l drifted off to sleep. Something about a letter. I made a grab for it, but I went under before I could pull it close.

  When I came around, it was still dark. Belle was lying crossways on the bed, her breasts flattened against my chest, her face buried in the pillow next to mine. She was awake too—I could tell from her breathing.

  "What, baby?" I asked her.

  She turned her head, propping herself on an elbow. "Baby …I'll never have a baby."

  "Sure you will. Someday."

  "No, I won't. I fixed it. I had a real ugly harelip—you know what that is?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, I had a bad one. Pulled up so bad you could see my teeth all the time. I saved some money—went to a plastic surgeon. You know what, Burke? He told me he could fix the whole thing, give me a different face. A real nose instead of this little pig's snout, cheekbones, anything I wanted."

  "So what happened?"

  "I started on it. He did the harelip first. Did it real good too. But then I went on a job with a couple of boys. It got nasty right in the middle—the wheels came off and we had to fly. We got away, but one of the boys got himself shot up pretty bad. There's this old doctor, back in the hills. We went by his place, stayed there for damn near a month. Cost us every dime we had between us, but he pulled Rodney through."

  She fumbled around the night table, looking for a cigarette. Her body gleamed in the flame from the match.

  "This old doctor—he was an outlaw. Like us. I don't even know if he was a real doctor and all, but he had good hands. I was pregnant—maybe two, three months gone. I found out while we were holed up. I was just a big dumb old girl—never figured on getting pregnant. When the doc told me, I told him to go and get the baby. Take it.

  "He wanted to know was I sure. So I told him. I told him the truth. He said I was right—I was doing the right thing. He said he saw a lot of babies like I was gonna have—said they never did too well. Trying to make it gentle for me, but I knew what he meant."

  She took a deep drag off her cigarette.

  "He said he could fix me up inside when he went to get the baby. Tie my tubes. I didn't have to think a minute."

  Her voice was soft in the night. "I could love a baby—I know I could. But I figured, if I loved a baby, I'd never have one. You understand?"

  "Yeah."

  "How come you never worried about it?"

  "About what?"

  "Making me pregnant."

  I laughed. "I can't make babies, Belle."

  "You tried? With that woman…"

  "No. I never tried. Never thought about it when I was young. Spent most of my time in places where you couldn't make a baby anyway. I got jumped once. Long time ago. It wasn't a personal thing—I was in the wrong place. Or maybe I was just the wrong color. Doesn't much matter. Anyway, they really did a number on me. When the ambulance dropped me at the hospital, the pain was so bad…there's no way for me to describe it to you."

  "What'd they do?"

  "Broke some ribs. Fractured my jaw. But the real hurt…they kicked me in the balls so many times I thought they were going to fall off. The doctor said it was a testicular torsion."

  "A what?"

  "A torsion… like a twist." I held my two fists together in front of her face, twisted one sideways. "Like that."

  "Ugh!"

  "Yeah. I looked down at myself—the whole sac was black. Before they put me out, the doctor said the blood supply was pinched off—they'd have to cut me open and stitch a new wall inside to hold the balls in place."

  "God!"

  "I remember telling them, could they do a vasectomy while they were at it….The doctor thought it was funny—like, as long as they were in the neighborhood and all. But they did it. No babies from me either."

  "Does that hurt you?"

  "No. It's not for me. I don't think about it. But I never told anyone before."

  Belle kissed me. "You can tell me anything," she said.

  I reached past her. Lit a smoke for myself. My watch said it was past four in the morning.

  "Go back to sleep," I said, rubbing her back, pushing against her shoulder.

  "I have to sleep on my stomach," she said, a smile playing around her lips.

  "You're breaking my heart—I didn't pinch you that hard."

  "You did!"

  "Give it a rest, Belle. I'd need a set of vise grips to do a job on all this," I said, patting her butt.
>
  "I looked in the mirror. While you were asleep. You made a big mark."

  "It'll be gone soon."

  "I know," she whispered. "That's why I'm sleeping on my stomach. I want to see it again before it goes away."

  She put her face in my chest. I felt the tears.

  "What?"

  "It'll fade away. You will too."

  "I'm right here."

  "For now."

  I took a last long pull on the cigarette, tangling my hand in the hair at the back of her neck.

  "It's like you said before, Belle. We're outlaws. Tomorrow's for citizens. For us, it's always now."

  "I love you," she mumbled into my chest.

  "Go to sleep, little girl," I told her, holding her, kissing her hair.

  Waiting for daylight.

  70

  I WAS back up a couple of hours later. I lit a cigarette, walked out onto the deck. A big seagull sat on the railing. He didn't fly away as I walked closer to him, just shifted his head so he could watch me close. He knew he had the whole sky to run to.

  I felt Belle behind me. "You better go back to sleep," I said.

  "Why? I'm awake now."

  "You already missed a couple of nights' work. You're going to be wiped out if you don't get some rest."

  "I'm not going back. In that business, girls come and they go. It happens all the time."

  "Yeah, but…"

  "I'm in this with you, Burke. I know you could walk away from me anyway. When it's over. But I got to take this shot. Show you what I can do…so you'll want to be with me."

  "Look, Belle…"

  "You promised. Maybe you didn't say the words, but you promised. An outlaw's promise—I'm in on this. I've got some money put away. You won't have to take care of me."

  "Hell, I'd have to rob a bank just to feed you."

  She slapped me hard on the arm. "I mean it. Don't joke around."

  She slipped her arms around my neck from behind, pressed against me, talking only for my ears. "I'm going to be with you. I don't want men looking at me anymore the way they do. You made it too late for that." Her grip tightened. "I want a man who looks at my face."

  I let out a breath. "Get dressed," I told her.

  71

  WE WERE back in my office by seven–thirty. I let Pansy out to the roof, called Mama. No messages came in for me, but she got mine out to Max. One more quick call. The Prof was a little blurred on the phone—I guess they were still shooting him up.

  "How you holding up, brother?" I asked him.

  "If the Board don't call, it's time for the Wall."

  One of his old sayings—if you can't scam the Parole Board, it's time to start working on an escape plan. I guess he was pretty sick of the hospital.

  I spread out the street maps on the desk again, stared at them.

  Belle's hand on my shoulder. "What're you looking for, honey?"

  "I don't know yet."

  Pansy came back downstairs. One glance told her the situation. I was working—no point in trying to extort food. Then her beast's brain came as close to an idea as she was ever likely to get. She butted her massive head against Belle's leg, pushing her back a few feet. Belle headed for the couch, but Pansy cut her off, butting at her again.

  "What does she want?"

  "Food," I said, not looking up.

  I heard the refrigerator open. "Well, what suits you?" Belle asked. Pansy growled. "Can I give her some of this brown rice?"

  "Heat it up first," I told her, keeping my eyes on the maps.

  Belle came back inside. "Honey, is there a store around here?"

  "What kind of store?"

  "Like a supermarket or a grocery?"

  "Not far. Why?"

  "I need some stuff."

  "Later, okay?"

  "But I want…"

  "Belle, I'm trying to figure something out. Just be quiet for a while, okay?"

  She leaned over the desk, her breasts in my face, one hand slipping into my lap. "Maybe you should put something in my mouth…shut me up good."

  I looked up at her, holding her eyes. "If you won't let me work with you here…"

  Her eyes went soft and sad. "I was playing."

  "Now's not the time."

  She leaned closer, watching my eyes. "I know. I thought you'd give me a slap. Where you pinched me last night."

  "What good would that do?"

  "I have to feel you. You won't let me help…I just wanted…"

  "I will let you help. But if you don't shut up, I'll never figure out how."

  I patted her rump. Gently. "Okay?"

  "Okay."

  72

  WHEN I looked away from the map, she was curled up asleep on the couch, Pansy was lying parallel to her on the floor.

  I snapped my fingers. Pansy's head swiveled. I pointed toward the far corner of the office. She moved with the speed of a runaway fire hydrant. As soon as she was at her post, I went over to the couch. I kissed Belle on the cheek. She came awake. "What is it, honey?"

  "I got something for you to do—you awake?"

  She rubbed her eyes. "Sure."

  "When you spoke to Marques, he call you or did you call him?"

  "Both."

  "So you have a phone number for him?"

  "Sure."

  "I want you to call him. Tell him I came by the club and saw you. Asked you to get in touch with him—set up a meeting. Tell him I said any time, any place. About what we talked about the last time."

  "What if he has to call me back—where do I tell him?"

  "Don't tell him anything. If he can't give you a time and a place right then, tell him to call my number. The one he gave you the first time."

  "The Chinese woman."

  "Yeah."

  "Burke, is she the one? The one you…?"

  I ruffled her hair, kissed the back of her neck. "Come on, Belle. We got a lot to do today."

  73

  ON THE way to the hospital, I asked her about Marques.

  "You know the best time to call?"

  "What difference does it make?"

  "He's a pimp. He goes off the street before four, five in the morning, the other players will think he's losing a step. Best time to catch him at his crib is early afternoon."

  "Sometimes, when I come off my shift, I can't sleep. Maybe I could try him now."

  "Yeah, okay. When I go up to see the Prof, you take the car. Find a pay phone, take a shot." I looked at my watch. Almost ten–thirty. "I'll meet you in the parking lot around noon. If you haven't reached him by then, we'll try again."

  I pulled up outside Saint Vincent's. "The registration papers are in the glove compartment. You get stopped by the cops, tell them you borrowed the car. It's not on any list."

  I showed her the papers.

  "Juan Rodriguez?"

  "That's me. I met you at the club. Told you you could borrow the car any time you wanted. You've never been to my house. I told you I wouldn't need the car for a couple of weeks 'cause I'd be on vacation."

  I gave her a slip of paper with a phone number on it. The phone would ring at the junkyard I own a piece of in the Bronx. The old man who made out my paycheck would tell anyone who called I was on vacation. In Puerto Rico someplace. Juan Rodriguez was the ideal employee—he never showed up for work, but he cashed his paycheck and gave the boss back the money. Fuck the IRS.

  "Drive the car like it was hot. Don't call attention to yourself. But if you get pulled over, don't run. If you get a ticket, just take it. Don't say anything."

  "All right, honey."

  The Plymouth pulled away and disappeared in traffic. Smoother than I ever drove it.

  74

  THE PROF looked stronger already. I pulled my chair to the head of the bed and we talked like we used to on the yard. Quiet, each looking in a different direction. The West Indian nurse came in.

  "I smell smoke in here," she said, like she'd caught us stealing.

  "Smoke don't have a prayer against your own sw
eet smell, Mama," the Prof sang out.

  "There's no smoking in the patients' rooms. Now, you know that very well. I have told you before."

  The Prof spread his hands to the heavens, seeking divine guidance. Lord, what must I say to make this woman give me a play?"

  The nurse's broad face creased as she fought off the smile. "You smart–mouth little man—I'd break the rest of your bones."

  "You don't mean a word of it, a goddess like you."

  The nurse had a pill and a plastic cup of dark liquid. "You going to take this medicine with no more of your speeches?"

  The Prof regarded her, his fine head cocked to the side. "You know why a man climbs a mountain?"

  She sighed, used to this by now.

  "So, then. Why does a man climb a mountain?"

  "'Cause the air's so sweet when you get to the top," the Prof said, and popped the pill in his mouth, holding the glass like a toast. "You going to give a poor man a reason to live?"

  "You keep messing with me, you have no reason to live," she warned him, then waited patiently for the Prof to finish drinking his medicine. Snatched the glass from his hand and stalked out.

  "A little more time and she's all mine," the Prof said. He was right—all Mortay broke was his legs.

  I lit another cigarette, pulling the half–filled water glass we used as an ashtray from under the bed.

  "I went to the track. Saw the man. Like I told you."

  "And?"

  "He can't put me in touch. Says this Mortay's a death–dealer for real. That duel with the Jap—it really went down."

  The Prof dragged deep on his cigarette. "Yeah. But he's no warrior. Not like Max. He's a junkie for it."

  "It connects, Prof."

  His eyes flashed. "Run it down, home."

  "You weren't looking for this freak, right? Just poking around…asking about the van."

  "Right."

  "And this guy's no bodyguard. You must have stepped on his turf by accident."

  "It's not enough. We need to know more if we going to score."

  "I'm working on it. I told this Lupe…the guy who makes matches… I want to meet."

  "You not going to bring Max?"

  "Max is out of this one, Prof."

  He reached his hand across the bed. I squeezed it.