Blue Belle

by Andrew Vachss

  "I'm just a student."

  "You wanted to meet me?"

  "Thank you for coming," I said, my voice gentle and low. "You had a dispute with a friend of mine. A small black man. On a cart."

  He stood stone–still, waiting.

  "The dispute was our fault, and we apologize. He wasn't looking for you. We don't know anything about you. We don't want to know."

  "What was he looking for?"

  "The Ghost Van."

  "Don't look for the Ghost Van," Mortay hissed. "You wouldn't like it if you found it."

  "I'm not looking for it. I'm off the case. I just wanted to tell you to your face. We have no quarrel with you—whatever you did, it was just business, okay?"

  I turned to go.

  "Stay where you are."

  I faced him. He hadn't moved.

  "I gave the little nigger a message. Didn't you get it?"

  "I just told you we did."

  "About Max. Max the Silent. Max the warrior. I called him out. I want to meet him."

  "If I see him, I'll tell him."

  "You know my name? You play with me, you play with death."

  "I'm not playing."

  "I know you. Burke. That's you, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "Max is your man. Everyone knows that—it's all over the street. Everyone says he's the best. He's not. It's me. Me. He wants to admit it, go down on one knee, he can live. Otherwise, we fight."

  "You can't make him fight."

  "I can make anyone fight. I spit on dojo floors. I killed a kendo master with his own sword. Everybody has a button." He opened his hands, a gambler fanning a handful of aces. "I push the buttons."

  "Let it go," I said.

  He moved in on top of me. Spit full in my face. I didn't move, watching his eyes.

  "You're better than I thought," he whispered. "You're too old to jump if I call your mother a name. But you spit in an ex–con's face, he has to fight."

  "I won't fight you."

  "You couldn't fight me, pussy." I felt my face rock to the side, blood in the corner of my mouth. "Never saw that, did you?"

  "No," I answered him, chewing on my lip, my mind back in an alley when I faced another man years ago. Wishing I had a gun, glad I didn't.

  "I'm the fastest man there is. Max, he's nothing but a tough guy. I'll kill him in a heartbeat—he'll never see what does it."

  "You can't make him fight—he doesn't fight just 'cause you call his name."

  "What if I snap your spine, leave you in a wheelchair the rest of your life? You think that'll bring him around to see me?"

  "You can't do that either," I said, my voice soft. "I'm not alone here."

  The Spanish guy laughed. "I don't see nobody," he said, pulling an automatic from his belt.

  I raised my hands as though I was responding to the pistol. One of the beer bottles exploded. I took another step away from Mortay.

  "There's a rifle squad on the roof. Night scopes and silencers."

  Mortay was ice, watching me.

  "Want to see it again?" I raised my hand. Another bottle exploded. El Cañonero was the truth.

  "I don't want any beef with you. You scared me good. I don't want anything to do with you. This is a walk–away. You can't hurt me, and you can't make Max fight you. It's over, get it?"

  Mortay's voice was so low I had to lean forward to catch it. "Tell Max. Tell him I know about the baby. Tell him I know about Flower. Tell him to come and see me. Come and see me, or the baby dies."

  I threw myself at him, screaming. I felt a chop in the ribs and I was on the ground. A flash of white and Mortay was gone. Bullets whined all around the playground. The dark–haired white guy went down. His body jumped as more bullets hit. Pieces of the building flew away.

  I crawled over to the car, pulled myself inside. I twisted the key, floored the gas, and blasted through the gate.

  105

  THE PLYMOUTH thundered toward the river, running without lights. I grabbed the highway, sliding into the late–night traffic, willing myself to slow down. My shoulders were hunched into my neck, tensing for the shot that never came. No sirens.

  A quick choice—my office or Belle's? My office was closer, but Mortay knew where it was. The Plymouth's license plates were smeared with dirt and Vaseline—nobody could call in an ID.

  I slipped through the Battery Tunnel, staying with traffic, one eye locked to the rearview mirror. Clear. I pulled the sleeves off the jacket I was wearing. The Velcro made a tearing sound. One sleeve went out the window on the Belt Parkway, the other a few miles down the road. I slipped out of the body of the jacket, dumped that too. The orange headband was the last to go, slipping away in the wind.

  Two blocks from Belle's. I stopped at a pay phone, pulling the pistol from under the floor mat. She answered on the first ring.

  "Hello?"

  "It's me. You okay?"

  "I'm fine, honey."

  "What's your favorite animal?"

  She caught it. "An alligator. It's clear, baby."

  I hung up, stepping back into the Plymouth. Her door opened as I was coming up the walk. I slipped into the darkness, the pistol in my hand.

  106

  I WENT to the couch, set the pistol down next to me, reached for the phone. Belle sat next to me, reaching out her hand.

  "Honey…"

  "Get away from me, Belle. I got work to do and I don't have much left."

  I punched the numbers, cursing Ma Bell for having different area codes for Queens and Manhattan. Mama picked up.

  "It's me. No time to talk. You get to Immaculata. Get her to come and see you, okay?"

  "Okay."

  "She has to go out of town for a while. With the baby, Mama. That's the important thing. With the baby. Let her tell Max whatever she wants—visit friends, whatever. But get her out of here."

  "Max too?"

  "Can you do it?"

  "Big problems for me. Business problems. In Boston, okay?"

  "Okay. But keep him low to the ground. Work quiet."

  "Tomorrow morning he goes."

  "With the baby."

  "With baby. Like you say. Come by, tell me soon."

  "Soon."

  "Plenty help here, okay? Nobody hurt baby."

  "Get them out of here, Mama."

  "All done," she said.

  I took a deep breath. Belle was motionless next to me. I punched another number, taking the lighted cigarette she held out. The Mole's phone was picked up at his end.

  "It's me. I'm okay."

  He hung up.

  I started to shake then. Couldn't get the cigarette into my mouth. Belle put her arms around me, pressing my head to her breasts.

  "Let it go," I said, pushing her away. "Let it come out—I know what to do."

  I let the fear snake its way through me, shaking my body, a terrier with a rat. I replayed the tape—back in the playground, down on the ground, a ribbon of killer bees death–darting between me and Mortay, El Cañonero on the high ground keeping me safe.

  My body trembled in the terror seizure. Malaria flashes. Taking me back to the burned–out jungle in Biafra where fear grew thicker than the vines.

  I couldn't make it stop—didn't even try. I stayed quiet and still. Careful as a man with broken ribs—the kind that puncture a lung if you cough.

  Fear ran its race.

  When it stopped, I was soaking wet, limp. Drained. I closed my eyes then, sliding my face into Belle's lap.

  107

  IT WAS still dark when I came around. I turned my head. My face slid across Belle's lap, her thighs slick with sweat. Or tears. I pulled myself up, next to her.

  "Can you get a duffel bag out of the trunk of my car? I need to take a shower—I don't like the way I smell."

  "You smell fine to me."

  "Just do it, okay?"

  She got up without another word. I took off my clothes. They felt heavy in my hands. I dropped them on the floor, stepped into the shower.

&nb
sp; When I came back out, Belle had the duffel bag on the couch. I toweled myself off, put on a fresh set of clothes. Belle's clock said two–fifteen. I took a pillowcase from the duffel bag, stuffed everything I'd been wearing into it, even the cheap watch.

  "I don't have a washing machine here," she said, watching my face.

  "This stuff needs an incinerator," I said, tossing it near the front door.

  "You want a drink?"

  "Ice water."

  She cracked some cubes in a glass, ran the tap, brought it over to me. I lit a cigarette, watching my hands on the matches. They didn't shake.

  I propped myself against the arm of the couch, sipping the water, smoking my cigarette. Watching the smoke drift to the ceiling. Belle stood a few feet away, watching me, not saying a word.

  "Come here, baby," I said.

  She sat on the floor next to the couch. I put my hand on the back of her neck, holding her. It was quiet and safe in the dark. Belle took the ashtray from me, put it on the floor where I could reach it. Lit a smoke of her own.

  "When I was a young man, just a kid really, I had a place of my own. A basement, but it was fixed up like an apartment. I was raised in other people's places: the orphanage, foster homes, reform school. Nothing belonged to me. I got to thinking that place was real important."

  I dragged deep on the cigarette, watching the glow at the tip.

  "A man wanted my basement. I didn't know how to act then—there was nobody to tell me what to do—nobody for me to listen to. I got a gun and I went to meet him. In an alley. I was scared. I thought if I couldn't keep my basement I could never keep anything. Never have anything of my own.

  "I had to meet the man. Like tonight. I can still see it—like I was right back there. I got ready to go. Ran Vaseline through my hair so nobody could get a grip. Wrapped my body with layers of newspaper in case he had a knife. Taped the handle of the pistol. So I wouldn't leave fingerprints… but really because I was so scared I thought I'd drop it when I took it out. I looked around that basement one last time. My basement. Left the radio playing as I walked out the door. It was Doc Pomus. A great old blues singer. Walking the line just before rock 'n' roll came. 'Heartlessly.' That was the song. I still hear it.

  "He was there, waiting for me with his boys. I tried to talk to him. He just laughed at me—called me a punk. I showed him the pistol. He said I wouldn't pull the trigger—said I was scared to death. He was half right. I shot him."

  "Did you kill him?"

  "No. I didn't know it at the time. I just pumped a slug into him. The other people with him—they saw me do it. I just walked away. Back to my basement. I thought the word would be on the street. Don't fuck with Burke. He's a man now. Not a kid."

  "What happened?"

  "They came for me. I went to prison. I paid attention in there—found people I could listen to. I never wanted to be a hijacker. I'm not a gunfighter in my heart, I'm a thief. I never wanted to be a citizen—knew I never could anyway. But I didn't want to stick up liquor stores. I wanted to walk the line. Use my head, not my hands."

  I stubbed out the cigarette.

  "I've been waiting for full bloom all my life, Belle. It never worked out for me, Belle. I run some scams for a while, make a few good scores. But it seems like I always end up going back into that alley."

  I took another hit of the ice water, Belle's hand on my chest.

  "I thought it was all about that damn basement. I swore I'd never fight over a thing, never again. No matter what, I'd walk away. Travel light."

  I lit another smoke.

  "I cut the crap out of my life. I don't drink, don't play with dope. I learned to be careful. Real, real careful. I've got cut–outs inside cut–outs. Boxes inside boxes. Background tapes when I make telephone calls, phony license plates on the car. I got passports, birth certificates, driver's licenses. I sting freaks who can't sting back. I just wanted what the little ones want—what your mother wanted for you."

  "To be safe?"

  "Yeah. To be safe. The pattern I made for myself—it was like a ritual. Something you pray to. To keep you safe from demons. I was so scared before, when I was shaking on the couch. It made me think. Like you're praying your ass off and the devil shows up instead of God. It makes you stop praying. It's not a world out here, it's a junkyard. I grabbed a little girl once, maybe fourteen years old. Working the street. She spent her nights with her eyes closed and her mouth full. Turned over all the money to some dirtbag who beat her up and sent her back for more. I was taking her to this place I know, where they'd keep her safe, and I asked her about being a runaway. I thought you ran away to get to a better place. She told me she was in a better place."

  "I know."

  "I know you do. I've been thinking about it. Lying here. I wanted to live off my wits. Not beat the system, just take my little piece off to the side. Play it extra safe.

  "But I see it now. It was a pattern. The one thing you don't want to do."

  "What pattern?"

  "In prison, a guy who's thinking about going over the Wall…you can tell. You watch him, he falls into a pattern. Does the same thing every day. Maybe he stays in his cell instead of falling out for the movie. 'Cause he's working on the bars. Little piece at a time, putting dirty soap into the cuts to hide them. Waiting. Or you see him on the yard, watching the guard towers. Making schedules in his head. Any pattern marks you after a while. This South American dictator, he always went everywhere in an armored limo. Bodyguards in front, bodyguards in back. Safe as a bank vault. The other side, they blew up the car with a fucking rocket. See? The pattern taught them what to do. They didn't waste time with hijack stuff. Just blew the problem away."

  "But…"

  "It's me too, Belle. I've been at it too long. I play it safe, but I don't play it alone. You understand what I'm saying?"

  "No, honey."

  "I can walk away from that office and never look back. They'll never nail me fighting over my home again. I don't have a home. Remember when you said we should run? I can't run. I don't have a home, but I have people. My people. The only thing that's mine. That's my pattern."

  "The little black guy?"

  "The Prof is one. There's others. I don't know how it happened. I didn't mean for it to happen. I have these dreams. I was going to be a gunfighter. Live hard until I died. But I found out I didn't want to die. Then I was going to be a scam artist. But I kept running into kids. And they keep pulling me into what I didn't want to be.

  "I wanted to use my head, Belle, and they make me use my hands. I was going to be a lone wolf. I even liked the way the words sound, you know? But it's not me. All my life, I never found what I am …just what I'm not."

  Belle shifted her weight on the floor, looking at me. "I know what you are," she said.

  "No, you don't. You know what you want. I do that too. I think I want something, I make what I have into whatever that is. It doesn't work."

  She grabbed a handful of my shirt. "You better not be telling me a fancy goodbye, Burke."

  "There's nothing fancy about it. There's not going to be any more basements in my life. I'm over the edge now. Past the line. This guy, the guy I met tonight—he wants my brother. And he knows how to make him come to fight. I can't let Max do it."

  "If he's as good as you say…"

  "It's not a duel, Belle. Max has a baby. He's an outlaw. Like us. But he walks his own road. He fights this freak, there's no win. It's like turning over a rock—you don't know what's underneath. This Mortay, he's started something. If they fight, maybe Mortay wins. And my brother is dead. Max wins, he won't win easy. And even if he does, he's out of the shadows and into the street. Don't you get it?"

  "No!"

  "Listen to me, little girl. Listen good. There's no more outlaw code. There's no rules for freaks. I've known this since I was a kid, but I never really dealt with it. When I went back to my basement, after I shot that guy?"

  "Yeah…"

  "The people who came for me, they w
eren't his friends. It was the cops."

  "I…"

  "Listen! It was the cops. I was a stupid fucking kid who thought he was going to be a gunfighter. I went back to my basement. I thought they'd come for me—we'd shoot it out. I didn't care if I lived or I died. If I couldn't have my basement, I didn't care. If they came for me and I won, I'd have a rep. Walk down the street, women would look at me, men would whisper my name. I thought they'd come with guns—they came with a warrant."

  I lit a smoke. My hands were still steady.

  "I'm telling you the truth now. Max can't win a fight with this freak. Somebody's coming for him after that. Sooner or later…"

  "Burke…"

  "I've got my debts too, Belle. You've never been a slut with your body; don't be one with your respect. But give me what's coming to me. I got no choice about this. I don't want to live here if I have to pay so high."

  "You have to kill him," she said. It wasn't a question.

  "I have to kill him. And I'm not good enough to do it and walk away."

  "You've been to prison before. I said I'd wait for you. I'll wait for you even if you buy a life sentence."

  "I'm doing a life sentence right now. It's time to stop playing with myself. I got a plan. I know how to take him out. But it'll never end up in court."

  "Honey…"

  "The Mole. The guy you met tonight? He's a genius. Like you wouldn't believe. I'll have him make me a jacket. Line it with the right stuff. I'll find Mortay. He'll do what he does. And when he hits, there's a big bang and it's over."

  She was crying, her head on my chest. "No, no, no…"

  "Don't take this from me," I said. "If I could figure out another way, I'd do it in a minute. But I looked in his eyes. There's nobody home there. I can't take a chance. If I try and I miss, my people will go down. And it'll be me who did it.

  "I could live with jail again, Belle. But if I miss this freak, I couldn't live with myself. I'd have nothing to come back to."

  "Why can't you…?"

  "What? Call the cops? Have us all move to the mountains? I'm going to try, okay? I don't want to die. I'm not good enough with my hands to take him out. For a minute, when I was in the shower, for just a minute, I let it run in my head. Thought the answer was there. There's a reason for this freak being connected to the Ghost Van. It's all patterns. If I could hook into his, maybe I'd have a handle to twist him with."