"Morelli."
"It's me."
"Come over to Paulo's tonight. Eleven. We'll have some supper."
I hung up quick. Looked over at the couch. Belle and Pansy were both watching me.
"Good girl," I said. Pansy came off the couch, strolled over to me. "I meant her," I told the beast, pointing at Belle. Pansy slammed a paw on the desk. "You too," I told her. I let Pansy out to her roof. Walked over to the couch, turned off the TV set.
"That's one strange dog, honey. She really does like pro wrestling. I thought dogs couldn't see TV. Something about their eyes."
"I don't know if that's true or not. Maybe she just likes the sound."
I lit a smoke. "Was I asleep?"
"I don't think so—I think you were somewhere else. Your eyes were closed some of the time. But you smoked a lot of cigarettes."
I rubbed my face, trying to go back. I gave it up—it'd come when it was ready.
"Burke, could I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"You know about this?" she said, pointing to a headline in the paper. I knew the story—it had been running for weeks. High–school cheerleader, sixteen years old. Father started raping her when she was eleven years old. While her mother was dying of cancer in the hospital. She finally told her boyfriend, he told somebody else. Ended up she hired another kid to kill her father. For five hundred bucks. Drilled the old man right in his driveway. Everybody pleaded guilty. The kid who did the shooting got a jackpot sentence, seven to twenty–one years. The radio talk shows took calls from freaks who said the little girl should have told the social workers—that is, if it "really" happened. Some people thought the father got what was coming to him. Not many. The judge sentenced her to a year in jail.
"Yeah. I know about it."
Her eyes burned. A little girl asking a priest if there really was a god. "Burke, do you think the little girl did anything wrong?"
"Yeah."
Belle's face twisted. "What?"
"She hired an amateur."
"The lawyer… the one who pleaded her guilty?"
"Not the lawyer. The shooter."
Her face calmed, but she was still struggling with it. "But he killed the guy…"
"He wasn't a pro, Belle. Left a trail Ray Charles could follow. Talked about it to everyone who'd listen. Kept the gun. And he opened up when they popped him. You hire a killer, you buy silence too."
She took the cigarette from my mouth, pulled on it. "I'd like to break her out of that jail."
"Forget it, Belle. She wouldn't go. The kid's no outlaw. She's a nice middle–class girl. It wasn't simple for her—she didn't work it through. She still feels guilty about the guy getting killed. Incest, you don't just walk away from it like if a stranger raped you. That was her father. He's dead. Her mother's dead. She's gonna need a lot of help—she can't go on the run."
Tears spilled down her face. "My mother saved me from that."
"I know," I said, holding her.
126
TEN–THIRTY. I put on a dark–gray suit, black felt hat. I hated to rip the sleeve, but I had to make the sacrifice. Belle did a neat, clean job. "I'll sew it back together later," she said, concentrating, the tip of her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth.
"I'll be back in a couple of hours."
"I'll be here."
I kissed her. Her lips were soft. I slipped my fingers around her neck, pulling at the necklace, making it bounce against her chest, coaxing a smile.
"Me and Pansy, we'll have a beer, watch some TV."
127
PAULO'S ISN'T one of those new restaurants in Little Italy. It was built when they were working on the third chapter of the Bible. When Morelli started working the police beat as a reporter, he would eat there every day. His mother came over, made sure her son was eating the right food. Marched right into the kitchen, told them what was what. They still have a couple of dishes on the menu named after her.
He was there when I walked in at eleven, sitting in a far corner. I started over to him. Two guys with cement–mixer eyes got in my way. I nodded over to Morelli's corner. One of the guys stayed planted in front of me; the other turned, caught the signal. They moved aside.
Morelli had a thick sheaf of papers next to him, glass of red wine half empty. I sat down. The waiter came over, looking at me like I was his parole officer.
"What?"
"Veal milanese. Side of spaghetti. Meat sauce. No cheese."
"No cheese?"
"No cheese."
"No wine?"
"No."
He moved off, mumbling something in Italian. When he came back, he had my food. Morelli had linguini with white clam sauce. The waiter said something to Morelli, moved off again.
I cut into the veal. It was perfect, light and sweet. We ate quietly, talking about the magazine he worked for, his kids, the neighborhood.
The waiter cleared the plates. "You want a hot fudge sundae?" he asked me.
"Tortoni," I said.
He bowed. I never saw a guy do that and sneer at the same time before.
When we finished, I lit a smoke, waiting. Morelli leaned forward. "We have a deal?"
I nodded.
He spoke quietly, one hand protectively guarding his papers. "You want the whole package or just the bottom line?"
"Bottom line."
His finger traced a path through the bread crumbs the waiter left behind on the white tablecloth. "Sally Lou," he said.
"Yeah."
"Adds up?"
"I think so."
Morelli sipped his espresso. "Burke, explain something to me. I grew up with these guys, I got no illusions. That dog you got… the Neapolitan? I know one of the old boys, has one just like yours. Keeps him in the back of the house. Every day he sends one of the kids to the pet store. Comes back with a couple of live white rabbits. The old man, he throws the rabbits over the fence. The dog catches them in the air, crunches them like a trash compactor. The old man, he thinks it's the funniest thing he ever saw." He took another sip of his espresso. "I know they put up with Sally 'cause he's a good earner. What I don't understand…where's the market?"
"You know where it is."
"No. I really don't. This whole porno business, most of it's bullshit. They make this triple–X film, tell the world it grossed fifty million dollars—it's just a laundry for dope money."
"So?"
"So why mess with the heavy stuff? Kiddie porn, stuff like that? The penalties are stiffer, they're taking all kinds of risks. There can't be that many freaks out there?"
Morelli's face was tight. Maybe having your own kids raises the stakes.
"There don't need to be that many," I told him. "Every one of them is a bottomless pit. It's not like dope—too much dope and you die, right? But these freaks, they can never get enough. One little piece of videotape, they can sell it again and again."
"Sally Lou, he's bent that way?"
"I don't think so. That's the hell of it—the market's so good, the wise guys are getting into it. It used to be just the freaks, making their own stuff. Mostly with their own kids. Now it's a business. The Postal Inspectors, they nail the end users. That's all. It's like when the DEA busts a bunch of mules—the processing plant keeps making the coke."
I ground out my smoke. "I'll let you know," I said.
His eyes held me. "Where do they get the kids? For the videos?"
"Same way they get anything else. Some they buy, some they steal."
"You going after Sally Lou?"
"No. He's not on my list."
"He's on mine," Morelli said.
128
THE PONTIAC didn't drive itself the way the Plymouth did. I poked it carefully through Little Italy, heading for home. Salvatore Lucastro. Sally Lou. A made man in one of the Manhattan families, but not a heavyweight. Years ago, he started moving in on the porno joints in Times Square. Nobody paid that much attention—he was operating with permission. It wasn't one mobster, it woul
d be another. The sleaze–sellers paid off, the way they were supposed to. Then he went into business for himself, actually producing the peep–show loops, branching into full–length films, videos. Nobody had a good line on where his studio was. He was making so much money, the bosses let him run. The kiddie–porn stuff was recent, maybe last year. From what I heard around, it was his biggest grosser ever.
Sally Lou owned Sin City.
129
I SWUNG by Mama's, parked in the back. I went into the kitchen, waited there while they brought her back. We went into the hall, near the entrance to the basement, standing by the bank of pay phones.
"I can't hang around, Mama."
"What is this with Flower?"
"Just give me a minute, okay? One call."
I dialed the Mole. Heard him pick up. "Go," I said. Hung up.
I turned to Mama. "It's complicated. There's a man wants to fight Max. Like a duel, understand?"
She watched my face, waiting.
"He made, like, this public challenge, okay? So it's all over the street. Max fights him, he has to kill him. And everybody knows. Big trouble."
Mama wasn't worried about Max killing someone. "Flower." It was all she had to say.
"This guy, he wanted to make sure Max would fight him. He said if Max didn't he'd kill the baby."
Mama's eyes were black marble. A fire flared; then it was gone. "Tell him Max here. Come any time."
"It won't work, Mama. It won't go down that easy. I've got it put together now. Just a few more days, maybe a little bit more. He couldn't find Max in Boston?"
She shook her head.
"I'll take care of it."
Mama bowed, showing respect. That I could bring it off. I turned to go, felt her hand on my arm.
"What name?"
"Mortay," I said. "Mor–tay."
"What that mean?"
"In Spanish, it means 'death.'"
Mama bowed again. "In Chinese, means 'dead man.'"
I bowed back. Goodbye.
130
THE BACK staircase was quiet. I checked the pieces of tape I left behind. Still in place. The trip–wires were still attached in the hall. I let myself in. Pansy was at her post. "Where's Belle?" I asked her. The beast let out a halfhearted snarl. I bent to give her a pat. Her breath smelled like formaldehyde.
Belle was in the next room. On her back on the gym mat I keep there. Nude, covered with a sheen of sweat. "Twenty more," she said, her hands locked behind her head. She was doing killer sit–ups, up fast, down slow. Muscles rippled under the soft skin.
"How many do you do?"
"Two hundred a day, six days a week. The only difference between me and a fat pig is a small waist. I damn near killed myself to get this light, I'm not gonna be backsliding."
I lit a smoke, went back into the office room. Pansy didn't want to go out.
Belle came back inside, toweling herself off. "Pansy was watching me work out for a while—I guess she got bored."
"She heard the door."
"Oh." She slapped the outside of a thigh. "Only way I can get these any smaller is plastic surgery."
"They're perfect just the way they are."
She moved next to me. "I'm glad you said that."
"Because you weren't getting plastic surgery no matter what, right?"
"No, because I would if you wanted."
I gave her a kiss. "Help me off with this," I said, taking the pin from my jacket pocket. Belle slowly peeled back the bandage, working her way to the Velcro tab. "When I pull the tab, you wrap your hand around mine while I slip in the pin; my hand may be cramped."
Her forehead furrowed in concentration—her hands were steady. I popped the tab, squeezing the lever as hard as I could. My hand felt dead. Belle wrapped both of her hands around mine. Her knuckles were white. I slipped in the pin. "Let go," I said.
Her face was sweaty. "I can't."
"Come on, Belle. It's okay. Come on…."
I watched her hands unlock slowly. Suddenly she pulled them away, closing her eyes. I grabbed the grenade in my right hand, slipped it into the desk drawer. My left hand was a claw.
"Go in the bathroom. Get me the little jar of Tiger Balm, okay?"
She opened her eyes. Went off without a word. Came back with the jar of red ointment. "Rub it into my hand. All over, hard as you can."
She worked my hand like she was rubbing oil into leather. I couldn't feel a thing. "Does it burn?" she asked.
"It'll get warm, that's all. Once you're done, I need to wrap it."
I sat on the couch. Belle came back with a towel. Sat down next to me on my left side, squirmed against me so my right arm was around her. She twisted sideways, took my left hand, and put it between her breasts. She pressed them together. "Pull the blanket over me," she said. I did it. In a few minutes, I could feel the heat. I wiggled my fingers, working the cramps out. "That stuff won't burn you," I promised. "Don't care if it does," she said, making sweet little sounds in her throat.
"How many beers did you give Pansy?"
"Just three."
"Damn! That's the most she's ever had. No wonder she looks glazed."
"I wanted her to like me."
"You can't buy stuff like that."
"I wasn't buying it. I just wanted to do something nice for her."
"Okay."
"You sleepy?"
"A little bit."
"Go to sleep, baby," she said.
I closed my eyes, my hand between her breasts, warm.
131
PANSY'S GROWL woke me up, her snout inches from my face. It wasn't an emergency; she just wanted to use her roof.
"All that beer, huh?" I asked her, disentangling myself from Belle.
When I came back inside, Belle was on the couch, the blanket pulled up to her chin.
"Where're we going to sleep?"
"You sleep right there. Go ahead, I got work to do."
"You going out?"
"No. I got to put things together," I said, working my left hand. It was fine. I stacked the news clips in a pile, started to sort through what I had so far. The street maps were still on the wall where Belle had tacked them. I started working. The Mole was going into the basement in Sin City—it had to be the last piece.
Pansy came downstairs, strolled to a corner, and closed her eyes. Belle threw off the blanket, came to where I was working at the desk.
"I want to help."
"You want to help, put some clothes on."
"Why?"
"Because you're distracting me. And because I told you to."
She leaned over the desk, her breasts against my face. "Do they smell like that Tiger stuff?"
"No."
"Take a deep breath," she said, pushing the back of my head to her.
"They smell like you."
"Still want me to put my clothes on?"
"Yeah."
She threw me a pout, switched her hips hard walking away. I heard the shower go on, went back to work.
I covered a yellow legal pad with scrawls, but the list was in my head. Ghost Van. Baby hookers. Mortay. Ramón. The dead man El Cañonero left in the Chelsea playground. Pain–for–gain. Ghost Van won't eat dark meat. Chilly menace like fog, working close to the ground. The peep–show token. Sin City. Church where they worship the ice god. Basement duel. And Sally Lou.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. Belle, a yellow sweatshirt covering her to her thighs. "You said I could help."
"Sit down," I said, patting the desk. "Listen to me play it out."
She planted herself on the desk, hands in her lap. Watchful.
"This all started with the Ghost Van, remember? Comes off the river, shoots some little girls. Marques doesn't care why; he just wants it off the streets. So he reaches out for me. I start looking around, and this Mortay shows up. Puts the Prof in the hospital. So he's linked to the van some kind of way."
She lit a cigarette, nodding to show me she was following along.
"Except t
hat he's not just a bodyguard—he's a freak. Hitting dojos, challenging the leaders. We know he fought a duel with some Japanese karateka. In the Sin City basement. You ever work there?"
"No. You have to mix with the customers."
"Okay. The Ghost Van, it only hits young girls. And only white girls. The night I went out to meet Mortay, when I came back so scared? A guy got killed. The cops pulled his prints. One of them matched one they got from the switch–car for the Ghost Van. So this Mortay, he's not just linked, he's connected too."
I lit a smoke for myself. It was good to use two hands. Belle was listening so hard her shoulders shook.
"Mortay's stooge, this Ramón guy. With the diamond in his ear. He's a pain–junkie. Likes to hurt women, gets off on it. He's the gunman—Mortay only uses his hands. And now I find out that Sin City's owned by this mob guy. Sally Lou. He's a sleaze–dealer. Hard–core stuff. Kiddie porn, snuff—you want it, he makes it."
"You think this Mortay works for the mob?"
"No. I looked in his eyes. He don't work for anyone. But that doesn't mean he wouldn't do stuff…."
"Why would he…?"
"I'm not sure. But it all adds up. Look at the maps. The Ghost Van has to have a place to land. Someplace close by where it hunts. Times Square. Sin City—the basement's big enough for hundreds of people to watch a duel. That's where it's got to be."
"I don't get it."
"Mortay has to be doing something for Sally Lou. If the Ghost Van's down there, then they're all hooked in. The reason the cops can't catch freaks, they don't know them. They don't ask people who do. Wasn't for informants, the federales couldn't find a donkey in Tijuana. Sex–death freaks, they love vans. I don't know why, but they do. And they feed each other—put two of them together, you got more than twice as much evil as two people could do on their own. Ramón loves pain, Mortay deals death. I don't know what the third guy was into. It doesn't matter. The Hillside Strangler—it was two freaks. That Green River Killer? The one who's been murdering all those street girls out in Washington State for years?"
She nodded.
"I think the cops are making a mistake. Looking for one guy. It sounds like a team to me. Feels that way."
Blue Belle Page 26