Blue Belle

by Andrew Vachss

  "Good," I said.

  166

  MONDAY, BAMBI turned her first hard trick. The Mole buzzed me—the video screen showed a middle–aged white male, blobby face, light–colored sport coat. Not Ramón. I heard the slash of the belt, cutting through the soundproofed walls.

  Later that night, one of the tricks got off the wall. I don't know what he did. I heard Morales' voice in the corridor. "How do you like it, motherfucker?" Metal slamming into a face. I heard whining, Morales' voice cutting harsh through it. "Whatever you want here, we got it, see? But we got different girls for different stuff. You want hard stuff, you ask for Bambi, understand? Bambi."

  It got quiet after that.

  167

  HE CAME Wednesday evening. Seven o'clock. The buzzer sounded. Ramón's face on the screen. I hit the switch. The light would glow on the Mole's desk.

  "It's time," I said to Belle.

  She was covered with body makeup head to toe. Fishnet stockings, black spike heels, black panties. She slipped into the red gown, belted it at her waist. A stranger—her face a hard mask.

  I watched the screen. Ramón. Wearing a black leather bomber jacket, looking through the book. There was no sound on the screen.

  "Monique!" the Mole called.

  Belle walked past me into the corridor.

  I held the sawed–off shotgun in my left hand, the paint pistol with the phony silencer in my right. Waiting.

  I heard them come back. Belle's voice. "I get an extra hundred for hard stuff, honey."

  Ramón's voice—couldn't make out the words.

  The door to the last room closed.

  I sucked air in through my nose, filling my stomach. Let it out, expanding my chest. Stepped into the corridor.

  I couldn't hear through the door. The hook–and–eye lock was held in with paste. Every square inch of the room was burning in my mind. I slipped the pistol into a side pocket, cut deep enough to hold the silencer. Counted to five. I hit the door with my shoulder, stepping inside, sweeping the scattergun corner to corner. Belle was on the couch to my right, the red nightgown hiked over her hips. Ramón froze, a thick leather belt dangling from his hand.

  The snout of the scattergun froze his balls down to dots. His hands shot into the air, belt still dangling. I stepped to him, the gun leveled at his gut. Five feet away.

  "Drop it. Slow."

  "Hey, man…"

  "One more word, I'll blow you all over the walls."

  The belt dropped from his hand.

  His leather jacket was hanging from a hook in the corner. I could see the shoulder rig inside.

  "Got any more guns on you, Ramón?" He shook his head no.

  "Take off your clothes. Real, real slow. I want to see for myself."

  Belle's voice from the side of the room. "Mister…"

  "Shut up, bitch!" I snapped at her.

  Ramón dropped his pants. Black bikini briefs. Very macho. "Those too," I said. "Watch your hands."

  He pulled off his cowboy boots, one at a time, standing on one leg, never taking his eyes from me.

  "Sit on the couch," I said quietly. "Next to the cunt."

  He sat down. I pulled the handcuffs off my belt, flipped them into Belle's lap. "Put them on. One cuff on your wrist, one on his. Now!"

  Belle snapped the cuff on Ramón first, her hands shaking. Her left hand slid to the back of the couch cushion.

  I took out the paint pistol. Slowly, letting Ramón get a good look. He didn't want one.

  "You know what this is, shooter?"

  "I know what it is." His voice shaking like Belle's hands.

  "You got two choices. You live. Or you die. Pick one."

  "I want to live, man." Thin, weak, soft voice. If he recognized me, he was keeping it to himself. Holding that card.

  "Your pal Mortay, he stepped in some shit, understand? Sally Lou's decided to take him off the count."

  "But…"

  "That's the way it plays. I got my money, I got to come back with a head. His head. One more don't mean a thing to me. I'm gonna waste him. Tonight. You tell me what I want to know, you take that fucking diamond out of your ear, and you make tracks. Got it?"

  "Man, I don't know where he lives!"

  "You're going to meet him. Tonight. Where?"

  "He'll kill me."

  "Ramón, he's a dead man. I don't find him tonight, I find him some other time. But you don't tell me what I want to know, he won't get a chance to kill you."

  "Man, I don't know where he is. I'm serious!"

  "So am I," I said, leveling the pistol at Belle's chest. I pulled the trigger. Splat! Belle slammed back against the couch, a red stain running between her breasts. I aimed the gun at Ramón—he never looked at Belle. The sound I made cocking it was the loudest thing he ever heard.

  "Where?"

  "Under the New York Times clock! Between Seventh and Eighth! On Forty–third! Don't!"

  "What time?"

  "Ten–thirty!" Piss flowed down his legs.

  "Who gets there first?"

  "He does, man. He always does…."

  Belle's left hand flashed, plunging the hypo deep into his thigh, her thumb driving the plunger home as I fired a paint ball into his face.

  "I…" and he was out. Belle rammed the speed key home, unsnapping her cuff. I pulled his free arm behind his back, locked the other cuff. Belle jumped off the couch, rubbing her breasts. I kicked Ramón onto the floor.

  "Go get the Mole," I told her.

  168

  MICHELLE AND the Mole stood on either side of me. Ramón was in the corner, breathing deeply, out.

  "The joint is closed," I told Michelle. "How many of the girls have customers?"

  "Just MaryAnne."

  "When he's finished, let him out. Tell the girls the show's over—the cops are going to hit in an hour. Get them out the door. You have any trouble, you hit the buzzer, they'll come from next door. Then take off yourself."

  She kissed me. "Call as soon as it's over."

  "I will."

  She went out the door. I knelt down, pulled Ramón over my shoulder by one of his arms, positioned his weight. "The basement," I said to the Mole. Fuck McGowan and his deals—I wasn't going to leave a body around for the cops to hang me with.

  He led the way. Pansy met us at the bottom of the steps. "Speak!" I told her, tossed a slab of steak through the air. She caught it on the fly.

  "Is the panel truck ours?"

  "Yes."

  "I'm going to throw this garbage in the back. That shot'll keep him out for hours. You get stopped, it's not a murder beef. He won't testify."

  "Where should I dump him?"

  "He's the shooter, Mole. One of the Nazis."

  He nodded.

  "Take Pansy too."

  "She won't…"

  "Yes, she will. That last piece of meat I gave her was laced. She should be asleep by now. Keep her with you—lock her up in one of the sheds. Leave water for her. I'll be back in the junkyard sometime late tonight. Belle will get there before me. Your piece is done."

  "The basement?"

  "Eleven o'clock. You can do it?"

  "Yes. Me and the boy."

  "He's a good boy, Mole. You should be proud."

  "You too."

  "Yeah. Look, Mole. If I don't come back, do something for me. Tell Belle I love her."

  He nodded.

  "And Pansy, let her loose. Let her run with your pack. Let her and Simba–witz make puppies."

  I dumped Ramón's body in the back of the panel truck. The Mole snapped a heavy padlock across the back.

  I went back for Pansy. I scooped her up in my arms, carried her to the truck. "Open the front door," I told the Mole. "I don't want her to ride with garbage."

  I laid her gently across the front seat. Kissed her snout. "See you soon, girl."

  The Mole wrapped his stubby arms around me, squeezed hard. "Sei Gesund," he said. Go with God.

  169

  MICHELLE WAS pushing the gir
ls out the door when I slipped back upstairs. It sounded like sorority girls saying goodbye for the summer.

  Belle was in the back room, toweling herself off, the cat's–eye mask still on her face.

  "You were perfect," I said, holding her close.

  "I was scared."

  "I still am. It's almost over. Get out of here. Take the Pontiac. Don't leave the office until past midnight. I'll see you at the junkyard."

  "Where's Pansy?"

  "She's with the Mole. It's okay. Go."

  "What'd you do with the freak?"

  "He's gone."

  "But you're working with the cops, right? They're right next door. He's not dead—why don't you just leave him for them?"

  I cupped her chin, making her watch my face. "I'm not working with the cops, Belle. A cop sees me doing my work on the street tonight, I'm going down. McGowan, he can't call off the whole fucking force. He wouldn't do it if he could. I'm not leaving that freak around to tell his story."

  I felt a pulse in her throat, just under her chin. Steady beat.

  "We're outlaws, little girl. We can step over the line to the other side, but we're not welcome there. We can't stay. The next cop I see, he'll be trying to stop me from coming home."

  She nodded, knowing it was the truth. "Burke, it's not even eight o'clock. You have until ten–thirty. Let me wait here with you."

  "No."

  "I knew you'd say that."

  "It's all right, Belle. Smooth as silk. I'll meet this Mortay at ten–thirty, I'll be in one of the cars by eleven. That's when the Ghost Van goes. I'll be with you soon."

  "And you'll never leave."

  "And I'll never leave."

  I lit a smoke, watching her dress.

  "Burke?"

  "You're going, Belle."

  "I know. I will, promise. Remember when you came back to me? After you met that man?"

  "Yeah."

  "I want you inside me. To keep with me until I see you again. I want my smell on you when you kill him."

  170

  I CARRIED two of the suitcases out to the back. Tossed in the scattergun. Closed the trunk. I held her next to me.

  "Belle…"

  "Don't you say it! Whatever you're going to say, don't say it. Tell me tonight."

  I kissed her. There was blood in my heart.

  When she drove away, I was alone.

  171

  IN THE back room, I put it all together. Cut two fingertips off the black gloves. Buried the plastic bottle in the cart, pistol handle sticking up, wrapped in black tape. I put on the black pants, the black sweatshirt. Worked the blond wig over my hair, stuck on the mustache. The blue golf cap was a tight fit. The black pants had cargo pockets—I put a grenade in each one. The two–inch pistol in my belt.

  Pain plucked at me. Fear. I climbed down into my center. Stayed there, feeling the calm.

  Mortay wanted what was mine.

  If you can't stand to read the weight, you don't climb on the scales.

  Ten o'clock. I pulled on the gloves, ran the two razor–tipped nails through the poison paste.

  It was a struggle getting the shopping cart down the stairs.

  Then I was in the street. All my people safe behind me. Whatever happened.

  I reached down, deep as I could go. Telling myself it would be over soon. I'd be Home Free.

  But I knew. Knew why I was pushing a shopping cart filled with homicide through Times Square. No home is free.

  172

  I PUSHED my shopping cart along, smoking a cigarette, mumbling to myself. The clock in the package store on 43rd said ten–twenty. I slowed my pace.

  Three kids came up the street toward me, wearing matching red silk jackets. I watched their eyes, praying they wouldn't think it was funny to tip over my cart. They went on by.

  I turned the corner. Moving slow, checking doorways for bottles, picking one up, tossing it into my cart.

  The Times clock was a round light in the distance. I pushed the cart ahead of me, one hand on the pistol.

  He was standing under the clock. A long white vertical ribbon in the dark doorway. The clock said ten–twenty–eight. I kept rolling.

  A hundred feet away. Mortay saw me. A used–up bum, collecting empties.

  Fifty feet. I saw his hands hanging loose in front of him. Head turning, scanning the street. Almost home.

  I looked him full in the face. Pushed my cart into his life. Felt the chill. His eyes flicked past me, over my shoulder. I pulled the gun loose, snapped off a shot at his chest, the bottle popping off the front of the pistol. A piece of his coat flew as he spun to the side, moving right at me. I kicked the cart toward him, fired again. The gun cracked alive. Missed. Mortay spun in his tracks, shoulder–rolled against the wall. I leveled the gun. He took off, running the other way.

  I jumped past the cart and took off after him. Four shots left. Humans jumped off the sidewalk. He wasn't used to running—all his speed was short–range. I was forty feet behind him at the corner of 43rd and Eighth. Mortay glanced west, gave it up, charged across 44th for the Playbill Bar. I was right behind him, the long–barreled pistol looking for his back. He chopped through people, heading for the side door. I fired another shot to clear the way, coming through. The street was clogged. He couldn't lose me.

  A cop was on the corner of Eighth and 46th. Mortay took him out with one chop. I jumped over the body, holding the pistol high to clear the street, locked on him.

  At 48th I was close enough. He felt it, dodging behind cars, weaving through humans. He was running out of gas. When he turned…

  Construction site at 49th, high chain–link fence. Mortay ripped his way over the top, white coat flying as I missed another shot.

  Couldn't follow him. I raced along Eighth until I found an opening, stepped through, gun up.

  I dropped about five feet—they must have started the excavation. No lights. Street noises over my head. Quiet. No sirens.

  I was safe there. Scared to be safe. He couldn't come up on me without getting blown away. But if he got out…

  It was like being back in Biafra. Focus on the sounds, separate the jungle–noises from the man–noises. Breathe shallow. Don't fight the fear.

  I heard him, moving west, toward Ninth Avenue. Machine–gun thoughts ripping at me. Did he know how to do this?

  Something moved—flash of white in the night. I fired at the sound. The gun barked—the bullet whined close to the ground, disappointed. I heard him move again.

  I got to my feet, running right at the sounds he made, cracking off another shot. One left.

  Quiet now. I cocked the pistol. Man–sounds to my right.

  "I'm still here, pussy." Snake voice hissing out of the night. He wasn't in a hurry.

  I dropped to my knees, crawling forward toward the voice. Another flash of white. I fired. Another crack. Then a dry, audible click! I pulled the trigger again. Nothing.

  I felt my guts lock. "Fuck!" Letting him smell my fear, throwing the empty pistol as hard as I could in the direction of the noise.

  "My turn!" he screamed, coming for me.

  I ran for my life, pulling the little backup pistol from my belt. I dived for the ground, rolled onto my back, pushed myself backward by driving my legs into the dirt. Making panic sounds. Leaving a blood–spoor.

  Begging him to come in my mind.

  He flew out of the darkness in a twisting, spinning series of kick–thrusts, a ghost target if I had a knife. I came to my knees, holding the pistol in both hands. He saw the gun, threw himself flat, already tucking his shoulder under to kick upward when the hollow–point slug caught him in the chest, pinning him to the ground.

  The noise from the tiny gun was deafening; the dirt bowl we were in made it sound like a cannon. The street noises all seemed to stop at. once. I walked slowly toward Mortay. He was choking on his own blood—the slug must have caught a lung.

  I stood over him, legs shaking. His eyes were ice–pick dots under the shelf of bone, hold
ing me the way the slug held him.

  "You can't kill me," he whispered. Stone–carved ice. "Death can't die."

  "You still want Max?" I asked, cocking the gun.

  He launched himself off the ground, the knife edge of his hand extended. I fired twice more, blowing him off his feet.

  I heard a siren in the distance. Mortay was on his side. I dropped to my knees next to him. Blood bubbled from his mouth, killing his last words. I pumped two more shots into his chest. His body jumped. I turned him over with my foot. His eyes were open. I fired again, right into the ridge of bone that covered his eyebrows. His eyes wouldn't close.

  The sirens were closer. More than one now. I pocketed the gun, pulled the pin from one of the grenades, holding it tightly in my hand. I slammed the metal ball hard into his face, cracking past his teeth, holding it there. With my other hand, I folded his hands so they were on either side of his face.

  I let go of the lever and ran toward Ninth Avenue. Passed a white coat, swinging gently from a steel girder. The target Mortay had left while he moved in on me. I was almost to the fence on 50th when I heard the explosion. I hit the fence, sirens screaming to my right. Dropped over the top, feeling the breath burst out of my lungs. I popped the pin on the last grenade, side–armed it back over the fence, crouching in the dark. The sirens shrieked at each other—wolf–pack sounds, telling each other the prey was dangerous. The grenade exploded, buying me a little time.

  I ran up 50th, the pistol in my hand, driving my knees up to my chest, trying for a burst of speed that wouldn't come. I crossed Ninth, heading for the river, still blocks away from any of the cars we had stashed. Tires shrieked behind me. Cops? I dropped to one knee, leveling the gun. Back over the line—me or them. Belle's Camaro smoked to a stop.

  "Come on, brother!" The Prof.

  I ran for the car, diving headfirst into the window. Belle stomped the gas, charging for the river. She shot through red lights, standing on the brakes to make the car squat at Twelfth, nailed it again, power–sliding around the corner. She pulled off at 45th, right behind the black Cadillac the Mole had left for me. I jumped out, scooping up the Prof. His legs were still bolted together in casts, the scattergun steady in his hands. I unlocked the door, threw him in the back.