Blue Belle b-3

by Andrew Vachss

I paid, went through the next set of doors. The place was bigger than it looked from the outside, so dark I couldn't see the walls. A T-shaped bar ran the entire width of the room, with a long perpendicular runway almost to the door. Small round tables were spread all over the room. Two giant screens, like the ones they use for projection TV, stood in the corners at each end of the long bar. The screens were blank.

  The tables were empty. Every man in the place was seated at the bar, most of them along the runway. Hard-rock music circled from hidden speakers. Three girls were on top of the bar. Two blondes and a redhead. All wearing bikini bottoms, high heels, and sparkle dust. Each girl worked her own piece of the bar, bouncing around, talking to the customers. The redhead went to her knees in front of a guido with a high-rise haircut and diamonds on his fingers. She spun on the bar, dropped her shoulders. The guido pulled down her panties, stuffed some bills between her thighs, patted her butt. She gave him a trembly wiggle, reached back and pulled up the panties, spun around again, ran her tongue over her lips. Danced away.

  It was somewhere between the South Bronx shacks where the girls would blow you in the back booths and the steak-and-silicone joints in midtown where they called you "sir" but wouldn't screw you out of anything more than your money.

  I found an empty stool near the left side of the T. A brunette wearing a red push-up bra under a transparent white blouse leaned over the bar toward me. She raised her eyebrows, smiling the smile they all use.

  "Gin-and-tonic," I told her, putting a fifty on the bar. "Plenty of ice. Don't mix them."

  She winked. I was obviously a with-it guy. No watered drinks for this stud.

  She brought me a tall glass of tonic, jigger of gin on the side. Put four ten-dollar bills back in front of me. Class costs.

  "My name is Laura," she cooed. "I go on after the last set. You going to be here?"

  I nodded. She took one of the ten-spots off the bar, looked a question at me. I nodded. She stuffed it between her breasts, winked at me, and went back to work. I left the money on the bar.

  I sipped my tonic, waiting.

  The music stopped. A short, stocky guy in a pink sport coat over a billowy pair of white slacks stepped to the intersection of the T. The lights went down. The house man hit the stocky guy with a baby spot. He had a wireless microphone in one hand.

  "Here's what you've heen waiting for . . . the fabulous . . . Debbie, and the Dance of Domination!"

  The bar went dark again. Most of the men moved to the back tables. A door at the right of the T opened, and two dim shapes walked to the intersection. The music started. No words, heavy bass-lines and drums. One of the shapes went off the stage.

  A hard white spot burned the center of the T, making it into an isolated island. A black straight-back chair stood by itself, thick high posts on each side. The giant TV screens flickered into life. The camera zoomed in on the chair, filling the picture.

  A blonde in a black sheath came into the light. Black spikes on her feet, black gloves up to her elbows. A black pillbox hat on her head, a black veil covering her face. She sat down on the chair, crossed her legs. She tilted her chin up, waiting.

  I could hear the humans breathing under the music, but there was no conversation. Topless waitresses were working the darkness, stopping at the little tables, taking orders for drinks. Business was booming.

  It was like no strip act I'd ever seen. No playing to the audience - they were all watching through a window. Quiet. Lost and alone in their ugliness.

  The stage went dark. The music stopped. Herd sounds from the crowd.

  Nobody moved.

  When the spot came on again, the blonde was on her knees, facing the crowd. She ran her hand across her thighs, into her crotch, as the music built. Then she lifted the veil slowly. The pillbox hat came off. The camera came in on her face. She licked her lips, her eyes wide. As she opened her mouth, the stage went dark again.

  It stayed dark for a couple of minutes. Cigarette lighters snapped in the crowd. Tiny red flares.

  Flood came into my mind. I saw her struggling to work skin-tight pants over her hips, shifting from toe to toe, flexing her legs. Bending over another chair, in another place, the fire-scar on her rump dark against the white skin. I put the image down - those bodies were buried.

  The lights came up again, blaring rock music came back through the speakers, the TV screens went dark. Three different girls were working the top of the bar, gesturing for the men to come away from the little tables and get closer.

  I poured the gin into the empty tonic glass, mixing it with the ice. The bargirl came back to where I was sitting, bringing me another set; she put my empty glasses on a little tray.

  "You like that stuff?"

  "Not my taste," I said.

  "Maybe later you'll tell me what you like," she whispered, sweeping the rest of my money off the bar, doubling her tip.

  I reached in my pocket for another fifty. Waiting for Belle wasn't a cheap job.

  26

  I figured Belle must work as one of the back-table waitresses, but I didn't want to ask for her by name. The tables stayed empty while the girls worked the top of the bar, so I'd have to wait for the next number, move into the darkness by myself, look around. I sipped my tonic, lit another smoke.

  I watched the girls spread themselves on the long bar, as turned-on as a gynecologist.

  It was a good twenty minutes and another half-century note before the guy in the pink jacket took center stage again. "Cassandra," was all he said. The stage went dark again. I could see shapes moving around, setting things up. This time I went back to a table near the back wall. I took the tonic, left the gin.

  When the spot hit the stage, a girl was seated on a padded chair, looking into a mirror. The camera came in on her face. Belle. A mask of makeup making the soft lines hard, a white bathrobe around her shoulders, a white ribbon around her hair.

  The speakers fired into life. Nasty music, zombie-swamp blues, voodoo drums.

  Belle was taking off the makeup, patting her face with cream. She shrugged her shoulders and the robe dropped to her waist. Her breasts were enormous, standing out straight, defying gravity in a white D-cup bra. The camera watched them in the mirror.

  She rose to her feet, holding the robe in one hand at her waist like a skirt. The spotlight widened: she was in a bedroom, white ruffled bedspread, white shag rug on the floor. Belle stalked the white room, a young girl getting ready for bed. Running a brush through her thick hair, maybe humming to herself. She opened her hand and the robe dropped to the floor. Belle hooked it with one foot, delicately tossed it onto the bed.

  With the robe off, it was a different Belle on the screen. She faced the crowd in the white bra and plain matching panties, bending slightly forward, as if she was looking out into the night. The big woman wasn't fat; she was wasp-waisted. When she turned sideways, the stinger was a beauty, standing out by itself, straining against the fabric.

  The music came harder. Her hips wiggled, like they had a mind of their own. She paced the room, stretching the way a cat does, bending to touch her toes, working off the restlessness, too wired to sleep.

  The speakers spit out the music, sliding from the voodoo drums into words. Words I'd never heard before. A man's voice, gospel-tinted blues now. Warning. Blood moon rising. Slide guitar climbing on top of the drums, picking high notes, bending them against the black fabric of the bass. The words came through at the bottom of my brain; my eyes were locked on Belle.

  The swamp gets mean at night.

  Bloody shadows eat the light,

  Things that snarl,

  Things that bite,

  Things no man can fight.

  The music stayed dense, but the tempo picked up. Belle cocked her head, listening. She unsnapped the bra, carefully hung it on the bedpost. Her huge breasts didn't sag an inch. She raised her hands high above her head, touching them together, standing on her toes. She made a complete turn that way, a tiny smile on her face. Not a muscle
twitched in the smooth skin. Her body was as seamless as an air-brushed photograph. Her shoes were gone. She stalked the little room again, listening to the throbbing music, rolling her head on the column of her neck, working out the kinks. A nurse, tired from a hard day's work? A waitress, finished with her shift?

  The camera ran the length of her body. Only the white panties on her hips, a thin gold chain around her neck, a gold cross resting between her breasts. Some kind of blue mark on the front of one thigh. Even with the camera zooming in, I couldn't make it out.

  She rolled the panties over her hips, down past her butt. It took a long time, but not because she was teasing the audience - the panties had a long way to travel. Belle picked them off the floor, fluffed them out, went over to the bed, and hung them on the bedpost. On top of the white bra.

  The music drove harder.

  Belle dropped to her knees in front of the low bed. She clasped her hands. A little girl praying. The camera moved from her broad shoulders, past her tiny waist, down to the giant globes of her butt. The seamless skin was sweaty in the burning spotlight.

  The words pushed back the music.

  Yes, boy, you better beware,

  You better walk with care.

  You can carry a cross,

  You can carry a gun,

  But when you hear the call, you better run.

  There's worse things than gators out there.

  Worse things than gators out there.

  Belle's whole body was shaking now. Trembling as the spotlight blended from white to blood-red and back to white. She got to her feet and turned to face the crowd. She pulled back the covers, slid into the bed. She fluffed the pillow, pulled the covers to her shoulders, lying on her side. The mound of her hip was as high as her shoulders. The music faded down. The lights dimmed.

  The music wouldn't let her sleep. Her body thrashed under the covers. Drums working her hips, guitar plucking her soft breasts. A blue spot burned down on her face buried in the pillow, turning her taffy-honey hair a ghostly white. The spot turned a softer blue, widening to cover the whole bed. The warning voice came back, soft, demanding. Telling the truth, the way the blues always does.

  There's worse things than gators out there, boy.

  Much worse things than gators out there.

  Belle threw back the covers, the music pulling her from the bed. She looked out into the night, shook herself. She reached for her robe, put one arm into a sleeve. Then she dropped the robe to the floor.

  The blue spot played over her body as she walked into the darkness.

  27

  When the lights came up, I saw I had two more drinks in front of me. I hadn't touched them. The pile of tenspots in front of me was lighter.

  I went back to my spot at the end of the bar, no closer to talking with Belle than I'd been. Laura came over to me, her little tray loaded with another gin-and-tonic in separate glasses. She leaned over the bar.

  "You like that act better?"

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. "He sure does," said a little girl's voice.

  I didn't turn around. I knew who it was.

  "Is this yours?" Laura asked Belle.

  "All mine," Belle said.

  "I thought you didn't like men," Laura said, a nasty little smile on her face.

  "I don't like boys."

  Laura looked past me. She reached her hand over to my pile of tens. Took one. Stuffed it in her cleavage, looking over my shoulder.

  "Take two," Belle told her, razor tips on her breathy voice.

  Laura shrugged, pretending she was thinking about it. She pulled another bill off the bar and walked away.

  I felt Belle's face close to mine in the darkness. Smelled her little-girl sweat.

  "Where's your car?" she whispered in my ear.

  I told her.

  "Finish your tonic. I'll meet you outside in ten minutes."

  I felt her move away.

  28

  I was still on my first smoke when I saw the floating white shape moving through the parking lot toward the car. Belle. In a white shift a little smaller than a pup tent.

  She opened the door and slid into the front seat. "Got a cigarette, big boy?" she asked, her voice a parody.

  I gave her one. Snapped off a wooden match, watching her face in the glare. It was scrubbed clean again. She inhaled the way you take a hit off an oxygen tank. Her breasts moved under the shift. Her thighs gleamed in the night. The blue mark was a tattoo. A tiny snake, coiled in an S shape.

  She saw me looking. "You like my legs?"

  "They look like, if you squeezed them, you'd get juice."

  "Want to try?"

  I put my hand on her thigh, fitting the snake tattoo in the web between my thumb and finger.

  "Not that one," she said.

  I moved my hand. Squeezed. Felt the baby skin on top, the long, hard muscles beneath. I watched her face.

  "No juice."

  "Not there," she said, shifting her hips on the car seat. I took my hand away. Lit another smoke. "How long were you watching?" I asked her.

  "How'd you know?"

  "You knew where to find me in the dark."

  "Maybe I worked my way through the joint."

  "You knew I wasn't drinking the gin."

  Belle took another deep drag. "Maybe you are a detective," she said, a little smile playing around her lips. "There's a strip of one-way glass that runs all around the place. So we can see who comes in."

  I didn't say anything, watching the snake tattoo. "You know why it's set up like that?" "That joint can't be making money. The strip acts cost a lot to package. The projection TV, the music system, all that. You're running a low cover charge. You don't sell sex. Even with the guidos paying grope-money and the watered drinks, the boss couldn't break even."

  "And . . ."

  "And the building's a hell of a lot bigger than the bar." Belle took a last drag. Threw her cigarette out the open window. "What's that tell you?"

  "Who knows? You got space enough back there for trucks to pull in?"

  "Sure."

  "The airport's real close . . ."

  My pack of smokes was sitting on top of the dashboard. Belle helped herself to one. I lit it for her.

  "Marques said you were a hijacker."

  "Marques is a pimp."

  "I know. Not my pimp. I work for me. That's why that bitch made that crack about me not liking men. I don't sell sex."

  "If you did, you'd be rich."

  That bought me another smile. Then, "You came out here to tell me you're going to meet with him?"

  "Tuesday night."

  "Why Tuesday?"

  "That's your night off; right?"

  "So?"

  "So you're coming along."

  "Says who?"

  "That's the deal, Belle. Tuesday night. Pier 47. Marques knows where it is. Eleven o'clock. Tell him to bring two grand. Tell him that's mine. For the talk."

  "That's a lot of money for talk."

  "You get paid for your work - I get paid for mine."

  Belle took another drag. "What time will you pick me up?"

  "I won't. Tell Marques it's gunfighters' rules - we each bring one person with us. He gets to bring you."

  "I don't use guns."

  "Neither does the guy I'm bringing with me. Tell Marques what I said. He'll get it."

  "I don't want Marques knowing where I live."

  "Tell him to meet you someplace."

  "And after . . ."

  "I'll take you home," I told her.

  "Should I call you and tell you if he . . . ?"

  "Don't call me. I'll be at the pier. Just tell him if he doesn't show not to call me again."

  "You take me home anyway."

  "Yes."

  Belle leaned against me. A big, sweet-smelling girl with a snake tattoo on her thigh. She pushed her hand against my chest, holding me against the seat. Kissed me hard on the mouth, saying, "See you Tuesday," at the same time.

  I watched the w
hite shift dance in the dark parking lot until it disappeared behind the blue building.

  29

  Max was already dealt in on the meeting with Marques. I could get a message to the Mole easy enough, even if he didn't answer his phone. That still left me a few days to find the Prof.

  It might take that long. The little man could be sleeping in doorways or prowling hotel corridors. He could be working the subway tunnels or the after-hours joints. He never had an address, but you couldn't call him "homeless." I asked him once why he didn't find himself a crib somewhere - why he lived in the street. "I got the balls, and I don't like walls," he told me. He didn't have to explain any more than that - we'd met in prison.

  I think "Prof' was once short for "Professor," because he always seemed so much older and smarter than the rest of us. But somewhere along the line, he started telling the kind of truth they never write down in books, and now it stands for "Prophet."

  A citizen couldn't find the Prof, but I knew where he picked up his paycheck. A few years ago, I'd fixed him up with SSI. Psychiatric disability. His official diagnosis was "Schizophrenia. Chronic, undifferentiated." The resident at Bellevue noted the Prof's grossly disorganized thought pattern, his grandiose pronouncements, his delusion that he was getting his marching orders from the dead spirit of Marcus Garvey. A typical microwave case. They tried medication and it did what it usually does - the Prof got sleepy. It was worth the thirty-day investment. When they discharged the Prof, they gave him a one-week supply of medication, a standing appointment at the clinic, and what the little man called his "crazy papers."

  Once a year, the federales would send a letter to the Prof demanding a "face to face." He had to make a personal appearance at the clinic. Not to prove that he was still crazy, just that he was still alive. Uncle Sam likes to keep a close watch on his money.

  It was a two-sided scam. Not only did the Prof get a disability check every month, but the diagnosis was a Get Out of Jail Free card in case he ever went down for something major. Nothing like putting an insanity defense together before you commit the crime. The government mails him the check to General Delivery, at the giant post office on Eighth Avenue, right across from Madison Square Garden. There are so many homeless people in New York that the General Delivery window does more business than most small towns.