She pulled the shirt off her hips. "Why don't you give me a smack? You'll feel better."
"I feel fine," I said.
Belle wiggled again. "Come on, please."
I put my hand on her rump, patting her gently.
"Come on. Do it, just a couple of times. I swear you'll feel better."
I brought my hand down hard. A sharp crack. "Do it again," she whispered, "come on."
I smacked her twice more in the same place. She slid off my lap to her knees, looked up at me. "Feel better?" she asked.
"No."
"You will," she promised, taking me in her mouth.
101
We were on the East Side Drive, heading for the Trihoro Bridge. Belle took a drag road.
"How do I turn up the dashboard lights?"
I told her. She peered at the speedometer. "I can tell how fast we're going without it, but I need to know the mileage."
"There's a trip odometer."
"It's okay, I'm keeping count."
We motored over the bridge. I showed her the cutoff, led her through the twisting South Bronx streets, past the warehouses, past the burned-out buildings, into the flatlands. "Next corner, left," I told her. "That's the spot."
She pulled to the side of the road. No streetlights here - we were in darkness.
Belle turned to me. "You think I'm a freak?" she asked, her voice shaking a little bit.
"Why would I think that?"
"Don't play with me - you know why I asked you. I liked it when you pinched me so hard - when you made me say what I saw in the mirror. I liked it when you spanked me before. I like it when you do that. Makes me feel like you love me. Special." She took another drag. "You think that makes me a freak?"
I lit a smoke of my own. "You want the truth?"
"Tell me."
"I think you think you're a freak. I think you believe your life is a damn dice game. Genetic dice, rolling down the table, and all you can do is watch."
"My blood . . ."
"Your blood may have done something to your face. Your blood tells you not to have babies. But it doesn't tell you how to act. You still have your choices."
"You don't understand."
"You're the one who doesn't understand, girl. You see it but you don't get it. Remember what you told me about alligators - the difference between a six-inch gator and a six-foot one?"
"I remember."
"What's the difference between a puppy and a dog? The same thing? Just size?"
"Isn't it?"
"How you raise the puppy, how you treat it, what you feed it - it all makes a different dog when it grows up. Two puppies from the same litter, they could be real different dogs when they grow up."
"Okay."
"Don't give me that 'okay' bullshit. You don't get it, we'll sit right here until you do."
"I get it."
"Then explain it to me."
She started to cry, her face in her hands. "I can't," she sobbed.
"Come over here," I told her. "Come on."
She unbuckled her seat belt, slid over against me, still crying. "I'm sorry . . ."
"Shut up. Just be quiet and listen, okay?"
"Okay," she gulped.
"Telling you about dogs and puppies wasn't the way to do it. You think blood will out, don't you?"
She nodded. "Yes." Still crying.
"You know about Dobermans . . . how they're supposed to turn on their owners?"
"Yes, I heard that."
"It's a lie, Belle. People get Dobermans, they're afraid of them. They've all heard the stories. So they beat the hell out of them when they're still puppies. Show them who's boss, right? One day, the dog gets his full growth, the owner goes to hit him, the dog says, 'Uh uh. Not today, pal,' and he rips the guy up. So this fool, this creep who's been beating up on his own dog, mistreating him all this time, he says, 'Well, the son of a bitch turned on me.'"
Belle giggled. "He sowed his own crop."
"Sure did. There's nothing genetic about Dobermans' turning on their masters. What's genetic about them is that they don't take a whole lot of shit once they get their growth. That's the truth."
"I thought . . ."
"We're people, Belle. Not alligators. I know people so cold, so evil, you meet them, you'd swear they came out of their mothers' wombs like that. But that's not the way it is. All the human monsters have to be made - they can't be born that way. You can't be born bad, no matter what the fucking government thinks."
"But if he . . ."
I cut her off sharp - I knew who "he" was. "It was his choice, Belle. No matter how he was raised, no matter what was done to him. There's no law says he has to repeat the pattern. He's not off the hook. I came up with guys raised by monsters. Did time with them when I was a kid. They still had choices."
I lit a cigarette. "Hard choices. The only kind people like us get. But choices still . . . You understand?"
"I do. I swear I do this time." She nestled against me. "I knew you were going to rescue me."
She kissed me full on the mouth, stabbing me with her tongue. I pulled back from her, watching the lights dance in her dark eyes. "The man we're going to see, millions of his people died because some slimy little psychopath decided their blood was bad. The psychopath, he's in the ground. The maggots are eating his body, and if there's a god, his soul is burning. And there's a country called Israel where there used to be only desert."
I squeezed her gently. "Okay?"
She let the whole smile go this time. "Okay."
102
I showed Belle where to pull in. "Flash the high beams three times, then shut the lights off."
"Something's coming," she said, peering into the darkness.
"Dogs," I told her. "Just be quiet."
They came in a pack. Simba didn't wait to make his entrance like he usually does. There was a tawny flash and a light thump as he landed on the hood of the Plymouth, baring his fangs as he looked through the windshield. Belle looked back at him. "Is that a wolf?"
"City wolf," I told her. "And that's his pack" - pointing to the river of beasts flowing around the car.
"What d'we do?"
"Wait."
The kid came through the crowd, bumping dogs out of his way like the Mole does. He called to Simba. The dog jumped off the hood, followed the kid around to the driver's side. "Switch places with me," I told Belle. I hit the switch. The window came down. Simba's lupine face popped into the opening.
"Simba-witz!" I greeted him.
Simba sniffed, poking his nose past me to look at Belle. A low growl came out of his throat. The pack went quiet. "It's okay, Terry," I told the boy. "This is Belle - she's with me."
The kid was wearing a dirty jumpsuit, a tool belt around his waist. A regular mini-Mole. Michelle would be thrilled.
"I'll open the gate," he said.
I drove the Plymouth a few feet into the yard, watching the gates close behind us. "I'm going to get out now," I told Belle. "I'll come around and let you out. The dogs will be with us, but they're okay. Don't be scared."
"Too late for that," she muttered.
When I let her out, she stepped to the ground. The dogs moved in close. "Should I pat them?" she asked.
Terry laughed. "Follow me," he said.
I took Belle's hand as we moved through the junkyard. Simba flashed ahead of us in a Z pattern, working the ground. The dogs came close, barking at each other, not paying much attention to us.
The Mole was sitting on a cut-down oil drum a few feet from his underground bunker. He got up when he saw us coming, pulling a slab of something white from his overalls. He threw it in a loping motion, like it was a grenade. The dogs chased off.
Before I could open my mouth, Terry took over. "Mole, this is Belle. Belle is Burke's friend. She came with him. I'm Terry," he said, holding out his hand. Belle shook it, gravely.
The Mole didn't offer to shake hands, pointing at more of the cut-down oil drums like they were deck chairs on hi
s yacht.
"I should stay?" Terry asked.
The Mole looked at me. I nodded. The kid reached in his tool belt, pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a wooden match. He gets something from everyone in his family.
"Mole, I brought Belle here because she may need a place to run to. Soon. She's our people. She's mine, okay?"
"Okay."
"I wanted you to get a look at her. She has to come back in a hurry, you'll know her."
He nodded.
"Can Terry take her around - show her the other ways in?"
He nodded at the boy. Terry came over to Belle, holding out his hand. "Come on," he said. She went meekly as a child, towering over the kid.
I moved my oil-drum seat closer to the Mole. "I'm working on something. The Ghost Van. The Prof was nosing around. Guy named Mortay caught him. Broke both his legs. Told him to stay away."
The Mole nodded, waiting.
"I don't know if this Mortay is fronting off the van or he's got his own list. He told the Prof he wanted Max. In a duel. He's been moving on other karateka around the city. I can't bring Max into this until I know what the score is."
The Mole watched me as if I was one of his experiments. Waiting for something to happen.
"I'm meeting him. Tonight. Midnight. I've got backup. I'll call you when I get back. You don't hear from me, you call Davidson. The lawyer. You know him, right?"
"Yes."
"If I don't call you, I'll probably be locked up. Tell Davidson I'm good for the cash. Tell him to call Mama if he needs bail money."
"Okay."
"Thanks, Mole."
"There's more?" he asked. I couldn't see his eyes through the Coke-bottle lenses.
"Maybe. Maybe a lot more. I got pieces, but they may be two different puzzles. After tonight I should know enough to come and ask you."
He nodded. Terry came back, leading Belle by the hand. "She knows the way," he said, standing by the Mole.
"Take them back to the car," the Mole told him. Nodding goodbye to me and Belle.
103
When we crossed the Triboro, I told Belle to bear left.
"That's toward Queens."
"I know. You're going home. I need the car. I'll come back when it's over."
"I want . . ."
"I don't care what you want. It's way past nine and I'm meeting a man at midnight. You're not coming. And I'm not telling you again."
She drove in silence for a few minutes. "Burke, what's that orange cloth you put in your pocket?"
I lit a smoke. "A sign. So I'll be recognized."
"What's it mean?"
"Signs mean different things to different people, right? Middle-class kid, he's on his way to school. There's this bully waiting for him. Middle-class kid, he don't want to fight, but he don't want to look chicken. So he wraps his hand in bandages, says he cut himself. Understand?"
"Yes."
"You wear the same bandages in the places I was raised, just makes you an easier target. Different rules, okay?"
"Okay."
We pulled up outside her cottage. Ten o'clock. I followed her inside. She didn't turn on the lights.
"Burke, don't hate me for asking this . . ."
"What?"
"Are you scared?"
"Scared to death."
"Then . . ."
"I'm more scared not to go. I have to find out. Get some answers."
"Let's run," she said, standing close to me in the dark.
"Let's just go. We can be in Chicago by tomorrow. Or anyplace you want to go. I've got money stashed. Right here in the house. We can . . ."
"No."
She turned away from me. "What scares you?"
"This guy I have to meet - he's a psychopath. Behind the walls, being a psychopath is like walking a high-wire. Guys are scared of a man with eyes like an alligator's. That's good - makes people keep their distance. But it's no good to scare people too much. Just the possibility you might get hurt, that keeps you away. But if there's no doubt about it, if you know the guy's coming for you, you take him first. If you can."
"And that's what you need to find out?"
"That's it."
She moved close to me again, whispering in the dark room. "Why take a chance?"
"It's not that simple. I can't do anything until I find out. I don't know what else's out there."
"Burke, you come back here. You come back here to me."
"I will. As best I can."
I lit a last cigarette, pulled her to me. "You don't see me by tomorrow morning, drive back to the junkyard. The Mole will know who to contact, what to do."
"You'll come back. I've got something for you."
"I know you do," I said, giving her a kiss.
104
Eleven-fifteen. I was parked down the street from the playground. Breathing deep through my nose, sucking the air into my belly, expanding my chest as I let out each breath. Fear snapped around inside me. I gathered it together in a spot in my chest. Worked my mind, putting a fluid box around the fear. Testing the box, pushing it in different directions. I concentrated on the box, shooting clean, cold beams at it. Breaking it into little pieces. Smaller and smaller. Seeing the fear-blob break up into little liquid pieces inside me. Like tears. I held my hands out in front of me, willing the little pieces of fear to come out the ends of my fingers. Feeling them come. Some came out my eyes.
I felt so tired. Closed my eyes for a second. My watch said eleven-forty. Time.
I nosed the Plymouth up on the sidewalk, up to the playground gate. I jumped out, holding the heavy bolt-cutters in two hands. The chain around the fence gave way with one squeeze. I pulled the Plymouth inside the dark playground. Got out and closed the gate behind me. I made a slow circle of the yard, stopped when the Plymouth was pointed back at the street.
I got out, taking a six-pack of beer with me. Glass bottles. Lined them up on the trunk of the car, all in a row. Parallel to the building where the shooter would be waiting. I popped the top off one, held it to my lips. Lit a cigarette. Slouched against the car to wait.
The tip of my cigarette glowed. The streetlights didn't reach the corners of the buildings ringing the playground, but it was bright enough where I stood.
"You're early, punk." A voice from the shadows.
I dragged on my cigarette, keeping both hands in sight. Two men walked toward me from the left. One more from the right. I watched them, not moving. Well-built Spanish guy in a shortsleeved white guyabera shirt. Dark-haired white man in a leather jacket. And a tall man in a white T-shirt and white pants. He looked like a stick figure moving toward me. Mortay.
"Step away from the car," he said. His voice was a whisper-hiss, snake-thin.
The Spanish guy came to meet me. I held my hands away from my body as he searched. A diamond glinted in his ear. A fat diamond, not a stud.
"Empty," he said, stepping back.
Mortay stopped four feet from me. His face was at the end of a long, thin neck, so small I could have covered it with my hand. Hair cropped close - l could see the shine of his scalp. A heavy shelf of bone linked his eyebrows, bulging forward, a visor over his eyes.
"I don't recognize the school," he said. Meaning the orange headband. "Do you fight?"
"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.
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."
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