Blue Belle b-3

by Andrew Vachss

  "That's what I do best."

  She kissed me again, her hand rubbing my crotch. "Second-best," she whispered.

  I backed out into the street, watching the garage door close through the windshield. I couldn't see Belle in the shadows.

  114

  I parked the Plymouth near the Vista Hotel and walked to where I said I'd meet McGowan. The grenade felt heavy swinging at the end of my arm - I'd have to rig up some kind of sling when I got the chance.

  I found the bench, sat down. I one-handed a wooden match out of the little box, braced it between my taped-up hand and my knee, fired it up.

  McGowan's car swung in. He popped out the passenger side, walking toward me fast. I heard tires on the pavement, flicked my eyes to the side. Another dark four-door sedan. Whip antenna, two guys in front. About as undercover as a blue-and-white with roof lights.

  "You're here," he greeted me.

  "Like I said I would be. And all by myself too."

  His smile was hard. "Volunteers. Not your problem. What happened to your hand?"

  "I grabbed something I shouldn't of."

  "Not the first time, huh?"

  "Nope. What'd you want, McGowan?"

  He fired one of his stinking cigars. "You trust me?"

  "So far."

  "I'm not wired. The other guys, they're backup. Not for you. For me."

  "Go."

  He looked straight ahead, puffing on his cigar, keeping his voice low. "A man named Robert Morgan got himself killed last night."

  "Never heard of him."

  "Nine-one-one call came in around midnight. Uniforms found a dead man. In the playground by the Chelsea Projects."

  "So?"

  "He had seven slugs in him, maybe a four-inch group, all in the chest. High-tech stuff. Whoever smoked him was a pro."

  "So?"

  "Nobody heard a shot. This was no punk kid running around on the roof with a .22 - it was a hit."

  "So?"

  "The ground was all chewed up. Pieces of concrete ripped right out. The shooter had more than one target."

  "This is real interesting McGowan. Give me a light, will you?" I leaned close to his lighter. His hands were steady.

  "Where were you last night, Burke?"

  "With someone. Far away."

  "You're sure?"

  "What's the big deal?"

  McGowan's cigar steamed in the morning air. It smelled as bad as his story.

  "The guy had ID. That's where we got the Robert Morgan handle. Since it looked like a pro hit, they ran his prints. Nothing. The lab guy's a good man - he was on the ball. I heard from him an hour ago."

  "Heard what?"

  "This Robert Morgan, his prints matched one we took off the switch - car. The one that snatched the baby hooker."

  "Why tell me?"

  He looked straight ahead. "You're good, Burke. I think they could wire you to a polygraph and you'd never bounce the needles." He tilted his head back, looking up at the sky. "This dead guy, he was in the Ghost Van. It's the first lead we got. I figure you left it there for us, but you didn't know it."

  I dragged on my cigarette, waiting.

  "I think you're already in the tunnel. We're coming from the other end. I don't want to meet you in the middle - somebody could get hurt."

  I snapped my cigarette into the street. "Stay out of the tunnel," I told him, getting up to leave. "I'll call you."

  I didn't look back.

  115

  Nobody followed me to the Plymouth. I took the East Side Drive to 61st, hooked York Avenue, and kept on going uptown. I pulled over on 92nd, checking the clock in the window of a boutique that hadn't opened yet. Eight-thirty-five. Plenty of time.

  I made a sling out of a loop of Ace bandage, holding one end in my teeth to tighten the knot. Smoked a couple of cigarettes. Mortay was tied into the Ghost Van now for sure. For dead sure. And maybe it wasn't just bodyguard work he was doing. I was in a box -I had to get him in there with me. And know where the back door was.

  I watched the cigarette smoke puddle against the windshield, playing with it. I was in Family Court once, listening to Davidson sum up on a case, watching him for the UGL - they wanted to know what he was made of before they hired him for a homicide case. They had this baby in foster care for years. Kept him there while the social workers tried to make parents out of the slime who tortured the kid. In this city, a pit bull bites two people, they gas it. To protect the public. A human cripples his own kid, they give him another bite.

  Davidson was representing the kid. They call it being a "law guardian." The parents had their own lawyers; the city's lawyers represent the social workers. I still remember what he said:

  "Judge, this baby will only be a child for a little while. Then he's an adult. We only have a few years to help him. The parents, they've had their chance. More than one. But this baby's not in foster care, he's in limbo. What about him? Isn't he entitled to some end to this? All butterflies, no matter how beautiful, have to land sometime. Or they die. The parents started this mess. The social workers kept it going. It's up to you to stop it. Stop it now. Let this baby have a real family."

  The judge went along with it. He let the butterfly land. The baby was released for adoption. The mother cried. For herself. Davidson makes a living keeping criminals out of jail, but that day he kept someone from going to jail years later. I know.

  My thoughts floating like that butterfly, looking for a safe place to land, I got out of the Plymouth. The clock said eight-fifty-five.

  I started walking to the pay phone on the corner, snapping away my cigarette.

  116

  Marques answered on the first ring. "That you, Burke?"

  "Yeah. I just wanted to make sure the phone was working at your end. I'll call you back in five minutes."

  "Man, you think I got nothing better to do than to sit around here and . . ."

  "Five minutes, Marques. No more. Then we'll talk. Be cool."

  I hung up, started walking again.

  I turned the corner, spotted the Rolls parked next to the pay phone. I came up to the driver's window from the back. It was open, a man's elbow resting on the sill. Diamonds on his wrist.

  "Let's talk," I said.

  Marques jumped. "What? How'd you . . . ?"

  "Everything's cool. Just relax. I didn't want to talk on the phone. How about we go for a ride?"

  "I ain't going anywhere with you, man," he said, eyes darting around.

  "In your car, okay? Anywhere you want to go."

  He got hold of himself. "In the back seat," he snapped to the blonde next to him.

  I held the back door for her. One of the whores who'd been with him in Junior's. She didn't smile. I climbed in the front. Marques backed the car out of his spot, headed uptown, to Harlem. "What happened to your hand, man?"

  "Nothing much."

  "Yeah. Okay, look here, I . . ."

  "You want to talk in front of Christina?" I asked him, tilting my head toward the back seat.

  "I told you before, man. This is my bottom woman. Besides, she's the one got the dope."

  I lit a smoke. The windows whispered up, sealing off the outside world. We stopped at a light. Two kids rolled up to the driver's side. Marques hit the switch. A black kid bent down. "You want your windows done, Mr. Dupree?"

  "Later, baby," the pimp said, slapping a bill into the kid's hand.

  We pulled away, cruising. I waited. If Christina wanted to listen to Marques, that was okay with me, but I wasn't adding to the conversation.

  "Remember you asked about this guy with Mortay? Ramón?"

  I nodded.

  ''He's a switch-hitter, man. Takes it up the chute from Mortay, hands it back the other way."

  "To boys?"

  "To girls, man. This Mortay, he pulls hard guys. Right off the street in Times Square. Takes the most macho guys he can find: rough-off boys, sluggers . . . you know what I mean?"

  I nodded again.

  "He's bent, man.
Bent out of shape like you wouldn't believe. He takes the hard guys, makes them suck his cock. Turns them right around. Then he marks them. With that diamond in the ear. This Ramón, he's not the first. He had another boy. Guy they called Butcher. Mortay turns him over. One day this Butcher is shaking down street people, doing his thing - next day he's walking with Mortay, that diamond in his ear."

  I opened my hand in a "What happened next?" gesture. "He just disappears, man. Poof! He's off the street. And Ramón - he's wearing the diamond."

  "And he's an evil freak too!" Christina snarled, leaning forward between me and Marques.

  "Tell him, baby," Marques said.

  The blonde's voice was ugly. "He was known before. He wasn't a player, but he'd grab some little girl, slap her around, take her money. Like Marques said, a rough-off artist. Always carried a gun, let you see it. Times Square trash."

  "Tell him the rest."

  "He does the massage parlors now. All the girls know him. He pays big, so he got a lot of play at first. But he's a pain-freak, man. He has to hurt a girl to get off. You know Sabrina? Big fat Sabrina?"

  I shook my head no.

  "She does pain-for-gain. Whips and chains. She used to work at Sadie's Sexsational? Just off Eighth?"

  I nodded.

  "This Ramón had a date with her. Goes in the back. Stays a long time. Manager comes back to see what's taking so long, Ramón's just walking out. Points a piece in the manager's face and just keeps going. Sabrina was a mess, man. He tied her up, put a ball-gag in her mouth, whipped her till she was nothing but blood. Left a whiskey bottle sticking out of her ass."

  I bit into my cigarette. I'd seen it before. They start out mean, they end up evil.

  Christina sat back in her seat. Marques snorted a fat line of coke off his wrist. "That's the story, man. Nobody knows where Mortay lives. This Ramón, he's on the street most every night. Meets Mortay different places and they go off together."

  "You did good," I said, dragging on the smoke.

  "I'm out of it now, man. These people are too heavy for me. I'm a lover, not a killer. That's why I came to you."

  I didn't say anything.

  "Drop you someplace, man?"

  "Thirty-ninth, anywhere near the river."

  "Man, that's only a block away."

  "Downtown. Not a Hundred and thirty-ninth."

  "Oh, yeah. Right," Marques said, flashing his pimp-smile. "I forgot you was white."

  Marques rambled on during the drive downtown. It's expensive to keep good women working. The IRS just took a major player off the street for back taxes. Bail bondsmen and lawyers were eating him alive. Couldn't find a decent mechanic for the Rolls.

  I mumbled just enough to keep him talking, my mind floating someplace else. Like a butterfly.

  Hawks have to land too.

  117

  Marques dropped me off where I asked him. "I'm out of it," he said again.

  I leaned into the window, keeping my voice low. "You're out of it when the Ghost Van's off the streets. You did your piece. But if I need to talk to you again, I'm going to call."

  He wouldn't meet my eyes. "Yeah, man. Right on. You know where to find me."

  I watched Christina let herself into the front seat.

  "I always will," I promised him.

  I watched the Rolls pull into traffic.

  118

  He answered the phone like he always does.

  "Morelli."

  "It's Burke. I need to talk."

  "Talk."

  "Not on the phone."

  I heard the groan in his voice. "And you won't come to the office, right?"

  "Take a walk downstairs. I'll meet you on the benches in front of the UN. Right across from Forty-first."

  "Now?"

  "Now."

  119

  I had a good twenty minutes to myself, waiting for Morelli.

  My mind was a rat, gnawing at the corner of a warehouse full of grain.

  The UN towered behind me. Useless piece of junk. I wondered how long it would be before somebody turned it into a co-op.

  I spotted Morelli across the street. Tall guy, looks ten years younger than he is. Never wears a hat, even in the winter. Dressing better now that he's married, but not much. He doesn't look like an investigative reporter. Hell, he doesn't look Italian. But he's the best of both.

  He was twenty feet away when it hit me. Money. Where's the money? I filed the thought like a bitch-wolf hiding her cubs.

  I shook hands with Morelli. "Let's walk," I said.

  We found a place by the railing. Tourists flowed by. Security guards. People late for work. Morelli didn't waste time asking about my hand - it wasn't his way.

  "What've you got?"

  "I may have this fucking Ghost Van," I told him, watching his eyes light up. A hound on the scent.

  "Tell me."

  "There's a pattern. A karate-freak's been fighting duels all over the city. Challenging the leaders of every dojo. Killed at least a couple. He had a death-match. In the basement of Sin City. Every player made the scene. Big purse, side bets, the whole thing. Like a cockfight, only with people. I thought he was fronting off the van. Bodyguard work. He warned one of my people off. Broke his legs. Some other things happened, and now it's me he's looking for."

  Morelli glanced at my left hand.

  "Yeah," I said. "Like that. We're off the record now. Way off, okay?"

  "Okay."

  "A man got killed last night. The cops matched his prints to the switch-car for the Ghost Van."

  "Yeah . . . ?"

  "The guy that was killed, this karate-freak was with him when he bought it. It won't make the papers."

  "Where do I come in?"

  "We got two pieces left. Why the Ghost Van in the first place? What's it doing out there? That's my piece. Here's yours: where's the money?"

  "What money?"

  "There's always money. Somewhere, there's always money. This whole operation cost a bundle - somebody's scoring."

  "I read the clips myself. It sounds like a sicko trip to me."

  "You're reading it wrong. I know it. Let me do that bit, it's not for you."

  "What's mine?"

  "Sin City. Who owns it? Who's watching it? There's something about that place that ties it up. This karate-freak. Mortay. Nobody knows where he lives. But that's where he fought the duel. I'll work it through. I'm close now. I know it."

  "I have to sit on the fingerprint story?"

  "Yeah. But you're in on the kill when it all comes down. My word on it. No matter what happens, you'll get the whole story."

  "First."

  "From the horse's mouth."

  "How much time I got?"

  "Less than I got. And I got none."

  He shook hands again, moved off.

  I watched the street for a minute. Then I stepped on the uptown bus.

  120

  The Plymouth was where I left it. In some neighborhoods, I worry about amateurs trying to strip it for parts - in Yuppieville, the only danger is that some citizen will want it towed away as an eyesore.

  I headed for the Bronx on automatic pilot, still working the puzzle in my head. Pulling the pain into a laser point to burn through the haze.

  The junkyard looks the same, day or night. Terry walked past the dogs, motioning me to shove over. He got behind the wheel. "I know the way," he said, steering carefully through the mine field until we pulled up outside a row of corrugated-iron sheds. The kid drove right in. I stood to the side, watching him jockey a couple of wrecks back and forth, filling up the area. In five minutes, the Plymouth had disappeared.

  We walked through the yard, heading for the Mole's bunker. Terry bummed a cigarette. "Shouldn't you be going to school?" I asked him, handing it over.

  "I am," the kid said.

  The Mole was waiting for us. "What kind of car do you need?"

  "Something that won't make people look twice."

  "Big car? Fast?"

  "Do
esn't matter."

  He turned to Terry. "Get the brown Pontiac." The kid took off.

  I sat down next to the Mole. If I waited for him to ask questions, I'd do a life sentence in the junkyard.

  "Thanks for the car, Mole." He grunted, disinterested.

  The kid rolled up. The Pontiac was a couple of years old. A chocolate-brown four-door sedan. A nice, clean, boring commuter's car. It had New York plates, a fresh inspection sticker.

  "Registration's in the glove compartment. Insurance card too," Terry said.

  "Good work." If I got dropped, I'd tell the cops I borrowed the car from a guy I met in a bar. The owner would never show up to claim it, and the Pontiac wouldn't be on any hot-car list.

  I lit a smoke. "Mole, I need to talk to you for a minute."

  "Talk."

  "The kid . . ."

  "He has to learn," the Mole said.

  "I'm working on something. The wheels came off last night. This guy's looking for me -I'm looking for him."

  The Mole tapped my left hand. "What's that?"

  "Grenade."

  "I have better stuff."

  "It's okay for now. That's not what I need."

  The Mole waited. Terry opened his mouth to ask a question, caught the Mole looking at him, shut it down.

  "There's a tie-in to this whole mess I told you about before. I think it's inside a building. Times Square, on Eighth. Maybe the basement. I'm having some things checked out now." I dragged deep on the smoke. The Mole and the kid sat like twin toads.

  "Can you get inside the building for me?"

  Terry laughed. It was like asking Sonny Liston if he could punch.

  "I'm hot. This freak, Mortay, he's got the area wired. He sees me, I'm gone. I'm not ready for him yet. I can't go in with you."

  The Mole shrugged.

  "And you can't use Max for backup. He's out of this until it's over."

  "Why?"

  "I met the freak. Face to face. He wants Max, says he'll take out the baby to make Max fight. Mama sent him out of town for a few weeks."

  "He knows?"