Blue Belle b-3

by Andrew Vachss

  Michelle's eyes flicked to Belle, back to me. She took a long black cigarette from her purse, tapped it on a fingernail.

  "Belle takes him to the back. We'll have a place fixed up."

  "What then?"

  "Then he tells me where to find the other guy. And I go find him."

  "Tere's no other way?"

  "No. He walks back with Belle, I'm ready for him. We'll have it all worked out. You see this guy go back with Belle, you're gone. Just walk out. The other girls too."

  "Who else is in on it?"

  "The Mole. He found the van. I can talk him into it, he'll work the front desk."

  Michelle's lovely face was serious, not playing now. "I always wanted to be a madam. Of course, I envisioned nicer surroundings, but . . . this'll do. I'm in charge?"

  "You're in charge. The girls get to keep what they make, but pull the money at the front desk to make it look correct."

  "You have pictures?"

  "Pictures?"

  "Of the girls. We need a book of pictures, show the johns when they come in. Let them pick the ones they want."

  "I don't know."

  "I'll take the pictures once they get in there. The Mole has the stuff. When does it happen?"

  "Friday night we start. McGowan will put the word out. Sadie's Sexsational is the spot, you want to beat up a girl. It'll get around. We got two weeks tops. I'll be staying there. Once I go in, I can't go out. Can't take a chance of getting spotted. You bring food in with you every day. I'll be there until it's over."

  "What if the freak doesn't bite?"

  I shrugged. "I'm not thinking that way."

  "Okay."

  "We're playing for everything on the table, Michelle."

  "I know. What if we need some operating cash?"

  "Take it out of my share of the last score."

  She dragged on her cigarette. "You worked with the Mole . . . You see my boy?"

  "He's fine" I assured her.

  "A real doll," Belle chipped in.

  Michelle smiled. Gave me a kiss. Kissed Belle. "I'll get a cab," she said.

  147

  "Take everything you're going to need," I told Belle. We were back in her cottage, two in the morning. She bustled around, filling two big suitcases.

  "What about my car?"

  "You follow me back to the city with it when we go in for the last time. Day after tomorrow. I'll stash the Pontiac on the street. We'll keep your car in the garage."

  She was on her hands and knees, poking around in a corner near her bed. She came up with two handfuls of cash. "I've got about fifteen thousand here," she said.

  "I'll show you where to hide it."

  "You want . . ."

  ''No."

  I walked out onto the deck, lighting a smoke. I felt Belle behind me. "How's this?"

  I turned around. She was wearing a flimsy red wrapper, tied at the waist with a thin ribbon. Her breasts were barely veiled, slash of white skin down the middle.

  "You'll freeze out here."

  She moved into my arms. She was warm, soft. Her hips trembled against me. My hand slid to her butt.

  "Doesn't this thing come with pants?"

  "I'd just have to take them off," she said. "Come on."

  148

  In the car heading back, Belle fiddled with the radio. Full-throated, late-night blues. "I'm a stranger, and afraid" - the singer well within himself, coming to grips, looking it in the eye.

  "He's telling the truth," Belle whispered. "I've been both all my life."

  I found her hand in the darkness.

  The disc jockey broke in. "That was Johnny Adams, out of New Orleans. Singing a new Doc Pomus tune, 'A World I Never Made.' You all remember Doc Pomus, the man who gave us 'Save the Last Dance for Me,' 'Little Sister,' and so many other monster hits. Doc's one of the world's great bluesmen. Now here's the flip side. Down and dirty. Like they don't do anymore." Rattling soft piano, sinuous spiking guitar notes dancing on the top, teasing. Johnny Adams, making his promises, bragging his brag. "I'm your body and fender man, let me pound out your dents." In case anyone listening had maple syrup for brains, he spelled it out:

  I don't care if your body's brand new

  Or it's been knocked around . . .

  I swear they're all the same, babe,

  When you turn them upside down.

  "He's off the mark there," Belle said.

  "No, he's right. There's no such thing as a golden snapper - the difference is in here," I said, tapping my chest.

  "Here," she said, pulling my hand to her breast.

  I lit a smoke. Doc Pomus on the radio again. Like that night I left my basement. Full circle.

  149

  The Pontiac slipped into the garage. I showed Belle the circuit-breaker panel in the back corner. "You know what this is?"

  "Sure. Like a fuse box."

  "Watch." I punched the switch marked Hall. Then Lobby. Then Second Floor. The box popped open, flat plate inside. I used a thumbnail to open the setscrews. Behind it was a deep, lead-lined box. A revolver rested on a neat stack of bills. "Put your money in there."

  "That's neat. It has wires running from it and everything."

  "The wires run to the house current. Electromagnetic switches. Like a combination lock. You remember?"

  "Hall, lobby, second floor."

  I patted her butt. "Good girl."

  "If I tell you again, will you pat me some more?"

  "Upstairs."

  150

  "You ready to go over it again?"

  "Honey, I got it down pat."

  "One more time - it's got to be pertect."

  "Okay," she sighed.

  I took the handcuffs from the drawer, hooked one cuff to her right wrist, the other to the back of a chair. She took the long-handled speed key from the desk, holding it in her left hand.

  "Go!"

  She twisted her wrist, exposing the key slot, slammed the speed key home, twisted it, pulled free.

  "Beautiful."

  She stood up. "I am. A beautiful young girl. Like you taught me."

  151

  Late that night. Belle on her knees in front of me, her head bent between my legs. Licking me like a cat cleans her kittens. Thick thatch of hair falling. I felt the beads of the necklace lapping against my thigh.

  Her head came up. Whispering in the dark. "You think it's too much?"

  "What?"

  "This. The way I am. I'm just like this with you. I swear it."

  "What're you talking about?"

  "I want your hands on me - want you inside me. All the time. Everyplace inside me. When you just pat me on the bottom, I get wet."

  "It's your way of dealing with it. Everybody's lying but you and me, Belle. To each other. This all started out with a lie. Some punk lawyer, chumping me off, he thought. And Marques, with his fifty-grand bounty. He probably collected a hundred. Maybe made a side bet about taking the van off the street. I lied to Max to get him out of the way. Mama helped me. McGowan trying to tell me the federales had the massage parlor. Me telling him I'm going to give him the van, and Sally Lou too. There's no letter for him - there never will be. The Mole, he could never tell Michelle he's made a Nazi-hunter out of the boy. Morelli, he thinks there's a story in this for him. Mortay. He's the only one who told the truth."

  His name hung over us in the dark. I could see it. Neon-red, dripping.

  "I looked in his eyes. He wasn't lying. He's earned his name. Scared me past death. Till I came out the other side. My old friend's there. On the other side. Hate. It didn't save my basement, but it saved my life. Plenty of times. You got your way, I got mine."

  "Will it stop? When it's over?"

  "It might for you," I told her. "It won't for me."

  152

  I called Mama at seven the next morning.

  "Anything?"

  "Nobody call."

  "Good."

  "Nobody come either," she said. "Too bad."

  I left Belle a not
e, telling her I'd be back soon with something to eat. Took my time about it. Fresh rolls, big slab of cream cheese, two six-packs of beer, pineapple juice, seltzer. I grabbed a copy of the Daily News. Bob Herbert's column came out on Thursday - he'd been pounding the cops about the Ghost Van, the only one writing about it.

  When I got back to the office, Pansy let me in, a distracted look on her face. She sniffed the food. "You been out?" I asked her.

  "She sure has." Belle's voice from the back room. "Come on back here, you nasty old thing, let's finish this."

  Pansy loped off. Belle was on her hands and knees, wearing just a bra and pants. Pansy ran over to her, lowering her head like a charging bull. They butted each other back and forth, going nose to nose. Belle was bigger and heavier, but Pansy wouldn't budge an inch, snarling happily.

  "Are you nuts? What if she snaps at you?"

  "She won't do that - this is a fair fight."

  They pushed at each other, faces pressed together, Belle making grunting sounds of her own. Finally she dropped to the floor, face-down. Pansy sniffed the back of her neck. "You win," Belle muttered.

  I put the food together. "What was that all about?"

  "I told her I didn't mind her threatening me before, but if she messed with me again, I was gonna kick her ass."

  "You're out of your mind."

  "It was fun. You want to try?"

  "Not this year. With either of you."

  Belle went into the shower. I mixed the pineapple juice and seltzer, added some ice. Then I stuffed a roll full of cream cheese and gave it to Pansy. Belle came out, wrapped in a towel. Helped herself to the food.

  "Beer for breakfast?"

  "Save it for later. And don't give Pansy any.

  Belle dropped to her knees, hands in front of her like a dog's paws. "Just one?"

  Pansy stood next to her, watching me closely.

  "Yeah, all right. I give up."

  Belle's laugh was sweetness on the morning.

  153

  Pansy prowled the floor, sniffing the corners, snarling at nothing in particular. Our last night in the cottage. Belle was stuffing another pair of suitcases.

  "Why'd you bring that old dog anyway?"

  "I wanted to get her used to sleeping outside the office - she's going to be at the massage parlor with us."

  "In case somebody wants something special?"

  I didn't answer her. I dialed the Runaway Squad. They told me McGowan was in the street - they'd take a message. I hung up. Mama had nothing to tell me. I had nothing to tell the Mole.

  "Don't make it look like you moved out," I warned Belle.

  'I'm just taking a few things. The rent's paid till the end of the month, and I got two months security down. I'll throw another money order in the mail to the land-lord. People mind their own business out here."

  I went out on the deck, minding mine. Pansy trotted along next to me. She jumped up on her hind legs, hooking her front paws to the railing. I scratched the back of her neck. "You want to see the junkyard, girl? Meet a few new guys?" She made a happy rumble in her throat. The sound rippled across the water. I smoked a couple of cigarettes, calm inside. Once you jump off the bridge, everything's smooth until you hit the water.

  It was past midnight when we came back inside. Belle was wearing a gauzy blue nightgown, her face fresh-scrubbed and clean. Ready for bed. She took a bottle of beer from the refrigerator, poured herself a glass. Pansy made a pitiful moaning noise, brushing her head against Belle's thigh.

  "Oh! Now you wanna be pals, huh?"

  She found a cereal bowl, another bottle of beer. Took them both into a far corner. Bent from the waist and filled it up. Pansy got about half of it, the floor got the rest.

  I lit a cigarette. "You taught me something."

  "What, honey?"

  "The poison-proofing I did with her . . . so she won't take food unless she hears the right word?"

  "Yes?"

  "I'm a jerk. I never thought about liquids. She'll drink any goddamned thing."

  "Can't you . . ."

  "Yeah. You take the time, the patience, you can train a dog like Pansy to do just about anything. I didn't do it. And l just figured out why."

  Belle was next to me, my arm around her waist, listening like I was saying something important.

  "There's no way to throw liquid under a door. She wouldn't take it anyway - not unless it was in a bowl, or in a pool. I never figured on anyone being inside, you understand?"

  "I'm inside," she said softly.

  "Yeah, you are. Let's go to sleep."

  She gently twirled away from me. Turned off the lights. "Not yet, honey. Sit in the chair. This is our last night here. Until it's over. I want to say my prayers."

  She knelt before the bed, hands clasped in front of her. Her skin glowed under the nightgown. Blue light.

  Belle looked over her shoulder. She played with the sash at her waist. The nightgown floated to the floor.

  "Rescue me," she whispered.

  154

  It was still dark when l watched Belle slip the Camaro into my garage. I stashed the Pontiac a few blocks away, in a safe spot near the river.

  I didn't like the walk back to the garage. Pinprick tingles all across my back. But it was quiet - my fear was just picking up long-distance signals.

  The garage was dark when I stepped inside. I headed for the stairs, sending Pansy ahead, Belle right behind me. She pulled at my arm. "Wait."

  She stood before the circuit-breaker box. Punched the three buttons in the right sequence, puffing out her chest like a proud little girl when the box popped open. If little girls looked like that when they got a question right, I might have stayed in school. She slipped off the necklace, holding the blue glow in her hands. I watched her, one foot on the first rung of the stairs.

  "I can't do it," she said. Slamming the box closed. "It don't seem right to wear it inside a whorehouse, but . . ." She patted the front of her thigh. Where her mother's gravestone was etched in her flesh.

  155

  Upstairs I dialed McGowan again. This time he was around.

  "It's me. Everything okay?"

  "It's empty right now. There's an alley running behind it. Room for three cars, four if they're packed tight. Chain-link fence, barbed wire on the top. They used to keep a German shepherd out there."

  "Okay. I'm rolling."

  "Wait. There's one more thing. The joint next to it. The video store. That's ours too. You can walk in, go down to the basement, and walk through. We punched a tunnel through. You can go in and out."

  "Thanks, McGowan."

  "I should've been straight with you." His honey-Irish voice was soft around the edges. "Square it up, now."

  "For all of them," I promised, hanging up.

  I called the Mole, gave him the word. Whoever was listening at the other end hung up when I was finished.

  Belle was unpacking her clothes, laying them across the couch, bumping Pansy out of the way with her hip.

  I called Mama.

  "I'm going in. You know where everything is. Max knows the rest. I'm putting it all down. In a letter. To the Jersey box."

  Mama said something in Cantonese.

  "What was that?"

  "If the letter come, I fix everything."

  "I know. Goodbye, Mama."

  She hung up. A sadness-shudder passed through me, leaving me chilled. I lit a cigarette and started to write.

  156

  Friday night. Eight o'clock. I followed Pansy down the back stairs, a heavy suitcase in each hand. Belle behind me, carrying two more. I left her in the garage with all the stuff, snapped the lead on Pansy, and went for a walk.

  Electric fear-jolts danced through me. Pansy felt it. Her massive head swung back and forth, pinning everyone she saw. Her teeth snapped together in little clicks, kill noises slipping through. Her eyes were ice cubes.

  A yuppie couple approached, her hand through his arm. They crossed the street. A wino was propped against the
car right next to the Pontiac. I tightened the leash. Pansy lunged, snarling. He sobered up, moved off. I opened the door, put Pansy in the back seat.

  Belle was ready when I pulled up in front of the garage. I popped the trunk; we threw the suitcases inside and moved off.

  West Side Highway to Tenth Avenue. Across 30th down to Twelfth. And then a right turn back into what the tour guides would call the heart of Times Square.

  The fear-jolts were spiking inside me. Pansy prowled the back seat, side to side; her face loomed at the windows.

  "Jump!" I snapped at her. Nobody'd remember the Pontiac, but nobody'd forget Pansy. She went down, snarling her hate for whatever was frightening me.

  I found the alley, nosed the car in, creeping forward, driving with my left hand, the pistol cocked in my right. The fenced-off section was where McGowan said it would be - huge padlock in place. I stopped the car, popped the door for Pansy, calling to her. "Watch!"

  I walked to the fence, the gun in front, poking its way through the darkness.

  A flashlight beam behind the fence. I hit the ground, leveling the pistol as Pansy charged past me, throwing herself at the chain links. "Don't shoot - it's me." The Mole's voice. I called Pansy off, met him at the fence. He reached through, opened the padlock, swung the gate open. I pulled the Pontiac inside, between a white panel truck with the name of some kosher butcher shop on the side and a dark station wagon. "All ours?" I asked the Mole.

  "Sure," he said.

  157

  We followed him inside. Big room, dim lights, cartons stacked against the walls, steel shelving loaded with video cassettes.