by Blue Belle
There were only two places in the city I could go for what I needed. This freak I had to meet could call himself death if that's what got his rocks off, but I knew a guy who earned the title. A guy we did time with years ago. A guy who let the ice god into his soul like I'd wanted to. A guy named Wesley. Even saying his name in my mind made my hands shake. The other choice was the UGL.
Una Gente Libre - A Free People. Puerto Rican terrorists to the federates, hard-core independentistas to their people. The FBI had been trying to get a man inside for years - they'd have better luck getting Jimmy Hoffa to testify. The UGL didn't blow up buildings. They didn't write letters to the newspapers. Some of them fought in the mountains of their home, some in the city canyons of America. Their New York territory stretched from East Harlem to the Bronx. They kept their plate clean. You try to sell crack on their streets, you get cracked. You come back again, you get iced. The Colombians didn't like that much. One of their honchos sent a crew into UGL turf. Sprayed the streets with machine guns. Dropped five people, one of them a pregnant woman. The next day, the crack salesmen were back, stopping the BMWs and Mercedeses full of mobile slime on their way to the suburbs. Smiling. Three days later, the first salesman who showed up pushed his way through a crowd packed around a fire hydrant. The honcho's head was sitting on top of the fireplug like a bust in a museum display case. Whoever hacked it off hadn't been a surgeon. The last thing the salesman left on that street was his puke.
Dr. Pablo Cintrone was a psychiatrist. New York magazine did a profile on him once. Harvard Medical School graduate who returned to the mean streets to minister to his people. It made him sort of a hero to the upscale crowd for a couple of weeks. Not too many people in Spanish Harlem or the South Bronx read the magazine, but they knew El Jefe of the UGL.
CONTENTS
92
Inside the office, I let Pansy out to the roof while I checked the security systems. Nobody'd made a move on the place last night.
I changed into a dark pin-striped suit, grabbed a leather attaché case. It wouldn't get anybody's attention if I stood by the pay phone in the Criminal Court waiting for it to ring.
When Pansy saw the leash, she spun in a circle, dancing for joy. I hooked her up and we all went down the back stairs.
First stop was the hospital. I left Pansy in the back taking Belle's hand.
Is she going to be all right back there?
What could happen to her? I asked, reasonably enough.
The Prof was sitting up in bed, half a dozen pillows propped up behind him. His legs were still in casts, but lying flat on the bed. A metal bar ran between the casts. I looked a question.
To make sure they stay straight until the casts come off, he said.
How you doing?
Not as sweet as drinking wine, not as bad as doing time.
We got something, I said, moving close to the bed.
The little man's eyes shifted to where Belle was standing against the wall. I held out my hand behind me, not turning my head. She came up and took it. She's with us, I told him. She's in this.
He flashed his smile at her. This your man, little girl?
Her smile blazed back. He surely is.
That makes me your brother-in-law, darlin'. Soon's we finish this fight, I'll show you the sights.
She leaned over and kissed him. I'll be waiting. Belle sat on the bed. It didn't shift more than half a foot. I pulled up the chair, keeping my voice down.
Mortay called. We got a meet tonight.
Where?
Playground back of the Chelsea Projects.
Skinner heaven.
I know.
I don't like it. If he don't buy the play, how you gonna walk away?
I need a shooter. With a night scope. On the roof.
The only one I know is . . .
Not Wesley. I'll get someone else - I got it covered. The Prof didn't know about my connect to UGL.
His voice dropped even lower. You going to dust him?
No way. Just make sure he gets the word - I want to tell him we got no beef. Walk away. The shooter is in case he wants to try and send another of his freakish messages.
Burke, I'm telling you, this Mortay . . .
I got it covered, I told him again. You hear anything?
Got some promises, but no product.
I'll see you tomorrow.
He put his hand on mine. Burke, listen to me like you used to on the yard. You want to roll the dice, make it nice.
I got it, I said, throwing him a salute.
CONTENTS
93
I held the door for Belle to get into the car. He's really so much better, isn't he?
He's better, but he's not back to himself yet.
You'd expected him to be dancing by now?
Not the physical thing. The Prof, he's like two people. Half is this rhyming-time, upbeat thing you see, okay? The other half is how he got his name. Like a religious thing - I don't have a name for it. Re got his name because he can see things.
Like what's going to happen?
Sort of. Like I said, I can't really explain it. But he can preach, square business. Talk that religion like he means it. Strong enough to make you buy a piece sometimes, when he really gets on a roll. That's what's missing now.
Belle tapped fingernails on one knee, paying attention, listening close. She turned to look at me. Maybe he don't like what he sees comin', she said, the Southern-swamp tang strong in her voice.
CONTENTS
94
I pulled the Plymouth into the parking lot across from the Criminal Court. The parking lot where I met Strega for the first time. The court where I first saw Wolfe in action. It was nine-forty-five - all the spaces were taken.
Cruise around the lot like you're looking for a place to park, I told Belle. You find one, pull in. Watch for me - I'll be coming down those steps, I said, pointing across Centre Street. You see me coming, catch my eye. We may have to move out right away.
I gave Pansy the signal. She flopped down in the back seat, filling it to capacity.
I crossed the street, grabbed the phone I wanted. I picked up the receiver, holding down the hook, and acted like I was listening to someone on the other end, glancing at my watch.
I knew my watch was accurate, because it read ten o'clock just as the phone rang. I released the hook.
Can I see you? Today?
Muy importante?
Sí.
Handball court closest to Metropolitan. One o'clock.
Thanks.
I was talking to a dead line.
CONTENTS
95
I came down the steps, spotted the Plymouth making a slow circuit. I caught it on the second pass, opened the door. Belle rolled out to Lafayette Street, turned south, in the direction of the office.
I don't have to get moving until around noon, I told her. But I need the car when I do.
I'll go with you.
No, you won't. And get that pout off your face.
She didn't. Make a right, I told her as we came to Worth Street. Head down to the river.
Pansy poked her head over the top of the front seat. Want to run, girl? I asked her. She growled.
I showed Belle where to pull in. There were only a few cars on the broad strip of concrete, the usual collection of humans minding other people's business. I opened the back door, hooked Pansy's leash, and we strolled along the river. Her snout wrinkled at the smells, but she held her position. On my left side, slightly ahead. Every time I stopped, she sat. When we got to the deserted pier, I let her off the lead, making a circle with my hand, telling her not to roam far. Freed of the restraint of the leash, she did what comes naturally to her. Lay down.
You lazy old thing, Belle said. She looked around, her eyes sweeping the Jersey shore on the other side. Sure doesn't smell like any water I ever saw.
It's not water - ust a liquid toxic-waste dump.
You can't swim in it?
No. But on a
good day, you could walk on it.
Ugh!
A sailboat went by, loaded with yuppies in yachting gear. Sailboats down here make about as much sense as No Smoking sections in L.A. restaurants, so you see a lot of them.
Belle pointed to one of the round beams that held up the pier. Boost me up, she said, one foot in the air. I cupped my hands and she stepped in, reaching to the top of the beam. I heaved, and up she went. It wasn't as bad as loading trucks, and the view was a lot better. I lit a smoke, handed it up to her. The breeze pulled at her hair, pulling it off her face. She turned to the side, sucking in a deep breath. I took one of my own - no Viking ship ever had a prouder figurehead.
Two teenagers pulled up, riding those little motor scooters you see everyplace. They stopped a decent distance, watching Pansy.
What kind of dog is that? the taller one asked.
One that bites, I told him.
He looks like a giant pit bull.
Close enough.
Where could I get one?
You can't.
The shorter one piped up. He looks like a big lump to me. That ain't no pit bull.
Pansy, watch! I snapped at her.
She came slowly to her feet and strolled toward the kids, making her noises. I never heard an alligator eat a pig, but I knew what Belle meant. She pinned the boys with her ice-water eyes, one skull-crusher of a paw pulling at the concrete.
Jump! I yelled at her. The kids took off before she hit the deck. She looked over at me, bored to death. I made a circle sign again. This time she took off, loping the length of the boards, peering over the edge into the water. She jogged back, stopping at the beam where Belle perched. The beast leaped up, her paws locking into the wood a foot below Belle. She reached down and patted her. Does she want me to come down?
I think she wants to come up.
There's no room.
Maybe that's a message.
Belle jumped down from her perch, landing next to me. What message? she said, bunching a small fist.
That they should make those beams bigger.
Or these smaller? she asked, smacking herself on the rear.
Wouldn't be my choice, I assured her.
She took my arm and we walked around some more, Pansy hanging close.
She's so beautiful. She really is like a panther, the way she moves. So smooth.
I lit a smoke, thinking it was the truth.
Burke, how come you got a female dog?
I shrugged.
Well, she's for protection, right? A guard dog? I thought they were all males. I thought they were tougher, you know? A man I knew once, he had a German shepherd. Wouldn't have a female dog around him - said a bitch would turn tail and run from a fight.''
He's a moron. Male dogs, they smell a bitch in heat, you know what they want to do?
Sure.
No, you don't. What they want to do is fight every other male dog around. In the wild, they run in packs. The way the pack stays alive, they only let the strongest bulls mate with the bitches. So the litters are strong too. The way they see who the strongest dog is they fight it out.
She put her head against my shoulder. Maybe they're right.
They're right for dogs. Not for people. I grew up like that. It took me a lot of years and a lot of scars before I snapped that a good woman won't make you fight over her.
I worked with girls like that. Fire-starters. Blood makes them come.
She swayed against me, pulling me to a stop along the pier. Is that why you have a girl dog? So she won't want to fight other dogs and all?
Males are just no good. Any kind of male. A man'll fuck a chain-link fence.
She patted my pockets, took out a cigarette. I cupped a wooden match against the wind for her. She sat on the bench. Pansy jumped up next to her. I sat on the other side.
Belle looked at the water. The man who said a bitch would turn tail - that's what he wanted me to do. I never had much of my own. Things you buy . . . they're not really yours. But I own what I do. He found out too.
What happened?
I cut him. Cut him good.
We walked back to the Plymouth. You want to wait at the office for me?
Me and Pansy, she said.
CONTENTS
96
Back at the office, Belle looked at the street maps rolled up in a corner. Can I tack these on the wall?
Sure. I was going to do it anyway. Why?
I want to learn the city.
Okay. I'll be back in a couple of hours, maybe more. I moved to the door.
Honey?
What?
Come here for a minute. Sit with me.
I sat on the couch. She put herhead in my lap, looked up at me. Can I ask you something?
Sure.
What I told you, about my mother and my father and all? Is that the worst thing you ever heard?
I thought about kiddie porn. About selling little boys in Times Square. Rapists. Child molesters. Snuff films. The tape looped inside my head. I hit the stop button.
It's not close, I told her. Everybody's pain is the worst thing in the world for them. Your mother really loved you. Died for you - you always have that.
You think I'm . . . sick.
No. I think you're hurt. And, one day, we'll fix that.
I love you.
I bent to kiss her. I've got to go, I said.
She pressed her head down against me. Tell me something worse. Tell me something worse than what he did.
It'd be worse for someone else, baby. Like I told you. Everybody has their own. Good and bad.
She came to her knees next to me. Tell me the worst thing. The worst thing you know.
I looked in her face, talking quietly. I'd had enough of this crazy game. People steal babies, Belle. Little tiny babies - they steal them from their parents. And they never bring them back.
What do they do with them?
They sell most of them. Some of the pretty white kids, they sell them to nice rich folks who want a baby of their own. Black-market adoption.
What about the others?
You know what a chop shop is?
Where they steal cars, break them down for parts?
Yeah. They have them for babies too. They sell the white babies. The other ones, they're not worth too much for adoption, so they cut them up for parts.
Burke!
Rich baby needs a heart transplant, a new kidney, you think they care where the organs come from?
I don't believe you!
The world I live in, it's a lot deeper underground than any subway. It's a world where you can buy a baby's heart.
I held her against me. Don't ask questions so much, little girl. I only got ugly answers.
She pulled back from me, dry-eyed. You saw this? You saw this yourself?
Yeah. Guy's kid was in the hospital. Dying. Needed a transplant. It was in the papers, on TV. Looking for a donor. Baby only had a few days to live. He got a call.
They promised him a baby's heart. Fresh. All packed and ready for transport to the hospital. Twenty-five thousand, they wanted. He made some calls - a lot of calls. A cop I know sent him to me. I went down the tunnel.
What happened? Did they have the heart?
Just like they promised.
You took it? The baby was saved?
Yeah.
She nodded. Damn their souls to hell.
I don't do souls, I told her. Just bodies.
CONTENTS
97
The handball court was in the shadows of Metropolitan Hospital, just off 96 th Street near the East River. Once the tip of Spanish Harlem, it was now liberated territory - the yuppie land-grab machine wouldn't be satisfied until gentrification ate the South Bronx. I liked it better the old way, when the human beings lived in the tenements and investment bankers lived in the suburbs. Now we got plenty of rehab apartments for tomorrow's leaders. And more people living in the streets than they have in Calcutta.
I parked under the
East Side Drive overpass and walked over to the court. Ten minutes to one. I watched people playing: handball, paddleball, basketball. No stickball. People working too. Working the cars. Selling flowers, newspapers, clean windshields. Ninety-sixth Street was the DMZ when I was coming up. North was theirs, South was ours. Now it all belongs to someone else - they just let us play there while they're at work downtown.
These chumps can't play no basketball. A voice behind me. Pablo. The lack of a single Puerto Rican in the NBA makes him crazy.
He was wearing his white doctor's-coat over a black turtleneck, his round face looking the same way it did when he walked out of Harvard fifteen years ago.
Gracias, compadre , I said, thanking him for coming. He shook hands the way he always does, using both of his.
Something bad? he asked me, standing close.
I have to meet a man. Tonight. He hurt one of my brothers. He said it was a message. I don't know what's on his mind. I want to walk away - tell him I got no beef with him. But he might not go for it.
You have Max.
Can't use him for this, Pablo. It may be Max he wants. He's a karateka . Been going around the city, challenging sensei in their own dojos. Max, I think his name may be in the street over this. You know Lupe? The guy who sets up the cockfights?
Pablo spat on the ground. I know him. Mamao . A punk. Tough talk - no cojones.
He set up a match. Between this guy I have to meet and a Jap. Duel to the death.
I heard about that. In Times Square?
Yeah. That's what I mean. Seems like everybody's heard about it. Max fights this guy, he's got no win. Probably have cops in the audience.
Pablo looked at me. Max wouldn't walk away from a challenge.
So he doesn't get to hear one.
I see. You want your back covered when you meet this guy . . .?
Mortay.
Muerte?
Yeah. I don't know how he spells it, but it means the same thing.
He's not a problem for us?
Not for you. Not now. I'm working on something, and I just bumped him accidentally. How he's tied in - if he's tied in - I don't know for sure.
You chasing a missing kid?