by Blue Belle
Dead kids. The Ghost Van.
Pablo's round face went hard. His eyes were dark, flat buttons behind his round glasses. Baby-killers. That van comes into our barrio , we'll make it a ghost.
It just works off the river, near Times Square. I got a lot of threads, but no cloth.
This Mortay . . . he knows?
I don't know. I'm not gonna ask him. He lets me walk, I'm gonna promise him I won't come his way again. He wants me off the van, I'm off the van.
That's what you'll tell him.
Yeah, I said, lighting a smoke.
What time is your meet?
Midnight tonight. The playground behind the Chelsea Projects.
How many people do you need?
Just one, I told him. El Canonero.
Pablo's lips moved. Just a tic. Nothing else showed in his face. He only does our work.
I don't want him to take anybody out. Just be around, break a couple of caps if he has to. He can do it from a distance. I figure maybe the roof . . .
He only does our work. He is not for hire. My people are soldiers, not gangsters.
They do what you say.
They follow me because they follow the truth. My personal friendship is with you, hermano . I can commit only myself.
I put my hand on his shoulder. I understand what you say. I respect what you say. But there are two reasons why he should do this.
Yes?
He does only your work. More than once, I have also done your work, this is true?
True.
El Canonero does this work tonight for UGL, it is UGL I owe. Comprende?
He nodded. Rubbed the back of his neck like it was stiff. A young Hispanic woman in a blue jogging outfit stopped her slow circuit of the courts and trotted over. He took her aside, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish. She took off, running hard now, heading for the street.
We watched the basketball game. It wasn't in the same league as the semipro action at the court on Sixth Avenue in the Village, but it was intense. I asked him about his kids. Pablo's got a lot of kids - the oldest one's in college, his baby girl's still in diapers. He's never been married. Takes care of all his children. He never seems to make anybody mad with all his tomcat stuff, not even the women who have his babies. Most of them know each other.
I met Pablo in prison. He wasn't doing time - he was doing his residency in psychiatry. His supervisor was a wet-brain who did five-minute interviews with the cons before they saw the Parole Board. And handed out heavyweight tranquilizers any time they shoved the Rx pad under his nose. I was the wet-brain's clerk - a scam artist's dream job. Five crates of cigarettes and you got the prescription of your choice, twenty crates bought you a fully rehabilitated write-up for the Board. It only took Pablo a month to read my act, but he never said a word. I was on to him faster than that. He wasn't studying mental illness among convicts - he was recruiting.
The woman in the jogging suit ran back to us, pulled Pablo aside. Pablo turned to me. You parked close by?
Under the overpass, I said, pointing.
Sit on the hood. Smoke one of your cigarettes. See you in ten minutes.
He walked off with the woman.
CONTENTS
98
Threee smokes later, a black Lincoln sedan pulled up. Dark windows, M.D. plates. The front door popped open and I stepped inside. The woman was driving. I glanced in the back seat. Pablo. And El Canonero.
Vete , Pablo said. The Lincoln moved off.
Pablo's voice came from the back seat. Turn around, compadre . My hermano needs to memorize your face.
I turned full-face to the back. El Canonero was a short, stocky Hispanic, not as dark as Pablo. He had straight, coal-black hair. Pablo once told me Puerto Ricans were a mixture of all the world's races. Looking at the two men in the back seat, I could see the African in Pablo, the Incan in El Canonero. The shooter's face was featureless except for heavy cheekbones. But I'd seen his eyes before. On a tall, lanky man from West Virginia. Sniper's eyes - measuring distances.
The Lincoln worked its way downtown. We pulled to a stop across from the playground.
Kids were running everywhere. Little kids screaming, chasing each other, bigger kids in a stickball game. Teenagers against the lence, smoking dope, listening to a giant portable stereo. Pablo jerked his thumb. We got out, leaned against the car.
The gate to the park would be closed at midnight. Wire mesh - it wouldn't keep anybody out.
El Canonero's eyes swept the scene. He said something in Spanish to Pablo, who just nodded.
I saw the man against the wire mesh. A medium-sized white man with a baseball cap on his head. Watching the kids play. He was wearing a yellow sweater, the sleeves pushed up almost to his elbows. I focused in on him, lighting a smoke. He had a heavy rubber band around one wrist. He pulled at it again and again with his other hand, snapping it against the inside of his wrist. I nudged Pablo, pointing at the man with a tilt of my head.
Aversive therapy, I sneered.
His face went hard. They should've tied the rubber band around his throat.
El Canonero grunted a question. Pablo explained it to him. I couldn't follow the words, but I knew what he was saying. They have programs where they try conditioning on child molesters. The idea is to show them a lot of pictures of kids - then blast them with an electric jolt when the freaks get aroused. Nobody believes it works. When they discharge one of the freaks, they tell him to wear a rubber band around his wrist. When he feels himself getting excited over a kid, he's supposed to snap the band - reactivate his conditioning.
The shooter's eyes bored in on the man in the yellow sweater. Maricón! he snarled. Pablo launched into another speech. A child molester isn't a homosexual; most gays hate them too. El Canonero listened, flat-faced. I heard my name. The shooter nodded. Then he held out his hand. I shook it. Pablo must have told him what I did.
Pablo leaned over to me. We're going around the back, take a look. You stay here with Elena.
I want to talk to the freak. Just take a minute.
Sí . He gestured for the woman to move close. Elena, that man over there, he is a molester of children. He is the wolf, stalking the baby chickens. My compadre wants to approach him, get a good look at his face, so el gusano will know he is known to us. Perhaps threaten him with violence, okay?
She nodded. Pablo and El Canonero moved off.
Do you speak any English? I asked the woman.
I teach English, she said, nothing on her face.
I didn't mean to offend you.
You could not offend me. Just say what you want me to do.
I told her. I held out my hand. She took it, moving smoothly against me as we crossed the street.
Elena left me and moved off behind the freak; He stayed glued to the fence. I wrapped my hand around the roll of quarters in my pocket, moving my shoulder against the freak, slipping my left hand behind his back.
Kids are cute, huh?
He jumped like he'd been stabbed. What?
I snatched a handful of his sweater, locking his belt from behind, shoving my face into his, my voice cell-block hard. When did they let you out, freak?
Hey! I didn't . . .
I pushed him against the fence, my face jammed into his. Don't come back to this playground, scumbag. We've been watching you. We know you. We know what you do. You do it again, you're dog meat. Got it?
The freak twisted his head away from me. I looked where he was looking. At Elena. Standing three feet from us in her blue jogging suit, hands buried in the pockets of the sweatshirt. She took out her left hand, pulled up the waistband. A little black pistol was in her other hand. The freak whipped his head back to me. I pulled him away from the fence, bringing my right hand around in a short hook to his gut. He made a gagging sound, dropped to the ground. I went down on one knee next to him. His face was against the pavement, vomiting.
We know your face, freak, I said quietly. Next time we see you, you're done.
I s
tomped my heel hard into the side of his face; it made a squishy sound. Nobody gave us a look. When we climbed back inside the Lincoln, Pablo and El Canonero were already in the back seat. Elena took the wheel and we moved off.
The rifleman tapped my shoulder. I turned around. He nodded his head once, a sharp, precise movement.
The Lincoln dropped me off at my car. Pablo got out with me. He handed me a strip of cloth, Day-Glo orange.
Tie this around your head when you walk into the playground tonight. Bring a couple of bottles of beer. Pull your car into the playground, put the bottles on the hood. You raise your hand, one of the beer bottles blows up. This Mortay, he'll know you're covered.
Thanks, Pablito. I owe you.
El Canonero said to tell you he'll be on the roof by eleven.
Okay.
He said to ask you something . . . If it gets bad . . . if this guy won't be warned off . . . if he comes for you . . . you want El Canonero to drop him or just fade?
Drop him.
Bueno.
CONTENTS
99
I headed back downtown, stopped at Mama's. She took a long time to come to my booth. When she did, Immaculata was with her. They slid across from me. Mac didn't waste any time.
Burke, is there trouble for Max?
I don't know. I'll know soon, I told her, stabbing Mama with my eyes. She stared right back. I shouldn't have mentioned the baby.
You'll tell me as soon as you know?
Will you give me a fucking chance to head it off first?
She reached across the table, took my hand. I will. And I'll keep Max close for a few more days. Don't blame Mama. She told him you were working on something and he keeps pushing her. He thinks it's you who's in trouble. She needed my help.
No hard feelings, I told her, remembering Michelle's words. Where's Max now?
He's home with Flower. She got up to leave. Kissed me. Be careful, is all she said.
Mama gave me about thirty pounds of Chinese food to take with me. I bowed to her as I left. Her eyes asked if I understood.
It's okay, I said.
CONTENTS
100
Anybody come calling? I asked Belle, stepping past Pansy.
Been real quiet, she said, taking the cartons of food from me. Pansy followed her into the back room, ignoring me. The bitch.
Belle cleared off the desk so we could eat. What's all that? I asked her, pointing to yellow legal pads covered with scrawls.
Just some charts I made. I have to see the streets for myself - the maps don't do it all. But I wrote down some ideas.
Is it easier for you to memorize directions if you're driving or if you're a passenger?
Driving is best.
Okay, I said, digging into the hot-and-sour soup, you drive tonight.
Where're we going?
To a place you might have to come back to by yourself someday. A safe place.
She nodded, her mouth full of food. I tossed an egg roll over my shoulder, saying Speak! as I did. It never hit the ground.
I smoked a cigarette while Belle put the dishes away, playing with the few pieces I had. I put the thoughts down - after tonight, I'd have more pieces.
Six o'clock. I let Pansy out to the roof, went to the back to put things together. Steel-toed boots with soft rubber soles. Black cotton pants. A black sweatshirt. I took a white jacket from the closet, checked the Velcro tearaways at the shoulders. Slipped the orange headband into a pocket. I put a clean set of papers together: driver's license, registration, Social Security card, all that crap. Six hundred bucks in used bills, nothing bigger than a fifty. A cheap black plastic digital wristwatch.
I let Pansy back inside. Took a shower. Put on a terry-cloth robe. When I came out, Belle was lying on the couch, her hands locked behind her head, long legs up on the backrest. Wearing one of my shirts over a pair of little red panties. She couldn't button the shirt.
I sat down. She dropped her legs across my lap.
Burke, this is it, isn't it?
What're you talking about?
This place. This office. That's all there is, right? This is where you live.
Yep.
She rolled over on her stomach, pushing her hands against the couch until her hips were across my lap. There's a new kind of stove they make. Induction coil, they call it. You don't have to turn it on - the burner stays cold until you touch it with a copper-bottom pot. I knew how the stove felt.
Belle leaned her head on her folded arms, talking back over her shoulder at me. I thought you had a house. I thought you wouldn't take me there . . . wouldn't let me sleep in your bed. Because you had a woman there. The woman you talked about.
I lit cigarette, watching my shirt move on Belle's rump every time she readjusted herself.
But she's gone, isn't she? Like you said. You told me the truth.
Yeah. I told you the truth.
I'm a bitch. I know that's not all bad - it's what I am. But I should have believed you; there's no excuse.
Outlaws only lie to citizens.
No, I met plenty of outlaws who lie. But I know you don't. Not to me.
She wiggled her hips, snuggling tight against me, feeling the heat.
Is she dead?
I don't know, Belle, I said, my voice hardening. I told you all this before. There's no more to tell.
Are you mad at me?
No.
I'm sorry, honey.
Forget it.
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.
CONTENTS
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, ho
w 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?