Andrew Vachss

by Blue Belle

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

  CONTENTS

  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.

  CONTENTS

  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.

  CONTENTS

  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.

  CONTENTS

  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.

  CONTENTS

  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?

  Doesn'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?

  No.

  The Mole wiped his hands on his greasy jumpsuit. You want something from inside?

  Just a look around. A good look.

  When?

  I'll get back to you. But soon, okay?

  Okay.

  I stomped out my cigarette. You can't take out the electricity. It's right in the middle of the cesspool. Takes a lot of juice to run all that neon.

  The Mole turned to Terry. Get the master-blaster, he said.

  I followed the Mole to the entrance of his bunker. There's a network of tunnels under the junkyard, shored up with I-beams. He led me down some steps. Bright light ahead. Terry came up behind us.

  The Mole pointed ahead. Streetlight, he said. Like they have outside. Turns on at night - goes off in the daytime. You know how it works?

  Con Edison?

  No. Infrared sensor. When it gets light out, the sensor reads it. Shuts itself off.

  So?

  We turned the corner. Terry handed the Mole a portable spotlight. The kind you plug into the cigarette lighter in your car. The Mole aimed the spotlight, pressed the button. A flash of white-hot light. The streetlight went out. We stood in the pitch dark. I counted ninety seconds in my head. The streetlight came back on. I followed the Mole outside.

  Car headlights, maybe seventy-five thousand candlepower on high beams. Cop's spotlights, maybe a hundred and fifty thousand. This throws a million. Tricks the streetlight - tricks motion sensors - anything.

  Damn! What happens if you blast somebody in the face with it?

  They go blind for a few minutes. Too close, you burn the eyeballs.

  Mole, you amaze me.

  Let Terry drive the car out of the yard, he said.

  CONTENTS

  121

  Belle was lying on her stomach across the hospital bed, chin in her hands. Her legs were bent at the knee, feet twirling behind her. Like a teenage girl talking on the phone. The Prof was in an easy chair, the casts on his legs still separated by the bar, propped on a footstool. He looked sharp - clean-shaven, bright-red robe.

  It's quiet? I asked, stepping into the room.

  This is a hospital, fool.

  I mean . . .

  We all know what you mean. Everything's cool. Too bad you showed so soon, I was just getting ready to show the lady your baby pictures.

  I pulled up another chair. You got something?

  Belle climbed off the bed, sat down on the floor between us, her hand on my knee.

  The little man was back to himself. All business, but working in circles. You remember J.T.?

  Yeah.

  He turned to Belle. This J.T. was a real country boy when he came up here. A stone rookie. Wouldn't know a hoe-down from a throw-down. Couldn't decide if he was gonna be a yutz or a clutz. You follow?

  Belle tilted her chin to look up at me. What's a throw-down?

  A challenge. Or a fight.

  How do you tell the difference?

  One you do with your mouth, the other with your hands. Now shut up - let the man finish.

  Her lips turned into a perfect pout, like she'd been practicing all her life.

  The Prof patted her arm. Don't pay attention to this thug, girl. You can school a fool, but you can't make him cool. J.T., he's not what you call a mental heavyweight, but he's good people. A few years ago, he got into this beef over a girl. Working girl. He thought he was in love. Shot the pimp right on Forty-fourth Street. Girl starts screaming, J.T. starts running. I'm on my cart,
see him flying. I told him to toss the piece. Buried it in my coat. The cops grabbed him a couple of blocks away, but they never found the gun. The pimp didn't die. We put together a package for J.T. Michelle talked to the girl, Burke talked to the pimp. Visited him right in the hospital. They held J.T. a few months, waiting for somebody to testify. Finally, they cut him loose. He's still a dumb-ass cowboy. Too dumb to hustle, and he's not cold enough for stickups. He's always out there, picking up spare change. You understand?

  Belle nodded, a serious look on her face. Like there was going to be a test later.

  Anyway, old J.T. hears what happened. Out there. He comes to see me. Like I said, he's good people, but he ain't swift. Wants to square the beef for me - take care of the people who busted me up. I tell him to back off, it's been handled. He gets a look on his face like I just downed him, you know? Like I think he ain't worth shit. So I give him this assignment, okay? Just do what he does, but keep his eyes open. Don't ask nobody nothing. Just watch. Last night, he walks in here. Brought me that radio, the Prof said, pointing to a suitcase-sized boom box sitting in the corner. And he brought me this too.

  He put it in my hand. An eight-sided gold metal coin. Embossed on one side was a nude woman, one hand behind her head, spike heels on her feet. I turned it over. On the other side it said Sin City.

  It looks like a subway token, Belle said.

  It works the peep-show machines. Costs a quarter.

  So what's the . . .

  I chopped a hand in the air to cut her off, holding the coin in my fingers. He say anything else? I asked the Prof.

  Said he followed the guy - not Mortay, the Spanish dude - into the railroad yards. On Forty-third, off Tenth. Spanish guy disappears. J.T. figures, the hell with it, he'll go watch a movie. He goes right to Sin City, goes in the front door. Now, that's the only door, babe. And who does he see when he gets to the bar? The Spanish guy. J.T. says there ain't no way in the world that the Spanish guy could've got there first.

  So there has to be another way in?

  Has to be.

  What time was this?

  Like eleven in the morning, man. Broad daylight.

  I lit a smoke. He did good, Prof.

  When you cast bread upon the waters . . .