by Blue Belle
I'll just hold this until you come back, she said, her voice quiet and steady.
I let out a breath, the pin in my hand.
Pansy, jump! She hit the ground. I snapped my fingers again, calling her to me. Gave her the command that everything was okay. She started to walk over to Belle. I held up my hand for her to stay.
I crossed the room, fast. Hold it steady, I told her, slipping the pin back in. She put it on the desk, went in the back room, came out with a blue chiffon scarf. Wrapped it around the little metal bomb. Let's go, she said.
I pushed her back against the desk, making her sit on it. Moved in so close her eyes were out of focus. Swear on your mother, I said. Swear on Sissy that you'll throw it if he gets to me.
I swear.
I buried my hands in her thick hair, snatching a handful on either side of her face, pulling her nose against mine. When we get back here . . .
She licked my mouth, pushed her lips against me. I couldn't make out what she was saying.
CONTENTS
136
Belle followed me down the stairs into the garage. I snapped her seat belt in place for her, arranged a shawl over her lap. I worked my way through Lower Manhattan, grabbing the East Side Drive off Pearl Street. Belle was as good as gold, quiet and peaceful in the bucket seat, hands in her lap, little smile on her face. Like a kid who threw a successful tantrum - got her way and didn't want to brag about it.
Call off the directions, I told her.
She was right on the money, every step of the way. I lit a smoke. Me too, she said. I held the filter to her mouth.
Don't get spoiled. It won't work every time.
I know. Phony contrite tone in her voice, the Southern twang not softening it much.
I'm not kidding.
I know . Turn right up ahead.
I turned into Hunts Point, heading for the junkyard.
You know something, Burk - you're not exactly what they call a well-rounded personality.
Well-rounded's nice, long as you don't have to cut something.
She stuck out her tongue. A queen-sized brat. With a bomb in her lap.
I rolled the Pontiac up to the gates. Will the dogs know it's a different car? she asked.
They won't care.
Simba made his move first. Sitting patiently while I rolled down the window. I talked to him, waiting for someone to come and let us through.
It was Terry, shoving his way through the pack just like the Mole. He saw who it was, stuck his head in the window.
Hi, Belle!
Hi, good-looking. You gonna show this lug how to drive a car?
The kid looked at me. I opened the door, climbed in the back seat. He piloted the Pontiac in an elaborate weave, showing off for Belle.
Are you Burke's girlfriend?
Hey! The Mole teach you about asking questions?
I just . . .
Shut up, Burke. I sure am, sweetie. But if you were a few years older . . .
I'm getting older. the kid said, his voice squeaking, looking over at her.
She saw where he was looking. I know you are, honey, she said, flashing a smile.
He pulled the car into a safe area. Jumped out, held the door for Belle. I lit a cigarette. The kid was so entranced he forgot to glom one off me.
We don't need it here, I told Belle. Hand it over.
She pulled the scarf from the grenade, put it in my hand. Terry paid no attention, chattering away, explaining all the features of the junkyard to Belle. I followed behind them.
The Mole was outside his bunker. He tilted his head. We all followed him downstairs, Belle's hand on my shoulder, Terry bringing up the rear. I hoped the view wouldn't stunt his growth.
The tunnel sloped, curved gently back and forth. Lights flicked on each time we came close to a curve. The Mole's living room was always the same. A thin concrete slab over hard-packed dirt, old throw-rugs on the floor. The walls are all bookshelves. Tables covered with electrical motors, lab beakers, other stuff I couldn't recognize. A tired old couch in the middle of the room, easy chairs from the same dump. All covered with white oilcloth. I caught the quiet whirr of the electric fans built into the ceiling, venting to the outside. It looked the same, but it felt different. The Mole built it to live underground - before Terry came along.
I sat on the couch, Belle next to me. The Mole pulled up a chair. Terry sat on the arm. Took his eyes off Belle long enough to ask me for a cigarette.
The Mole took off his glasses, rubbed them with a rag he pulled from his belt. No point asking him if he got into Sin City - he would have said so in front, if he hadn't.
I found it, he said.
You sure?
His eyes were dim behind the heavy lenses, head solid on his stubby neck. In the back, anchor holes. For a tripod. Video camera. Professional quality, heavy. Arc lights over the top. Cross-bolted brace. Beanbag rest.
For the shooter.
For the killer. The back doors work off a hydraulic valve. One switch - open and close.
You understand what it is, Mole?
I understand. Killing machine. They go past the girls, hit the switch. Doors pop open. Killer shoots. Door closes. He took a breath. And the camera is rolling. Taking the pictures.
Snuff films, I said. Live and up close. The real thing.
Who does this? Belle asked, her voice shaking. What kind of freaks?
The Mole pinned her with his eyes. Nazis, he said. They took pictures of us going into the ovens. Pictures of their evil. Treasures of filth.
You find anything else?
Three more cars. Dark sedans. Another room. More cameras, lights. Drain in the floor.
That's where the baby pross they snatched off the street went. Down the drain.
I bit into the cigarette. I'd been ready for it, but red dots danced behind my eyes. I waited for the calm. For the hate to push out the fear.
They have to go down, Mole. Can you get back inside?
He didn't bother to answer me. Waiting.
Can you wire it so it all goes up?
He still waited - I hadn't asked him a question yet.
Off a radio transmitter? So you push a button and . . .
How far away?
You tell me.
It's all steel and concrete, that part of the city. The basement is deep. No more than four, five blocks to be sure. Easier to wire it to the ignition. They start the van . . .
That's no good. There's two freaks left who work the van. The shooter, and the man who wants Max. I think the driver's already dead. The van could sit there for weeks.
Okay.
I got to my feet, stalking the underground bunker. Like they must have done in the Resistance a lifetime ago. I got a plan. The shooter's bent - I think I can bring him in. Make him tell me where the other one is. Soon as I know, you can blow the basement.
How long?
Couple of days - couple of weeks. I need more peopIe, I said, catching his eye.
He knew what I meant. Didn't want to say Michelle's name in front of the kid. The Mole nodded again.
I'll call you soon as I'm ready.
The Mole grabbed Terry's arm, pulled him around so the kid was facing him.
Remember what I told you? About the Nazis? About our people?
Yes.
Tonight, said the Mole, holding the boy's arms. Tonight is Bar Mitzvah.
CONTENTS
137
I banked the Pontiac across the on-ramp for the Triboro. Belle was quiet, smoking one cigarette after another, staring straight out the windshield.
Go ahead, I told her. Say it.
She turned in her seat. You never gave me the grenade back.
I know.
You don't trust me?
I do trust you. I have to get out of the car, I'll hand it back to you. I glanced her way. Okay?
Okay.
Don't sulk.
I'm not.
Then you're a hell of an actress.
She tapp
ed her fingers against one knee, keeping it under control. I lit a smoke for myself.
What's the rest of it?
She didn't answer me. Manhattan high-rises flew by on our right, river to our left. Mid-afternoon traffic still light.
Burke, he's going to take that boy inside with him? Wire up a bunch of bombs?
Yeah.
He's just a kid.
It's his time. Like it was yours once.
I wish . . .
Don't wish. It's a poison inside you.
You don't wish for things?
Not anymore.
We were in midtown, heading for the Times Square cutoff. I rolled on past. Belle craned her neck, looking through the Pontiac's moon roof at the luxury apartments, balconies overlooking the river, high above it all. You think it's true? That it's lonely at the top?
I've never been there. All I know, it can be lonely at the bottom.
But not always, she said, her left hand resting on my right thigh.
I covered her hand with mine. Not always,
We passed under the Manhattan Bridge. I ignored the exit, taking it all the way downtown.
Was the Prof really a shotgun bandit?
Where'd you hear that?
From him.
I don't know if it's true or not. Ever since I've known him, he's been on the hustle. Maybe when he was younger, a long time ago . . . Why'd he tell you?
I was telling him about me. That I was a driver. He said he used to cowboy liquor stores.
Old as he is, he probably robbed stage coaches.
Belle giggled. He's not so old.
Anyone older than me is old.
You don't feel old to me, she said, her hand shifting into my lap.
I grabbed her wrist, pulled her off. Cut it out. Pay attention.
I am.
We got bigger things to think about.
Bigger than this? Grabbing me again.
I snarled at her. She giggled again. I turned off at the Brooklyn Bridge exit, took Centre Street to Worth, skirting the edge of Chinatown. I needed to make some calls, and I couldn't use the basement under Max's warehouse. Not now.
CONTENTS
138
I pulled in behind Mama's. A black Buick sedan rolled across the entrance to the alley behind us, blocking us in. Its back doors opened. Three young Chinese jumped out. Long, shiny, swept-back black hair, red shirts under black leather jackets. They stepped into a triangle, using their car for cover. Two of them braced their elbows, locking their hands around automatics. The other crouched against the alley wall, an Uzi resting on one knee. No way out.
Belle caught it in the side mirror. Burke! she whispered.
Don't move, I told her. I knew what it was.
The back door to the kitchen popped open. A monster walked out. He looked like a pair of sumo wrestlers. Shaved head, eyes buried in fat. He grabbed our car, shook it like a kid with a toy. He looked into my face.
Mor-Tay? It sounded like someone had taken his tonsils out with razor wire.
I put my hands on the dashboard, keeping my eyes on his face.
Burke, is all I said.
He shook the car again. Mama came out into the alley, said something to the monster. He let go, stepped aside. I motioned to Belle to get out. We followed Mama inside. Took my booth in the back. I lit a smoke. A waiter came up, a tureen of soup in his hands. When he leaned over, I could see the magnum under his arm.
Where'd you find 'Zilla, Mama?
Always around. Good friend.
I see you taught him some English.
Mama bowed. Teach him everything. Most Orientals are fatalists - Mama was fatal.
I sipped the soup. Mama was serene. Greeted Belle, reached over, held her hand for a second. I left them there, went in the back to make some calls.
Runaway Squad.
McGowan. It's me. I got something. Can you meet me at the end of Maiden Lane, by the pier?
I can roll now.
Make it in an hour.
Right.
I tossed in another quarter, rang the private number for the phone-sex joint where Michelle worked.
Yeah?
Michelle?
We got no Michelle here, pal.
I know. Tell her to call Mama.
A sleepy woman's voice answered the next call.
Put Marques on.
He's not here.
Right. Tell him Burke's going to call him. In two hours. Tell him to be in his car. In two hours, you got it?
I'm not sure . . .
This is Christina, right? You be sure. Two hours. I'll call him. Tell him to be in the car.
I hung up, not waiting for a whore's promise.
Back inside, Mama and Belle were huddled together, talking. I sat down across from them. Mama spooned some meat-stuffed dumplings onto my plate, still talking to Belle.
Dim sum. Burke's favorite.
How do you make them?
Mama shrugged her shoulders - she wasn't a cook.
I ate slowly, one eye on my watch. The Maiden Lane pier was just a few minutes away.
Mama, Michelle's going to call here. If she doesn't do it before we leave, make sure you get a number where I can reach her. Tonight. Very, very important, okay'?
She help you. On this?
We'll see.
Mama bowed. More food came. Belle ate like Pansy, only with better table manners. I never felt so safe.
Finally, I pushed the plates away. Belle was still eating. You hear from Mac? I asked Mama.
She smiled. Made a gesture with her hands like a flower opening to the sun.
Boston quiet?
Quiet soon. Max working.
I bowed. Held out my hand to Belle. She looked unhappy, not wanting to leave the warmth any more than I did.
Mama walked us out to the back. I'll call later - check on Michelle.
The monster was still standing by the door. The Buick was still across the alley mouth, no gunners in sight. I backed up the Pontiac slowly, watching the Buick move out of the way in the rearview mirror. Pointed the car toward the pier.
CONTENTS
139
Belle was finishing off a last egg roll. She delicately wiped her mouth with the chiffon scarf, tossed it into the back seat.
How come you call her Mama?
It's what she calls herself.
Where're we going?
Meet some cops.
Cops?
They're okay. For this, they're okay. They want him too. I handed her the grenade. You stay in the car.
But . . .
Shut up. I let you have your grenade, took you for a nice drive to the Bronx, gave you a nice meal. That's all the babying you're going to get today.
She reached into the back seat, put the greasy scarf in her lap, covering the grenade. I turned in to the pier and backed the Pontiac into an empty space, watching for McGowan. We were early.
Burke?
What?
That huge guy . . . the one who came out the back door?
Yeah?
If he's Chinese, how come he has an Italian name. 'Zilla'?
It's not his name, just what people call him. Short for 'Godzilla.'
Oh. Why'd he say that name? Mor-Tay?
He was asking a question. That pimp, Marques. He wants to know about putting a bounty out on someone, he should talk to Mama.
CONTENTS
140
McGowan's car pulled up. I got out of the Pontiac, making sure he could see me, walking toward him, both hands in sight. His partner reached behind him; the back door popped open. I climbed in. His partner closed it behind me - no door handles on the inside.
You know Morales? McGowan asked.
Yeah.
He's with me on this. Understand?
Yeah.
You called me out here.
I lit a smoke. You sure you want your partner to hear this?
They looked at each other. Morales said, I need some cigarettes. Be right back. Yo
u need anything?
McGowan shook his head. Morales stepped out.
I found the Ghost Van.
Where?
It's underground. There's three men in on the front end. One's the dead guy you found in the Chelsea playground. Two more left. I got a plan to trap one, work him until he shows me where the other one is.
You saw the van?
Not with my eyes. I know where it is.
That's enough for a warrant.
The guy who saw it, he's not coming in. Neither am I. I got a deal. You interested?
Go.
I need some things from you. Everything works out, I take this guy who wants Max. And the Ghost Van goes boom.
What's mine?
The shooter, I said. And Sally Lou.
McGowan knew the name. He puffed furiously on his cigar. I could see where they got the idea for smoked glass. What do you need?
A massage parlor. In Times Square. And for the cops to stay away. A week, maybe two.
Where am I gonna get a massage parlor?
McGowan, don't negotiate. I got no slack in my rope. You already got a couple of them. Maybe not you personally, but the cops have. That joint just off Forty-sixth - that was yours, right?
That was a sting. The tax boys. And it's all closed down now.
But you got more. You've been after Sally Lou for years.
There is one. But it's not ours.
The federales ?
Yeah.
Tell them you need it. Couple of weeks. I'll staff it myself.
With what?
Marques Dupree. He'll lend me some girls.
He's in this?
It started with him. Like I told you. I'll be calling him in an hour. Get him over here. I want you to tell him it's okay.
Now you want me to make a deal with a pimp.
McGowan, you'd make a deal with the devil to drop Sally Lou.
Spell it out - what do I get?
The shooter comes to the massage parlor. I talk to him. He turns over this other guy I want. We dump the shooter anyplace you say. The Ghost Van goes up in smoke. And you find everything you need to take Sally Lou down.
This other guy . . . What if it doesn't work out?
I got one more deal. One more piece. You and me take a walk over to that brown Pontiac. The one I came out of. There's a girl sitting in the front seat. You take a good long look at her. Whatever happens, you make sure she walks away. In exchange, I leave you a letter. With everything in it. The Ghost Van, the shooter, this karate-freak, the shooting in the Chelsea playground, Sally Lou.