Another key for the doorknob. I turned it twice to the right and once to the left, and stepped inside.
"It's me, Pansy," I said to the monster sitting in the middle of the dark room.
The monster made a noise somewhere between a snarl and a growl. A Neapolitan mastiff, maybe 140 pounds of muscle and bone, topped with a head the size of a cannonball and just about as thick. So dark she was almost black, Pansy blended into the room like a malevolent shadow, teeth shielded, cold-water eyes unflickering. Pansy can't handle complex thoughts. She wasn't sure if she was glad to see me or sorry she wasn't going to get to tear some flesh. Then she smelled the Chinese food and the issue was settled. The snarl changed to a whine, and slobber poured from her jaws. I threw her the hand signal for "Stay!" and hit the light switch.
The office is one small room. Desk facing the door, one chair behind, one in front. No windows. Couch against one wall. To the left, there's another door, leading to the office where my secretary works. The door's a fake. So's the secretary. The other wall is covered with a Persian rug that never got closer to Iran than 14th Street. The floor is covered with Astroturf. I told my decorator I wanted low-maintenance modern.
I pulled the rug aside and stepped into another room, even smaller than the office. Tiny stand-up shower I installed myself, sink and toilet in one corner. Hot plate and refrigerator in another. A cot between them. The back door opens out to a landing. The fire escape rusted off years ago.
I opened the back door, calling for Pansy, and stepped out to the landing. Watched the Hudson River slime-flow to the west, patting my dog's head as she stood next to me. Three rooms, with view.
Pansy ambled past me, taking the stairs to the roof. She's been dumping her loads up there for years. There's stuff growing on the roof I don't even want to think about.
Pansy came back downstairs as I was putting away the food Mama packed for me. I pulled a big slab of roast pork from a container, held it in front of her. Every fiber of her dim brain focused on that pork. An icicle of drool formed in one corner of her gaping mouth, but she didn't move. She wouldn't take the food until she heard the magic word. It's called poison-proofing.
"Speak!" I yelled at her, tossing the slab of pork in a gentle arc toward her face. It didn't last as long as a politician's promise. I tried a big fat egg roll. One chomp, and Pansy was swallowing in ecstasy, pieces of egg roll all over the floor. "You're a slob," I told her. She nodded happily.
Pansy's food-supply system is against the wall. A pair of hollowed-out cement cinder blocks with a forty-pound sack of dry dog food suspended above one and a tube connected to the sink above the other. When either bowl is empty, she pushes against the tube with her snout and it fills again.
I filled a big ceramic bowl with three quarts of Mama's cooking and told her to make a pig of herself. She buried her face up to the eyes in the steaming mess making noises Stephen King never dreamed of. I threw some of the marrow bones into a pot and put them on the hot plate to boil.
I went inside to my desk. It was almost seven-thirty, and the woman Mama had spoken to said to call before nine. There was a phone on my desk. It never rang, and I never got a bill from Ma Bell - the Mole had it connected to the trust-fund hippies who lived downstairs. I could use it early in the morning, when the sensitive artists were still recovering from trying to find the light at the end of the marijuana tunnel they'd explored the night before, but not otherwise.
I'd had the phone for years. No problems. I never used it for long-distance calls. That's why God made other people's credit cards.
The office looked the same way it always does. I don't get clients coming here much. The last one was Flood. The day I let her in, she came in too deep. I lit a cigarette, not wanting to think about the chubby little blonde head-hunter. She came into my life, got what she came for, and left me empty.
I didn't want to think about Flood. She came too often in my sleep. "I'm for you, Burke," I can still hear her saying. The way only a woman can say. And only say it once, if it's the truth.
It was.
Part of the full bloom I was still waiting for.
I went out to make my phone call.
18
Almost eight by the time I found the pay phone I wanted. Near the river, just a couple of blocks from the Yuppietown the developers had built by reclaiming a piece of the Hudson. Within eyeshot of the bullshit "security lights" flanking the high-rise but safe in a pool of darkness.
Like I was.
I don't like cold calls. My phone number's circulated all over this city. The phone's listed to Juan Rodriguez, and the address is the back end of a junkyard I own. The old man who runs it draws me a paycheck every two weeks. I cash it and give him back the money. It makes me a citizen - I pay my taxes, build up my Social Security, all that. Having a citizen's name is important. The name opens the door to all the goodies: legit address, driver's license, Social Security card. I don't lose any sleep worrying about the FBI, but the IRS is another game. I have a birth certificate too. It's so phony it even has a father's name on it.
My credit with Ma Bell is excellent. Never miss a payment. Never make any toll calls. I never make any calls at all. Anyone who calls the junkyard number activates the call diverter I have set up. The signal bounces over to one of the phones at Mama's.
I unscrewed the mouthpiece of the pay phone and slipped in the flat disk the Mole gave me. It changes my voice just enough to throw off the machines, in case anyone's listening. I pulled the tiny tape recorder from my coat and hit the switch; the booth was flooded with the background noise from a bowling alley. The number had a 718 area code. Brooklyn or Queens. I dropped a quarter and dialed the number.
She answered on the third ring. A young girl's voice, with the hard twang that sounds Southern unless you've spent some time in Detroit.
"Hello?"
"Belle?"
"Who's this?"
"Burke. Returning your call."
"Oh. I didn't think it would be so fast. I'm doing a favor for someone. Someone who wants to talk to you."
"Who?"
"I'd rather tell you in person."
"I'd rather you tell me over the phone."
"I can't do that. I promised."
"What's in it for me?"
"Money."
"How much money?"
"That depends. You'd have to work it out with him. I just said I'd talk to you. Tell you about it. See if you're interested in getting together."
"You get paid win or lose?"
"Yes."
"Tell him I said no, and collect your money."
"You have to hear me out. Tell me to my face. That's the deal."
"That's not my deal."
Her voice shifted, dropped a note. "What is your deal?"
"Time is money. My time is your money, okay?"
"How much money?"
"How much time?"
"Fifteen minutes."
"Five yards."
"That's a lot of money."
I didn't say anything, listening to the silence at her end, the sound of pins falling at mine.
"Can you meet me? Tonight?"
"Is he there with you?"
"No."
"How do you know he'll go for the cash?"
"I don't. I have to make some calls. I work at . . ."
"I don't care where you work," I said, cutting her off. "Do what you have to do. Speak to the man. I'll call you tomorrow morning."
"Not before eleven, okay? I get in late."
"You have a car?"
"Yes."
"I'll call you tomorrow. Tell you where to come and meet me. You bring the money -we'll talk."
"Thank you," the young girl's voice said, and she broke the connection.
19
When I called her the next morning, her voice sounded the same. Not breathy, or trying to be sexy. Short-winded.
"I got the go-ahead."
"And the money?"
"Yes."
"What ki
nd of car do you drive?"
"A Camaro. A red one. With a T-top."
"You know Metropolitan Avenue?"
"In Queens? By the cemeteries?"
"Yeah. Take it west. Like you're going to the city, okay? Just keep going until it crosses over into Brooklyn. You'll come to a little drawbridge. Go over the bridge and look for a gas station on your right. Just pull up to the pums - I'll meet you there."
"What time?"
"Three."
"How will I know you?"
"I'll be the man asking for the money."
20
I took the Delancey Street Bridge out of Manhattan, hooked back around to Metropolitan Avenue. I cruised past the gas station. At two in the afternoon, it looked the way it always does - a wino asleep in the sun, a dead bottle of T-bird half out of a paper bag next to him. A pair of red-brown dogs that had never been pets swept the empty concrete, all legs and ribs, looking for food. A black guy wearing a winter coat, tattered cowboy hat on his head, pushing a supermarket basket full of cans and bottles, checking the alleys for more nuggets. Grayish dust from the concrete plant on the other side of the drawbridge settled over everything. The sun hit hard. The wino was half in shadow - he'd been sleeping a long time.
I parked the Plymouth a few blocks away, backed in against the metallic strip of water that carried the ore barges under the drawbridge. It took me less than five minutes to get back to the gas station. I found myself a comfortable spot against the wall and sat down to wait.
The skinny dogs circled, watchful. I reached into the paper bag next to me and took out a piece of cheese. I unwrapped it slowly, watching them from beneath the brim of my battered felt hat. I tossed the cheese in their direction, arcing it gently so they'd know it was no threat. The bigger dog moved in, sniffed it quickly, and took it into his mouth. He moved away, chewing slowly. I unwrapped another piece, tossed it the same way. The big dog's partner dashed in, snatched it, and moved back to where the other one was standing.
I lit a cigarette, watching the dogs sniff the air, trying to do the same. From where I sat, there was no way to approach the gas station without me seeing it. I wasn't worried about customers - the only gas in the place was in the plastic bottle in my paper bag.
Almost an hour passed. I'd gone through several smokes, and the dogs had exhausted my supply of cheese. They wouldn't come close enough for me to touch, but the big guy sat about ten feet away, watching me; his partner stretched out next to him.
I was completely in shadow when the red Camaro pulled up to the pumps. The windows were down. A woman in the front seat. She turned off the engine. The dogs left me, ambling over to the car. Trucks rumbled by on Metropolitan.
She got out of the car. A big woman. Honey-taffy hair, hacked off near her shoulders, bangs covering her forehead almost to her eyes. She was wearing a peach-colored sweatshirt over a pair of loose white pants. Hands on hips she turned one complete circle, sweeping the area.
I came to my feet quietly, moved to her. She saw me coming, a wino with a paper bag in one hand. She stood her ground.
"Hello, Belle," I said.
"You're Burke?"
I nodded, watching her eyes to see if she was expecting company of her own. Her eyes were small, dark, set close together. Her face was round, smooth - unformed except for a tiny pointed chin. She was as tall as I was, wider through the shoulders and hips. I glanced at her feet. White running shoes, small, like her hands. No watch. No rings.
The back seat of the Camaro was empty. "Would you open the trunk?" I asked her.
"Why?"
"I want to see if you've got a spare."
She bobbed her head like she understood. Bent inside the car to pull the keys from the ignition. Her hips flexed under the loose white pants. She handed me the keys. The trunk held only a blue overnight case.
I motioned her to get in the car, climbed behind the wheel, and started it up. She walked around the front of the car, opened the passenger door, turned her back to me, swung her butt inside, and dropped it into the seat. Pulled her legs in and closed the door. She filled the seat. Sat there, tiny hands in her lap. Waiting.
I drove aimlessly around the area for a few minutes. Nothing out of place. The second time I passed the spot where I'd parked the Plymouth, I pulled in next to it, nose toward the water. I got out, walked around to the back of the car, leaned against the trunk. Belle followed me. Stood next to me. Put her hands behind her, palms against the trunk. Hoisted herself up. The trunk bounced a few times with her weight. If the hot metal was burning into her backside, she didn't show it.
"The man who wants to meet you . . ."
I held up my hand like a traffic cop. "We had a deal." She pulled up her sweatshirt. A bunch of bills was folded into the waistband of her pants. Green on milk. She pulled the sheaf of bills out, handed it to me. All fifties. Ten of them. Used. I slipped them into my shirt pocket.
"Fifteen minutes," I told her.
"There's a man who wants to meet with you. He doesn't want you to get the wrong idea."
"This man have a name?"
I watched her face in profile. Her nose was barely a bump - lost on her broad, round face. A bead of clear sweat ran down one cheek. "Marques Dupree," she said.
I took a drag on my cigarette. "I already have the wrong idea," I told her.
"You said you'd hear me out."
I took another drag.
"He has a problem. A big problem. He said you're the man to help him - you'd know what to do."
"I know what to do. Why should I do it?"
"He said this is something you'd want to do."
"You know what it is?"
"No."
"So what's there to talk about?"
"Marques wants to meet with you. He said you wouldn't come if he called."
"He's right."
"He sent me to show you he's on the square. It's a job, okay? That's all."
"I don't work for Marques."
"He said you'd say that too. All he wants is for you to meet with him."
I bit into the cigarette, thinking. Marques was doing this the right way. He wouldn't be stupid enough to just roll up on me - he didn't have the weight for that. If Marques Dupree was coming to me, he had to have real troubles.
"You one of his ladies?" I asked her.
Her tiny chin came up. She turned full-face to me. Her close-set eyes were almost black; I couldn't see the pupils. "I'm not a whore." She wasn't mad - just setting it straight.
"So why you doing this?"
She reached out a tiny hand, patted my shirt pocket.
Where the money was.
"I'll think about it, okay? Where can I find you?"
"Me?"
"Yeah. You. I know how to find Marques."
"I work at The Satellite Dish. Out by JFK."
"That's a strip joint," I said.
Something must have shown in my face. Her tiny rose-bud mouth made a quick kissing motion. "You think I'm over qualified?"
I shrugged.
"I work every night except Tuesday."
I put my hand on her wrist. Gently, holding her attention.
"Tell Marques not to call me. If I want to meet him I'll come and tell you first."
"What if you don't want to see him?"
"Then I won't," I told her, guiding her back into the driver's seat, motioning for her to take off.
I started walking in the opposite direction. The Camaro drove off. I watched over my shoulder as she turned the corner; then I went back to the Plymouth.
21
The warehouse off Division Street in Chinatown looked like it always does. Empty. Deserted. I pulled in, turned off the engine. Waited. When I heard the door close behind me, I knew Max was home.
The warehouse was furnished with dim shadows. I followed Max up the back stairs to the second floor. He usually went to the back room, where we'd work on our life-sentence gin game. Something different tooay. Max stopped on the landing. His temple was upstairs.
The dojo where he practiced, the teak floor marked with a white-pine border. The sacred ground where Flood met a freak who called himself the Cobra. The killing floor.
Immaculata was sitting in a low chair in a corner of the white room. A black lacquer table covered with hooks and papers at her elbow. The baby sat across from her, wearing only a diaper, her little face grave as she watched her mother work. A butcher-block table ran the length of one wall, with hardwood straight-back chairs at each end. Max gestured to one of the chairs. I sat down as Immaculata put her notes aside and rose to her feet.
"Hello, Burke."
"Hi, Mac. How's Flower?"
"She is a perfect child," Mac said, as though she'd carefully considered all the other possibilities. "Some tea?"
"Thank you," I said, knowing what she meant.
Mac started to walk into the next room. The baby made a sound, less than a cry, maybe a question. Mac knelt next to her child, speaking quietly, her voice steel-cored. "Mother will come back, baby. Always come back, yes? Never leave you." She kissed the infant gravely on the forehead. Waved a goodbye gesture to the child. Again and again, patiently, until the child moved her hand too. "Smart baby!" Immaculata clapped.
I took out a cigarette, held it up for Max to see, asking if it was okay to smoke near the child.
Max pointed to an ashtray the size of a dinner plate, aluminum on the outside, glazed red ceramic on the inside. He lit a cigarette of his own, blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. Spreading his arms to say the whole world smoked and the baby wasn't going to spend the rest of her life in the house.
Immaculata came back inside. She had a pot of tea with two cups, a glass of iced ginger ale for me. "I have your mail," she said, handing me a stack of letters. I use a P.O. box over in Jersey. One of Mama's drivers empties it for me about every two weeks, leaves the letters in Mama's basement. Max picks them up when he has the chance and holds them for me. I shuffled through them. Nothing from Japan. Nothing from Flood. I put them in my coat.
Immaculata pulled up a chair, joined us, one eye on her baby. Flower was gurgling happily to herself. It sounded like singing.
Blue Belle b-3 Page 4
