Blue Belle (31 page)

153

PANSY PROWLED the floor, sniffing the corners, snarling at nothing in particular. Our last night in the cottage. Belle was stuffing another pair of suitcases.

"Why'd you bring that old dog anyway?"

"I wanted to get her used to sleeping outside the office—she's going to be at the massage parlor with us."

"In case somebody wants something special?"

I didn't answer her. I dialed the Runaway Squad. They told me McGowan was in the street—they'd take a message. I hung up. Mama had nothing to tell me. I had nothing to tell the Mole.

"Don't make it look like you moved out," I warned Belle.

"I'm just taking a few things. The rent's paid till the end of the month, and I got two months security down. I'll throw another money order in the mail to the landlord. People mind their own business out here."

I went out on the deck, minding mine. Pansy trotted along next to me. She jumped up on her hind legs, hooking her front paws to the railing. I scratched the back of her neck. "You want to see the junkyard, girl? Meet a few new guys?" She made a happy rumble in her throat. The sound rippled across the water. I smoked a couple of cigarettes, calm inside. Once you jump off the bridge, everything's smooth until you hit the water.

It was past midnight when we came back inside. Belle was wearing a gauzy blue nightgown, her face fresh–scrubbed and clean. Ready for bed. She took a bottle of beer from the refrigerator, poured herself a glass. Pansy made a pitiful moaning noise, brushing her head against Belle's thigh.

"Oh!
Now
you wanna be pals, huh?"

She found a cereal bowl, another bottle of beer. Took them both into a far corner. Bent from the waist and filled it up. Pansy got about half of it, the floor got the rest.

I lit a cigarette. "You taught me something."

"What, honey?"

"The poison–proofing I did with her…so she won't take food unless she hears the right word?"

"Yes?"

"I'm a jerk. I never thought about liquids. She'll drink any goddamned thing."

"Can't you…?"

"Yeah. You take the time, the patience, you can train a dog like Pansy to do just about anything. I didn't do it. And I just figured out why."

Belle was next to me, my arm around her waist, listening like I was saying something important.

"There's no way to throw liquid under a door. She wouldn't take it anyway—not unless it was in a bowl, or in a pool. I never figured on anyone being
inside
, you understand?"

"I'm inside," she said softly.

"Yeah, you are. Let's go to sleep."

She gently twirled away from me. Turned off the lights. "Not yet, honey. Sit in the chair. This is our last night here. Until it's over. I want to say my prayers."

She knelt before the bed, hands clasped in front of her. Her skin glowed under the nightgown. Blue light.

Belle looked over her shoulder. She played with the sash at her waist. The nightgown floated to the floor.

"Rescue me," she whispered.

154

IT WAS still dark when I watched Belle slip the Camaro into my garage. I stashed the Pontiac a few blocks away, in a safe spot near the river.

I didn't like the walk back to the garage. Pinprick tingles all across my back. But it was quiet—my fear was just picking up long–distance signals.

The garage was dark when I stepped inside. I headed for the stairs, sending Pansy ahead, Belle right behind me. She pulled at my arm. "Wait."

She stood before the circuit–breaker box. Punched the three buttons in the right sequence, puffing out her chest like a proud little girl when the box popped open. If little girls looked like that when they got a question right, I might have stayed in school. She slipped off the necklace, holding the blue glow in her hands. I watched her, one foot on the first rung of the stairs.

"I can't do it," she said. Slamming the box closed. "It don't seem right to wear it inside a whorehouse, but…" She patted the front of her thigh. Where her mother's gravestone was etched in her flesh.

155

UPSTAIRS, I dialed McGowan again. This time he was around.

"It's me. Everything okay?"

"It's empty right now. There's an alley running behind it. Room for three cars, four if they're packed tight. Chain–link fence, barbed wire on the top. They used to keep a German shepherd out there."

"Okay. I'm rolling."

"Wait. There's one more thing. The joint next to it. The video store. That's ours too. You can walk in, go down to the basement, and walk through. We punched a tunnel through. You can go in and out."

"Thanks, McGowan."

"I should've been straight with you." His honey–Irish voice was soft around the edges. "Square it up, now."

"For all of them," I promised, hanging up.

I called the Mole, gave him the word. Whoever was listening at the other end hung up when I was finished.

Belle was unpacking her clothes, laying them across the couch, bumping Pansy out of the way with her hip.

I called Mama.

"I'm going in. You know where everything is. Max knows the rest. I'm putting it all down. In a letter. To the Jersey box."

Mama said something in Cantonese.

"What was that?"

"If the letter come, I fix everything."

"I know. Goodbye, Mama."

She hung up. A sadness–shudder passed through me, leaving me chilled. I lit a cigarette and started to write.

156

FRIDAY NIGHT. Eight o'clock. I followed Pansy down the back stairs, a heavy suitcase in each hand. Belle behind me, carrying two more. I left her in the garage with all the stuff, snapped the lead on Pansy, and went for a walk.

Electric fear–jolts danced through me. Pansy felt it. Her massive head swung back and forth, pinning everyone she saw. Her teeth snapped together in little clicks, kill noises slipping through. Her eyes were ice cubes.

A yuppie couple approached, her hand through his arm. They crossed the street. A wino was propped against the car right next to the Pontiac. I tightened the leash. Pansy lunged, snarling. He sobered up, moved off. I opened the door, put Pansy in the back seat.

Belle was ready when I pulled up in front of the garage. I popped the trunk; we threw the suitcases inside and moved off.

West Side Highway to Tenth Avenue. Across 30th down to Twelfth. And then a right turn back into what the tour guides would call the heart of Times Square.

The fear–jolts were spiking inside me. Pansy prowled the back seat, side to side; her face loomed at the windows.

"Jump!" I snapped at her. Nobody'd remember the Pontiac, but nobody'd forget Pansy. She went down, snarling her hate for whatever was frightening me.

I found the alley, nosed the car in, creeping forward, driving with my left hand, the pistol cocked in my right. The fenced–off section was where McGowan said it would be—huge padlock in place. I stopped the car, popped the door for Pansy, calling to her. "Watch!"

I walked to the fence, the gun in front, poking its way through the darkness.

A flashlight beam behind the fence. I hit the ground, leveling the pistol as Pansy charged past me, throwing herself at the chain links. "Don't shoot—it's me." The Mole's voice. I called Pansy off, met him at the fence. He reached through, opened the padlock, swung the gate open. I pulled the Pontiac inside, between a white panel truck with the name of some kosher butcher shop on the side and a dark station wagon. "All ours?" I asked the Mole.

"Sure," he said.

157

WE FOLLOWED him inside. Big room, dim lights, cartons stacked against the walls, steel shelving loaded with video cassettes.

"Basement," the Mole said.

"You know about the video store next door? Like I told you over the phone?"

The Mole barely kept the sneer from his voice. "I was in last night." He held up a ring of keys. We could go visit the cops, but they couldn't come see us.

Upstairs, we walked through the place. The front door was between two windows, one a little square patch of glass, the other running down the length of the place. All the glass was blacked out except for the little square near the door. Lights flashed outside.

"One–way glass," the Mole explained.

The joint was a long hall, L–shaped at the far end. Rooms opened off the corridor. Tiny hook–and–eye locks inside. Vinyl massage tables set up for quick–change sheets. Wood benches in some, leather chairs in others. They all had tables in a corner, bottles of lotions, perfumes, air fresheners. Tiny sinks against the wall. Heavy mats on the walls. All class. The L–shaped area was much larger. Bathrooms off to the side. Big ones, complete with glassed–in stall showers. Partitions made a private office in one corner. Red leather executive's chair, blond wood desk, red leather couch, white two–line phone. Even had a view—dirt–streaked window, thick bars running the full width across.

I walked back through the place, the Mole behind me. Wall–to–wall industrial–grade carpeting that had once been pink covered every square inch of floor. Recessed lighting ran the length of the hall. A desk was set up against the wall right across from the door. A wood railing made two gates—one to the desk, one to the corridor. Huge blowup pictures covered the walls of the entryway. Only two chairs, both against the left–hand wall. No Waiting. A giant round mirror was in the upper right–hand corner, cocked at the angle formed by the wall and the ceiling. I sat at the desk, looked up. You could see the length of the corridor.

"We need a …"

"Periscope," the Mole stepped on my lines. "You stay in the back room, see every face that comes in."

"Okay. What's that?" I asked, pointing to a light on the desk.

"Switch in every room. Girl has trouble, she pushes it."

The phone on the desk rang. I picked it up. "Yeah?"

"It's me." McGowan's voice. "I'm next door. I see you managed to get in."

"We're in." I looked around. "One more thing. I can't work the bouncer job in here. Got to stay out of sight. I'm going to have some boys sent over."

"What kind of boys?"

"Chinese boys."

"No way! That's all I need. Can you rig up a buzzer? Between us? Your man hits it, we'll have someone through the basement in a minute."

I looked at the Mole. He nodded. Rigging a buzzer wasn't going to overload his brain cells.

"Okay, we'll take care of it right away."

"Hey, Burke?"

"What?"

"Tell your man to leave the door open, okay?"

I hung up on him.

158

MICHELLE SHOWED a little later. You could see her through the square piece of glass. The Mole buzzed her inside. She was wearing a scarlet pants suit over a white turtleneck sweater, black spikes on her feet. The Mole and I stayed out of her way as she stalked the length of the corridor. Me smoking, watching the door, the Mole starting to set up the periscope.

Michelle came back to the front room, hands on hips. "This place is the pits. Mole, I need everything out of the first room. That'll be my office. And put that disgusting tool belt someplace—you're supposed to be the manager, not the janitor."

"I have to fix things," the Mole said, mildly.

"Well, go ahead and fix things. I'll go out tomorrow, get you some decent clothes."

"Michelle…"

"Don't you
Michelle
me. I work my beautiful butt off to keep my kid in nice clothes, and every time I see him he looks more like you, God forbid."

"He's my boy too."

"Sure. Next thing, you'll want him Bar Mitzvahed."

The Mole said nothing—even a lunatic knows the limit.

I left them to fight over who was going to go back to the junkyard every morning to check on the kid.

159

BELLE AND Pansy were in the back. Pansy was stretched out on the couch, Belle in the chair. "You okay?" I asked her.

"I'm fine, baby."

I gave her a kiss. Heard the buzzer. Female noises, Michelle's voice cutting through the chatter. I heard someone coming back, stepped outside into the big room. It was Michelle.

"I have to have a meeting with my girls. And take some pictures. It's gonna be a while—you both just stay back here, keep it quiet."

I nodded, putting my finger to my lips. Pansy closed her eyes.

A couple of minutes later, I heard Michelle bossing the Mole, telling him where she wanted the light stands, not to get his greasy hands on the lens. One day she was going to push him over the edge.

The room filled with girls. Pansy's face wrinkled at the overpowering smells. Michelle's voice:

"Okay, now, I understand you ladies have not worked inside before. Which one of you is Christina?"

"Marques says Miss Bitch don't have to do this. Just us."

Murmur of voices.

"Well, girls, it seems to me that opportunity is knocking. Here's the way we work it: the trick pays thirty bucks—he gets fifteen minutes. Straight massage, that's a handshake. He wants something more,
anything
more, that's an extra, got it? The trick pays at the front desk; whatever he tips, that's up to you."

"How much for the extras?" one girl asked.

"You decide. Set your own list. And don't do anything you don't want to do, got it? You turn over your tips to Marques, you don't turn them over, it's not my problem."

"But Marques…"

"Marques isn't running this show. I am. And I run it my way. Now, which one of you turns the hard tricks?"

"That's me." A husky grown–woman's voice.

"What's your name, honey?"

"Bambi."

"Okay, Bambi. You set your prices, you keep the coin. And listen :o me, girl. This is a no–risk gig, you follow me? There's a button in each of your rooms—I'll show you where it is. You hit the button, and we have some nasty men to take care of any problem."

"The guy with the tool belt?" one of them giggled.

Michelle's voice went from sweet cream to barbed wire without missing a beat. "That man with the tool belt, honey, he makes people
disappear
. You watch your smart mouth, bitch. Your idea of a hard guy's some half–ass nigger pimp with a coat hanger in his hands."

"Hey!"

"You want to get down, go for it. Right now."

The room went quiet.

Michelle let the silence hang. Then she sheathed her claws. "Honey, I've been around longer than this sweet young face shows. Now, I want to treat all of you like the
ladies
you are. Nobody's going to mistreat you while you work for me. Nobody's going to disrespect you. You work your shift, you mind your business, and you make some nice money. We're just moving the stroll indoors for a couple of weeks, that's all. But anyone gets the idea they can fuck with my friends, they go back to work without a face."

The room was quiet again.

"Okay?"

The girls stepped on themselves agreeing with her.

"Fine. Now, the next thing, we have to put together some portfolios for each of you."

"Like models?"

"Of
course
, like models. Isn't that what we are? Are we any different from those walking sticks in the magazines? A john comes in, he comes to the desk. We show him the book. Pictures of each of you. He picks the one he wants."

"We don't have to line up?"

"This isn't the precinct, honey. A trick wants to see live skin, he puts his money down. Now, there's five girls, we got nine rooms. The first one, the one near the desk, that's mine. Leave the last two empty, the ones right across from here. You divide the rest the way you want—Bambi, you take the one furthest back. And no fighting! Tomorrow I'll go out and get some decent furnishings. Okay? Now, we are
not
open for business tonight. You come back, one at a time, we'll put the portfolios together. When we're done, you can hang around or you can split. Be back tomorrow. Four o'clock. We'll work twelve–hour shifts; you leave at four in the morning. Any questions?"

Nobody said a word.

"One more thing. This place is under
heavy
protection. You'll never see a cop in here. You play this right, it's a working girl's dream."