Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [61]
“Back in the alley,” Dead-Eye agreed. “Head shot right into the garbage can.”
“I thought you were too old and shot up for this shit,” Boomer said, looking over at him. “Or am I going deaf too?”
“I am too old and shot up,” Dead-Eye said. “And so are you.”
“But you’re here,” Boomer said.
“You and me broke every case we ever worked on,” Dead-Eye said. “They took us off the job because we were wounded. Not because we couldn’t solve cases.”
“I’m goin’ up to see Bel,” Boomer said, nodding toward the brownstone. “You want in?”
“Just to talk?” Dead-Eye said, stepping up alongside Boomer. “Anything more, I’ll wait for you here.”
“I never need to do anything with Bel that doesn’t involve talk,” Boomer said, walking up the brownstone steps. “When that day comes, then I’ll want you to take me out.”
“You wake up next to Bel,” Dead-Eye said, “and it’ll be my pleasure.”
• • •
BEL STIRRED A large cup of black coffee with a thick wooden spoon, her glass eye gleaming under the glare of the dining room chandelier. Boomer and Dead-Eye sat across from her, squeezed in together on a red velvet love seat. The five-room railroad apartment was well furnished and clean, its windows covered by red satin drapes, the wood floors hidden beneath thick shag carpets. Ornate lights, shaded by low-watt bulbs and starched white handkerchiefs, hung from every ceiling. A blanket of incense filtered through the halls, blending easily with varied scents of perfume and lingering marijuana smoke.
Bel sat on an overstuffed lounge chair, arms and hips resting against a variety of soft fluffed pillows. She was a large woman with an easy manner, round folds of black skin barely hidden by a sheer nightgown and a flowered purple robe. Her fingernails were long, each painted a different shade. Her chubby, unlined face was free of makeup, and her large feet were curled comfortably beneath her robe.
She flicked a gold-plated lighter and lit the end of a filter-tipped Lord cigarette. As she took in a deep drag, smoke curled up in small clouds in front of her damaged right eye. She kept stirring her coffee and smiled at the two former detectives.
“You boys looking for some security work?” Bel asked in a voice treacherous as an ocean wave. “Help me protect my girls against bad company?”
“We’re not here for work, Bel,” Boomer said. “We’re looking for a girl.”
“Used to throw them at you for free back when you were badges,” Bel said, holding up her cup with a large paw of a hand, fat hiding any traces of knuckles, smile still on her face. “You weren’t interested then. Maybe now that you’re both older, a piece of the triangle isn’t as easy to come by.”
“We don’t want one of yours,” Dead-Eye said. “No offense.”
“None taken, sweetskin,” Bel said, swallowing down two large gulps of coffee. “But just so you understand, I don’t feed off another table. You want somebody else’s girl, you got to go talk to somebody else.”
Boomer stood, took a picture of Jennifer Santori out of the front pocket of his leather jacket, and placed it on the circular table next to Bel’s ashtray. He turned and returned to his place next to Dead-Eye.
“She was lifted out of the Port Authority a couple of days ago,” Dead-Eye said. “We caught a bead on the lifter, a street rodent calls himself X. Real name’s Malcolm and he deals in young trade, selling runaways and lost girls on the market.”
“Sounds like you know as much about this Malcolm as I could tell you,” Bel said. “Besides, you know my trade is clean. I deal only in pros. I don’t buy fresh meat.”
“We need you to tell us who does, Bel,” Boomer said. “We’ve been off the loop the last few years.”
Bel picked up Jennifer’s picture and studied it with her one good eye.
“Pretty girl,” Bel said. “Twelve, maybe thirteen. And she’s white. People be willing to pay extra for that.”
“Those are the people we want to meet,” Boomer said.
“The sort of business you’re hunting has never been lacking for a crowd,” Bel said, placing the picture back against the ashtray, a fresh cigarette in her mouth. “It’s like