Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [62]
“If you were Malcolm, who’d you be lookin’ to sell the girl to?” Dead-Eye asked.
“If I was Malcolm, honey, I’d swallow rat poison.” A look of disdain creased the rolls around Bel’s face.
“Let’s go one better, then,” Boomer said. “Who’s the last guy you’d like to see one of your girls end up with?”
Bel stared across the table at Boomer and Dead-Eye, the cigarette dangling from a corner of her lower lip, the glass eye locked on them in a dead gaze. She took in a deep breath, lungs filling with smoke, and rested the back of her large neck against the side of one of the soft pillows.
“Walt Billings,” she said. “They call him Junior on the outside. He’s a white guy with a rich daddy and a pretty sick sense of what passes for jewelry.”
“How sick?” Dead-Eye asked.
Bel lowered her voice to a near whisper. “He collects body parts. Hangs them around his neck, wrists, ankles. God only knows where else. When Junior feels the need to add to his collection, he trades a lifter some dope for a girl. Usually a girl the cops have given up for dead. If that child in that picture ends up with Junior, you both pray for her to die.”
“Where’s he shop?” Boomer asked, standing again, lifting the collar on his jacket and slipping a hand into his front jeans pocket.
“Manhattan mostly,” Bel said, finishing off the last of her coffee. “Steers himself clear of the outside boroughs. I’m surprised you two never ran into him all those years you were out busting heads with the sinners.”
“If we’d run into him, we wouldn’t be talkin’ about him now,” Dead-Eye said, nodding his head toward Bel and walking over to the double-latched front door.
“Thanks for the news, Bel,” Boomer said. “Anything I can throw your way?”
“Label it as a favor for an old friend,” Bel said, pursing her thick lips and tossing a kiss at Boomer. “Tell you what, though. If I hear that Junior somehow landed faceup in a pine box, I wouldn’t be short of smiles.”
“I just love it when I can make a woman smile,” Boomer said.
• • •
MALCOLM AND JUNIOR both ordered large papaya drinks, leaning forward against the counter of a Times Square food stand, watching a thin black teen with a shaved head reach for two paper cups.
“Squeeze it out right, little man,” Malcolm said to the teen. “I’m lookin’ to drink juice, not foam.”
The teen looked blankly back at Malcolm and nodded.
“How come you didn’t bring the girl down?” Junior asked. “You know I hate payin’ for what I haven’t seen.”
“Can’t risk it out here,” Malcolm said with a flashy smile. “Minute your eyeballs touch, you gonna be lookin’ to chop her up like an onion on a stove and start prayin’ over her bones. That’s how fine a little one I got me. But I did bring you a taste.”
Junior’s eyes widened as Malcolm slipped a hand into a side pocket and came out holding a thick roll of toilet paper. He handed the wad to Junior.
“What’s in it?” Junior said, his voice filled with Christmas morning excitement.
“A gift,” Malcolm said. “Just to show my heart’s in the right place.”
Junior carefully unrolled the toilet paper, turning his back on Malcolm and the teen. He giggled when he saw Jennifer’s severed finger, stroking it and nodding his head with approval. He covered it back up and put it inside his shirt pocket. “Thank you,” he said, turning back to Malcolm. “I really do thank you.”
“No sweat,” Malcolm said.
Junior took his cup of papaya from the teen. “How much you want for this fine little one?” he asked, taking a long drink, ignoring the thin line of orange foam it left across his upper lip.
“A week’s worth,” Malcolm said. “I need off the street for a few days. Get lost inside of some good shit, but I don’t wanna end up dead doin’ it. That’s why I come to see Junior. You always deal me the best.”
“A week’s expensive, Malcolm,” Junior said, shaking his head and finishing off his drink. “I don’t know what you think I am, but I’m not here to be taken.”
“I know