Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [102]
"Can you get inside the building for me?"
Terry laughed. It was like asking Sonny Liston if he could punch.
"I'm hot. This freak, Mortay, he's got the area wired. He sees me, I'm gone. I'm not ready for him yet. I can't go in with you."
The Mole shrugged.
"And you can't use Max for backup. He's out of this until it's over."
"Why?"
"I met the freak. Face to face. He wants Max, says he'll take out the baby to make Max fight. Mama sent him out of town for a few weeks."
"He knows?"
"No."
The Mole wiped his hands on his greasy jumpsuit. "You want something from inside?"
"Just a look around. A good look."
"When?"
"I'll get back to you. But soon, okay?"
"Okay."
I stomped out my cigarette. "You can't take out the electricity. It's right in the middle of the cesspool. Takes a lot of juice to run all that neon."
The Mole turned to Terry. "Get the master–blaster," he said.
I followed the Mole to the entrance of his bunker. There's a network of tunnels under the junkyard, shored up with I–beams. He led me down some steps. Bright light ahead. Terry came up behind us.
The Mole pointed ahead. "Streetlight," he said. "Like they have outside. Turns on at night—goes off in the daytime. You know how it works?"
"Con Edison?"
"No. Infrared sensor. When it gets light out, the sensor reads it. Shuts itself off."
"So?"
We turned the corner. Terry handed the Mole a portable spotlight. The kind you plug into the cigarette lighter in your car. The Mole aimed the spotlight, pressed the button. A flash of white–hot light. The streetlight went out. We stood in the pitch dark. I counted ninety seconds in my head. The streetlight came back on. I followed the Mole outside.
"Car headlights, maybe seventy–five thousand candlepower on high beams. Cop's spotlights, maybe a hundred and fifty thousand. This throws a million. Tricks the streetlights—tricks motion sensors—anything."
"Damn! What happens if you blast somebody in the face with it?"
"They go blind for a few minutes. Too close, you burn the eyeballs."
"Mole, you amaze me."
"Let Terry drive the car out of the yard," he said.
121
BELLE WAS lying on her stomach across the hospital bed, chin in her hands. Her legs were bent at the knee, feet twirling behind her. Like a teenage girl talking on the phone. The Prof was in an easy chair, the casts on his legs still separated by the bar, propped on a footstool. He looked sharp—clean–shaven, bright–red robe.
"It's quiet?" I asked, stepping into the room.
"This is a hospital, fool."
"I mean…"
"We all know what you mean. Everything's cool. Too bad you showed so soon, I was just getting ready to show the lady your baby pictures."
I pulled up another chair. "You got something?"
Belle climbed off the bed, sat down on the floor between us, her hand on my knee.
The little man was back to himself. All business, but working an circles. "You remember J.T.?"
"Yeah."
He turned to Belle. "This J.T. was a real country boy when he came up here. A stone rookie. Wouldn't know a hoe–down from a throw–down. Couldn't decide if he was gonna be a yutz or a clutz. You follow?"
Belle tilted her chin to look up at me. "What's a throw–down?"
"A challenge. Or a fight."
"How do you tell the difference?"
"One you do with your mouth, the other with your hands. Now shut up—let the man finish."
Her lips turned into a perfect pout, like she'd been practicing all her life.
The Prof patted her arm. "Don't pay attention to this thug, girl. You can school a fool, but you can't make him cool. J.T., he's not what you call a mental heavyweight, but he's good people. A few years ago, he got into this beef over a girl. Working girl. He thought he was in love. Shot the pimp right on Forty–fourth Street. Girl starts screaming, J.T. starts running. I'm on my cart, see him flying. I told him to toss the piece. Buried it