Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [105]
"Why, baby?"
"I wasn't kidding about inertia, Belle. If there's an answer, it's in my head. No matter what kind of bites I get out there, I have to put it together. I can't work here. I need my stuff."
"Stuff?"
"In my files. It's not that I can't think here. I can think in a cell. But that stuff I've collected—it's like having a conversation….I ask it questions, sometimes it talks back. Okay?"
"Okay," she said, opening her bureau drawers. "As long as I'm around when you have that talk."
124
BELLE SAT in the front bucket seat of the Pontiac, watching the road. She giggled to herself.
"What's so funny."
"The Prof. I told him. About me. Not the whole thing, but enough. That's what he meant about blood only tells in hell."
"What's funny about that?"
"He said when the Lord made people He made them all the same for starters. But life marks people. If you know the way, you can read them like maps. He said the Lord made you so ugly for a test."
"What?"
"That's what he said. I told him I thought you were real good–looking. He said that was the test—I wasn't deep in love with you, I couldn't say such an outrageous lie."
"He should fucking talk."
"Burke! He is a handsome little man. I thought that nurse was gonna claw my eyes, she saw me with him." She giggled again. "He told me God only made one mistake. He said, you see a red–haired, blue–eyed nigger, you're looking at a stone killer."
"Sure, everybody knows that."
"Don't be crazy. He was just playing."
"Hell if he was. Every one I ever saw was a life–taker."
"That's ridiculous."
I shrugged.
The highway slipped by. Battery Tunnel coming into view.
"Burke?"
"What?"
"Why would the Prof call somebody a nigger?"
"It's just a word. Anybody can use words. I can't really explain it….You say some words—say them the right way—they lose their power to hurt. The Prof, he'll say, 'That's my nigger,' he means that's his main man. Somebody else says the word, he's ready to rumble."
"But why…"
"I told you the truth. I really can't explain it. Maybe the Prof can, I never asked him, not really."
"Maybe I will, someday."
125
THE OFFICE was quiet. Pansy was her usual sluggish self. She brightened a bit when I rolled the extra roast beef and ham into a fat ball and tossed it in the air for her.
Belle curled up on the couch with the newspapers. Pansy jumped up there too, growling. "What does she want?"
"Television."
"She wants to watch television?"
"Yeah. See if you can find pro wrestling; that's her favorite. But leave the sound on low, okay?"
Belle gave me one of her looks, hauled the portable over to the end of the couch. Pansy sat up, tail wagging. I went back to my work.
"Honey," Belle's voice broke through to me.
"What?"
"It's eight–thirty. Don't you have to make a call?"
I looked at my watch—I'd been out of it for three hours. I snatched the phone, hoping the hippies weren't discussing their latest dope deal. The line was quiet.
"Morelli."
"It's me."
"Come over to Paulo's tonight. Eleven. We'll have some supper."
I hung up quick. Looked over at the couch. Belle and Pansy were both watching me.
"Good girl," I said. Pansy came off the couch, strolled over to me. "I meant her," I told the beast, pointing at Belle. Pansy slammed a paw on the desk. "You too," I told her. I let Pansy out to her roof. Walked over to the couch, turned off the TV set.
"That's one strange dog, honey. She really does like pro wrestling. I thought dogs couldn't see TV. Something about their eyes."
"I don't know if that's true or not. Maybe she just likes the sound."
I lit a smoke. "Was I asleep?"
"I don't think so—I think you were somewhere else. Your eyes were closed some of the time. But you smoked a lot of cigarettes."
I rubbed my face, trying to go back. I gave it up—it'd come when it was ready.
"Burke, could I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"You know about this?" she said, pointing to a headline in the paper. I knew the story—it had been running for weeks. High–school cheerleader, sixteen years old. Father started