Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [112]
"I'll just hold this until you come back," she said, her voice quiet and steady.
I let out a breath, the pin in my hand.
"Pansy, jump!" She hit the ground. I snapped my fingers again, calling her to me. Gave her the command that everything was okay. She started to walk over to Belle. I held up my hand for her to stay.
I crossed the room, fast. "Hold it steady," I told her, slipping the pin back in. She put it on the desk, went in the back room, came out with a blue chiffon scarf. Wrapped it around the little metal bomb. "Let's go," she said.
I pushed her back against the desk, making her sit on it. Moved in so close her eyes were out of focus. "Swear on your mother," I said. "Swear on Sissy that you'll throw it if he gets to me."
"I swear."
I buried my hands in her thick hair, snatching a handful on either side of her face, pulling her nose against mine. "When we get back here…"
She licked my mouth, pushed her lips against me. I couldn't make out what she was saying.
136
BELLE FOLLOWED me down the stairs into the garage. I snapped her seat belt in place for her, arranged a shawl over her lap. I worked my way through Lower Manhattan, grabbing the East Side Drive off Pearl Street. Belle was as good as gold, quiet and peaceful in the bucket seat, hands in her lap, little smile on her face. Like a kid who threw a successful tantrum—got her way and didn't want to brag about it.
"Call off the directions," I told her.
She was right on the money, every step of the way. I lit a smoke. "Me too," she said. I held the filter to her mouth.
"Don't get spoiled. It won't work every time."
"I know." Phony contrite tone in her voice, the Southern twang not softening it much.
"I'm not kidding."
"I know. Turn right up ahead."
I turned into Hunts Point, heading for the junkyard.
"You know something, Burke—you're not exactly what they call a well–rounded personality."
"Well–rounded's nice, long as you don't have to cut something."
She stuck out her tongue. A queen–sized brat. With a bomb in her lap.
I rolled the Pontiac up to the gates. "Will the dogs know it's a different car?" she asked.
"They won't care.
Simba made his move first. Sitting patiently while I rolled down the window. I talked to him, waiting for someone to come and let us through.
It was Terry, shoving his way through the pack just like the Mole. He saw who it was, stuck his head in the window.
"Hi, Belle!"
"Hi, good–looking. You gonna show this lug how to drive a car?"
The kid looked at me. I opened the door, climbed in the back seat. He piloted the Pontiac in an elaborate weave, showing off for Belle.
"Are you Burke's girlfriend?"
"Hey! The Mole teach you about asking questions?"
"I just…"
"Shut up, Burke. I sure am, sweetie. But if you were a few years older…"
"I'm getting older," the kid said, his voice squeaking, looking over at her.
She saw where he was looking. "I know you are, honey," she said, flashing a smile.
He pulled the car into a safe area. Jumped out, held the door for Belle. I lit a cigarette. The kid was so entranced he forgot to glom one off me.
"We don't need it here," I told Belle. "Hand it over."
She pulled the scarf from the grenade, put it in my hand. Terry paid no attention, chattering away, explaining all the features of the junkyard to Belle. I followed behind them.
The Mole was outside his bunker. He tilted his head. We all followed him downstairs, Belle's hand on my shoulder, Terry bringing up the rear. I hoped the view wouldn't stunt his growth.
The tunnel sloped, curved gently back and forth. Lights flicked on each time we came close to a curve. The Mole's living room was always the same. A thin concrete slab over hard–packed dirt, old throw–rugs on the floor. The walls are all bookshelves. Tables covered with electrical motors, lab beakers, other stuff I couldn't recognize. A tired old couch in the middle of the room, easy chairs from the same dump. All covered with white oilcloth. I caught the quiet whirr of the electric fans built into the ceiling, venting to the outside.