Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [126]
I lined up twelve bullets. Mole specials—super–speed hot loads, mercury tips. Any one of them would total whatever it hit. Six bullets went into the long–barreled .38, another six into the two–inch revolver next to it.
The guns were ice–cold, brand–new. No serial numbers.
A pair of the fragmentation grenades sat on the desk, the blue handles winking at me.
The Mole stashed a new car for me every morning. All along the river, one block apart. We had four cars now. I fingered the ignition key—it would work in all of them.
A tattered khaki raincoat hung on a hook. It would reach well past my knees. A long blond wig was on top of the hook. Straight hair. A blue golf hat, wine–stained. An old pair of white running shoes. Baggy black pants. Black sweatshirt with a hood. Black gloves. A slap–on mustache.
I clipped two nails on my left hand at a sharp angle. A drop of Permabond under each one. I held the razor–filed steel slivers in place against each nail, waiting for the super–glue to dry. It only took a few minutes. I brushed my left hand against a piece of paper. It fell into three pieces.
I slid back the lid on a flat metal box, looked at the colorless paste inside. I'd pass the razors through the paste before I hit the street. Mortay had to get his hands on me to kill me—one scratch, and I wouldn't go alone.
Belle watched me work, cat's–eye makeup on her face.
165
BUSINESS BOOMED. Men got buzzed in, looked through the book. Came and went.
We cleaned up Sunday's business at five in the morning. The Mole was wearing a black silk shirt, red suspenders, cream–colored suit. Dark glasses on his face. Michelle counted a wad of cash and credit–card slips. "You look like death," she told me.
"Good," I said.
166
MONDAY, BAMBI turned her first hard trick. The Mole buzzed me—the video screen showed a middle–aged white male, blobby face, light–colored sport coat. Not Ramón. I heard the slash of the belt, cutting through the soundproofed walls.
Later that night, one of the tricks got off the wall. I don't know what he did. I heard Morales' voice in the corridor. "How do you like it, motherfucker?" Metal slamming into a face. I heard whining, Morales' voice cutting harsh through it. "Whatever you want here, we got it, see? But we got different girls for different stuff. You want hard stuff, you ask for Bambi, understand? Bambi."
It got quiet after that.
167
HE CAME Wednesday evening. Seven o'clock. The buzzer sounded. Ramón's face on the screen. I hit the switch. The light would glow on the Mole's desk.
"It's time," I said to Belle.
She was covered with body makeup head to toe. Fishnet stockings, black spike heels, black panties. She slipped into the red gown, belted it at her waist. A stranger—her face a hard mask.
I watched the screen. Ramón. Wearing a black leather bomber jacket, looking through the book. There was no sound on the screen.
"Monique!" the Mole called.
Belle walked past me into the corridor.
I held the sawed–off shotgun in my left hand, the paint pistol with the phony silencer in my right. Waiting.
I heard them come back. Belle's voice. "I get an extra hundred for hard stuff, honey."
Ramón's voice—couldn't make out the words.
The door to the last room closed.
I sucked air in through my nose, filling my stomach. Let it out, expanding my chest. Stepped into the corridor.
I couldn't hear through the door. The hook–and–eye lock was held in with paste. Every square inch of the room was burning in my mind. I slipped the pistol into a side pocket, cut deep enough to hold the silencer. Counted to five. I hit the door with my shoulder, stepping inside, sweeping the scattergun corner to corner. Belle was on the couch to my right, the red nightgown hiked over her hips. Ram