Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [16]
I was completely in shadow when the red Camaro pulled up to the pumps. The windows were down. A woman in the front seat. She turned off the engine. The dogs left me, ambling over to the car. Trucks rumbled by on Metropolitan.
She got out of the car. A big woman. Honey–taffy hair, hacked off near her shoulders, bangs covering her forehead almost to her eyes. She was wearing a peach–colored sweatshirt over a pair of loose white pants. Hands on hips, she turned one complete circle, sweeping the area.
I came to my feet quietly, moved to her. She saw me coming, a wino with a paper bag in one hand. She stood her ground.
"Hello, Belle," I said.
"You're Burke?"
I nodded, watching her eyes to see if she was expecting company of her own. Her eyes were small, dark, set close together. Her face was round, smooth—unformed except for a tiny pointed chin. She was as tall as I was, wider through the shoulders and hips. I glanced at her feet. White running shoes, small, like her hands. No watch. No rings.
The back seat of the Camaro was empty. "Would you open the trunk?" I asked her.
"Why?"
"I want to see if you've got a spare."
She bobbed her head like she understood. Bent inside the car to pull the keys from the ignition. Her hips flexed under the loose white pants. She handed me the keys. The trunk held only a blue overnight case.
I motioned her to get in the car, climbed behind the wheel, and started it up. She walked around the front of the car, opened the passenger door, turned her back to me, swung her butt inside, and dropped it into the seat. Pulled her legs in and closed the door. She filled the seat. Sat there, tiny hands in her lap. Waiting.
I drove aimlessly around the area for a few minutes. Nothing out of place. The second time I passed the spot where I'd parked the Plymouth, I pulled in next to it, nose toward the water. I got out, walked around to the back of the car, leaned against the trunk. Belle followed me. Stood next to me. Put her hands behind her, palms against the trunk. Hoisted herself up. The trunk bounced a few times with her weight. If the hot metal was burning into her backside, she didn't show it.
"The man who wants to meet you…"
I held up my hand like a traffic cop. "We had a deal."
She pulled up her sweatshirt. A bunch of bills was folded into the waistband of her pants. Green on milk. She pulled the sheaf of bills out, handed it to me. All fifties. Ten of them. Used. I slipped them into my shirt pocket.
"Fifteen minutes," I told her.
"There's a man who wants to meet with you. He doesn't want you to get the wrong idea."
"This man have a name?"
I watched her face in profile. Her nose was barely a bump—lost on her broad, round face. A bead of clear sweat ran down one cheek. "Marques Dupree," she said.
I took a drag on my cigarette. "I already have the wrong idea," I told her.
"You said you'd hear me out."
I took another drag.
"He has a problem. A big problem. He said you're the man to help him—you'd know what to do."
"I know what to do. Why should I do it?"
"He said this is something you'd want to do."
"You know what it is?"
"No."
"So what's there to talk about?"
"Marques wants to meet with you. He said you wouldn't come if he called."
"He's right."
"He sent me to show you he's on the square. It's a job, okay? That's all."
"I don't work for Marques."
"He said you'd say that too. All he wants is for you to meet with him."
I bit into the cigarette, thinking. Marques was doing this the right way. He wouldn't be stupid enough to just roll up on me—he didn't have the weight for that. If Marques Dupree was coming to me, he had to have real troubles.
"You one of his ladies?" I asked her.
Her tiny chin came up. She turned full–face to me. Her close–set eyes were almost black; I couldn't see the pupils. "I'm not a whore." She wasn't mad—just setting it straight.
"So why you doing this?"
She reached out a tiny