Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [26]
I watched the white shift dance in the dark parking lot until it disappeared behind the blue building.
29
MAS WAS already dealt in on the meeting with Marques. I could get a message to the Mole easy enough, even if he didn't answer his phone. That still left me a few days to find the Prof.
It might take that long. The little man could be sleeping in doorways or prowling hotel corridors. He could be working the subway tunnels or the after–hours joints. He never had an address, but you couldn't call him "homeless." I asked him once why he didn't find himself a crib somewhere—why he lived in the street. "I got the balls, and I don't like walls," he told me. He didn't have to explain any more than that—we'd met in prison.
I think "Prof" was once short for "Professor," because he always seemed so much older and smarter than the rest of us. But somewhere along the line, he started telling the kind of truth they never write down in books, and now it stands for "Prophet."
A citizen couldn't find the Prof, but I knew where he picked up his paycheck. A few years ago, I'd fixed him up with SSI. Psychiatric disability. His official diagnosis was "Schizophrenia. Chronic, undifferentiated." The resident at Bellevue noted the Prof's grossly disorganized thought pattern, his grandiose pronouncements, his delusion that he was getting his marching orders from the dead spirit of Marcus Garvey. A typical microwave case. They tried medication and it did what it usually does—the Prof got sleepy. It was worth the thirty–day investment. When they discharged the Prof, they gave him a one–week supply of medication, a standing appointment at the clinic, and what the little man called his "crazy papers."
Once a year, the federales would send a letter to the Prof demanding a "face to face." He had to make a personal appearance at the clinic. Not to prove that he was still crazy, just that he was still alive. Uncle Sam likes to keep a close watch on his money.
It was a two–sided scam. Not only did the Prof get a disability check every month, but the diagnosis was a Get Out of Jail Free card in case he ever went down for something major. Nothing like putting an insanity defense together before you commit the crime. The government mails him the check to General Delivery, at the giant post office on Eighth Avenue, right across from Madison Square Garden. There are so many homeless people in New York that the General Delivery window does more business than most small towns.
I addressed a postcard to the Prof. Wrote "Call home" on the back, and dropped it in the box.
30
BY LATE Tuesday evening, I had everything in place. I ate dinner at Mama's, working over my copy of Harness Lines, looking for a horse that would make me rich. Max came in, carrying his baby, Immaculata at his side. Mama snatched the baby from Max and pushed him toward my booth. She took Immaculata into a corner of her own. I saw a flash of pink as the purse changed hands.
I explained to Max that there'd be five hundred apiece for us no matter what Marques wanted. We weren't going to rough off any extras unless the pimp got stupid. He pointed at the racing sheet I had spread out in front of me, looked a question. I shook my head—there was nothing worth an investment.
Max held up five fingers, looked a question. He knew Marques was paying four times that—where was the rest of the money going? It wasn't like Max to ask. Maybe a baby changes everything. I held one hand chest–high, waving the other in sweeping gestures. The Prof. Then I made goggles of my hands, held them over my eyes. Max looked a question. I made the sign of pushing a plunger with both hands, setting off an explosion. The Mole. He looked another question—why all these people for a meeting? I spilled salt on the table, drew a circle. I put two coins inside the circle. Marques plus one coin. He was bringing somebody with him. I put