Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [28]
"Your trunk is locked," I said. "I don't need to open it. Let's walk over this way."
I moved to my left, farther away from the parked cars. Marques kept his cash in his fist.
"Here it is," I said. "If anyone opens your trunk, there's a big bang. Okay? Everything goes right here tonight, goes like it's supposed to, my friend takes the package off your trunk. Understand?"
"No problem. You said two large?"
I nodded.
Marques peeled hundreds off his roll, letting me see the two thousand was nothing. I pocketed the cash.
Marques turned to Belle. "Go sit in the car."
She turned to go, nothing on her face. "Stay where you are," I said.
Marques shrugged, his face showing nothing. I knew what was in his mind—if Belle was a hostage, she was a worthless one.
I lit a cigarette. Max materialized out of the night. Marques jumped, his hands flying to his face. Max reached out one hand, picked up the Prof by the back of his jacket, and hoisted him to the railing.
Marques slowly dropped his hands. "You got a lot of friends, huh?"
"A lot of friends," I assured him.
He adjusted his cuffs, letting me see the diamond watch, getting his rap down smooth before he laid it out. Pimps don't like talking on their feet. "I paid for some time."
"Here it is."
Marques took a breath through his nose. It sounded hollow. Cocaine does that. His voice had that hard–sweet pimp sound, promise and threat twisting together like snakes in a basket. "We never met, but we know each other. I know what you do—you know what I do. I have a problem. A business problem."
I watched his face. His eyes were narrow slits in folds of hard flesh. I backed up so the Prof could put his hand on my shoulder.
"I'm listening."
"I am a player. A major player. I got a stable of racehorses, you follow me? All my girls are stars. All white, and all right."
The Prof laughed. "You got nothing but tire–biters and street–scarfers, my man. One of your beasts sees the front seat of a car, she thinks it's the Hilton."
Marques looked at me. "Who's this, man? Your designated hitter?"
"No, pal. He's a polygraph machine."
"You know my action or not?"
I felt the Prof's hand on my shoulder. A quick squeeze.
"Yes," I said.
"Then you know I don't run no jail bait, right? No kiddie pross in my string?"
Another squeeze from the Prof. I nodded agreement.
"I am an elevated player, you understand? That ride cost me over a hundred grand, and I got a better one back at my crib. I wear the best, I eat the best, and I live the best. I don't associate with these half–ass simps who think they can run on the fast track. I don't hang around the Port Authority snatching runaways. I don't wear no leopardskin hats, I don't flash no zircons, and that ain't no Kansas City bankroll in my pocket. My ladies are clean machines, and they're all of righteous age. I got lawyers, I got a bondsman, and I got my act together, all right? I don't make trouble, and I don't take trouble."
The Prof spoke up, his voice a near–perfect imitation of the pimp's. "Okay, Jim, you ain't Iceberg Slim. We got the beat, get to the meat."
Marques smiled. "You got some rhythm, man. The little nigger does the rapping, you just stand there."
"I talk the talk, Burke walks the walk," the Prof told him.
Marques wasn't a good listener. "What's the chink do, man? You going to send out for Chinese food?"
The Prof's voice went soft. "This is Max the Silent, pimp. You hear the name, you should know the game."
Recognition flashed in the pimp's eyes. "He's the one…"
"That's right, fool," said the Prof, cutting him off. "Max ain't Chinese, but he sure as hell does take–out work."
"You done with the dozens?" I asked.
"Yeah, man, let's drop the games. I know you're a hijacker, I now you run guns, I know you do work on people. I need some work done."
"I don't work for pimps."
"I know that, man. You think everybody on the street don't know who shot Merlin?"
"I don't know any Merlin."
"Yeah, right. 'Course you don't. But I know Merlin was no player,