Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [29]
"So?"
"So you got no beef with me, man. I know you used to rough off trollers in Times Square—take them down right in the bus station. know you chase runaways. See what I'm saying? I know you. That's why I didn't call myself. Didn't want you to get the wrong idea." He waved his hand at Belle. "I paid this bitch real money just to put you and me together."
"That lady don't look like no bitch to me," the Prof said. "Don't look like one of yours either."
Belle stepped slightly to the side, flashing a tiny smile at the Prof.
"She don't need to be mine to be a bitch, man. They all sell their time."
"I didn't know you were a philosopher, Marques," I told him. "And I don't give a fuck. The only time you bought here is mine. And you've about used it up."
Marques locked eyes with me. "You know the Ghost Van?" he asked.
The Prof's hand bit into my shoulder.
I nodded.
The pimp went on as though I'd said no. "Big smoke–colored van. No windows. A few weeks ago, it comes off the river on Twentyninth. I got ladies working that block. Van pulls past the pack. Stops. One of the baby girls, not mine, she trots over. The doors swing open and she drops in the street. Nobody heard a shot. The other girls get in the wind. Papers say the little girl was fourteen. Shot in the chest. Dead."
I lit another smoke. Beads of sweat on the pimp's smooth face, his hands working like he didn't know where to put them.
"The next week, two more shootings. Two dead girls. One fifteen, one nineteen. I move my girls over to the East Side, but the pickings too slim there. This van must come off the river. The girls say it's like a ghost. One minute everything's cool; the next this gray thing is on the street. Taking life.
"Last week, one of the little girls gets in a blue Caddy. The Caddy goes up the street. One of my ladies gets curious; she pokes her head around the corner. Two guys get out of the Caddy, holding the girl. She's kicking and screaming. They throw her into the Ghost Van. The Caddy drives off and the van just fucking disappears.
"My ladies don't want to work. The street's like a church social, man. I move the girls again. Way downtown. Brooklyn. The Bronx. Everyplace, man. Three more girls been shot, one more snatched. All near the river. But even out of the city, working girls be saying they seen the van. Like a hawk coming down. The girls see the shadow, they run."
"What do you want from me?"
"Cops is all over the street. My ladies got to work someplace. If they can't work near the river, I got a serious deficit, you follow me? Between the Man and the van, I'm up against it. Until they take that van off, my girls are running scared, jumping at shadows. That hurts me, man."
"In the pocket."
"Yeah, okay, Burke. You a good citizen, right? You look down on me—that's your business. But this is your business too, the way I hear it."
"How's that?"
"The van is full of shooters and snatchers, man. And babies is what they hit. Right up your alley, right?"
"Wrong."
"Look, man, let's all be telling the truth here. The word's been out a long time—you got a kiddie problem, you call Burke. I know you ain't no social worker. You an outlaw, like me. You just work a different side of the street."
"I work for money."
"You think I'm here for myself? The players got together. This is bad for everyone, not just Marques Dupree. We put up a kitty."
"Pussy put up the kitty," said the Prof.
"Call it like you see it, it make you feel better. I call it what it is."
I waited.
"A bounty. Fifty thousand bucks. Dead or alive. The van's got to go. Goes to Attica, goes to Forest Lawn, makes no difference to us."
"Hire a private eye."
"I said a bounty, man. I look like a fucking trick to you? We not paying anyone by the hour."
"Put the money out on the street."
"Can't do that."
"Why?"
"We can't wait for some faggot to drop a dime. And we can't be sure the Man will do the work anyway."
"Why not?"
"We heard