Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [39]
There was a trotter I fancied in the fourth race at Yonkers. Mystery Mary, a five–year–old mare, moving down from Canada. She'd been running in Open company at Greenwood, finishing pretty consistently in the money, but no wins. She had a lot of early speed, which is unusual for a mare, but she kept getting run down in the deep stretch. Greenwood is a five–eighths–of–a–mile track—a long run from the three–quarter pole to the finish line. Yonkers was a half–miler—a longer launch and a shorter way home. She was moving up to higher purses in New York, but I thought she had a shot if she could get away clean. I checked the last eight races. Mystery Mary was a sure–footed little trotter—no breaks on her card. The morning line had her at 6–1. Most of the OTB bettors would use the Daily News as a handicapping form. All that would show is her last three outs: two thirds and a fifth–place finish. I made a mental note to call my broker before the close of business, flipped on the TV, and kicked back on the couch. The last thing I remember before falling asleep was Abbott telling Costello that paying back rent was like betting on a dead horse.
It wasn't a good sleep. Dark, fleshy dreams. Flood facing the Cobra, the snake on his arm turning into the tattoo on Belle's thigh. Strega licking her bloody lips, crazy eyes full of ugly promises. The Ghost Van zoomed up a narrow street, a silent gray shark. Max at the end of the block, waiting, shielding Flower in one arm.
I woke up before the crash, sweating like when I'd had malaria. Sergeant Bilko was on the TV. A little past three o'clock.
I took a shower, changed my clothes. Pansy jumped on the couch as I was walking out the door.
Mama still had nothing for me. I dropped another quarter, called Maurice. He answered in his usual breezy style.
"Yeah?"
"It's Burke."
"This a social call, or what?"
"Yonkers. Give me the two horse, fourth race. A deuce to win."
"At Yonkers. Horse number two, race number four. Two on the nose, is that right?"
"Right. How you doing, Maurice?"
"You want conversation, play fucking Lotto," he said, hanging up.
I changed phones, fed another quarter. I don't know why they make dimes anymore. I rang the direct–line number of a reporter I know.
"Morelli."
"It's Burke. You got anything outside the clips on this Ghost Van?"
"Bullshit gossip. Cop talk. Nothing good."
"The cops think they're close?"
"They're waiting for the van to get a parking ticket."
"Can you pull the clips for me?"
"You looking?"
"Looking around, anyway. "
"You'll clue me in front?"
"If I can."
"I'll pull the clips, leave them downstairs by six. Okay?"
"Yeah. Could you do a NEXIS spin too? See if there's any more van jobs around the country?"
"You think it's a group?"
"No, but check anyway."
"You got it."
One more call. Belle answered on the first ring, sounding like she ran a hundred yards to snatch it off the hook.
"Hello?"
"It's me. Want to get some dinner?"
"Oh, I'm starved. There's nothing in the house."
"I know. Why didn't you go out?"
"I knew you were going to call."
"I said..never mind. I'll pick you up in an hour, okay?"
"Hurry up," she said.
I put the phone down, moving fast to beat the charge out of the city.
42
I PULLED in behind the red Camaro a little after five. The door opened as my fist came down to knock. A hand came around my neck, pulling me inside. Belle mashed her face against mine, kissing me hard, firing her hip at the door to close it.
She pulled her face back a couple of inches, still holding on to me.
"That was a cold kiss. Didn't you miss me?"
"I was working, Belle."
Her mouth went down at the corners. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to push you."
I put my hand on the back of her neck, working the tight muscles, keeping my voice quiet.
"You're not pushing me. You don't know me, okay? I don't show a lot on the surface