Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [42]
"She couldn't care less."
"That's my kind of girl," Belle said, and kissed the side of my mouth.
45
THE JOINT I took her to just says "Bar" over the green metal door. A hustlers' hangout off West Street, it serves decent food in the back room, all the tables set aside in booths so people can do business.
I left Belle in the booth to call Mama from one of the pay phones in the bar. I dialed the number that rings at her desk, in the front of the restaurant. She said something in Cantonese.
"Anything?" I asked.
"No calls," she said, recognizing my voice.
I hung up, went back inside. A redheaded waitress was talking to Belle. I recognized her as I got close. MaryEllen. She'd been working there for years. It was a nice quiet joint, no grab–ass drunks, all business.
"What'll it be?" she asked, like she'd never seen me before. My kind of place.
"You order?" I asked Belle, watching her settle into the booth. Sitting down, she was shorter than me—I guess most of her height was legs.
"I waited for you, honey."
I looked up at MaryEllen. There's no menu, but the food doesn't vary much.
"We have some real nice shell steaks."
I looked a question at Belle. She nodded. "One medium and one…" I looked at Belle again. "Rare," she said. I ordered a ginger ale. "You have beer on tap?" Belle asked. MaryEllen shook her head no.
"What brand?"
"Cold," Belle said, smiling at her.
Maybe she had been starving—Belle TKO'd her steak in the first round. She had two more beers and half my potatoes before I was halfway through. "You want another one?" I asked her, joking. She nodded happily. Even with the head start, we finished about the same time.
MaryEllen cleared the plates off. I lit a smoke.
"Don't they have dessert?" Belle asked.
"Not here," I told her. "You want coffee?"
"Can I have ice cream later?"
"Sure."
I was smoking my cigarette, thinking about the Prof. Belle sipped her coffee, watching me quietly. I felt a hand on my shoulder, a lilac–and–jasmine smell. Michelle. Wearing a wine–colored silk sheath, a black scarf at her throat. She looked a question at me. I moved over so she could sit down next to me. She gave me a quick kiss as she slid in, turned to look at Belle, talking to me out of the side of her mouth.
"Hi, baby. Who's your friend?"
"Michelle, this is Belle."
Michelle held out a manicured hand. "Hi, honey."
"Hello," Belle said, shaking her hand. Holding on to it too long, watching my face.
Michelle took her hand back, figuring it all out in a split second. "Don't look at me like that, girl. This ugly thug's my brother, not my lover."
Belle's mouth twitched into a half–smile. "He's not so ugly."
"Honey, please!"
Belle laughed. "He's got other fine qualities."
"I know," Michelle said.
Belle's face went hard. "Do you?"
Michelle stiffened, her claws coming out. "Look, country girl, I say what I mean. And I mean what I say. Let's put it all out, okay? I never had a brother until Burke came along. I love him—I don't sleep with him. Wherever you go with him, I don't want to go. And where I go with him, you can't go. Get it?"
"I get it."
"Get this too. You want to be my friend, you come with the best recommendation," Michelle said, patting my forearm. "You want to be a bitch, you came to the right place. I'll be here after you're gone, girl."
"I'm not going anywhere," Belle said.
"Then let's be friends, yes?" Michelle said, her sculptured face flashing a deadly smile.
"Yes," Belle said, reaching over and taking my hand.
Michelle took one of her long black cigarettes from a thin lacquer case and tapped the filter, waiting for a light. I cracked a wooden match. She cupped my hand around the fire, gently pulling in the smoke. Belle watched Michelle as if she had the answer to all her questions.
Michelle fumbled in her huge black patent–leather purse. She pulled out a sheaf of photographs. Terry. In a blue blazer with gold buttons, wearing a white shirt and a striped tie, his hair slicked down. "Isn't he handsome?"