Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [46]
48
WHEN I woke up, it was past four o'clock in the morning. My jacket was soaking wet on the left side. I snatched the phone. Dial tone.
"It didn't ring." A soft voice from the bed. "I've been listening since you fell asleep."
"Thanks."
"I'll stay by the phone now. When you get where you're going, you can call me. If you don't get your call by then, you can switch the numbers, okay?"
"Yeah."
"I've got an electric heater: it gets cold by the water in the winter. You can dry your clothes first."
I pulled off my jacket, unbuttoned my shirt. Belle came off the bed. I handed them to her. "Your face is swollen," she said, her voice a breathy whisper, the way you tell a secret.
"It's no big deal. Nothing's broken."
"My heart is broken," she said. Like she was saying it was Wednesday morning.
"Belle…"
"Don't say anything. It's my fault. I made a mistake. I wanted a hard man. A hard man, not a cold man."
I lit a smoke. She came back over to me, her voice sad now. Sad for all of us. "Not a cold man, Burke. Not a man who wouldn't take my love."
"I just…"
"Yeah, I know. You think telling the truth's not a game for a woman to play."
"That's not it."
"No?" she challenged, her little–girl's voice laced with acid. "You think I couldn't find a cowboy to stick up a liquor store for me? You don't think I could pussy–whip some guido into picking up a gun? Sweet–talk some cockhound into showing me what a big man he is?"
"I know you could."
Belle stalked the room, unsnapping the suspender straps, pulling the T–shirt over her head, unhooking the bra. She worked the zipper, pulled the white pants over her hips. She sat down on the bed. Unlaced her sneakers, threw them into a corner. She went over to the kitchen corner, where my shirt and jacket were stretched on coat hangers, baking in the glow from the electric heater. She picked up my shirt. "It'll dry better this way," she said, slipping into it. She tried to button it; it wouldn't close over her breasts.
She fell to her knees beside me, hands on my thigh, looking up at my face.
"Can we have another chance?"
"Who's 'we'?"
"You and me."
"To do what?"
"To tell the truth. Let me tell you the truth. The real truth. I swear on my mother," she whispered, one hand making an X on her breast. "That's my sacred oath."
"Belle…"
"Don't hurt me like this, Burke. I'd never hurt you. You don't know what I want. You don't have any idea. Let me say what I have to say."
She got to her feet, held out her hand.
I took it.
She pulled me to her bed. "Sit down," she said. She took a fat black candle, grounded it in a glass ashtray, positioned it on top of the headboard of the bed. "Light it," she said.
I fired a wooden match. I heard a click—the electric heater snapping off. Belle laid back on the bed, her hands behind her head. I sat next to her, watching the tiny candle flame.
"This is the truth," she began. "I grew up in a little place you never heard of. In South Florida. Just me, my father, and my big sister. Sissy. We lived on the edge of the swamp in a tiny house. Not much bigger than this one. My father did a little bit of this, a little bit of that. Like everyone there. Grew some vegetables out back. Made some liquor. There was a mill nearby—he'd work when they had work. Shoot him some gator for the hides. Fix boats. We lived poor, but nice. When my father would make a good score, he'd always buy something for the house. Had a big old freezer, nice color TV. Good boat too. Mercury outboard." Her voice trailed off, remembering. I lit a cigarette, handed it to her.
"I was always told my mother died giving birth to me. Sissy really raised me—took care of me—my father never paid me any attention."
She took a drag on the cigarette, looking at the dark ceiling.
"I was a big, tall girl, even when I was real young. And skinny too—you believe that?"
"Sure."
"I was. Like a board. Ugly old skinny girl with no kind of face at all. Sissy was pretty once. You could tell by looking at her in the morning light. Sissy was hard on me. I had to do my chores sharp, or she'd