Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [54]
"It's not your fault—she's a goddamned extortionist."
Pansy growled agreement, always eager for praise.
Belle's white sweatshirt was soaked. She pulled it over her head. "I'll wear something of yours," she said, smiling.
I knew none of my shirts would fit her, but I kept my mouth shut. I found a black turtleneck sweater in a drawer, tossed it to her.
I pulled out a dark suit, nice conservative blue shirt, black knit tie. A pair of black–rimmed glasses and an attache case and I was set.
Belle looked me over. "I didn't know you wore glasses."
"They're just plain glass—they change the shape of your face."
"That's what I wish I could do," she said bitterly.
"I like your face," I told her.
"It doesn't look like his," she said. "But I still see him in the mirror sometimes."
"If it hurts you, maybe you should fix it."
"You mean like plastic surgery?"
"No."
"Oh. You think…?"
"Now's not the time, little girl."
She nodded. A trusting child's face watching me. Listening.
Just about time to go. I let Pansy out to the roof, blanking my mind. No point speculating—the Prof would have something for me and I'd find out when I saw him.
Pansy strolled downstairs and flopped down in a corner. She wasn't into exercise.
"You want a beer?" I asked Belle.
"Who drinks beer at this hour?"
I pulled the last bottle of Bud from the refrigerator, uncapped it, and poured it into a bowl. Pansy charged over—made it disappear.
55
SAINT VINCENT'S is in the West Village, not far from my office. "Just act like you know where you're going," I told Belle.
The information desk gave us a visitor's pass and we took the elevator. Room 909 was at the end of the corridor. I walked in first, not looking forward to shooting the breeze with Melvin, hoping the Prof was already on the scene.
He was. In the hospital bed, both legs in heavy casts, suspended by steel wires. A pair of IV tubes ran into his arm. His face was charcoal–ash, eyes closed. He looked smaller than ever—a hundred years old.
My eyes swept the room. Empty except for a chair in the corner. I came to the bed quietly, images jamming my brain.
The Prof didn't move, didn't open his eyes. I bent close to him.
"Burke?" His voice was calm. Drugged?
"It's me, brother."
"You got my message?"
"Yeah. What happened?"
His eyes flicked open. They were bloodshot but clear, focused on my face. His voice was soft, barely a whisper. "I was poking around. On my cart. Scoping the scene, you know? I was working Thirty–sixth and Tenth. By the Lincoln Tunnel."
The Prof does this routine where he folds his legs under him and pulls himself along on a board with roller skates bolted to the bottom. It looks like he has no legs at all. Sometimes he carries a sign and a metal cup. Working close to the ground.
"You want to wait on this? Get some rest?"
His eyes hardened. "They gave me pain, but I'm still in the game. The nurse'll be around in a few minutes to give me another shot. You need to know now."
I put my hand on his forearm, next to the IV tubes. "Run it," I said, my voice as quiet as his.
"You ever hear of this freak karate–man they call Mortay?"
"The one who's hitting all the dojos? Challenging every sensei?"
"That's him. You know Kuo? Kung–fu man?"
"He teaches dragon–style, right? Over on Amsterdam?"
"He's dead, Burke. This Mortay hits the dojo, slaps Kuo in front of his own students. Kuo clears the floor and they go at it. Mortay left him right there."
I let out a breath. "Kuo's good."
"He's good and dead, bro'. It's been going on for a while. This Mortay's been selling tickets—says he's the world's deadliest human. The word is that he was kicked off the tournament circuit—he wouldn't pull his shots. Hurt a lot of people. He fought a death–match about a year ago. In the basement under Sin City."
"I heard about it."
"Every player on the scene was there. They put up a twenty–grand purse, side bets all over the place. He fought this Japanese guy from the Coast. The way I heard it, Mortay just played with him