Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [78]
Una Gente Libre—A Free People. Puerto Rican terrorists to the federales, hard–core independentistas to their people. The FBI had been trying to get a man inside for years—they'd have better luck getting Jimmy Hoffa to testify. The UGL didn't blow up buildings. They didn't write letters to the newspapers. Some of them fought in the mountains of their home, some in the city canyons of America. Their New York territory stretched from East Harlem to the Bronx. They kept their plate clean. You try to sell crack on their streets, you get cracked. You come back again, you get iced. The Colombians didn't like that much. One of their honchos sent a crew into UGL turf. Sprayed the streets with machine guns. Dropped five people, one of them a pregnant woman. The next day, the crack salesmen were back, stopping the BMWs and Mercedeses full of mobile slime on their way to the suburbs. Smiling. Three days later, the first salesman who showed up pushed his way through a crowd packed around a fire hydrant. The honcho's head was sitting on top of the fireplug like a bust in a museum display case. Whoever hacked it off hadn't been a surgeon. The last thing the salesman left on that street was his puke.
Dr. Pablo Cintrone was a psychiatrist. New York magazine did a profile on him once. Harvard Medical School graduate who returned to the mean streets to minister to his people. It made him sort of a hero to the upscale crowd for a couple of weeks. Not too many people in Spanish Harlem or the South Bronx read the magazine, but they knew El Jefe of the UGL.
92
INSIDE THE office, I let Pansy out to the roof while I checked the security systems. Nobody'd made a move on the place last night.
I changed into a dark pin–striped suit, grabbed a leather attaché case. It wouldn't get anybody's attention if I stood by the pay phone in the Criminal Court waiting for it to ring.
When Pansy saw the leash, she spun in a circle, dancing for joy. I hooked her up and we all went down the back stairs.
First stop was the hospital. I left Pansy in the back seat, taking Belle's hand.
"Is she going to be all right back there?"
"What could happen to her?" I asked, reasonably enough.
The Prof was sitting up in bed, half a dozen pillows propped up behind him. His legs were still in casts, but lying flat on the bed. A metal bar ran between the casts. I looked a question.
"To make sure they stay straight until the casts come off," he said.
"How you doing?"
"Not as sweet as drinking wine, not as bad as doing time."
"We got something," I said, moving close to the bed.
The little man's eyes shifted to where Belle was standing against the wall. I held out my hand behind me, not turning my head. She came up and took it. "She's with us," I told him. "She's in this."
He flashed his smile at her. "This your man, little girl?"
Her smile blazed back. "He surely is."
"That makes me your brother–in–law, darlin'. Soon's we finish this fight, I'll show you the sights."
She leaned over and kissed him. "I'll be waiting."
Belle sat on the bed. It didn't shift more than half a foot. I pulled up the chair, keeping my voice down.
"Mortay called. We got a meet tonight."
"Where?"
"Playground back of the Chelsea Projects."
"Skinner heaven."
"I know."
"I don't like it. If he don't buy the play, how you gonna walk away?"
"I need a shooter. With a night scope. On the roof."
"The only one I know is…"
"Not Wesley. I'll get someone else—I got it covered." The Prof didn't know about my connect to UGL.
His voice dropped even lower. "You going to dust him?"
"No way. Just make sure he gets the word—I want to tell him we got no beef. Walk away. The shooter is in case he wants to try and send another of his freakish messages."
"Burke, I'm telling you, this Mortay…"
"I got it covered," I told him again. "You hear anything?"
"Got some promises, but no product."
"I'll see you tomorrow."
He put his hand on mine. "Burke, listen to me like you used to on the yard. You want to roll the dice, make it nice."
"I got it," I said, throwing him a salute.
93