Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [90]
"Hello?"
"It's me. You okay?"
"I'm fine, honey."
"What's your favorite animal?"
She caught it. "An alligator. It's clear, baby."
I hung up, stepping back into the Plymouth. Her door opened as I was coming up the walk. I slipped into the darkness, the pistol in my hand.
106
I WENT to the couch, set the pistol down next to me, reached for the phone. Belle sat next to me, reaching out her hand.
"Honey…"
"Get away from me, Belle. I got work to do and I don't have much left."
I punched the numbers, cursing Ma Bell for having different area codes for Queens and Manhattan. Mama picked up.
"It's me. No time to talk. You get to Immaculata. Get her to come and see you, okay?"
"Okay."
"She has to go out of town for a while. With the baby, Mama. That's the important thing. With the baby. Let her tell Max whatever she wants—visit friends, whatever. But get her out of here."
"Max too?"
"Can you do it?"
"Big problems for me. Business problems. In Boston, okay?"
"Okay. But keep him low to the ground. Work quiet."
"Tomorrow morning he goes."
"With the baby."
"With baby. Like you say. Come by, tell me soon."
"Soon."
"Plenty help here, okay? Nobody hurt baby."
"Get them out of here, Mama."
"All done," she said.
I took a deep breath. Belle was motionless next to me. I punched another number, taking the lighted cigarette she held out. The Mole's phone was picked up at his end.
"It's me. I'm okay."
He hung up.
I started to shake then. Couldn't get the cigarette into my mouth. Belle put her arms around me, pressing my head to her breasts.
"Let it go," I said, pushing her away. "Let it come out—I know what to do."
I let the fear snake its way through me, shaking my body, a terrier with a rat. I replayed the tape—back in the playground, down on the ground, a ribbon of killer bees death–darting between me and Mortay, El Cañonero on the high ground keeping me safe.
My body trembled in the terror seizure. Malaria flashes. Taking me back to the burned–out jungle in Biafra where fear grew thicker than the vines.
I couldn't make it stop—didn't even try. I stayed quiet and still. Careful as a man with broken ribs—the kind that puncture a lung if you cough.
Fear ran its race.
When it stopped, I was soaking wet, limp. Drained. I closed my eyes then, sliding my face into Belle's lap.
107
IT WAS still dark when I came around. I turned my head. My face slid across Belle's lap, her thighs slick with sweat. Or tears. I pulled myself up, next to her.
"Can you get a duffel bag out of the trunk of my car? I need to take a shower—I don't like the way I smell."
"You smell fine to me."
"Just do it, okay?"
She got up without another word. I took off my clothes. They felt heavy in my hands. I dropped them on the floor, stepped into the shower.
When I came back out, Belle had the duffel bag on the couch. I toweled myself off, put on a fresh set of clothes. Belle's clock said two–fifteen. I took a pillowcase from the duffel bag, stuffed everything I'd been wearing into it, even the cheap watch.
"I don't have a washing machine here," she said, watching my face.
"This stuff needs an incinerator," I said, tossing it near the front door.
"You want a drink?"
"Ice water."
She cracked some cubes in a glass, ran the tap, brought it over to me. I lit a cigarette, watching my hands on the matches. They didn't shake.
I propped myself against the arm of the couch, sipping the water, smoking my cigarette. Watching the smoke drift to the ceiling. Belle stood a few feet away, watching me, not saying a word.
"Come here, baby," I said.
She sat on the floor next to the couch. I put my hand on the back of her neck, holding her. It was quiet and safe in the dark. Belle took the ashtray from me, put it on the floor where I could reach it. Lit a smoke of her own.
"When I was a young man, just a kid really, I had a place of my own. A basement, but it was fixed up like an apartment. I was raised in other people's places: the