Blue Belle - Andrew Vachss [99]
Davidson was representing the kid. They call it being a "law guardian." The parents had their own lawyers; the city's lawyers represent the social workers. I still remember what he said:
"Judge, this baby will only be a child for a little while. Then he's an adult. We only have a few years to help him. The parents, they've had their chance. More than one. But this baby's not in foster care, he's in limbo. What about him? Isn't he entitled to some end to this? All butterflies, no matter how beautiful, have to land sometime. Or they die. The parents started this mess. The social workers kept it going. It's up to you to stop it. Stop it now. Let this baby have a real family."
The judge went along with it. He let the butterfly land. The baby was released for adoption. The mother cried. For herself. Davidson makes a living keeping criminals out of jail, but that day he kept someone from going to jail years later. I know.
My thoughts floating like that butterfly, looking for a safe place to land, I got out of the Plymouth. The clock said eight–fifty–five.
I started walking to the pay phone on the corner, snapping away my cigarette.
116
MARQUES ANSWERED on the first ring. "That you, Burke?"
"Yeah. I just wanted to make sure the phone was working at your end. I'll call you back in five minutes."
"Man, you think I got nothing better to do than to sit around here and…"
"Five minutes, Marques. No more. Then we'll talk. Be cool."
I hung up, started walking again.
I turned the corner, spotted the Rolls parked next to the pay phone. I came up to the driver's window from the back. It was open, a man's elbow resting on the sill. Diamonds on his wrist.
"Let's talk," I said.
Marques jumped. "What? How'd you…?"
"Everything's cool. Just relax. I didn't want to talk on the phone. How about we go for a ride?"
"I ain't going anywhere with you, man," he said, eyes darting around.
"In your car, okay? Anywhere you want to go."
He got hold of himself. "In the back seat," he snapped to the blonde next to him.
I held the back door for her. One of the whores who'd been with him in Junior's. She didn't smile. I climbed in the front. Marques backed the car out of his spot, headed uptown, to Harlem. "What happened to your hand, man?"
"Nothing much."
"Yeah. Okay, look here, I…"
"You want to talk in front of Christina?" I asked him, tilting my head toward the back seat.
"I told you before, man. This is my bottom woman. Besides, she's the one got the dope."
I lit a smoke. The windows whispered up, sealing off the outside world. We stopped at a light. Two kids rolled up to the driver's side. Marques hit the switch. A black kid bent down. "You want your windows done, Mr. Dupree?"
"Later, baby," the pimp said, slapping a bill into the kid's hand.
We pulled away, cruising. I waited. If Christina wanted to listen to Marques, that was okay with me, but I wasn't adding to the conversation.
"Remember you asked about this guy with Mortay? Ramón?"
I nodded.
"He's a switch–hitter, man. Takes it up the chute from Mortay, hands it back the other way."
"To boys?"
"To girls, man. This Mortay, he pulls hard guys. Right off the street in Times Square. Takes the most macho guys he can find: rough–off boys, sluggers… you know what I mean?"
I nodded again.
"He's bent, man. Bent out of shape like you wouldn't believe. He takes the hard guys, makes them suck his cock. Turns them right around. Then he marks them. With that diamond in the ear. This Ramón, he's not the first. He had another boy. Guy they called Butcher. Mortay turns him over. One day this Butcher is shaking down street people, doing his thing—next day he's walking with Mortay, that diamond in his ear."
I opened my hand in a "What happened next?"