Hard Candy - Andrew Vachss [6]
He tilted his head toward a dirty hand–painted sign on the near wall. No Gambling.
"It wouldn't be," I told him.
His lips curled. He didn't pretend it was a smile. "One money ball—a dime on the nine?"
I nodded. He reached in his pocket for a coin, started to toss it on the table.
"Do it," I said, sitting down.
Morales broke the balls the way he'd like to break mine. With a hard, straight–ahead slash. Lots of power, no stroke. The balls scattered, running for cover. The three dropped in. He power–slammed the one ball, not even thinking about running the table. A slugger—no finesse. When the dust settled, there were still eight balls on the green cloth.
He sat down, watching. I tapped the one ball down the long rail, leaving myself a clear shot at the two. Dumped it in. I kissed the cue off the four ball into the nine. The yellow–and–white striped ball went home. Morales got up to rack the balls. I raised my eyebrows at him.
"Put it on my tab."
I flicked my eyes to the No Gambling sign.
His face went dark. He took a deep breath through his nose, remembering why he was there. Tossed a crumpled ten–spot on the table. I picked it up, smoothed it out. Left it lying on the rail.
I made the nine ball on the break.
Morales put another ten down on the rail. Racked the balls.
I broke again. Two balls dropped. I lined up on the one.
His voice was light, hard–cored. Honey–coated aluminum. "Upstate, when you come in on a homicide beef, you know what they say about you?"
"Tough luck?"
"They say you got a body. Nice, huh? Some punk snuffs an old lady for the Welfare check, he struts around the block saying, 'I got a body.' You ever hear that one?"
"No."
I ran the rest of the table. Morales put a twenty down, taking back one of the tens. He racked the balls. I chalked my cue. Lit a smoke.
"We met once before, remember?"
"No."
"You remember my name?"
I locked his eyes. "Something with an 'M,' right? Miranda?"
"Smart guy. You got a body, Burke?"
My eyes never left his face. "You guys have one?" I asked.
"See you soon," he said, walking away.
I put his money in my pocket. Went back to pushing the balls around the table.
9
I DIDN'T NEED need the cop's cash.
There'd been a fifty–grand bounty on the Ghost Van. A killing machine for baby prostitutes. Pimps put up the coin—it was bad for business. Marques Dupree made the offer in a parking lot. Take the van off the street and collect the money. It was supposed to be a four–way split: me, the
Then it went to hell. A karateka who called himself Mortay was bodyguarding the van. The freak was a homicide–junkie. He fought a death–match in the basement of a porno circus. The players liked it even better than watching pit bulls or cockfights. And after that he walked through Times Square, frightening even the hard–core freaks. But the whispers stayed on the street. Max the Silent. The life–taking, widow–making wind of death, as the Prof named him years ago. Max could beat this Mortay.
The freak wanted Max. I tried to talk to him and he raised the stakes. Max fights him or Max's baby goes down.
I dealt Max out. Called in my chips. One of Mortay's boys was gunned down in a Chelsea playground. By El Cañonero, rifleman for the UGL, the underground Puerto Rican independence group headed by my compadre Pablo. Another was dog food. Belle dealt herself in. The van was scrap metal. And Mortay himself—they'd need a microscope to find the pieces.
I had a lot of bodies. And the cold ground had Belle's.
I didn't have to look for Marques. He called Mama—left frantic messages all over the city. Couldn't wait to put the cash in my hand.
I split it with the Prof and the Mole. The junkyard–genius would take care of Michelle. Belle left a stash behind—that was mine too.
Bail money. For a jail I couldn't walk out of.
10
BY THE TIME summer left the city, I thought the heat would leave me alone. But even months later, there was no place to go.
I was in a bar off Times Square. Sitting with the Prof, waiting for Michelle. I got up to get the Prof a brew.