Blue Belle

'Should I call you and tell you if he . . . ?'

'Don't call me. I'll be at the pier. Just tell him if he doesn't show not to call me again.'

'You take me home anyway.'

'Yes.'

Belle leaned against me. A big, sweet-smelling girl with a snake tattoo on her thigh. She pushed her hand against my chest, holding me against the seat. Kissed me hard on the mouth, saying, 'See you Tuesday,' at the same time.

I watched the white shift dance in the dark parking lot until it disappeared behind the blue building.

29

Max was already dealt in on the meeting with Marques. I could get a message to the Mole easy enough, even if he didn't answer his phone. That still left me a few days to find the Prof.

It might take that long. The little man could be sleeping in doorways or prowling hotel corridors. He could be working the subway tunnels or the after-hours joints. He never had an address, but you couldn't call him 'homeless.' I asked him once why he didn't find himself a crib somewhere - why he lived in the street. 'I got the balls, and I don't like walls,' he told me. He didn't have to explain any more than that - we'd met in prison.

I think 'Prof' was once short for 'Professor,' because he always seemed so much older and smarter than the rest of us. But somewhere along the line, he started telling the kind of truth they never write down in books, and now it stands for 'Prophet.'

A citizen couldn't find the Prof, but I knew where he picked up his paycheck. A few years ago, I'd fixed him up with SSI. Psychiatric disability. His official diagnosis was 'Schizophrenia. Chronic, undifferentiated.' The resident at Bellevue noted the Prof's grossly disorganized thought pattern, his grandiose pronouncements, his delusion that he was getting his marching orders from the dead spirit of Marcus Garvey. A typical microwave case. They tried medication and it did what it usually does - the Prof got sleepy. It was worth the thirty-day investment. When they discharged the Prof, they gave him a one-week supply of medication, a standing appointment at the clinic, and what the little man called his 'crazy papers.'

Once a year, the federales would send a letter to the Prof demanding a 'face to face.' He had to make a personal appearance at the clinic. Not to prove that he was still crazy, just that he was still alive. Uncle Sam likes to keep a close watch on his money.

It was a two-sided scam. Not only did the Prof get a disability check every month, but the diagnosis was a Get Out of Jail Free card in case he ever went down for something major. Nothing like putting an insanity defense together before you commit the crime. The government mails him the check to General Delivery, at the giant post office on Eighth Avenue, right across from Madison Square Garden. There are so many homeless people in New York that the General Delivery window does more business than most small towns.

I addressed a postcard to the Prof. Wrote 'Call home' on the back, and dropped it in the box.

30

By late Tuesday evening, I had everything in place. I ate dinner at Mama's, working over my copy of Harness Lines, looking for a horse that would make me rich. Max came in, carrying his baby, Immaculata at his side. Mama snatched the baby from Max and pushed him toward my booth. She took Immaculata into a corner of her own. I saw a flash of pink as the purse changed hands.

I explained to Max that there'd be five hundred apiece for us no matter what Marques wanted. We weren't going to rough off any extras unless the pimp got stupid. He pointed at the racing sheet I had spread out in front of me, looked a question. I shook my head - there was nothing worth an investment.

Max held up five fingers, looked a question. He knew Marques was paying four times that - where was the rest of the money going? It wasn't like Max to ask. Maybe a baby changes everything. I held one hand chest-high, waving the other in sweeping gestures. The Prof. Then I made goggles of my hands, held them over my eyes. Max looked a question. I made the sign of pushing a plunger with both hands, setting off an explosion. The Mole. He looked another question - why all these people for a meeting? I spilled salt on the table, drew a circle. I put two coins inside the circle. Marques plus one coin. He was bringing somebody with him. I put down two more. Me and Max. Then I added the Prof, tapping the side of my head. I didn't know what Marques wanted and I might have to give him an answer right there. The Prof knew the hustling scene - he'd be more on top of Marques than I would.

I picked up one more coin, gesturing that it was the Mole. Put it on the table, deliberately outside the circle. Patted my back. Insurance policy. Max nodded.

Immaculata came over to the table, put her hand on Max's shoulder.

'Burke, is this dangerous?'

'Not a chance, Mac,' I said, making the sign of steering a car. 'You think I'm going to let Max drive?'

She laughed. Max looked burned. He thought he could drive the same way he walked: with people stepping aside when they saw him coming. But weasels who wouldn't meet his eyes on the street get big balls when they're behind the wheel. Driving a car, he was a rhino on angel dust.

Max kissed Flower goodbye. Mac held the baby's little hand at the wrist, helping her wave goodbye to her father.

31

We found the Prof where he said he'd be, standing by a bench at the east end of the park in Union Square. When he saw the Plymouth pull up, he hoisted a canvas sack over one shoulder and walked to us. The Prof was wearing a formal black tuxedo, complete with a white carnation in the lapel. The shiny coat reached almost to his feet, like a cattleman's duster. Some chump was going to be poorly dressed for his senior prom.

'Yo, bro', what you know?' he greeted us, climbing in the back of the Plymouth like it was the limo he'd been waiting for.

I turned west on 14^th, heading for the river. The Prof poked his head between me and Max, linking our shoulders with his hands. 'What's down, Burke?'

'Like I told you, Prof. Marques Dupree wants a meet. He went to a lot of trouble to get to me - walking around the edges. He's supposed to bring two G's with him. Four-way split. All we have to do is listen to his pitch.'

'Who's the fourth?'

'The Mole will be there. Off to the side.'

'You want me to ride the trunk?'

'No, we go in square. I don't know what he wants, okay? I may need a translator,'

'The street is my beat,' said the Prof.

Max looked straight ahead.

We got to the pier around ten-thirty. I pulled the Plymouth against the railing, parked it parallel. The pier was deserted except for a dark, boxy sedan parked about a hundred feet behind us.

We all got out. Max was dressed in flowing black parachute pants and a black sweatshirt. Thin-soled black leather shoes on his feet. He disappeared into the shadows. The Prof stood next to him. I leaned against the railing a few feet away. We waited. Max and the Prof took turns smoking, Max bending forward every time he took a drag when it was his turn. A watcher would see the little red dots, murky shapes. Two people.

Headlights hit the pier. A big old Rolls-Royce, plum-colored, with black fenders. I could see two heads behind the windshield. The Rolls parked at right angles to the Plymouth. Two doors opened. The Prof and I stepped into the outer fringe of the headlights, letting whoever was in the car see us.

Two people came toward us. Belle was a shapeless hulk in a gray sweatsuit. Even with sneakers on her feet, she was as tall as the man next to her.