Marques Dupree. A chesty mahogany man with a smooth, round face. He was wearing a dove-gray silk suit with a metallic pinstripe. Deep-slashed lapels over a peach-colored shirt. Sprayed in diamonds. He and Belle stopped in front of me.
'You're Burke?'
'Yeah.'
'Who's this?' Indicating the Prof.
'My brother.'
'You don't look like brothers.'
'We had the same father.'
Marques smiled. I caught the flash of a diamond in his mouth. 'I never did time, myself.'
I didn't want to swap life stories. 'You want to do business?' I asked him.
Marques put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a roll of bills. A car door slammed. He didn't turn around. 'What's that?'
'Just checking your car. Making sure you didn't bring friends.'
'You said one friend apiece.'
'You said you never did time.'
Another door slammed. I lit a cigarette. Two more slamming doors. A bright burning dot of light fired where the dark sedan was parked. Okay.
'Your trunk is locked,' I said. 'I don't need to open it. Let's walk over this way.'
I moved to my left, farther away from the parked cars. Marques kept his cash in his fist.
'Here it is,' I said. 'If anyone opens your trunk, there's a big bang. Okay? Everything goes right here tonight, goes like it's supposed to, my friend takes the package off your trunk. Understand?'
'No problem. You said two large?'
I nodded.
Marques peeled hundreds off his roll, letting me see the two thousand was nothing. I pocketed the cash.
Marques turned to Belle. 'Go sit in the car.'
She turned to go, nothing on her face. 'Stay where you are,' I said.
Marques shrugged, his face showing nothing. I knew what was in his mind - if Belle was a hostage, she was a worthless one.
I lit a cigarette. Max materialized out of the night. Marques jumped, his hands flying to his face. Max reached out one hand, picked up the Prof by the back of his jacket, and hoisted him to the railing.
Marques slowly dropped his hands. 'You got a lot of friends, huh?'
'A lot of friends,' I assured him.
He adjusted his cuffs, letting me see the diamond watch, getting his rap down smooth before he laid it out. Pimps don't like talking on their feet. 'I paid for some time.'
'Here it is.'
Marques took a breath through his nose. It sounded hollow. Cocaine does that. His voice had that hard-sweet pimp sound, promise and threat twisting together like snakes in a basket. 'We never met, but we know each other. I know what you do - you know what I do. I have a problem. A business problem.'
I watched his face. His eyes were narrow slits in folds of hard flesh. I backed up so the Prof could put his hand on my shoulder.
'I'm listening.'
'I am a player. A major player. I got a stable of racehorses, you follow me? All my girls are stars. All white, and all right.'
The Prof laughed. 'You got nothing but tire-biters and streetscarfers, my man. One of your beasts sees the front seat of a car, she thinks it's the Hilton.'
Marques looked at me. 'Who's this, man? Your designated hitter?'
'No, pal. He's a polygraph machine.'
'You know my action or not?'
I felt the Prof's hand on my shoulder. A quick squeeze.
'Yes,' I said.
'Then you know I don't run no jail bait, right? No kiddie pross in my string?'
Another squeeze from the Prof. I nodded agreement.
'I am an elevated player, you understand? That ride cost me over a hundred grand, and I got a better one back at my crib. I wear the best, I eat the best, and I live the best. I don't associate with these half-ass simps who think they can run on the fast track. I don't hang around the Port Authority snatching runaways. I don't wear no leopardskin hats, I don't flash no zircons, and that ain't no Kansas City bankroll in my pocket. My ladies are clean machines, and they're all of righteous age. I got lawyers, I got a bondsman, and I got my act together, all right? I don't make trouble, and I don't take trouble.'
The Prof spoke up, his voice a near-perfect imitation of the pimp's. 'Okay, Jim, you ain't Iceberg Slim. We got the beat, get to the meat.'
Marques smiled. 'You got some rhythm, man. The little nigger does the rapping, you just stand there.'
'I talk the talk, Burke walks the walk,' the Prof told him.
Marques wasn't a good listener. 'What's the chink do, man? You going to send out for Chinese food?'
The Profs voice went soft. 'This is Max the Silent, pimp. You hear the name, you should know the game.'
Recognition flashed in the pimp's eyes. 'He's the one . . .'
'That's right, fool,' said the Prof, cutting him off.
'Max ain't Chinese, but he sure as hell does take-out work.'
'You done with the dozens?' I asked.
'Yeah, man, let's drop the games. I know you're a hijacker, I know you run guns, I know you do work on people. I need some work done.'
'I don't work for pimps.'
'I know that, man. You think everybody on the street don't know who shot Merlin?'
'I don't know any Merlin.'
'Yeah, right. 'Course you don't. But I know Merlin was no player, man. He was a stone rapist - that's what he was. Jumping on those little girls like an animal. Whoever shot him did all the real players a favor.'
'So?'
'So you got no beef with me, man. I know you used to rough off trollers in Times Square - take them down right in the bus station. I know you chase runaways. See what I'm saying? I know you. That's why I didn't call myself. Didn't want you to get the wrong idea.' He waved his hand at Belle. 'I paid this bitch real money just to put you and me together.'
'That lady don't look like no bitch to me,' the Prof said. 'Don't look like one of yours either.'
Belle stepped slightly to the side, flashing a tiny smile at the Prof.
'She don't need to be mine to be a bitch, man. They all sell their time.'
'I didn't know you were a philosopher, Marques,' I told him. 'And I don't give a fuck. The only time you bought here is mine. And you've about used it up.'
Marques locked eyes with me. 'You know the Ghost Van?' he asked.
The Prof's hand bit into my shoulder.
I nodded.
The pimp went on as though I'd said no. 'Big smoke-colored van. No windows. A few weeks ago, it comes off the river on Twenty-ninth. I got ladies working that block. Van pulls past the pack. Stops. One of the baby girls, not mine, she trots over. The doors swing open and she drops in the street. Nobody heard a shot. The other girls get in the wind. Papers say the little girl was fourteen. Shot in the chest. Dead.'
I lit another smoke. Beads of sweat on the pimp's smooth face, his hands working like he didn't know where to put them.
'The next week, two more shootings. Two dead girls. One fifteen, one nineteen. I move my girls over to the East Side, but the pickings too slim there. This van must come off the river. The girls say it's like a ghost. One minute everything's cool; the next this gray thing is on the street. Taking life.
