Blue Belle

shot a man in a dispute over some gator hides.'

She pointed her toe in the air, flexing her thigh, drawing my eyes to the tattoo.

'Look close,' she whispered. 'Look real close. What do you see?'

'A snake.'

'When I was running through the swamp that first night, I stopped in a clearing. A snake hissed at me. Cottonmouth, maybe. I couldn't see him in the dark. He had me rooted - too scared to move. Then my mother's spirit came into me and I knew I had to go. No matter what. I threw a branch at the noise and it stopped. A gator wouldn't stop. I was dancing in this club in Jersey. All of the girls had tattoos. Butterfly tattoos. Their boyfriends' names. A rose on their butt. They told me where they got it done. I had the man do a snake. Right on my thigh, pointing at my cunt. A poison snake - that's all the men saw.'

I looked hard at the tattoo, knowing there was more. Seeing it. 'The snake, it's the letter 'S'.'

'Yes. For 'Sissy.' For my mother. it's the only gravestone she'll ever have.'

I lit a cigarette. 'That's where your dance comes from.'

'Tell me,' she whispered. 'Tell me you see it.'

'I see it. There's worse things than gators out there,' I told her. 'But not as bad as what's in the house.'

She kissed my chest. 'That's what I wanted,' she said, talking fast now, like I'd cut her off before she finished. 'That's what I wanted from you. Marques told me he wouldn't meet you without a cut-out. He told me you were a dangerous, crazy man. Said you used to be a hijacker and now you're a hired killer.'

'Marques doesn't . . .'

'Ssssh . . .' she said, putting her finger to my mouth. 'He said you killed a pimp just because he had a little girl on the street. He said everyone knows you lose your mind when people fuck kids. He said you took money to bring back some runaway girl. You got her away from the pimp, then you shot him anyway.'

'And you wanted . . .'

'I wanted you to rescue me. I told you the truth, honey. I told you the truth. It's my soul that's lost. My spirit. My mother saved my life - I need someone to save the rest.'

'The hijacking . . .'

'I deserve to have my ass beat for that. I played it wrong. I wanted a hard man. I knew I couldn't hold you with sex. I wanted you to rescue me - I wanted to be your partner. I thought if I brought you a solid-gold score, handed it to you on a platter . . . you'd know I was worth something. I didn't want the money.'

'Damn.'

'Burke. I don't care if you take off the back room. You want to do it, I'll drive the car. And I'll leave the engine running until you come out the door, I swear it.'

'And if I don't?'

'I'll go inside and pull you out.'

I took a deep drag. 'I mean, if I don't want to pull the robbery?'

'I just want you to want me,' she said, her voice grave. 'I never meant anything more in my life.'

I took another drag, feeling so tired.

'I can't rescue you, Belle.'

'You let me help you. Help you with your friend. Find that van. Then decide.'

I sat quietly, watching the shadows.

'Please, honey.'

'Go to sleep, Belle,' I said, stroking her back. 'If the Prof's okay, you can help.'

She closed her eyes on the promise.

50

She slept with her face against my chest. I brought the Prof's face into my mind, keeping him alive. Seeing the Prof made me see prison. Where we met. I never knew what sent him down that time. Any time the subject came up, the little man made it clear what he was about. 'I didn't use the phone, and I came here alone,' is all he'd say It was enough.

The first time I went down, I was a kid. In New York, sixteen years old, you're too far gone for another bit in reform school. I came in with a good jacket: attempted murder. But it wasn't enough. One thing good about all that time in reform school - I knew the rules. I did the thirty days on Fish Row by myself. The Prof rolled up on my cell one day - he was the runner. Said, 'This is from a friend,' and tossed a couple of packs of smokes and an old magazine in my cell. I wanted a smoke bad, but I left everything on my bunk, waiting for him to come around again. I grabbed him through the bars, pulling him close.

'Take this stuff back where you got it,' I said to him, nice and quiet. 'I got no friends here.'

The little man looked up at me. His eyes had a yellowish cast. No fear in them.

'Here's the slant on the plant, son. Don't play it hard when you not holding no cards.'

'I'm holding myself,' I told him. 'You tell whoever gave you this stuff for me that I'm sending it back, okay? And if he don't like it, tell him I'll send it back with interest when I hit the yard.'

The little man smiled, not even trying to pull away. 'Jump back, Jack! I ain't no wolf, and that's the truth.'

I looked over at the cigarettes. 'From you?'

'From me, fool. You never heard of the Welcome Wagon?'

'I thought . . .'

'I know what you thought, youngblood. Here's a clue - don't play the fool.'

'I can't pay you back,' I told him. 'I got no money on the books.'

'Look here, rookie. I've got more time behind the Wall than you've got on the earth. In prison, first you learn, then you earn.'

'Learn what?'

'Here's your first case, Ace. Don't smoke the butts. Don't read the magazine. Let it all sit. Don't trust me. When you get into Population, keep your ear to the ground, ask around. People call me the Prophet. I don't stand tall, but I stand up. Take a look before you book.'

I let go of him. The little man made his way down the tier, rhyming the time away.

When I got into Population, I moved slow. Asked around, like the man said. The Prophet had some rep. Guys knew him going back twenty years - this was at least his fifth time behind bars. He once did four years straight in solitary for smuggling a gun inside. He hooked up with a guy doing three life sentences, running wild. They took a guard hostage. Got all the way to the front gate when they ran out of room. The guy with him got blown away. The hacks broke half the bones in the Profs body.

In solitary, they kept at him. Every day, every night. He kept telling them the gun came to him in a vision. Every con in the joint knew where the gun came from . . . where it had to come from. A guard. And the Prof was too much of a man to give up even one of them.

It took a few weeks, but I finally saw the Prof on the yard. I rolled up on him, keeping both hands where he could see them. The group of men around him pulled up close. The Prof made a motion with his head and they peeled off, giving me room.

'What's the word, rookie?' he challenged me.

I took the two packs of smokes and the magazine from under my shirt.

'You handing them back?' he asked.

'No. I wanted you to see for yourself,' I said, opening a pack, taking out my first cigarette in seven weeks. 'Smoke?' I asked him, holding out the pack:

'Much obliged, Clyde,' the little man replied, a smile shining.

I hunkered down against the wall with him, my back to the yard, watching. Speaking out of the side of my mouth, looking straight ahead.

'I'm sorry for what I thought.'

'That's okay, gunfighter. You just a schoolboy in here.' I wasn't looking at him, but he must have felt the question.

'I glommed your jacket.'