She twirled again. Stood hip-shot, her back to me. 'Vertical stripes,' she boasted, patting her hip.
The black-and-white stripes were vertical all the way up her legs. But when they got to her butt, they stopped going parallel and ran for their lives in opposite directions. Flesh stomps fashion every time.
'You're the loveliest thing I've ever seen in my life,' I told her, reaching out my hand.
She slapped it away. 'No, you don't.' She laughed. 'I didn't put all this on for you to pull it off.'
I got to my feet, reaching in my pocket for the car keys. Belle moved in close to me, holding the lapel of my jacket with one hand. Dark-red polish on her nails.
'Burke, I was only teasing. You want to stay here, it's okay.'
I patted her on the rear. 'I wish we could stay here. We're working, remember?'
'Then why'd you say . . . ?'
'I lost my head.'
She gave me a quick kiss. 'Wait till later,' she promised.
60
I rolled onto the Belt Parkway, taking it past the crossover for the airport, heading for the Whitestone Bridge. When I saw a break in traffic, I pulled over on the shoulder. Turned off the engine. Belle sat quietly, black-and- white-striped legs crossed, waiting patiently.
'Were you really a driver?' I asked her.
'Oh, yes,' she said, her eyes opening wide, watching me close.
'Want to show me?'
She was behind the wheel in a flash, almost shoving me out the door. I went around to the other side, let myself in. Lit a smoke, watching her.
Belle kicked off the spike heels, wiggling her hips in the seat. She wasn't playing around, just getting the feel of the machine. 'Can I move the seat back a bit?'
I showed her where the lever was. She took it back an inch or two, extending her arms toward the wheel, looking another question at me. I threw a toggle switch and the wheel dropped into her lap. 'Move it to where you want it and I'll lock it in place.'
She played with the wheel for a minute, getting it just the way she wanted it, squirming around in the seat, checking the mirrors, rolling her shoulders to get the stiffness out. 'Anything I should know?' she asked.
'Like what?'
'Do the brakes grab? Does it pull to one side?'
'No. It tracks like a train. Stops straight. But watch the gas - it's a lot stronger than it looks.'
She nodded. Turned the key. Blipped the throttle a couple of times. 'No tach?' she asked.
'It's built for torque, not revs. You want to drop it down a gear, just kick the pedal. Or you can move the lever down one from D.'
Belle gave herself plenty of room, waited until the traffic was quiet in the right lane. She came down hard on the gas, adjusting the wheel when the rear started to slide, and pulled out onto the highway hard and smooth. She merged with traffic and flowed along, getting the feel.
'Where's the flasher for the headlights?'
'Flick the turn signal toward you. But be careful - the high beams are real monsters.'
'Horn?'
'There's two. The hub on the wheel is the regular one; the little button near the rim -see it? - that's for moving trucks out of the way.'
She flicked a glance over her right shoulder. 'Okay to play?'
'Go,' I told her.
She spotted an opening, mashed the gas, shot all the way across to the far-left lane, blew past a dozen cars, backed off the gas, and rolled into the center lane. She pulled the Plymouth so close behind the car in front that it looked like we were going to hit. Kept it right there until the guy in front of us pulled over.
'Follow the signs to the Whitestone Bridge,' I told her.
Belle handled the big car like it was part of her, cutting through traffic, moving from one clot of cars to another, staying in the pack each time. When we got to the bridge, she pulled into the Exact Change lane without me saying a word. I handed her a token. She flicked it into the basket without looking. We motored along the Hutchinson River Parkway, Belle still putting the Plymouth through its paces, not talking to me. We came to the last toll before the hook-turn to the Cross County. A guy in a white Corvette was in the lane next to us, coming out of the chute at the same time. Belle goosed the Plymouth, heading for the left lane. The 'Vette jumped out ahead of us. Belle kicked it down - both cars were flying to the same lane, the 'Vette a half-length in front. Belle kept coming. The gap got narrow. I heard the scream of rubber - the 'Vette's driver stood on the brakes as we shot through.
A minute later, the 'Vette steamed by in the right lane, cutting sharply in front of us as soon as he passed. Belle flicked the brights, punching the horn button at the same time. The sky lit up. The twin air horns under the horn blasted the warning call of a runaway semi. The 'Vette ducked out of the way as we went by. Belle slashed over into his lane. I heard the shriek of brakes again.
Belle brought it down to about seventy. We were in the right lane, heading for the hook-turn at Exit 13. Bright lights flooded the back window. Belle reached up, turned the rearview mirror to the side. She hit the hook-turn with the 'Vette boiling up behind us.
'Come on, sucker,' she muttered as the 'Vette pulled into the outside lane behind us. She nailed it around the sweeping turn, holding the inside track. The 'Vette roared behind us, closing fast. Belle's mouth was a straight line. She slid the Plymouth into a piece of the outside lane, but this time the 'Vette was ready for her - he darted back to the inside. Belle slashed the wheel back to the right, carrying the 'Vette right off the road onto the grass. She pulled the Plymouth together for the straightaway, swept under the overpass, and slid into the new traffic stream as smoothly as a pickpocket working a crowd.
She patted the steering wheel hard - like you'd do a horse who'd run a strong race. 'Good girl,' she said.
'You took the words out of my mouth.'
She flashed me her smile.
We exited the Cross County and hooked back to the racetrack. I showed her where to pull in: around the back, near the stable area. Nobody parks there except the horse vans - it's a long distance to the entrance. I gave Belle the buck and a half for the guy collecting the entrance fee, and we motored slowly through, stopping for grooms to walk their horses across the road.
'Park over there,' I told her, pointing at a blacktop road that runs behind the paddock. 'Leave the nose pointing out.'
There are a couple of hundred acres of gravel behind the road. Pitch-dark. Belle turned off the road, stomped the gas, blasting straight into the darkness. She floored the brakes, feathering the gas at the same time, spinning the Plymouth into a perfect bootlegger's turn right into the spot I'd pointed to. She turned off the engine. A whirlwind of dirt and dust flew outside the windows, settling on the car.
'What'd you think, honey?'
'You're a natural,' I told her.
Her face went sad. 'No. No, I'm not.'
I took her hand, squeezed it. 'Don't disrespect your mother,' I told her.
She gulped. Took a breath. 'You always know what to say, Burke.'
'I know what to do too,' I promised her.
I walked her past the paddock, holding her hand. The black-and-white stripes swayed in the night. I bet some of the mares were jealous.
61
I paid our way past the turnstiles. Stopped in the open area to toss a dollar at the guy selling programs from behind a little desk. There was a box of tiny pencils next to the stack of programs. Belle reached past me and took
