'Let it go,' I said, pushing her away. 'Let it come out - I know what to do.'
I let the fear snake its way through me, shaking my body, a terrier with a rat. I replayed the tape - back in the playground, down on the ground, a ribbon of killer bees death-darting between me and Mortay, El Canonero on the high ground keeping me safe.
My body trembled in the terror seizure. Malaria flashes. Taking me back to the burned-out jungle in Biafra where fear grew thicker than the vines.
I couldn't make it stop - didn't even try. I stayed quiet and still. Careful as a man with broken ribs - the kind that puncture a lung if you cough.
Fear ran its race.
When it stopped, I was soaking wet, limp. Drained. I closed my eyes then, sliding my face into Belle's lap.
107
It was still dark when I came around. I turned my head. My face slid across Belle's lap, her thighs slick with sweat. Or tears. I pulled myself up, next to her.
'Can you get a duffel bag out of the trunk of my car? I need to take a shower - I don't like the way I smell.'
'You smell fine to me.'
'Just do it, okay?'
She got up without another word. I took off my clothes. They felt heavy in my hands. I dropped them on the floor, stepped into the shower.
When I came back out, Belle had the duffel bag on the couch. I toweled myself off, put on a fresh set of clothes. Belle's clock said two-fifteen. I took a pillowcase from the duffel bag, stuffed everything I'd been wearing into it, even the cheap watch.
'I don't have a washing machine here,' she said, watching my face.
'This stuff needs an incinerator,' I said, tossing it near the front door.
'You want a drink?'
'Ice water.'
She cracked some cubes in a glass, ran the tap, brought it over to me. I lit a cigarette, watching my hands on the matches. They didn't shake.
I propped myself against the arm of the couch, sipping the water, smoking my cigarette. Watching the smoke drift to the ceiling. Belle stood a few feet away, watching me, not saying a word.
'Come here, baby,' I said.
She sat on the floor next to the couch. I put my hand on the back of her neck, holding her. It was quiet and safe in the dark. Belle took the ashtray from me, put it on the floor where I could reach it. Lit a smoke of her own.
'When I was a young man, just a kid really, I had a place of my own. A basement, but it was fixed up like an apartment. I was raised in other people's places: the orphanage, foster homes, reform school. Nothing belonged to me. I got to thinking that place was real important.'
I dragged deep on the cigarette, watching the glow at the tip.
'A man wanted my basement. I didn't know how to act then - there was nobody to tell me what to do - nobody for me to listen to. I got a gun and I went to meet him. In an alley. I was scared. I thought if I couldn't keep my basement I could never keep anything. Never have anything of my own.
'I had to meet the man. Like tonight. I can still see it - like I was right back there. I got ready to go. Ran Vaseline through my hair so nobody could get a grip. Wrapped my body with layers of newspaper in case he had a knife. Taped the handle of the pistol. So I wouldn't leave fingerprints . . . but really because I was so scared I thought I'd drop it when I took it out. I looked around that basement one last time. My basement. Left the radio playing as I walked out the door. It was Doc Pomus. A great old blues singer. Walking the line just before rock 'n' roll came. 'Heartlessly.' That was the song. I still hear it.
'He was there, waiting for me with his boys. I tried to talk to him. He just laughed at me - called me a punk. I showed him the pistol. He said I wouldn't pull the trigger - said I was scared to death. He was half right. I shot him.'
'Did you kill him?'
'No. I didn't know it at the time. I just pumped a slug into him. The other people with him - they saw me do it. I just walked away. Back to my basement. I thought the word would be on the street. Don't fuck with Burke. He's a man now. Not a kid.'
'What happened?'
'They came for me. I went to prison. I paid attention in there - found people I could listen to. I never wanted to be a hijacker. I'm not a gunfighter in my heart, I'm a thief. I never wanted to be a citizen - knew I never could anyway. But I didn't want to stick up liquor stores. I wanted to walk the line. Use my head, not my hands.'
I stubbed out the cigarette.
'I've been waiting for full bloom all my life, Belle. It never worked out for me, Belle. I run some scams for a while, make a few good scores. But it seems like I always end up going back into that alley.'
I took another hit of the ice water, Belle's hand on my chest.
'I thought it was all about that damn basement. I swore I'd never fight over a thing, never again. No matter what, I'd walk away. Travel light.'
I lit another smoke.
'I cut the crap out of my life. I don't drink, don't play with dope. I learned to be careful. Real, real careful. I've got cut-outs inside cut-outs. Boxes inside boxes. Background tapes when I make telephone calls, phony license plates on the car. I got passports, birth certificates, driver's licenses. I sting freaks who can't sting back. I just wanted what the little ones want - what your mother wanted for you.'
'To be safe?'
'Yeah. To be safe. The pattern I made for myself - it was like a ritual. Something you pray to. To keep you safe from demons. I was so scared before, when I was shaking on the couch. It made me think. Like you're praying your ass off and the devil shows up instead of God. It makes you stop praying. It's not a world out here, it's a junkyard. I grabbed a little girl once, maybe fourteen years old. Working the street. She spent her nights with her eyes closed and her mouth full. Turned over all the money to some dirtbag who beat her up and sent her back for more. I was taking her to this place I know, where they'd keep her safe, and I asked her about being a runaway. I thought you ran away to get to a better place. She told me she was in a better place.'
'I know.'
'I know you do. I've been thinking about it. Lying here. I wanted to live off my wits. Not beat the system, just take my little piece off to the side. Play it extra-safe.
'But I see it now. It was a pattern. The one thing you don't want to do.'
'What pattern?'
'In prison, a guy who's thinking about going over the Wall . . . you can tell. You watch him, he falls into a pattern. Does the same thing every day. Maybe he stays in his cell instead of falling out for the movie. 'Cause he's working on the bars. Little piece at a time, putting dirty soap into the cuts to hide them. Waiting. Or you see him on the yard, watching the guard towers. Making schedules in his head.
'But . . .'
'It's me too, Belle. I've been at it too long. I play it safe; but I don't play it alone. You understand what I'm saying?'
'No, honey.'
'I can walk away from that office and never look back. They'll never nail me fighting over my home again. I don't have a home. Remember when you said we should run? I can't run. I don't have a home, but I have people.
