Blue Belle

pavement, flicked my eyes to the side. Another dark four-door sedan. Whip antenna, two guys in front. About as undercover as a blue-and-white with roof lights.

'You're here,' he greeted me.

'Like I said I would be. And all by myself too.'

His smile was hard. 'Volunteers. Not your problem. What happened to your hand?'

'I grabbed something I shouldn't of.'

'Not the first time, huh?'

'Nope. What'd you want, McGowan?'

He fired one of his stinking cigars. 'You trust me?'

'So far.'

'I'm not wired. The other guys, they're backup. Not for you. For me.'

'Go.'

He looked straight ahead, puffing on his cigar, keeping his voice low. 'A man named Robert Morgan got himself killed last night.'

'Never heard of him.'

'Nine-one-one call came in around midnight. Uniforms found a dead man. In the playground by the Chelsea Projects.'

'So?'

'He had seven slugs in him, maybe a four-inch group, all in the chest. High-tech stuff. Whoever smoked him was a pro.'

'So?'

'Nobody heard a shot. This was no punk kid running around on the roof with a .22 - it was a hit.'

'So?'

'The ground was all chewed up. Pieces of concrete ripped right out. The shooter had more than one target.'

'This is real interesting McGowan. Give me a light, will you?' I leaned close to his lighter. His hands were steady.

'Where were you last night, Burke?'

'With someone. Far away.'

'You're sure?'

'What's the big deal?'

McGowan's cigar steamed in the morning air. It smelled as bad as his story.

'The guy had ID. That's where we got the Robert Morgan handle. Since it looked like a pro hit, they ran his prints. Nothing. The lab guy's a good man - he was on the ball. I heard from him an hour ago.'

'Heard what?'

'This Robert Morgan, his prints matched one we took off the switch - car. The one that snatched the baby hooker.'

'Why tell me?'

He looked straight ahead. 'You're good, Burke. I think they could wire you to a polygraph and you'd never bounce the needles.' He tilted his head back, looking up at the sky. 'This dead guy, he was in the Ghost Van. It's the first lead we got. I figure you left it there for us, but you didn't know it.'

I dragged on my cigarette, waiting.

'I think you're already in the tunnel. We're coming from the other end. I don't want to meet you in the middle - somebody could get hurt.'

I snapped my cigarette into the street. 'Stay out of the tunnel,' I told him, getting up to leave. 'I'll call you.'

I didn't look back.

115

Nobody followed me to the Plymouth. I took the East Side Drive to 61^st, hooked York Avenue, and kept on going uptown. I pulled over on 92^nd, checking the clock in the window of a boutique that hadn't opened yet. Eight-thirty-five. Plenty of time.

I made a sling out of a loop of Ace bandage, holding one end in my teeth to tighten the knot. Smoked a couple of cigarettes. Mortay was tied into the Ghost Van now for sure. For dead sure. And maybe it wasn't just bodyguard work he was doing. I was in a box -I had to get him in there with me. And know where the back door was.

I watched the cigarette smoke puddle against the windshield, playing with it. I was in Family Court once, listening to Davidson sum up on a case, watching him for the UGL - they wanted to know what he was made of before they hired him for a homicide case. They had this baby in foster care for years. Kept him there while the social workers tried to make parents out of the slime who tortured the kid. In this city, a pit bull bites two people, they gas it. To protect the public. A human cripples his own kid, they give him another bite.

Davidson was representing the kid. They call it being a 'law guardian.' The parents had their own lawyers; the city's lawyers represent the social workers. I still remember what he said:

'Judge, this baby will only be a child for a little while. Then he's an adult. We only have a few years to help him. The parents, they've had their chance. More than one. But this baby's not in foster care, he's in limbo. What about him? Isn't he entitled to some end to this? All butterflies, no matter how beautiful, have to land sometime. Or they die. The parents started this mess. The social workers kept it going. It's up to you to stop it. Stop it now. Let this baby have a real family.'

The judge went along with it. He let the butterfly land. The baby was released for adoption. The mother cried. For herself. Davidson makes a living keeping criminals out of jail, but that day he kept someone from going to jail years later. I know.

My thoughts floating like that butterfly, looking for a safe place to land, I got out of the Plymouth. The clock said eight-fifty-five.

I started walking to the pay phone on the corner, snapping away my cigarette.

116

Marques answered on the first ring. 'That you, Burke?'

'Yeah. I just wanted to make sure the phone was working at your end. I'll call you back in five minutes.'

'Man, you think I got nothing better to do than to sit around here and . . .'

'Five minutes, Marques. No more. Then we'll talk. Be cool.'

I hung up, started walking again.

I turned the corner, spotted the Rolls parked next to the pay phone. I came up to the driver's window from the back. It was open, a man's elbow resting on the sill. Diamonds on his wrist.

'Let's talk,' I said.

Marques jumped. 'What? How'd you . . . ?'

'Everything's cool. Just relax. I didn't want to talk on the phone. How about we go for a ride?'

'I ain't going anywhere with you, man,' he said, eyes darting around.

'In your car, okay? Anywhere you want to go.'

He got hold of himself. 'In the back seat,' he snapped to the blonde next to him.

I held the back door for her. One of the whores who'd been with him in Junior's. She didn't smile. I climbed in the front. Marques backed the car out of his spot, headed uptown, to Harlem. 'What happened to your hand, man?'

'Nothing much.'

'Yeah. Okay, look here, I . . .'

'You want to talk in front of Christina?' I asked him, tilting my head toward the back seat.