'I told you before, man. This is my bottom woman. Besides, she's the one got the dope.'
I lit a smoke. The windows whispered up, sealing off the outside world. We stopped at a light. Two kids rolled up to the driver's side. Marques hit the switch. A black kid bent down. 'You want your windows done, Mr. Dupree?'
'Later, baby,' the pimp said, slapping a bill into the kid's hand.
We pulled away, cruising. I waited. If Christina wanted to listen to Marques, that was okay with me, but I wasn't adding to the conversation.
'Remember you asked about this guy with Mortay? Ramon?'
I nodded.
''He's a switch-hitter, man. Takes it up the chute from Mortay, hands it back the other way.'
'To boys?'
'To girls, man. This Mortay, he pulls hard guys. Right off the street in Times Square. Takes the most macho guys he can find: rough-off boys, sluggers . . . you know what I mean?'
I nodded again.
'He's bent, man. Bent out of shape like you wouldn't believe. He takes the hard guys, makes them suck his cock. Turns them right around. Then he marks them. With that diamond in the ear. This Ramon, he's not the first. He had another boy. Guy they called Butcher. Mortay turns him over. One day this Butcher is shaking down street people, doing his thing - next day he's walking with Mortay, that diamond in his ear.'
I opened my hand in a 'What happened next?' gesture. 'He just disappears, man. Poof! He's off the street. And Ramon - he's wearing the diamond.'
'And he's an evil freak too!' Christina snarled, leaning forward between me and Marques.
'Tell him, baby,' Marques said.
The blonde's voice was ugly. 'He was known before. He wasn't a player, but he'd grab some little girl, slap her around, take her money. Like Marques said, a rough-off artist. Always carried a gun, let you see it. Times Square trash.'
'Tell him the rest.'
'He does the massage parlors now. All the girls know him. He pays big, so he got a lot of play at first. But he's a pain-freak, man. He has to hurt a girl to get off. You know Sabrina? Big fat Sabrina?'
I shook my head no.
'She does pain-for-gain. Whips and chains. She used to work at Sadie's Sexsational? Just off Eighth?'
I nodded.
'This Ramon had a date with her. Goes in the back. Stays a long time. Manager comes back to see what's taking so long, Ramon's just walking out. Points a piece in the manager's face and just keeps going. Sabrina was a mess, man. He tied her up, put a ball-gag in her mouth, whipped her till she was nothing but blood. Left a whiskey bottle sticking out of her ass.'
I bit into my cigarette. I'd seen it before. They start out mean, they end up evil.
Christina sat back in her seat. Marques snorted a fat line of coke off his wrist. 'That's the story, man. Nobody knows where Mortay lives. This Ramon, he's on the street most every night. Meets Mortay different places and they go off together.'
'You did good,' I said, dragging on the smoke.
'I'm out of it now, man. These people are too heavy for me. I'm a lover, not a killer. That's why I came to you.'
I didn't say anything.
'Drop you someplace, man?'
'Thirty-ninth, anywhere near the river.'
'Man, that's only a block away.'
'Downtown. Not a Hundred and thirty-ninth.'
'Oh, yeah. Right,' Marques said, flashing his pimp-smile. 'I forgot you was white.'
Marques rambled on during the drive downtown. It's expensive to keep good women working. The IRS just took a major player off the street for back taxes. Bail bondsmen and lawyers were eating him alive. Couldn't find a decent mechanic for the Rolls.
I mumbled just enough to keep him talking, my mind floating someplace else. Like a butterfly.
Hawks have to land too.
117
Marques dropped me off where I asked him. 'I'm out of it,' he said again.
I leaned into the window, keeping my voice low. 'You're out of it when the Ghost Van's off the streets. You did your piece. But if I need to talk to you again, I'm going to call.'
He wouldn't meet my eyes. 'Yeah, man. Right on. You know where to find me.'
I watched Christina let herself into the front seat.
'I always will,' I promised him.
I watched the Rolls pull into traffic.
118
He answered the phone like he always does.
'Morelli.'
'It's Burke. I need to talk.'
'Talk.'
'Not on the phone.'
I heard the groan in his voice. 'And you won't come to the office, right?'
'Take a walk downstairs. I'll meet you on the benches in front of the UN. Right across from Forty-first.'
'Now?'
'Now.'
119
I had a good twenty minutes to myself, waiting for Morelli.
My mind was a rat, gnawing at the corner of a warehouse full of grain.
The UN towered behind me. Useless piece of junk. I wondered how long it would be before somebody turned it into a co-op.
I spotted Morelli across the street. Tall guy, looks ten years younger than he is. Never wears a hat, even in the winter. Dressing better now that he's married, but not much. He doesn't look like an investigative reporter. Hell, he doesn't look Italian. But he's the best of both.
He was twenty feet away when it hit me. Money. Where's the money? I filed the thought like a bitch-wolf hiding her cubs.
I shook hands with Morelli. 'Let's walk,' I said.
We found a place by the railing. Tourists flowed by. Security guards. People late for work. Morelli didn't waste time asking about my hand - it wasn't his way.
'What've you got?'
'I may have this fucking Ghost Van,' I told him, watching his eyes light up. A hound on the scent.
'Tell me.'
'There's a pattern. A karate-freak's been fighting duels all over the city. Challenging the leaders of every dojo. Killed at least a couple. He had a death-match. In the basement of Sin City. Every player made the scene. Big purse, side bets, the whole thing. Like a cockfight, only with people. I thought he was fronting off the van. Bodyguard
