I shrugged.
The highway slipped by. Battery Tunnel coming into view.
'Burke?'
'What?'
'Why would the Prof call somebody a nigger?'
'It's just a word. Anybody can use words. I can't really explain it . . . You say some words - say them the right way - they lose their power to hurt. The Prof, he'll say, 'That's my nigger,' he means that's his main man. Somebody else says the word, he's ready to rumble.'
'But why . . .'
'I told you the truth. I really can't explain it. Maybe the Prof can, I never asked him, not really.'
'Maybe I will, someday.'
125
The office was quiet. Pansy was her usual sluggish self. She brightened a bit when I rolled the extra roast beef and ham into a fat ball and tossed it in the air for her.
Belle curled up on the couch with the newspapers. Pansy jumped up there too, growling. 'What does she want?'
'Television.'
'She wants to watch television?'
'Yeah. See if you can find pro wrestling; that's her favorite. But leave the sound on low, okay?'
Belle gave me one of her looks, hauled the portable over to the end of the couch. Pansy sat up, tail wagging. I went back to my work.
'Honey,' Belle's voice broke through to me.
'What?'
'It's eight-thirty. Don't you have to make a call?'
I looked at my watch - I'd been out of it for three hours. I snatched the phone, hoping the hippies weren't discussing their latest dope deal. The line was quiet.
'Morelli.'
'It's me.'
'Come over to Paulo's tonight. Eleven. We'll have some supper.
I hung up quick. Looked over at the couch. Belle and Pansy were both watching me.
'Good girl,' I said. Pansy came off the couch, strolled over to me. 'I meant her,' I told the beast, pointing at Belle. Pansy slammed a paw on the desk. 'You too,' I told her. I let Pansy out to her roof. Walked over to the couch, turned off the TV set.
'That's one strange dog, honey. She really does like pro wrestling. I thought dogs couldn't see TV. Something about their eyes.'
'I don't know if that's true or not. Maybe she just likes the sound.'
I lit a smoke. 'Was I asleep?'
'I don't think so - I think you were somewhere else. Your eyes were closed some of the time. But you smoked a lot of cigarettes.'
I rubbed my face, trying to go back. I gave it up - it'd come when it was ready.
'Burke, could I ask you something?'
'Sure.'
'You know about this?' she said, pointing to a head-line in the paper. I knew the story -it had been running for weeks. High-school cheerleader, sixteen years old. Father started raping her when she was eleven years old. While her mother was dying of cancer in the hospital. She finally told her boyfriend, he told somebody else. Ended up she hired another kid to kill her father. For five hundred bucks. Drilled the old man right in his driveway. Everybody pleaded guilty. The kid who did the shooting got a jackpot sentence, seven to twenty-one years. The radio talk shows took calls from freaks who said the little girl should have told the social workers - that is, if it 'really' happened. Some people thought the father got what was coming to him. Not many. The judge sentenced her to a year in jail.
'Yeah. I know about it.'
Her eyes burned. A little girl asking a priest if there really was a god. 'Burke, do you think the little girl did anything wrong?'
'Yeah.'
Belle's face twisted. 'What?'
'She hired an amateur.'
'The lawyer . . . the one who pleaded her guilty?'
'Not the lawyer. The shooter.'
Her face calmed, but she was still struggling with it. 'But he killed the guy . . .'
'He wasn't a pro, Belle. Left a trail Ray Charles could follow. Talked about it to everyone who'd listen. Kept the gun. And he opened up when they popped him. You hire a killer, you buy silence too.'
She took the cigarette from my mouth, pulled on it. 'I'd like to break her out of that jail.'
'Forget it, Belle. She wouldn't go. The kid's no outlaw. She's a nice middle-class girl. It wasn't simple for her - she didn't work it through. She still feels guilty about the guy getting killed. Incest, you don't just walk away from it like if a stranger raped you. That was her father. He's dead. Her mother's dead. She's gonna need a lot of help - she can't go on the run.'
Tears spilled down her face. 'My mother saved me from that.'
'I know,' I said, holding her.
126
Ten-thirty. I put on a dark-gray suit, black felt hat. I hated to rip the sleeve, but I had to make the sacrifice. Belle did a neat, clean job. 'I'll sew it back together later,' she said, concentrating, the tip of her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth.
'I'll he back in a couple of hours.'
'I'll be here.'
I kissed her. Her lips were soft. I slipped my fingers around her neck, pulling at the necklace, making it bounce against her chest, coaxing a smile.
'Me and Pansy, we'll have a beer, watch some TV.'
127
Paulo's isn't one of those new restaurants in Little Italy. It was built when they were working on the third chapter of the Bible. When Morelli started working the police beat as a reporter, he would eat there every day. His mother came over, made sure her son was eating the right food. Marched right into ihe kitchen, told them what was what. They still have a couple of dishes on the menu named after her.
He was there when I walked in at eleven, sitting in a far corner. I started over to him. Two guys with cement-mixer eyes got in my way. I nodded over to Morelli's corner. One of the guys stayed planted in front of me; the other turned, caught the signal. They moved aside.
Morelli had a thick sheaf of papers next to him, glass of red wine half empty. I sat down. The waiter came over, looking at me like I was his parole officer.
'What?'
'Veal milanese. Side of spaghetti. Meat sauce. No cheese.'
'No cheese?'
