Blue Belle

a trap. Bit his own paw off to get out. It costs something to be free.' A tear welled, rolled down her cheek. 'I didn't know what she meant then.'

I kissed the tear track. She slid on top of me, reached down, fitted me inside. 'The way people talk, it's not the truth,' she whispered. 'You can't make love. It's there or it isn't.'

Her hips flicked against me, slow-sliding, one arm around my neck, her face buried against me. 'I know it's there. You know it's there. Take it.'

'Belle . . .'

'Take it!' Grinding hard, her teeth against my neck.

134

Belle was getting dressed. I was watching television with Pansy. The late-morning news. Some people tried to escape the Dominican Republic in an overloaded wooden boat, heading for Puerto Rico. The boat went down in shark-infested water. Another boat came alongside. Somebody had a video camera. The TV showed some of the footage. Living color. Blood thick in the water, like pus from a wound. Screams. Chunks torn out of humans. Sharks hitting again and again. Sound of shots fired. Belle stood behind me, hand on my shoulder.

'God! How can people watch something like that?' Right then I knew. Why the Ghost Van hunted.

135

We waited until almost noon. 'Ready to go?' I asked Belle. When she nodded, I took the grenade out of the drawer, rolled up my sleeve. 'Come over here; give me a hand with this.'

She took the grenade from the desk, bounced it up and down in her hand. 'Let me hold it.'

'Forget it.'

'Listen to me . . . just for a minute?'

I said nothing, feeling the stone in my face.

'I'll carry it in my lap. Cover it with a scarf. You can carry your gun. If it happens . . . if he comes too soon you get two chances.'

'He's too fast, Belle. I'd probably never get a shot off. You want a gun, I'll give you one.'

'I'm no good with a gun. Never shot one. I could stab him, but if he's too fast for you . . .'

'No.'

'Listen to me! I'll get out of the way. He gets past the gun, puts his hands on you, I'll toss it.'

'You'd toss it right at me? Blow me up too?'

'He gets to you, you're going to die anyway. I wouldn't let you go alone.'

I watched her face. 'You don't have the heart for it - you'd never pull the pin.'

'I would!'

I lit a smoke. 'Stay here, Belle. I'm going to the junkyard.'

'I thought I was going with you.'

'You were going with me. Not now. Stay here.'

'You can't make me.'

'Don't make me laugh.'

'I'm telling the truth. You can't make me. You'd have to hurt me to do it. Really hurt me. And you can't do that.'

I walked away from the desk. Belle stood, arms folded over her breasts. I snapped my fingers. Pansy's head came up. 'Watch!' I said, pointing two fingers in front of me. I turned to the door. Belle stepped forward. Pansy bounded between us, an ugly snarl ripping from her throat, teeth snapping. 'Pansy!' Belle said, like her feelings were hurt. 'Don't try her,' I warned.

The muscles stood out across Pansy's shoulders, hair rigid on the back of her neck. Belle snatched the grenade from the desk, cupped the blue handle, pulled the pin. She tossed the pin in a gentle arc over Pansy's head. I caught it in my hand. The beast never moved.

'I'll just hold this until you come back,' she said, her voice quiet and steady.

I let out a breath, the pin in my hand.

'Pansy, jump!' She hit the ground. I snapped my fingers again, calling her to me. Gave her the command that everything was okay. She started to walk over to Belle. I held up my hand for her to stay.

I crossed the room, fast. 'Hold it steady,' I told her, slipping the pin back in. She put it on the desk, went in the back room, came out with a blue chiffon scarf. Wrapped it around the little metal bomb. 'Let's go,' she said.

I pushed her back against the desk, making her sit on it. Moved in so close her eyes were out of focus. 'Swear on your mother,' I said. 'Swear on Sissy that you'll throw it if he gets to me.'

'I swear.'

I buried my hands in her thick hair, snatching a handful on either side of her face, pulling her nose against mine. 'When we get back here . . .'

She licked my mouth, pushed her lips against me. I couldn't make out what she was saying.

136

Belle followed me down the stairs into the garage. I snapped her seat belt in place for her, arranged a shawl over her lap. I worked my way through Lower Manhattan, grabbing the East Side Drive off Pearl Street. Belle was as good as gold, quiet and peaceful in the bucket seat, hands in her lap, little smile on her face. Like a kid who threw a successful tantrum - got her way and didn't want to brag about it.

'Call off the directions,' I told her.

She was right on the money, every step of the way. I lit a smoke. 'Me too,' she said. I held the filter to her mouth.

'Don't get spoiled. It won't work every time.'

'I know.' Phony contrite tone in her voice, the Southern twang not softening it much.

'I'm not kidding.'

'I know. Turn right up ahead.'

I turned into Hunts Point, heading for the junkyard.

'You know something, Burk - you're not exactly what they call a well-rounded personality.'

'Well-rounded's nice, long as you don't have to cut something.'

She stuck out her tongue. A queen-sized brat. With a bomb in her lap.

I rolled the Pontiac up to the gates. 'Will the dogs know it's a different car?' she asked.

'They won't care.'

Simba made his move first. Sitting patiently while I rolled down the window. I talked to him, waiting for someone to come and let us through.

It was Terry, shoving his way through the pack just like the Mole. He saw who it was, stuck his head in the window.

'Hi, Belle!'

'Hi, good-looking. You gonna show this lug how to drive a car?'

The kid looked at me. I opened the door, climbed in the back seat. He piloted the Pontiac in an elaborate weave, showing off for Belle.

'Are you Burke's girlfriend?'

'Hey! The Mole teach you about asking questions?'

'I just . . .'

'Shut up, Burke. I sure am, sweetie. But if you were a few years older . . .'