Blue Belle

the hook. Straight hair. A blue golf hat, wine-stained. An old pair of white running shoes. Baggy black pants. Black sweatshirt with a hood. Black gloves. A slap-on mustache.

I clipped two nails on my left hand at a sharp angle. A drop of Permabond under each one. I held the razor- filed steel slivers in place against each nail, waiting for the super-glue to dry. It only took a few minutes. I brushed my left hand against a piece of paper. It fell into three pieces.

I slid back the lid on a flat metal box, looked at the colorless paste inside. I'd pass the razors through the paste before I hit the street. Mortay had to get his hands on me to kill me - one scratch, and I wouldn't go alone.

Belle watched me work, cat's-eye makeup on her face.

165

Business boomed. Men got buzzed in, looked through the book. Came and went.

We cleaned up Sunday's business at five in the morning. The Mole was wearing a black silk shirt, red suspenders, cream-colored suit. Dark glasses on his face. Michelle counted a wad of cash and credit-card slips. 'You look like death,' she told me.

'Good,' I said.

166

Monday, Bambi turned her first hard trick. The Mole buzzed me - the video screen showed a middle-aged white male, blobby face, light-colored sport coat. Not Ramon. I heard the slash of the belt, cutting through the sound-proofed walls.

Later that night, one of the tricks got off the wall. I don't know what he did. I heard Morales' voice in the corridor. 'How do you like it, motherfucker?' Metal slamming into a face. I heard whining, Morales' voice cutting harsh through it. 'Whatever you want here, we got it, see? But we got different girls for different stuff. You want hard stuff, you ask for Bambi, understand? Bambi.'

It got quiet after that.

167

He came Wedneday evening. Seven o'clock. The buzzer sounded. Ramon's face on the screen. I hit the switch. The light would glow on the Mole's desk.

'It's time,' I said to Belle.

She was covered with body makeup head to toe. Fishnet stockings, black spike heels, black panties. She slipped into the red gown, belted it at her waist. A stranger - her face a hard mask.

I watched the screen. Ramon. Wearing a black leather bomber jacket, looking through the book. There was no sound on the screen.

'Monique!' the Mole called.

Belle walked past me into the corridor.

I held the sawed-off shotgun in my left hand, the paint pistol with the phony silencer in my right. Waiting.

I heard them come back. Belle's voice. 'I get an extra hundred for hard stuff, honey.'

Ramon's voice - couldn't make out the words.

The door to the last room closed.

I sucked air in through my nose, filling my stomach. Let it out, expanding my chest. Stepped into the corridor.

I couldn't hear through the door. The hook-and-eye lock was held in with paste. Every square inch of the room was burning in my mind. I slipped the pistol into a side pocket, cut deep enough to hold the silencer. Counted to five. I hit the door with my shoulder, stepping inside, sweeping the scattergun corner to corner. Belle was on the couch to my right, the red nightgown hiked over her hips Ramon froze, a thick leather belt dangling from his hand.

The snout of the scattergun froze his balls down to dots. His hands shot into the air, belt still dangling. I stepped to him, the gun leveled at his gut. Five feet away.

'Drop it. Slow.'

'Hey, man . . .'

'One more word, I'll blow you all over the walls.'

The belt dropped from his hand.

His leather jacket was hanging from a hook in the corner. I could see the shoulder rig inside.

'Got any more guns on you, Ramon?'

He shook his head no.

'Take off your clothes. Real, real slow. I want to see for myself.'

Belle's voice from the side of the room. 'Mister . . .'

'Shut up, bitch!' I snapped at her.

Ramon dropped his pants. Black bikini briefs. Very macho. 'Those too,' I said. 'Watch your hands.'

He pulled off his cowboy boots, one at a time, standing on one leg, never taking his eyes from me.

'Sit on the couch,' I said quietly. 'Next to the cunt.' He sat down. I pulled the handcuffs off my belt, flipped them into Belle's lap. 'Put them on. One cuff on your wrist, one on his. Now!'

Belle snapped the cuff on Ramon first, her hands shaking. Her left hand slid to the back of the couch cushion.

I took out the paint pistol. Slowly, letting Ramon get a good look. He didn't want one.

'You know what this is, shooter?'

'I know what it is.' His voice shaking like Belle's hands.

'You got two choices. You live. Or you die. Pick one.'

'I want to live, man.' Thin, weak, soft voice. If he recognized me, he was keeping it to himself. Holding that card.

'Your pal Mortay, he stepped in some shit, understand? Sally Lou's decided to take him off the count.'

'But . . .'

'That's the way it plays. I got my money, I got to come back with a head. His head. One more don't mean a thing to me. I'm gonna waste him. Tonight. You tell me what I want to know, you take that fucking diamond out of your ear, and you make tracks. Got it?'

'Man, I don't know where he lives!'

'You're going to meet him. Tonight. Where?'

'He'll kill me.'

'Ramon, he's a dead man. I don't find him tonight, I find him some other time. But you don't tell me what I want to know, he won't get a chance to kill you.'

'Man, I don't know where he is. I'm serious!'

'So am I,' I said, leveling the pistol at Belle's chest. I pulled the trigger. Splat! Belle slammed back against the couch, a red stain running between her breasts. I aimed the gun at Ramon - he never looked at Belle. The sound I made cocking it was the loudest thing he ever heard.

'Where?'

'Under the New York Times clock! Between Seventh and Eighth! On Forty-third! Don't!'

'What time?'

'Ten-thirty!' Piss flowed down his legs.

'Who gets there first?'