Blue Belle

Almost eight by the time I found the pay phone I wanted. Near the river, just a couple of blocks from the Yuppietown the developers had built by reclaiming a piece of the Hudson. Within eyeshot of the bullshit 'security lights' flanking the high-rise but safe in a pool of darkness.

Like I was.

I don't like cold calls. My phone number's circulated all over this city. The phone's listed to Juan Rodriguez, and the address is the back end of a junkyard I own. The old man who runs it draws me a paycheck every two weeks. I cash it and give him back the money. It makes me a citizen - I pay my taxes, build up my Social Security, all that. Having a citizen's name is important. The name opens the door to all the goodies: legit address, driver's license, Social Security card. I don't lose any sleep worrying about the FBI, but the IRS is another game. I have a birth certificate too. It's so phony it even has a father's name on it.

My credit with Ma Bell is excellent. Never miss a payment. Never make any toll calls. I never make any calls at all. Anyone who calls the junkyard number activates the call diverter I have set up. The signal bounces over to one of the phones at Mama's.

I unscrewed the mouthpiece of the pay phone and slipped in the flat disk the Mole gave me. It changes my voice just enough to throw off the machines, in case anyone's listening. I pulled the tiny tape recorder from my coat and hit the switch; the booth was flooded with the background noise from a bowling alley. The number had a 718 area code. Brooklyn or Queens. I dropped a quarter and dialed the number.

She answered on the third ring. A young girl's voice, with the hard twang that sounds Southern unless you've spent some time in Detroit.

'Hello?'

'Belle?'

'Who's this?'

'Burke. Returning your call.'

'Oh. I didn't think it would be so fast. I'm doing a favor for someone. Someone who wants to talk to you.'

'Who?'

'I'd rather tell you in person.'

'I'd rather you tell me over the phone.'

'I can't do that. I promised.'

'What's in it for me?'

'Money.'

'How much money?'

'That depends. You'd have to work it out with him. I just said I'd talk to you. Tell you about it. See if you're interested in getting together.'

'You get paid win or lose?'

'Yes.'

'Tell him I said no, and collect your money.'

'You have to hear me out. Tell me to my face. That's the deal.'

'That's not my deal.'

Her voice shifted, dropped a note. 'What is your deal?'

'Time is money. My time is your money, okay?'

'How much money?'

'How much time?'

'Fifteen minutes.'

'Five yards.'

'That's a lot of money.'

I didn't say anything, listening to the silence at her end, the sound of pins falling at mine.

'Can you meet me? Tonight?'

'Is he there with you?'

'No.'

'How do you know he'll go for the cash?'

'I don't. I have to make some calls. I work at . . .'

'I don't care where you work,' I said, cutting her off. 'Do what you have to do. Speak to the man. I'll call you tomorrow morning.'

'Not before eleven, okay? I get in late.'

'You have a car?'

'Yes.'

'I'll call you tomorrow. Tell you where to come and meet me. You bring the money -we'll talk.'

'Thank you,' the young girl's voice said, and she broke the connection.

19

When I called her the next morning, her voice sounded the same. Not breathy, or trying to be sexy. Short- winded.

'I got the go-ahead.'

'And the money?'

'Yes.'

'What kind of car do you drive?'

'A Camaro. A red one. With a T-top.'

'You know Metropolitan Avenue?'

'In Queens? By the cemeteries?'

'Yeah. Take it west. Like you're going to the city, okay? Just keep going until it crosses over into Brooklyn. You'll come to a little drawbridge. Go over the bridge and look for a gas station on your right. Just pull up to the pums - I'll meet you there.'

'What time?'

'Three.'

'How will I know you?'

'I'll be the man asking for the money.'

20

I took the Delancey Street Bridge out of Manhattan, hooked back around to Metropolitan Avenue. I cruised past the gas station. At two in the afternoon, it looked the way it always does - a wino asleep in the sun, a dead bottle of T-bird half out of a paper bag next to him. A pair of red-brown dogs that had never been pets swept the empty concrete, all legs and ribs, looking for food. A black guy wearing a winter coat, tattered cowboy hat on his head, pushing a supermarket basket full of cans and bottles, checking the alleys for more nuggets. Grayish dust from the concrete plant on the other side of the drawbridge settled over everything. The sun hit hard. The wino was half in shadow - he'd been sleeping a long time.

I parked the Plymouth a few blocks away, backed in against the metallic strip of water that carried the ore barges under the drawbridge. It took me less than five minutes to get back to the gas station. I found myself a comfortable spot against the wall and sat down to wait.

The skinny dogs circled, watchful. I reached into the paper bag next to me and took out a piece of cheese. I unwrapped it slowly, watching them from beneath the brim of my battered felt hat. I tossed the cheese in their direction, arcing it gently so they'd know it was no threat. The bigger dog moved in, sniffed it quickly, and took it into his mouth. He moved away, chewing slowly. I unwrapped another piece, tossed it the same way. The big dog's partner dashed in, snatched it, and moved back to where the other one was standing.