I DIDN'T NEED need the cop's cash.
There'd been a fifty-grand bounty on the Ghost Van. A killing machine for baby prostitutes. Pimps put up the coin- it was bad for business. Marques Dupree made the offer in a parking lot. Take the van off the street and collect the money. It was supposed to be a four-way split: me, the
Then it went to hell. A karateka who called himself Mortay was bodyguarding the van. The freak was a homicide-junkie. He fought a death-match in the basement of a porno circus. The players liked it even better than watching pit bulls or cockfights. And after that he walked through Times Square, frightening even the hard-core freaks. But the whispers stayed on the street. Max the Silent. The life-taking, widow-making wind of death, as the Prof named him years ago. Max could beat this Mortay.
The freak wanted Max. I tried to talk to him and he raised the stakes. Max fights him or Max's baby goes down.
I dealt Max out. Called in my chips. One of Mortay's boys was gunned down in a Chelsea playground. By El Cañonero, rifleman for the UGL, the underground Puerto Rican independence group headed by my compadre Pablo. Another was dog food. Belle dealt herself in. The van was scrap metal. And Mortay himself- they'd need a microscope to find the pieces.
I had a lot of bodies. And the cold ground had Belle's.
I didn't have to look for Marques. He called Mama- left frantic messages all over the city. Couldn't wait to put the cash in my hand.
I split it with the Prof and the Mole. The junkyard-genius would take care of Michelle. Belle left a stash behind- that was mine too.
Bail money. For a jail I couldn't walk out of.