Stark: A Novel (5 page)

“It don’t make no difference to me. I get my paycheck whether you go to jail or not. If you don’t get him, someone else will. Stool pigeons like you are a dime a dozen.”

Stark accepted the contempt silently. Crowley hung up on him. He had a sudden uneasy tightness in his stomach. As he stepped from the booth, he noticed Dummy glancing at him. The mute was writing something on a napkin. He walked back to the table, wondering if, somehow, Dummy knew what the call was about. Dummy handed over the paper. Stark read: “Watch yourself. The cops are on to you.”

Relieved, Stark was moving the napkin toward his pocket, before the ridiculousness struck home. It came simultaneous with the mute’s almost inhuman chortled laughter. Stark grinned, and playfully threw the crumpled paper at Dummy’s chest. “Very funny,” Stark signed, but the world was not funny. He ate a hamburger and drank coffee, watching Dummy drive away. By the time he finished, his confident mood had returned, though he did not know why. The fog was even thicker outside. He was in deep and trying to find a way to
get
out.

In the morning, after less than five hours’ sleep, he came awake half-sick. The queasy nausea of withdrawal was beginning in his stomach, and there was the strange aching in his joints - a unique agony he was beginning to experience every day. His habit was growing. He padded barefoot from the bed, wearing only shorts, and fished his stash and outfit from their hideout, drilled into the bottom of the closet door. He fixed before taking a bath, then shaved and smoked the day’s first cigarette. While the glow was still on, he drank three cups of hot coffee. Without looking, he knew there was only a hundred and five dollars in his wallet, not much for a guy with his habit. He had to make a quick score, nothing elaborate. He put on a working uniform: clean khaki pants, heavy shoes, and a fur-collared leather jacket over a white T-shirt. On the con, he needed to look like a working man.

Before eleven a.m. he was well north of Oceanview on the Coast Highway, driving through the beach towns that stretched down in a long line from Los Angeles. At a liquor store he bought two-fifths of good Kentucky bourbon, selecting a brand with a unique bottle shape.

South of Long Beach, he parked at a highway cocktail lounge, then carefully crushed down the paper bag so the bottle necks were exposed. Bag beneath his arm, he went inside. The dim lounge was open for early business. The balding, freckled bartender was lazily wiping Bon Ami from the long mirror behind the bar. An elderly, wizened Chinaman was wet-mopping beneath the green vinyl-upholstered booths.

Three customers sat at the far end of the bar. They all seemed to have red eyes and each sipped a Bloody Mary. Two were middle-aged businessmen in rumpled suits. They needed shaves. The third was a tousled, bleached blonde. It was obvious to Stark that she was for hire. He wondered if they’d had a three way motel orgy. They looked like they’d been up all night, and the worse for it.

The trio didn’t matter. Only the bartender, and, perhaps, the owner counted. He placed the bag with the bottles of bourbon on the counter and waited the few seconds for the bartender to come over. The man smiled professionally. Stark waited.

“What’ll it be?”

“Draft beer… small glass.”

“We’ve only got bottles.”

“How much does the cheapest cost?”

The question wrinkled the bartender’s face. Partially hidden but still apparent was the inherent disapproval of tightwads and paupers.

“Fifty cents,” the bartender said. His eyes wandered to the paper bag. He saw the bottles and was familiar with the brand from the neck shape. Curiosity crossed his face. Stark caught it. Neither spoke, and the man went for the beer.

When he returned, Stark was ready. Fumbling in his pocket, he pinched out a quarter and carefully slid it along the bar.

“Shore wish ah could be drinkin’ what ah got in the bag.” He twanged the words with a southern drawl and smacked his lips at the end.

“Ain’t it yours?”

“Sorta… Leastways after I pay a friend three dollars for ‘em. But ah don’t get paid ‘til next week. Hot damn, it’s hell to be a workin’ stiff.” Stark’s eyes were saucer round and bland with simplicity.

“Three dollars!” the bartender said. “That’s half the wholesale price.”

“Shore is — but ah gotta sell it. Need the money.”

“Have you got a buyer yet?”

“Yeah. A guy up in Long Beach. Sold him ten bottles last week.”

“Long Beach is twenty miles. You can sell it right here. I’ll give you three fifty apiece of them.”

Stark deliberated lengthily. “Ah dunno. Ah’m sorta obligated… but it sure is a long drive to pick up three dollars. Ain’t really worth the gas. But ah gotta see if he wants more, maybe a whole lot. My friend needs some money… wife’s divorcin’ him an’ he had an accident.” Stark continued to ramble, debating aloud the pros and cons of the situation.

“How much more booze can you get?” the bartender interrupted, ignoring the people at the rear who were vying for his attention.

“Hell fire, ah dunno,” he said laconically, guzzling a swig of beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ah guess a whole goddamn warehouse - Scotch, bourbon, brandy, whatever… He ain’t never got more’n ten or twelve bottles before, but that ain’t cause he can’t. He ain’t needed no money ‘fore now.”

The bartender hungrily accepted the information, trying to puzzle the possibilities of the situation.

“Hey, bartender!” the blonde called. “How about a little service?”

“Don’t go away,” the bartender said to him. “Soon as I take care of these people we’ll talk about it.” He moved away to fill the orders of the woman and the two men.

Stark had no intention of leaving. He looked at himself in the dim reflection of the mirror and winked. This was going good, better than he expected. First cast of the line and he had a solid bite. The hook was sunk deep. Now to play it along and reel the fish in. The whole thing might be pulled off in two quick meetings, rather than the usual prolonged build up. And he needed dough — fast.

Stark waited until the bartender was at the cash register, then the con man slipped from the stool, picked up the bag, and started leisurely toward the door.

“Hey, mister,” the bartender called, coming quickly down beside him. “What’s the hurry? I thought we had some business to talk about. Have a seat and a beer on me.”

Stark’s eyes were again round and naive as he slid back onto a stool.

“Are ya serious? Ah can’t be foolin’. I gotta help my buddy.”

“I’m serious… maybe about buying the whole lot of it. But give me some details, some facts.”

“Well, here’s how it is… my name’s George Splivens. What’s yours?” Stark stuck his hand out before beginning the story…

__________

T
wo hours later Stark was back in Oceanview, cursing in frustration when he discovered that his usual con partner was in Las Vegas. Not that the man was a friend. He was only another predator, wolfish and ruthless, having worked bunco so long that he thought everyone in the world was a potential sucker. For this game, Stark required someone to help finish the score. It was going faster than he expected. The sucker was ready to be clipped immediately, almost begging to surrender his money.

Stark checked his watch. It was after one in the afternoon. Unless he found another partner in a half-hour, he would have to postpone the sting at least a day, and he didn’t want to do that. The blood scent of the kill was in his nostrils. Too often suckers cooled off.

He wheeled the station wagon to the Panama Club. In the squalid lair he hoped to find Momo, hoped he was capable of playing the role and willing to do it for a third of the take. It might also be a door open with Momo.

Stark swept to the door and peered inside. It was like any cheap nightclub in daylight, depressing as a hangover. The only occupant was a tired whore draped across the bar. Stark let the door swing shut. Momo might still be in his apartment with Dorie. He couldn’t blame him.

Before driving off, Stark glanced down the street. What he saw froze him. Crowley was double-parked on the far side of the boulevard. The detective beckoned him with a meaty paw.

“Christ,” muttered Stark to himself, “in broad daylight … the fool.” He checked the entire street to see if any local characters were nearby. None could be seen, but someone might be watching, peeking out a window. Stark hated the risk of talking to a cop openly. He shook his head negatively and waved Crowley off. The bulldog face reddened, but the policeman nodded. He pointed down the block, indicating that Stark should meet him some distance away. Stark nodded, and the Ford slid into motion.

He didn’t wait to see where the car stopped. The panic had disappeared in an instant. Even as he nodded assent, he had decided to ignore the summons. He ducked back into the vacant club, skirted between the tables, and went out through the kitchen to the alley. Crowley would be pissed, but he’d think of something. The cop would go for a good story. He’d think of one. Right now he needed to find Momo and make some money.

His car was left parked at the curb in front. He could pick it up later. A yellow cab was hailed. Out of habit, Stark got out of the car a block away from his destination. This distance he covered in a swift walk, and when he hit the stairs he broke into a climbing run. He was breathing heavily as he tapped on the door - tapped instead of knocked. In the paranoid dope world a pounded summons was usually the cops. The voice of Dorie Williams came muffled through the wood:

“Who’s there?”

“Ernie Stark.”

“Momo’s not here. He went out.”

“Shit,” he muttered. “When’s he coming back? I’ve gotta see him.”

Dorie misinterpreted the urgency of the situation. “You’ll have to come back. I can’t sell you anything. He doesn’t want me dealing.”

“I don’t want to geeze. I want Momo. When do you expect him?”

There was a hesitancy beyond the door. Stark could imagine her, face puzzled, perhaps nibbling at a fingernail while her green eyes were clouded with indecision.

“I gotta know,” Stark pressed. “I need him for something.”

“He should be back in twenty or thirty minutes.”

“Let me in. I’ll wait for him.”

Again she hesitated, but not very long. The lock clicked open, the nightlatch clattered free, and the door swung inward. Stark stepped through, and the girl instantly fastened the locks and braced a chair beneath the doorknob.

Stark stopped in the center of the dreary room and watched her security measures, noting the way her movements caused full thighs and rounded buttocks to press tight against her white Capri pants. These clothes were a better come on for her sexy body than the preceding nights partial nakedness. She turned quizzically toward him.

“You’re a cautious creature, baby,” he said with sarcasm.

“It’s better to be safe than in jail.”

“Oh, I’m sure the cops’ll get in if they want to. Don’t worry about that. I’ve seen cops crash through more than one door.”

“Maybe they will… but it will slow them down enough that I can flush everything down the toilet.”

“Good luck. Me, I guess I play it more risky, to the brink of disaster. It makes the game more fun.”

“Not me. Besides, Momo gets frantic if I’m not careful.”

“You don’t have to apologize for being scared of cops -or Momo, either.”

“I’m not,” she snapped, flushing. “Goddamn you, why must you needle me?” “Maybe for the same reason it gets to you so quick. Because you’re pretty fast with the needle yourself,” he tossed off with laconic flippancy and punctuated it with a knowing leer. The double entendre was intended.

“So I like junk. So do you. Big deal.”

“Yeah, but I’d rather pay for it in cash.”

Dories face deepened in color, confusing Stark. He had intended it as a jibe, and her response surprised him. She should not have been embarrassed by his mentioning her relationship with Momo. Slowly, it dawned on him that he had unearthed a truth. He smiled.

She looked at him as if she knew what he was waiting for.

For half a minute they stared at each other, each waiting for the other to make a move. He could see the hint of brassiere pressing its tips against the sheer white of her thin blouse. She stood with her long legs mannishly apart, and as the coloring of her cheeks receded, she threw her head back in defiance. Slowly she put her hands behind her back, the move forcing her full breasts out even more.

“Let’s get down to it,” she whispered as slowly she began to unbutton her blouse from the rear. When it was free she slipped it off.

She stood for his inspection, breathing in slowly and deeply. Her waist was tiny, her hips wide, and the pants stretched down along every curve of her body. She began to unfasten them, to wiggle and tug them down over her hips. Staring at him, mocking him. Turning him on.

Stark hadn’t moved. “We haven’t got time for this,” he said bluntly.

Dorie froze. She straightened, confusion etching her face.

“Put your clothes back on,” he said coolly. “There’s not enough time. Well get around to it, later, when I want you.”

It took a few seconds for the truth to sink in. Then, with an angry, sweeping motion, she scooped up the fallen blouse and glared at Stark.