Stick (19 page)

Stick watched Firestone, the dumb shit, look out over the audience. The man's gaze met Jane's and Stick saw her shake her head, twice, and nod toward the table where Nestor was staring at Firestone with his trancelike expression.

“If there's anyone here of Hispanic persuasion,” Firestone said, “that's a bit of harmless levity along the lines I like to have a little fun with my Jewish ladies, God love 'em. No, we've been fortunate since the Bay of Pigs to receive into our land, our hearts, a great number of highly respectable and successful Spanish-speaking people. No, what we're talking about in
Shuck and Jive,
the film, is another element entirely. The garbage that has washed up on our shores, the gangsters, the murderers, who traffic in
the sale of controlled substances with no regard whatsoever for human life.”

Stick kept watching Nestor Soto. If he knew the guy and was sitting next to him, he'd give him a nudge with his elbow. Beautiful, sitting there listening to the bald-headed asshole from Hollywood.

“You read every day, I'm sure,” Firestone said, “about the cocaine busts, the boatloads of marijuana confiscated, the gangland-type killings and murders. But, gentlemen, let me assure you it's only the tip of the iceberg you read about. If the papers even printed half the facts I've uncovered in my research it would literally curl your hair.” Firestone patted the top of his head. “Fortunately I'm immune. I can look at the raunchy underbelly of the dope business, look at the vermin that live there with the eye of the artist and select its most dramatic elements for portrayal in a major motion picture.” He held up the palms of his hands to the table. “But you ask me my source I'll plead the Fifth, so don't, okay? Believe me, you would not want to know these people.”

Barry said, “Leo, let's move on to casting, okay?” Barry wide eyed, trying to appear innocent and interested at the same time.

Stick counted heads at the table. He believed Firestone had already lost three of his prospective investors—Chucky, Nestor and the guy who ran Wolfgang's, Gabe something—and might have to
run for it before he was through. He sure seemed dumb for a Hollywood producer about to make another major motion picture.

Firestone moved to casting and told of several actors who had read the property and “flipped” and were under serious consideration. “You know,” Firestone said, “what's his name. Tremendously successful recording star, plays Vegas.” He looked down the center of the table.

And Jane said, “Neil Diamond.”

“Right, Neil Diamond. He's perfect for the part of Jive, who plays cocktail piano as his cover . . .  For Shuck we're considering . . .  I have to tell you Sly Stallone turned it down—okay, that happens—due to commitments, but . . .  what's his name, the guy that rides the motorcycle, the cop . . .”

“Erik Estrada,” Jane said.

Jesus Christ, Stick thought. Warren Oates dead, you bonehead, could play it better than Erik Estrada.

“Erik Estrada is a real possibility.” Firestone held up crossed fingers. “We're considering Laurence Olivier—Sir Laurence, I should say—for the role of Domingo, the wise old Cuban who turns snitch. It's a beautiful little cammie, could win Larry another best-supporting nomination. And for the female lead we're seriously considering . . .  she was an answer on
Tic Tac Dough
the other night. The one that's emceed by my good friend Wink Martindale, reaches millions . . .”

“Linda Blair,” Jane said.

“That's the girl, Linda Blair. Tremendously successful in . . .  you remember, the kid throws up the pea soup?”

“The Exorcist,”
Jane said.

Firestone extended his arm, pointing to the back of the room. “My lovely assistant, Jane. If you wonder what I'd do without her . . .  Listen, I'm going to open this up to the board of directors in a minute, you guys, and ask what you think of the story and what film stars you like that we might consider. There are a number of cameos I wouldn't be surprised one or two of you gentlemen”—looking at Chucky and Nestor—”might not fit perfectly. And don't tell me you'd turn it down. We're going to do this picture our way, gentlemen. Sell off foreign rights, TV, cable, which will more than recoup your investment before the picture is even released. Then let the majors bid for domestic distribution. I wasn't going to tell you this—but since I've got a handshake on it—listen up. Wherever David Begelman locates—and I know in my heart he'll be back in the thick of the action any day now—we'll
cut a distribution deal. Take my word.”

Stick poured a Jack Daniel's and stooped down to straighten the shelf beneath the bar while Firestone talked about bank loans and tax benefits, words that were hard to understand because they did not offer
things to picture. By the time Stick finished his drink and stood up, Barry was saying, with his head cocked, “Yeah, I think I like it. I wouldn't mind seeing more broads in it. I think we could lighten the story up, show that
many
of the dealers are good guys that're only giving the public what they want. But on the whole I have to say, yeah, I think I like it very much.”

Chucky said, “I think you're going to have to lighten it up considerably. I think you might even have to turn a few things around . . .”

Firestone winked and said, “That's the kind of input we want. Listen, we can write in walk-ons for any pretty faces you gentlemen might consider star material.”

Barry said, “Okay, any questions about the investment itself, the risk, the tax angle? Anybody? Kyle, how about you? You have any questions?”

Stick watched her, seated with a pad of paper and the open prospectus on her lap. The girl in the tank top was watching her too, closely.

“Or any comments?” Barry said.

“Just one,” Kyle said. “It sounds to me like a tax fraud.”

Firestone pretended to do a double-take and then smiled, leaning over the table on his hands.

“I beg your pardon?”

Kyle said, “You want to raise a million here, a hundred thousand from each investor . . .”

“Very good,” Firestone said, animated.

“ . . .  take it to the bank and leverage another million and a half . . .”

“I think you've got it.”

“ . . .  and allow the investors to write off the bank loan even though they're not obligated to the bank. You are, but they aren't.”

“By Jove, I think she's got it,” Firestone said.

What an asshole, Stick thought. He wanted Kyle to let him have it. The girl in the tank top was sitting up straight, giving Kyle her full attention.

“I'm teasing you, sweetheart,” Firestone said, “but you're right. We sign a recourse note to a bank payable in five years. So the guys each get to write off two-hundred and fifty thousand. Their hundred grand investment plus their share of the note, another hundred and fifty grand.
But
 . . .  here's the sweet spot of the deal. I give them each a signed memo that states they're not responsible for the bank loan. They've already written it off. And by the time the note comes due, in five years, the statute will have run out and the IRS won't be able to touch them. Now I think that's pretty cute, if I have to say so myself.”

“Adorable,” Kyle said. “Except the statute of limitations has nothing to do with it. When you forgive them a note that's due in five years—which they've already written off—then five years from now each
investor will be a hundred and fifty thousand dollars ahead. Which is the same as income, and they'll have to declare it and pay tax on it. If you don't believe me, ask the IRS.”

Firestone stared at her, half-smiling. “You serious?”

Kyle didn't answer him.

“Well,” Firestone said, playing to the audience, giving the rich guys a palms-up, what-can-I-do shrug, “what it comes down to, really, is that age-old entrepreneurial question . . .  who's to know?”

Kyle gave him her nice-girl smile and said, “I will, Mr. Firestone. That's why I say it's fraud . . .”

“Your interpretation . . .” Firestone said.

“ . . .  and why I would advise any one of my clients to run if they ever see you coming.”

Stick began to clap—four times before deciding he'd better knock it off. Kyle was smiling at him.

Cornell came over to the bar. “Three scotch, two vodka tonic. You learn anything?”

“Never open your mouth,” Stick said, “when you're fulla shit. What happened—they're ordering regular drinks?”

It was interesting, everybody talking now, getting into it among themselves. Stick saw Kyle and the girl in the tank top in close conversation, the girl on the edge of her seat, nodding as she listened. While at the
other end of the table Barry, shaking his head with a solemn expression—What can I tell you?—seemed to be finishing Firestone off, denying a reprieve.

Stick turned to watch Kyle and found Chucky standing at the bar, directly in front of him.

“Nestor's ready to talk to you.”

THEY STOOD IN ACACIA SHADE
among expensive automobiles, Nestor looking him over, making no pretext of doing anything else, in control, letting Stick know it would be up to him.

Stick was not going to push him. There was a ritual of respect to be observed here, at the least a show of deference to the man who could order your death if he wanted it. Still, the way Stick saw it, he wasn't going to wait forever.

He said, “How long's it been? Three, four weeks? If I told Metro you'd a heard from them by now. Don't you think?” Trying not to get a plea in his voice. But the Cuban was not an ordinary-looking Cuban made up of black and Spanish parts going back four hundred years. This was an Indian-looking Cuban with a mask face he must have practiced for some time and could use now when he needed to scare hell out of people without saying a word. Who was he? What did he do on Sunday? Did he let his wife yell at him?

“What else can I tell you?” Stick said.

Chucky said, “You can tell me where a blue Chevy van's at for openers.”

“Last seen in Bayfront Park,” Stick said, “or impounded. You think I was gonna wait and talk to those guys? Moke's got his gun
out,
in his hand. The other guy, he didn't look like he even needed one. I left, that's all.” He said to Chucky, “What would you do?”

Nestor kept staring at him.

Stick felt like pushing the Cuban. Let the Cuban take a swing and then belt him, crack the mask. He felt his stomach getting tighter and knew he would have to think, take his time before he said anything. But what was there to say? You didn't tell this guy anything, you listened. It tightened him up even more to realize that.

Nestor, staring, said, “I don't know . . .”

Stick asked him, “What do you want me to do?”

Nestor took his time. “You in the business?”

“No, I'm driving for Mr. Stam. That's all I'm doing.”

“You were with Rene.”

“That's right, I was with him, that's all.”

“Got some action going, I understand,” Chucky said, “selling tips on the stock market. I mean this is an enterprising guy,” Chucky said to Nestor. “He came right out and asked me . . .  You won't believe this. The suitcase Rainy had? He tells me he wants
five grand for making the delivery. Right here, while he's working the bar.”

“Well, it was delivered,” Stick said, “and that's what you told us you'd pay.”

Nestor's eyes moved, a momentary look of interest, mild surprise.

Stick saw it. He said, “What am I doing? Am I down at the state attorney's office? I'm standing here talking to you.”

Nestor said, “You ever been to that office?”

“I don't even know where it is.”

“By the courts, Northwest Twelfth,” Nestor said. “They put a wire on you?”

“You want to feel me?”

“No, I don't feel you,” Nestor said.

“He's not wired,” Chucky said. “They wouldn't wire him for something like this, listen to all the bullshit. But he was a friend of Rainy's. How good a friend, that's what I want to know.” Talking tough in front of Nestor.

Stick began to wonder which one was the problem, getting right down to it. Maybe it wasn't Nestor. Maybe he could talk to Nestor, but not in front of Chucky. It was a feeling and did not come from anything Nestor said or the way the man stared at him. It was like trying to decide who you would rather talk to: a man who might shoot you in the back, or a man who tells you to your face he's going to kill you?

This was in his mind now as he said to Nestor, not to Chucky, “I gotta go back to work. You want to talk to me sometime, give me a call. I'll be right here.” Stick walked away.

It was Chucky who yelled after him, “Hey! I'm not done with you!” So he kept walking.

Chucky found Lionel and Avilanosa. While they were moving cars like parking attendants to work Nestor's Cadillac out of the turnaround, Chucky said, “What do you think?”

Nestor said, “It don't sound like
The Godfather.
I don't think this movie would be very good.”

“I mean the guy,” Chucky said, “Ernest Stickley. What do we do with him?”

“What do you want to do with him?”

“You were the one, I remember correctly, was so anxious to find him.”

“Yes, and we did,” Nestor said. “Now I don't worry about him so much. He ask a good question, what do you want him to do?” Nestor brushed at a fly close to his face, hand limp, diamond ring giving off a faint gleam. “He's here, he's not talking to nobody. I think what bothers you is what he wants
you
to do, uh? You promise Rene five thousand dollar?”

“I might have. Yeah, I probably said five to hook him. But you and I know it wasn't that kind of deal. Rainy's not coming back I'm not gonna pay him, am I?”

“Well, you made a deal and somebody come back.”

“I didn't make it with
him.
”

Nestor smiled, a slight easing at the corners of his mouth. “He say to you, it was deliver, wasn't it?”

“See, that's what I mean,” Chucky said. “Guy acts like he's got it coming. I didn't hire him, I hired Rainy.”

“Yes, you keep telling me that. But it was deliver . . .”

“You think that's funny?”

“I think you can believe him.”

“I'm not gonna give him five grand . . .  Why would I give him anything?”

“I don't know,” Nestor said.

“You think I should?”

“It's your business, not mine.”

Chucky said, “But if I don't . . .  I'm thinking out loud. A guy like that, you don't know what he might do. I mean something crazy. You know?”

“Then pay him.”

“I don't owe him a fucking thing.”

“Then get rid of him.”

“What would you do?”

Nestor looked up at Chucky through his tinted glasses. “I don't know what I would do. I have no feeling about it, it isn't my business.”

“I could argue that one with you. You're the one got the delivery. You were the other end of the deal.”

“But I only promise to kill the delivery man, whoever it is,” Nestor said. “And I keep my promise.” He walked over to his car, Avilanosa holding the door open, and got in.

Big help . . .

Somebody had tossed his room. Emptied the drawers on the floor, pulled the bed covers apart, turned the mattress cocked half off the box spring. His magazines were still on the dresser. And the original prospectus Kyle had given him to read. The one in which thirty-five investors put in seventy-two thousand and something each and didn't involve the tricky bank loan part that Kyle said was a fraud. Stick took the prospectus over to his one bedroom chair—green plastic that was supposed to look like leather—sat down and began reading the film offering again, understanding most of it now and wondering why Firestone hadn't brought it out when Kyle shot down the other scheme. Except the story wasn't going to sell anyway. Christ, Shuck and Jive. Were they really that dumb out there?

Cornell said, “Oh, man,” sadly, from the doorway. “I was afraid something like this might happen. Wasn't nothing I could do.”

Stick looked over. “Who was it?”

“Nestor's man, his father-in-law. The big motherfucker looks like the bouncer at a live-sex show. He
found out what he was looking for? Or shouldn't I ask?”

“Wasn't anything to find,” Stick said. “Less he's trying to tell me something.”

“Well, you cool about it. Didn't mess up your stuff too much?”

“No, it's okay.” Stick wasn't interested in Nestor's father-in-law. He said, “The guy wasn't too quick, was he? Mr. Firestone.”

“Man should be parking cars. He went to pack, gonna leave. Him and his little girl having an argument about something.”

“She seemed pretty sharp.”

“Has good instincts, but a few things to learn. I told you, she still a baby.”

Stick straightened, smiled, and Cornell glanced over his shoulder at Kyle standing behind him and got out of her way so she could look in.

She said, “I don't know why, I thought you'd be neater than this.”

“Somebody looking for the microfilm,” Cornell said. “Did you know this man was a secret agent?”

She seemed concerned for a moment, but said, “I know he has secrets.” Giving it a light touch.

They went into the sitting room, Stick telling her she was a star while Cornell popped open cans of beer. They put their feet up and did quick Leo Firestone sketches, recalling memorable moments—
Firestone dumping on Hispanics right in front of Nestor—Stick saying he wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen it. Cornell saying, man, we should make the movie, put some real life in it.

“Chucky had the best idea,” Kyle said, “but I don't think anyone heard him. He said lighten up and turn it around. I remember a story in the
Herald
about customs agents finding two hundred and thirty-six pounds of cocaine in a cargo jet—I think it said with a street value of a hundred and forty-seven
million;
but there wasn't anyone they could prove had knowledge of it. So all that coke's sitting in some storeroom.”

“The Feds licking their lips,” Cornell said. “I like the one, the customs plane chases the smuggler from Bimini, the man running out of gas and has to ditch, so he lands at Homestead, man, of all places, right at the customs
base,
where they keep their airplanes, and while they running around looking for him he goes in the office and steals the names and addresses of all the customs dudes. You dig it? Wait. Then—listen now—the man sends an announcement to all the customs dudes saying he's made it, he's quitting and, listen, invites them all to his retirement party in Nassau.”

Stick liked it. “They go?”

“Would have to quit their jobs or sneak over to do it. No, the man said he would even send a jet plane
over, pick 'em up. But the fools—you know what I mean? They could have gone over there, talk to the man drunk out of his mind celebrating and learn all his tricks. But no, the man in charge of the customs dudes won't let 'em go.”

Stick said, “Instead of the guy taking the names and addresses—no, the one guy, Shuck, takes the names and addresses and Jive finds the two-hundred and thirty-six pounds of coke . . .  Except how's he going to lift it?”

Cornell said, “It ain't all in one cake, man, it's in bags. See-through baggies inside of burlap sacks; you know, inside something. They take it out, make two trips each, do it easy.”

Kyle said, “I think the names would definitely have to go. Shuck and Jive. How about . . .  Stick and Cornell?”

“Frank and Ernest,” Stick said. “But it doesn't have any punch, does it? Just lays there.”

“Can't be too real,” Cornell said. “Yeah, has to have some zip. Zip and Punch . . .  Sock and Pizzazz.”

“Sacco and Vanzetti,” Kyle said. “How about Ron and Rick at the Seashore?”

“No, you know what the title is?” Stick said. “The two dopers rip off the Feds, walk away with a hundred and forty-seven million dollars worth of coke? Scam.”

“That says it all,” Kyle said.

“Yeah, Scam,” Cornell said, grinning, dragging the word. “You want to hear a true story maybe we can work in? The gardener that comes here twice a week? Man's Colombian.” Cornell still grinning. “You know what's coming, don't you? I had him put in a patch over the other side of the guest house among the hibiscus. Ain't Santa Marta, not the same kind of soil, you know? Won't make dreadlocks grow out of your head either. But it's fine domestic weed. What I'm saying, who wants some?”

Barry appeared. At first he looked surprised. Then sad, left out. Then waved his hand in front of his face and clutched his throat as though he couldn't breathe, wanting to be one of them. Brow furrowed, helpless, he said, “You know how far away you can smell this party you're having?”

Cornell, grinning: “Tell us, Mr. Stam.”

“The Coast Guard station. I just saw a boat coming up from Government Cut . . .  Gimme a hit.”

Barry put his feet up with them. He said he should've held the meeting in here, get everybody zonked and decadent on a strong stone, get them good and banged—using all the words he knew—then present the movie deal. He said, “Leo Norman Firestone Presents told the emery board one, he should've started with the one, You know how to stop a Jewish broad from screwing? Marry her.” He said
to Cornell, “You like that one, huh? Little ethnic humor? You know how they know Adam was white? . . .  You ever try to take a rib from a jig? I would've said black gentleman but it doesn't work as good. Okay?” He said to Kyle, “You ought to change your name”—Kyle and Stick giving each other a look—”to Hernia. Hernia, the ball buster. I say that, you understand, with affection, with deep admiration. Hernia McLaren. Try and con me, pal, I'll take your nuts home in my purse.” He said to Stick, “Since this is
not your day off, Stickley, and you're supposedly on the job I believe? Could I ask you to do something for me, if it's not too much trouble?”

Stick said, “It depends what it is.”

Barry said, “He's not kidding. He makes it sound like he's playing along, but he isn't. I don't know—I think the help around here has more fun than the . . .  whatever the fuck I am. Sometimes I'm not too sure.”

Cornell said, “You the master, Mr. Stam. The head dude.”

“Thank you,” Barry said, and looked at Stick again. “If you have time and it doesn't interfere with your plans too much . . .”

Even with a buzz Stick was getting tired of smiling.

“ . . .  would you mind driving Leo Norman Firestone and his flat-chested assistant to the airport in about an hour?”