Stark carefully placed the spoon on the sink and picked up a tiny piece of cotton. He rolled it between thumb and forefinger into a hard little ball, and dropped it into the bubbling junk. With trembling fingers he pressed the tip of the needle against the cotton and sucked up the liquid. He handed the eyedropper to Momo — whose eyes were glittering black — and shed his coat. Dorie had returned, the stocking stretched chest high between both hands. As Stark finished rolling up his sleeve, she moved forward and wordlessly wrapped the nylon around his left bicep, brushing one of her breasts across the other arm as she leaned over.
“Tighter,” he commanded, feeling the blood being trapped. Even in the urgency of the moment he became aware of her warm breath against his cheek, and of her flesh. As she tightened her grip, her unfettered breast beneath the filmy negligee pressed closer against his body.
He knew that this girl, so strange and innocent, so hard and hip, was trying to turn him on. She might think she could manipulate him. He smiled at the idea, for sex had never been his weakness. Shit was his current weakness. There wasn’t room for a dame, too.
He forgot Dorie as he tapped the needle into the ridge of vein. A stream of blood filled the eyedropper.
“Here’s to J. Edgar Hoover,” he said with a smile, and squeezed off the hit.
The glow exploded and suffused him almost instantly. It was a crushing blow that weakened his knees, but sent him to lalaland.
“Nice,” he muttered, “Nice. Real nice.” The words came out in a guttural monotone. He cleared his throat. “It’s good shit, Momo. The best you’ve ever had. Is this a new brand?”
Momo paused in his own preparations. “It’s from a new package I picked up today. The Man said it would be top grade from now on.”
“It is,” Stark said, face pale and eyelids fluttering. His face was breaking into a sweat. “Real good. Did he say where this new shit came from?”
“No. But you know how connections are - never quit bragging about their stuff.”
“This one’s right,” Stark gasped. “Better be cool. Don’t overdose. Maybe you should cut it a bit for other customers.” He wavered and felt the nausea rising in his stomach. “I’m gonna sit down, before I fall down. I’ll be in the other room.” Momo nodded jerkily without looking up. He was intent on cooking his own fix.
Stark stumbled blindly around Dorie and went to the unmade bed and stretched out in a semi-prone position, back braced by the headboard, head slumping loosely forward to his chest. Through the haze of euphoria he could hear her urging Momo to hurry, the urgent cry of another junkie in need.
Momo would hurry, Stark was certain. He dreamily visualized the fat Hawaiian moving swiftly, the girl hovering impatiently at his shoulder. Momo would hurry, both because he craved the flash and because of Dorie’s obvious need to fix. The drug peddler was paying for her flesh with his drugs. A nice setup. Everyone in happy land, Stark thought sardonically.
Stark smiled at the thought of how he might get the info Crowley wanted from the girl. She could wheedle it out of Momo in ten hot seconds of teasing. And he, in turn, would be able, later, to mix business with pleasure as he screwed the information out of her. Anything to get Crowley off his back. He shifted to a more upright position.
“Man, this is serious,” he muttered.
“What’s serious?” Momo asked. He had finished in the bathroom and stood in the doorway, eyes heavy lidded.
“I was going into a bad nod. That’s how people die… just coast on out. I dig the nod, but I’m not ready for the big one.”
“Yeah, that would be serious… especially in my pad where I’d have to get rid of your body.” Momo paused, brushed a fluttering hand across his eyes, and smiled. “I’m glad you warned me to take it easy. He wasn’t jiving about the stuff. I might’ve overjolted. I think I’m going to have to cut it for my other customers.”
“Yeah, like I told you to. I got other good business ideas. You could use a guy like me. I’m always figuring the odds.”
Stark looked at Momo, drowsing on his feet, and decided to try a wild shot in the dark, a direct approach.
“I’d like to meet your connection and make a big buy.”
The effect was negative. Momo sneered with arrogance, but without suspicion. He shook his head disdainfully. “Not a chance,” he said, moving to an armchair. “But how come you wanna make a big buy all of a sudden?”
“All of a sudden you’ve got good stuff.”
“That don’t make no difference. When you score, it’s from me. Small buy, big buy, all the same. The Man don’t wanna meet nobody.”
Stark shrugged. “I was trying to save some money. Sort of your loss is my gain sort of thing. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I know. Your style, tryin’ to get me to help you take money out of my pocket. You planning to be my competition?”
“No. Your business partner. I got some good ideas.”
Momo made a wry face. “Stop it. You’re killin’ me. But like I said, the Man don’t wanna meet nobody. Besides, where’d you get all the dough? If you’d made a big score, I’d a heard about it. You ain’t been out long enough.” Stark feigned indifference. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“We can talk anytime, but we ain’t going anywhere.”
Stark tossed a shoulder, sleepily accepting the reply. He hadn’t expected anything in the first place. He checked his watch.
“Anyway, I’ve gotta go. Nothing’s happening here.” He stood up, unzipped his pants, and tugged his shirt firmly down inside them.
“Hey, baby!” he called toward the bathroom. “I’m splitting.”
Dorie appeared, eyes glassy. A tiny spot of blood from the needle puncture was on her left arm. She grabbed Stark’s jacket in the other hand. “Don’t forget this. What’s your hurry? Why don’t you just lay back and enjoy the trip?” she said provocatively.
“I’ve got some business to take care of.”
“Monkey business?”
“No. Money business,” he said, stepping forward and turning his back to her. “Do you mind?” he asked, extending his arms suggestively.
She snapped the jacket with a flourish and slipped it over his arms.
“So, now the Dark Prince departs.”
Stark ignored her, and walked to the door. “See you tomorrow, Momo.”
“Anytime after ten. I’ll be at the club.”
Stark’s fingers twisted the knob; then he turned to face them, laughter edging the corners of his mouth. He looked directly at Dorie. “Goodnight, Miss Williams. It’s been delightful meeting someone as refined as yourself. And goodnight to you too, Mr. Mendoza, a gentleman and a scholar if ever I met one.”
He opened the door slightly and peered out; it was a move conditioned by experience. There was nobody in the dim hallway. Glancing back over his shoulder, he said, “Better lock it. There’s all kinds of weird characters around in this neighborhood.”
Dorie’s face flushed as she stepped forward. “I will double lock it, Mr. Stark.” Under her breath, she added: “You bastard.”
The door slammed shut behind him, Stark walked toward the stairs, laughing loud enough for her to hear him.
4
__________
The hour was that of the pre-dawn hush, the deathlike period of a city when no human being seems to move, when the headlights of a vehicle add to the sense of aloneness rather than ease it. It was the hour when most who are on the move are either members of the law or those against the law. It was Stark’s favorite time of night. Stark had lied to Momo and Dorie. His only business was a telephone call, and this would be a surprise wake-up call to the person who received it. Beyond that, there was only bed and sleep, both of which he craved. The call would be made from Eric’s, an all night coffee shop on the coast highway. It was on a direct line to his small, beach-side apartment, the whereabouts of which he kept secret. Nobody could give it up to questioning police if they did not know its location. The less people knew about him,
the better he liked it.
His pad would reveal too much. He never invited anyone home. He didn’t want anyone to know where he lived. Or how he lived. Some of the furnishings, the books, the glassware had been heisted. He liked to surround himself with beautiful things whether he could afford them or not. His world was shit, inhabited by predators like himself. He came home to escape the jungle. He treasured his privacy after three years in prison.
After a nerve-grinding ride through impenetrable fog, he turned the station wagon into the coffee shop’s parking lot. He was not surprised when his headlights played across Dummy’s gleaming red Corvette. The mute often came here after the bars closed at two a.m., as did others of the hustler jungle: flashy pimps feeding gaudy whores, insomniac dope fiends (despite drowsy eyes), owl-eyed Benzedrine freaks, thieves with nothing to do who wanted conversation, and a pervert or two seeking a companion for strange embraces. They sat over coffee, smoked endless cigarettes, and cut up the night’s deals. Stark knew most of Eric’s occupants, at least by face. He also knew that, though he was accepted here, he was not truly one of them. He was beyond their range of bad, a wolf among vultures. He carried, as a part of his being, a deep contempt for them. They were suckers, too, and when the hunting for easier game proved slim, he was not above ripping them off. He pulled into a vacant slot beside the Corvette. As he got out, he felt compelled to touch the shiny hood. It radiated success. Money. It didn’t seem right that a deaf mute interested only in clothes, dope, and sadism should be so successful, while he was just skating by. It wasn’t that Dummy made so much more money, it was that he didn’t have a monkey on his back. The car and the jukebox seemed to be his only expenses, except for an occasional joint or two.
Stark looked at the Corvette and wondered how Dummy was making his money. He knew better than to ask him. He knew he carried a gun and had used it. Whatever means of income Dummy had, it was against the law. Stark would bet his life on that. Not a smart bet, he thought.
Moving toward the glass door of Eric’s, he continued to ponder the problem, but it was not something he really wanted to know. A hustler might discuss candidly the most depraved of sexual practices, but he did not discuss means of livelihood or question others. It was like an unwritten law or something. They lived in the same zone of the underworld, but had nothing in common. They met like this, by chance, at night in the hangouts, exchanged sign language words, but did not communicate. No one did. They were strangers. There was more rapport — even in conflict — between himself and Dorie Williams, than between him and Dummy. Stark shook his head at the strangeness of the world and pushed through the doors. He paused, gazed around the bright chromium and glass cleanliness of the coffee shop, and at the losers and would-be winners who inhabited it.
Dummy was alone at a rear booth stuffing his mouth with an egg-topped concoction of pancakes, the whole mess drenched in syrup. Stark exchanged waves with some of the night people and, almost against his will, made his way to Dummy’s booth. He slid in across from the mute and they went through the blindingly fast finger movements to say hello, punctuated by the ritual of winks and grimaces. Dummy’s penetrating blue eyes noted Stark’s heroin-pinpointed pupils and gestured silently. Stark shrugged, and after ordering coffee made the motion of dialing a telephone; then moved toward a booth at the rear. Lately Dummy made him nervous. He couldn’t talk, but his eyes chilled you. They sometimes spoke volumes. He got the sense that Dummy was watching him all the time, warning him. Had he seen him get in the car with the cop?
He closed the phone booth door, dropped in a coin, and, as he dialed, grinned with anticipation. It was three-thirty a.m.
The receiver buzzed half a dozen times before a drowsy, middle-aged female voice answered: “Crowley residence.”
“Let me speak to Crowley.”
“He just went to sleep,” the woman said, uncertainty evident. “Is it important?”
“Yes, ma’am. Life and death.”
“Well… I guess I can wake him up. But he’s got to be in court tomorrow, so don’t keep him.”
“I won’t, Miss — Miss…”
“Mrs. Crowley,” she said sternly. Stark covered his mouth to stifle the chuckle, and then laughed aloud as the other receiver banged hard on a table.
A few minutes later the angry voice of Patrick Crowley came on: “Who’s this?”
“Ernie Stark.”
“It better be good, to call me this time of night.” Crowley’s tone wavered between irritation and excitement.
“Pat, I tried to get to the Man for you, but I can’t.”
“Don’t call me Pat, and you’d better… Is that all the hell you woke me up for? Get your ass down to the station in the morning. I’m tired of your fucking bullshit.”
“Look, lieutenant, I can get you Momo right away. Ain’t that enough?”
“Hell no. You’re a worse menace than he is.”
The indignation was not fake, and Stark’s grin faded. He paused and glanced nervously around, seeing Dummy looking back through the glass doors at him. He wondered what he was thinking. If he knew, it would be a quick knife in the gut or a blast of gunfire from the darkness.
“Is that all you’ve got?” Crowley demanded again.
“No. I wanted to tell you that Momo’s gotten some new junk. Real high grade stuff. His supplier must be getting it straight from outside the country. It’s the best shit I ever had, but Momo’s not giving up any information. I tried like hell to get it.” “You’d better get it. Now more than ever.”
“What if I can’t?”
“It’s like selling cards. You only get paid for success. If it was up to me, I’d rather have you in San Quentin than anyone I know. You’re just a small rat I can use to get a bigger rat. If I can’t use you, I’ll lose you — quick. You’re running out of time.”
“Look, man, somehow I’ll get what you want. It might take a while but I’ll get it. Just don’t lean on me. If I can’t get it from Momo, I’ll work on the broad he’s hooked up with.”
“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 do
wn 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.
Stark: A Novel Page 3
