She responded with seriousness, “You might be closer to the truth than you think.”
They both fell silent. Only the whoosh of spinning tires and the click of the taxi’s meter broke the silence. Stark looked at her closely, the length of her. This was the first time he’d seen her fully clothed, wearing a dress. Her garb and makeup were not those of a whore shacking up with a penny ante dope pusher. She was dressed in modish style, but not garishly. There was nothing visible to suggest that she would come so easily to his bed. And it was even stranger that this paradoxical girl, ready to give her body to him, would put up a defense of Momo Mendoza.
“What’s with you?” Stark asked. “I can’t figure you out.”
“What do you want to know?”
He was stopped. She confused him more every minute. He cleared his mind of the jumble of feelings and tried for coherence.
“I’m interested in you. There’s something…” He stopped again, angry at himself for the sudden loss of words. “I mean, what do you want? What’s your kick? What’re you looking for?” he asked.
“Everything’s my kick. Everything there is.”
“And Momo. What do you see in him? He’s poor, even if he supports your habit. He’s ugly, and he’s got the manners of a pig.”
“The doctors at the hospital said I want to degrade myself, to punish myself. He’s as good a whip to beat myself as any. Maybe that’s what attracts me to you, too.” Her voice was modulated to half-humorous truth. Her green eyes held mocking laughter, and her lips became a bemused smile.
“Ask a crazy question, get a crazy answer.”
“They said that, too… that I was crazy. Let’s not talk about it. Too much talking about yourself leads to spiritual hypochondria. When there’s time, we might get to know each other, what we are. Not here, not now.”
Stark nodded. She was good with words, just as he was.
When they entered the apartment, darkness was only a few minutes away. The drapes of the large, beach-view window were drawn apart, showcasing a sea that was blood red in the last edge of sun, blood deepening to black with coagulation.
Dorie went to the window and stared out at the sunset. The room itself was dark and her figure stood out in silhouette against the crimson sky.
“You look like a beautiful painting,” he said from the shadows. She turned to him and her features were not visible, only the auburn tresses which glowed at their fringe. She laughed, and it seemed out of context in the dimness. “Don’t change character on me,” she said. “Don’t get sweet. It doesn’t suit you. Nice view.”
Stark flicked on the lights. They were soft but brought the mood back from the melancholic to the sensual. He put some jazz on his record player. Dorie strolled around the living room examining the comfortable furnishings. She scanned two Renoir prints. The place was neat, orderly.
“You’ve got good taste,” she said. “Better than I expected. You give off a whole different vibe.”
“We’re even. I expected you in whorish clothes and painted face.”
Their eyes came together in silent laughter - then they were locked in spontaneous wordless communication.
“Where’s the bedroom?” she asked huskily.
Stark’s mouth was suddenly dry, and the blood began to pulse at his temples. “Do you want a fix first?”
“Afterward,” she said.
She followed him to the bedroom door. He held it open, and as she brushed past he could smell her perfume and feel the warmth of her. Wordlessly, she began to turn back the pale blue bedspread and blankets. The smooth white sheets gleamed, another surprise. Dorie stood beside the bed, facing him, the fingers of her right hand brushing gently and thoughtlessly along the sheets. She was waiting for him, head tilted back, mouth parted in a challenging provocation. She dared and challenged him in the same glance.
“Take your clothes off,” he demanded coolly. “Do it slow, the way you started to back there. I want to watch.”
She smiled at the command in a way that was a mere drawing back of the lips, and yet it was more sensual than anything she might have said. With slow, flowing movements she began to undress, the smile still on her mouth, her eyes never releasing their hold on him. Her earrings were unpinned and dropped on the nightstand. Her dress was unbuttoned at the top and slipped down over round, milky shoulders. She let it fall to the carpet and stepped clear with the poise of a stripteaser. She stood there in panties, bra, high heels, and stockings. The white full thighs above the sheer nylon made Stark lick his lips. She twisted her torso into a partial profile as she unfastened the bra. Her high breasts, pale and full, wiggled as they came free. She took them in her hands and cupped the bottoms, holding them up for inspection, arching her back slightly to exaggerate the curve. With wide, bland eyes she turned to see his reaction.
Stark’s breath hissed in and out of clenched teeth. He swallowed dry and couldn’t speak. He was mesmerized by her.
Dorie sat on the edge of the bed and extended one leg in the air. “Come take my stockings off,” she said. “I know you want to.”
He moved forward and kneeled before her, hands damp as he wrapped fingers around the warm firmness of a raised thigh, and rolled the nylon down. The heady scent of perfume and femaleness intoxicated. She had beautiful long legs, and when the stockings were on the floor, he kissed her knees, then higher.
“No, don’t,” she said. “Take your clothes off first. I want to feel your body next to mine.” She held his head away.
Stark slowly stripped as she had. He was letting the tension build. He gently lay down next to her. She rolled on her back and pulled his face down to her breast; she was whimpering with desire. He stayed cool, in control, until they were joined. She urged him on. “Fuck me. Fuck me hard.”
And he did.
Afterward, they showered quickly, rinsing the sweat from themselves. Stark slipped into doeskin slacks, kicking the discarded work clothes into a corner. He carried a white shirt with button down collar and a cashmere sweater into the living room where Dorie was fluffing her hair and applying makeup. Dropping the garments on the sofa, he placed a paper of junk and an outfit on the coffee table.
“How long before Momo starts worrying?” Stark asked.
Dorie took the lipstick tube from her mouth. “I should be back by eight, I guess.”
“That’s still almost an hour. It takes about fifteen minutes. We’ve got time to fix and call a cab.”
“Where’s your car?”
“Parked at the club. I left it under duress, sort of. I’ll ride with you and pick it up.” He gestured toward the equipment on the table. “How much do you want?”
“None. I don’t want him to get suspicious.”
“I need to geeze. After that little score today he took me in as a partner. We’re in business together.”
“As a partner.” She shook her head. “He should know that his new partner just fucked his girl.”
Stark paused in the heroin cooking. He glared at her, his good humor suddenly gone.
“What’s your story, bitch? I get tired of you always putting the know on me like I’m some kind of dirt. You’ve always got a snide remark. It shouldn’t bother you what I do to other people. Just worry about yourself… what I do to you.”
“I worry about that least of all,” she said in a quiet way that blunted his anger, “because I don’t really care what happens to me.”
Stark concentrated on preparing the fix, but he was trying to find precisely how he felt toward this girl. In the first place, it was hard to define, because he did not understand the contradictions of her personality. Moment to moment she changed: from prissy schoolgirl to slut to warm, tender woman. She was intelligent and could turn on the charm. Perhaps it was the many facets of her that held his fascination. An attraction he found hard to deny. In the idiom of his world, maybe he was weak for her. Certainly she was becoming important to him. Even letting her know where he lived was a first. It was not characteristic of
him to sit around thinking about someone, except as an object for use or misuse. He realized suddenly that he wanted her for longer than the stolen moment. It was the first time he had ever needed a woman other than to fuck. The realization was stunning. He shook his head and forced himself to think about the delicate matter of getting high.
Dorie had finished grooming herself and was standing beside him.
“I’m sorry, baby,” she said, “I shouldn’t bug you. You’re a wild lover. There’s just something that makes me do it. Maybe it’s something in me… I don’t want you to be good to me. I don’t want you to change.”
“How’s that? What could be changed?”
“The hardness in you, I guess. That might be changed.”
Stark stared at her, wondering whether to reply with honesty, deceit, or laughter. He decided on the latter. “It’s a good thing that you’re not looking for a nice guy. That ain’t me. I look after number one. Me.”
Dorie shook her head. “You’ve got a hard shell, but you’re weak underneath. You think you’re cool. You’re not. You think you’re smart. You’re not.”
“Fuck it. Let’s go to hell together.”
She shook her head again, this time emphatically. Stark did not press the issue, though he did not forget it either. He stood up, holding the full syringe in his fingers. “Here’s to hell anyway.”
9
__________
Stark entered the Panama Club as he had last departed it — from the alley at the rear into the kitchen. This was not out of fear of Crowley. It was merely that the club was closer than Momo’s apartment, so he exited first. It would not have been prudent to have some hood see him arrive in a taxi with Momo’s woman.
He glided through the odors of cooking and slipped into the main room. He was met with the hubbub of laughter, the tinkle of glasses, blaring music, color and movement, and floating layers of cigarette smoke. He knew many of the occupants, but spoke to none. He crossed the room, planning to get the car. He wanted to drive and mull over the problems of Momo, Crowley, Dorie, Dummy, and the unknown big connection. It was sure as hell complicated. He wanted the girl, but she wouldn’t leave the skib. Even if she would, Stark could not afford to incur Momo’s anger right now. Not that Momo mattered, but without him, Pat Crowley’s hammer would fall. There would be no Dorie, or anything else except prison for several years.
There was the beginning of a thought about somehow crossing Momo not only with the girl, but with the big connection as well. If only there wasn’t the ever-looming hulk of a police lieutenant. If only he could set Momo up for the fall, ease the pressure, and leave a clear field with Dorie and the Man. He could then be a major pusher. This would be the way to come out ahead. How to go about it was the dilemma. If he only knew Momo’s hidie-hole.
Stark was preoccupied with these swirling ideas as he covered the short distance down the sidewalk to the old station wagon. He stepped around the rear and took out his keys.
From the darkness across the street issued the beam of a spotlight, splashing him. The cops. He whirled, blinded by the glare, heard the click of car doors opening, and his first horrified thought was of the heroin in his pocket. He dug it out as feet pounded towards him. Uniformed shadows with drawn guns loomed up as he stuffed the small bindle in his mouth.
“Swallow, you bastard, and I’ll blow your head off!” a voice boomed. Stark threw his hands in the air. “What’s this?” he cried, and though terrified, he swallowed what was in his mouth.
No murderous gunshot sounded, but a fist came from the darkness and crunched into his jaw, sending his body crashing into the car and red lights through his brain. He drew his arms over his head and crouched down.
“Goddamn, what the hell is this? What’s going on?”
“You stinking junkie,” the voice said in rage. “I know what you did. I should shoot you. Run, dammit, run so I can shoot.”
“Ma ain’t raised no damn fool,” Stark quipped, still cowering beneath his hands.
A calmer voice sounded. “Take it easy. Let’s cuff him and take him in.”
Rough hands spun him, fastened his wrists in crushing steel bracelets behind his back, frisked him, and then jerked him away from the car by the manacles. He was shoved, stumbling toward the police car. Once out of the spotlight glare he could see he was in the clutches of young harness bulls. Obviously they had staked out the station wagon.
He was shoved headfirst into the rear of the prowl car and face down on the musty floorboard. The door slammed shut and a foot pressed down into the nape of his neck. His legs were doubled back against the closed door. It was a cramped, filthy position and an uncomfortable ride. Yet his attitude was not of anxiety or even really discomfort. Shock had not worn off enough for these things to be evident. If he felt anything, it was an undirected, numbed disgust at the whole mess.
At the station the cops hustled him up the back stairs. At the directions of a uniformed sergeant, they locked him in a holding cell, a windowless, bedless room, air-conditioned to a chill. A bright fluorescent light was set into a screened recess in the ceiling. It gleamed down on a metal bench bolted to a wall and a dull aluminum-cast toilet bowl along another wall. They were the extent of the furnishings.
The handcuffs were removed and he was left alone. He did not need to check his Spartan surroundings. He had been here before. Nor did he need to know why he had been picked up. There had been no questioning, which meant the pickup had been on Crowley’s orders. The detective was still angry at being brushed off in the afternoon.
“He must be real mad,” Stark muttered, patting his pockets and finding the battered pack of Luckies in his shirt. He sat on the bench and smoked, rubbed his sore wrists, and waited for Crowley.
Three cigarettes later Crowley had not arrived. Stark leaned against the door and peered out through the tiny glass window. After ten minutes of waiting, he saw a detective come down the corridor. He banged on the door and the man came over to the crack.
“Where’s Lieutenant Crowley?” Stark asked, pressing his lips to the corner of the door. “I want to see him.”
“He went home fifteen minutes ago,” the detective said and departed. Stark cursed under his breath and went back to the bench. “I’ll be a sick sonofabitch in the morning. And he’s a dirty sonofabitch for doing this.”
The first hours were not uncomfortable or filled with dread. Shit did not allow pain or worry, but created a sense of being removed from the drama. He knew precisely the reality of the situation, but as if it was happening to someone else, a character in a motion picture.
Because of his disassociation he was able to hold the facts and turn them different ways. He lay on the bench, head propped on his rolled up jacket. He smoked incessantly until the cigarettes were gone, pitching the short butts unheeded on the floor, and later re-lighting the larger of those for a few more puffs. Meanwhile he reflected on how to handle the situation. There was no doubt that this was punishment and a scare by Crowley. After a night of torment and some conversation, he would be released. But by the same token, this arrest was a clear indication that his time was running short. Crowley’s patience was strained and he would not accept further stories or delays.
Yet Stark could not formulate a definite plan. He hoped, as usual, that he could play the scene by instinct and make the right decisions in the moment of crisis. Still, even a general outline eluded him. He knew he wanted too many things, and could not make all of them mesh together. It would be simple if he could trade Momo and his connection. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that. Not that he cared about the still unknown connec- tion, or his own underworld morality. It was only that by using him, his new partner, he could become more successful. A year of being a big dealer and he could buy a chain of cigarette machines and a small nightclub. Even keep Dorie. He lay there, smoked, and shook his head.
After midnight the first pains of withdrawal commenced; the tremors of pain increased minute by minute to become, after a few hour
s, an agony blotting out virtually every other thing. Logical thoughts were swept away. He writhed and kicked and puked and cursed the sickness.
By morning he was so weak that he could only stumble to his feet when Crowley unlocked the cell. His usual sleek appearance was rumpled and foul. Drops of spattering vomit had dried on his shoes and the cuffs of his trousers. His matted hair was wild and his clothes were creased with deep wrinkles.
He stumbled against the door frame as he marched past the well-fed, morning-chipper detective, who smirked at the wrecked apparition.
“You look just fine this morning,” Pat Crowley said genially.
“Stick it in your ass,” Stark said with as much fire as he could raise. He staggered along the sterile corridor and the red-faced man lumbered behind. From experience Stark knew where to go - a soundproofed interrogation room. Despite the agony, his brain functioned, though not with the clarity of the previous evening.
“Sit on down, chum,” Crowley said, closing the door and waving him toward a chair behind a bare table.
Stark flopped down, shivering with a sudden chill. He did not see the flash of a grin on Pat Crowley’s face. The detective slid a pack of cigarettes across the table. “Have a smoke.”
“They’d taste like something from a sewage plant.”
“You don’t feel so good, huh?”
“You know damn well how I feel,” Stark snapped, managing a splutter of anger.
“Serves you right, punk,” Crowley capped back with more sarcasm than anger. He spun a chair around across the table and squatted on it, his forearms crossed on the back. Stark was sweating and yawning and twisting. Crowley watched him as if studying something new, though he had seen countless sick junkies in his career. “It must be real good,” he said, “for anyone to put up with the agony when it’s gone… and then go back to it again every chance there is.”
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