Stark didn’t answer. In his sickness he wished only to get over the matter at hand.
“Well, Stark, you’re smart enough to know this is just a slap on the wrist for ducking out on me yesterday.”
“I couldn’t… something was happening right then,” Stark interrupted.
Pat Crowley waved him quiet. “I don’t want to hear it. You didn’t come, so I sent for you. Now you’re sick and I don’t really give a damn… ‘cause you’re just a piece of garbage to me. You already know what I think about you. But this time you’re getting another chance. You’re still useful to me. But when I say ‘shit’ after this, I want you to squat and start grunting real hard. Understand?”
Stark’s head was slumped forward, but every word was heard, and he nodded. He was too sick even to hate the arrogant bastard.
Crowley paused in his one-sided conversation long enough to fire up a cigarette. He exhaled in a stream. “Now what’ve you got for me? Anything?”
Stark shook his head.
Crowley glared. “To hell with it. I’m gonna throw the key away on you.” He pushed himself from the chair. “Let’s go down to the booking desk.”
Stark forced down a gasp of nausea. “Wait… a second. I’m not feeling good. I think I got something.”
“It better be good.”
“I’m sick… can’t talk,” Stark croaked. “Gimme a fix so I can tell you.”
Crowley raised himself to full height and sneered. “You’re joking. Spit out something I like and you can go back to your cesspool and fix yourself.”
Stark flinched, steeled himself, trying to control his trembling body. “The big connection is in La Jolla. I thought his shit was coming in from Hawaii, but it’s a local operator.”
Crowley’s blue eyes twinkled with interest. “That’s not good enough for your bail. Give me some more. Who’s the Man? Where does Momo hide the stuff?”
Stark shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Crowley appeared disgusted. “You’re not making much progress. Maybe I should let Dummy know that you’re trying to rat out Momo.”
“Momo’s taking me in as a partner. I’ll find out who his connection is. Momo’s going to introduce me to him… but it might take a couple of days. The Man is very cautious. Dammit, you’re driving me to my knees. Ease the pressure.” Stark suddenly went into a quaking, teeth-chattering spasm. Though the worst of it passed in a few seconds, he still vibrated visibly. “Got a plan,” he gasped. “Gimme something so I can talk… can’t like this.”
Crowley nonchalantly dropped the consumed cigarette to the floor and ground it beneath his heel, mulling slowly on the information. “We don’t have medicine for sick junkies. I’ll let you get your own. You go and call me this afternoon or you’ll kick your habit in a cell.” Crowley’s eyes bulged with emphasis.
Stark nodded once, jerkily. “Where’s my car?”
“Still on the street. I didn’t plan to keep you so it wasn’t towed in. A prowl car can drop you off.”
“Just get me a cab.”
“Suit yourself. Wait here while I clear you downstairs.”
Crowley walked out, leaving the door ajar. Stark moved only once - to lean sideways and vomit a few bilious leavings from a wretched stomach. He waited in a silent stupor and could not think of anything beyond his next fix. It felt like he was dying. He had told himself that he wasn’t a real junkie. Just liked a taste once in a while. The night in the cell proved otherwise. He’d have to cut back.
10
__________
It was only luck that kept Stark from having several wrecks as he drove like a madman from the Panama Club to Momo’s. He ran a stop light without seeing it. A two-ton truck screeched and swerved to avoid collision and was banged by a following automobile. Stark drove on heedlessly, weaving through traffic, blasting the horn frequently, and cursing the slower cars.
At Momo’s he forgot his normal caution and parked directly in front of the doorway. He scrambled out and ran up the stairs, not slowing his pace as his stomach retched and dry-heaved.
At the door he pounded, then leaned in weakness against the frame, panting as if having a heart attack. Nobody responded. Stark waited less than a minute, then squatted on his haunches and peered into the keyhole. It was blocked by the key inside. He pounded harder.
“Momo! Dorie! Open up. I’m sick! I know you’re in there.”
“Who is it?” Momo asked. From the voice Stark knew he was just inside; and the voice was shrill and taut.
“Ernie Stark.”
There was another pause. “Are you alone?” Momo asked.
“No. Your mother’s with me… For Christ’s sake, open up. I’m sick out here… sick!”
“Wait a minute.”
Stark cursed silently. From within came the muffled sound of movement. Seconds ticked off that seemed hours. He raised a hand to knock again just as the key was turned. Momo’s face appeared behind the nightchain, eyes wide as he peered beyond Stark to see the hallway. He allowed the nightlatch to clatter free and Stark weaved inside, bending slightly forward with stomach cramps.
“I need to geeze,” he said.
Momo fastened the door but did not move away from it or speak. Stark caught the silence and was puzzled. He looked around for Dorie. She wasn’t in the room, but in the corner behind the door stood Dummy, his clothes gleaming with Italian-silk elegance, a gigantic .45 dangling in his hand. The mute’s face wore its usual inscrutability. “What’s this?” Stark asked, panic mixing with pain. “Why the heater?”
Momo came away from the door.
“We didn’t know who it was. You scared us with that racket… sounded like a platoon of cops.” He motioned Dummy to come forward and then faced the closed bathroom door. “Dorie, it’s okay, come on out.”
Dorie Williams appeared, carrying a lidless shoebox. Over its rim, he could see the contents: several plastic-wrapped packages of shit. Obviously she had been sent into the bathroom to flush it down the toilet if the pounded summons proved to be the police. Had Dummy just made a delivery?
“Cook a jolt for me,” he begged, going to the bed and he flopped down. He was too ill to notice that nobody moved. Momo and Dummy stood together, watching him; Dorie faded to the background.
“Where you been?” Momo asked.
Stark raised his head, saw the hardened faces, and propped himself on an elbow. “I’ve been in the police station. You know damn well where I’ve been.”
“You weren’t booked,” Momo said with suspicion. “Dummy saw you get pinched, and I had a bondsman call the jail.”
Stark scanned each of their cold faces and Dorie’s frightened eyes. He sneered at the gun in Dummy’s hand. “What’s wrong with you, Momo?”
“I want to know how you got out so quick.”
“I finked on your mother. She’s going to Alcatraz… Man, don’t be stupid. You’re acting like a sucker… you and that no speaking fool. I got out because they didn’t have any case. It was just a roust. I swallowed the last bindle I had before they rousted me. They had no proof, but grabbed me anyway.”
“You didn’t tell them about me. About us, did you?”
“Man, I’ll tell you about it when I’m fixed. I feel too goddamn bad to talk.” He trembled suddenly as if to demonstrate.
Momo blinked, thrown off-stride by the surly barrage. He managed to hold his ground, however. “I want to hear something right now.”
“They thought if I went cold turkey overnight, I would talk. I didn’t, so they let me go. They ain’t here, are they?”
Momo nodded, satisfied. He touched the mute’s arm and signaled to put the gun away. It disappeared into a shoulder holster. Dummy motioned Momo to follow him to a corner of the room where he took out a small tablet and scribbled a message. The Hawaiian read it and nodded yes. Dummy gestured that he was leaving, stared hard at Stark, ignored the girl, and departed.
“If my stomach wasn’t empty,” Stark said, “I’d puke over your bed.
What’re you gonna do?”
“Man, I’m sorry. Dorie, get some stuff out. We’ve gotta give my partner some medicine.”
Minutes later, Dorie and Stark were alone in the bathroom. She cooked the fix. There was no conversation until after he jerked the needle from his body. The nausea disappeared so quickly that it seemed never to have existed. He stretched himself, wrinkled his nose at his own odor, and eyed Dorie. She had scarcely looked at him since he entered the apartment.
“What’s up, baby?” he whispered. “Why the cold shoulder? I thought it was you and me.
“I didn’t like to see you sick and weak. It made me feel bad. I don’t like to see anyone in pain.”
“The world is pain, baby. The whole world gets hurt. It’s a jungle with lions, foxes, and snakes. I’m all of them when the times call for it. Look at how I handle those two fools in there. I turn them on and off like a light.” He spoke with such contempt that it brought a flush of anger to her face.
“Always the con artist, but Dummy didn’t buy your story. Didn’t you notice?” she said. “And to think I felt bad for you.” She spun away. Swiftly he stepped forward and grabbed her arm, restraining her while he leaned close to whisper.
“Listen to me. Get it straight. I’m a loner. My old man was a junkie. I’ve been in this life since I can remember. You’re a newcomer, and you’ve still got your church upbringing with you. You don’t really know what’s with this fast life, and you’ve never met anyone like me, but I’ve never met anyone like you, either. I will hurt you.” He added quietly, “But, I wish I could trust you. I don’t know why.” He was flushing, unable to say more.
Dorie’s face mirrored her own confusion. The pang of longing in his words - so unexpected - embarrassed her. She could not answer, did not want to answer, and instead moved back into the other room. Stark, back in control of his feelings, followed.
Momo had a large sheet of glass on the bed. Piled on its surface was an ounce of heroin. He was deftly pressing empty capsules into the pile, filling them. A box of orange toy balloons was beside him. Each time ten capsules were filled, they were popped into a balloon. This was tied into a knotted top. If only Crowley could see this shit.
“Did you get fixed good?” he asked.
“Yeah. Real good. It even wiped out the aches where those cops punched me.”
Momo nodded terse satisfaction and gestured toward the materials on the bed. “Help me cap up some stuff. I wanna get finished quick.”
“You’re in a hurry?”
“Yeah. I’ve gotta drive down to Malibu.”
“That’s pretty high class.”
“I’ve got a good customer there.”
“Pretty high class territory for a dope fiend. And out of your stomping ground.”
Momo dabbed the capsules. “C’mon and help.”
Stark pulled up a chair and began to fill capsules. “In fact,” he added as an afterthought. “Malibu is so high class the guy shouldn’t be called a dope fiend. He’s an addict, poor devil.” Stark grinned at his own humor.
“He pays double the regular price,” Momo explained. “That’s why I make the run.”
“That’s cool. Maybe you should cut some of this good shit. He might not notice.” Dorie went around the bed and started putting the filled capsules in the balloons.
“You made me feel bad,” he said, “throwing guns on me, like you doubt our partnership.”
“That’s Dummy. He was so frantic it bugged me for a minute. He kept shaking his head and making those funny sounds. He doesn’t like you. Doesn’t trust you. Says I shouldn’t either. I’d watch myself with him, if I were you. What’d you ever do to him?”
Stark’s eyes went suddenly narrow and veiled. His hand paused in midair. “Is that right? I’ve known him a long time. We were in the same prison together. Everyone was scared of him in the pen. He had a bad rep. I tried to be friendly back then. It didn’t take.”
Momo shrugged.
“I don’t know. It’s something. I think he’s nuts. He shivved a guy in prison,” Stark added.
“Did he really do that?” Dorie asked.
“Sure. How else was he gonna get a rep in the slammer? Cons leave the nutcases alone.”
“Forget it,” Momo said. “Try to stay out of his way.”
“I ought to kill him for thinking I’d turn in my partner,” Stark mumbled with pointed viciousness.
“Man, be cool. It’s nothing. You’re okay with me. Otherwise you wouldn’t be my partner. He’s just a runner.”
Stark nodded in a way that accepted the advice grudgingly, though the threat of murder had only been for effect.
“Forget Dummy and find us some dealers. The faster we get moving, the faster we make money.”
“I’ll drive to Santa Ana this afternoon while you’re gone.”
When they had fifteen balloons of capsules, Momo stopped them, gathered everything else together, and carefully replaced it in the shoebox.
“It’s time for me to go.” He spoke so that Stark knew he must also leave.
“Give me a couple grams,” he said. “One to fix and one for a sample.”
Momo tossed over three full balloons. He got his coat and told Dorie not to leave and to keep the door locked. The statement about the door was for Stark’s benefit.
The men went out together and separated on the sidewalk. They planned to meet at the Panama Club in the evening.
He drove a few blocks and pulled into a service station. While the attendant was filling the tank, Stark went to the telephone booth. He stared at the black instrument for half a minute, then with resolve dropped in a coin and dialed the police station. He asked for Pat Crowley and was connected.
“I’ve been waiting for this call,” Crowley snapped, before he could do more than announce himself. “Get your ass down here.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes after you listen to me. But if I do, I’m not going to be any good to you. I’ve got burning heat. That pinch last night damn near got my guts blown out.” “What happened?” Crowley asked, suspiciously.
“Dummy might be wise. He rammed a gun in my stomach’ cause somebody got suspicious about my night in the station without charges. I talked my way out of it, but let’s not press our luck. Dummy is on my case. He must suspect something. He is definitely the Man’s security.”
“Interesting. Watch yourself. You’re no good to me dead.”
“Yeah, thanks. I also know what will happen. You can believe me or not. Like I said, I’ll come in if you force me. But you’ll be trying to get me killed if you do.”
Crowley’s lips smacked over the receiver. “Hmm… Okay, I’ll go for it. I don’t want your murder on my conscience.”
“Thanks, friend… Another thing. The scene slowed me down. I don’t want to press Momo for the connection for a little while. He doesn’t suspect me — unless there’s a seed in his small brain. He thinks I’m trying to freeze him out with his broad. He’d think differently about the connection if I pressed too hard.”
“You mean you’ve failed. Is that it?”
“No. I mean I’ve got to go slow.”
“How slow?”
“A few days. Max a week. How should I know? Until I get his confidence up.”
“What’ve I got to lose?” Crowley thought aloud. “I can always put an APB out on you. And I’ve already gone for so many of your stories that one more won’t hurt. Just keep in touch so I don’t get paranoid and need to send for you again. This time you’ll get the long rest cure.”
Stark came out of the booth, weak with relief. He paused to light a cigarette and considered the situation. He’d had no plans on leaving the apartment beyond the phone call, and the sudden lightening of pressure left him vacant. He had been like a man spun toward the beach on a giant ocean wave, fighting for a single breath of air and not concerned beyond that point. Suddenly, Crowley had tossed him a life preserver. The wave would eventually sweep back for him, but meanwhile he could breathe
and plan and act.
Drawing hard on the cigarette, Stark was almost giddy. Relieved now, he realized how great the strain had been. He had won a victory, had toughed it out, rode the punches, and played all ends successfully against the middle. Arrogance rippled through him. Now Dummy might be his only problem.
“You’re a fat fool, copper,” he muttered. He flipped the cigarette defiantly against the tire of a passing automobile. The butt cast a small explosion of orange sparks. He swaggered away toward the station wagon. He decided to do what he had promised Momo: drive forty miles to Santa Ana to see someone about pushing junk. It was what his partner wanted. And the plan of organization would go on even if something happened to the partner. Setting up a good network might lead to a lot of possibilities. Instead of delivering the Man to the copper, he’d get rid of his partner when the time was right, by letting Crowley know where he kept his goods.
“That poor Hawaiian,” he said without pity, wishing he had someone who could appreciate his intrigue.
11
__________
The station wagon left a billowy wake of dust in the afternoon sun; Stark drove slowly down the unpaved road, checking the faded numbers on the dwellings against that in his address book. The dead end street -leading to orange groves — was on Santa Ana’s outskirts. Though the houses he passed were not really old, their cheap construction and lazy residents had caused rapid deterioration. Nor were there sidewalks or lights, and the street’s original coating of gravel had been worn away by time, leaving only the dust to rise.
Near the end of the block, Stark found the address. The white stucco bungalow, set far back, was more unkempt than most of its neighbours. The paint was streaked with reddish stains. The screen door was ripped and sagging. What had originally been a large front lawn was so overgrown with tall weeds that it looked like a vacant lot. A derelict automobile, entrails ripped out, stood forgotten on blocks at the curb. In the driveway a roadster hotrod with upflung hood was being worked on by a bare-chested kid in greasy Levi’s. He turned to stare without expression at the beat-up station wagon.
Stark: A Novel Page 7
