It was nine p.m. when he drove slowly past the door of the Panama Club and scanned it to make certain no police cars were at the curb. He pulled around the corner and parked in the shadowed side street.
He pushed into the clamorous room and stepped aside, eyes shifting over the scene. No cops. A flashy pimp was earnestly lecturing his sulking whore in a manner threatening violence. He watched momentarily, lips curling back in a leer; probably the bitch had come up short on some money or had spent too much time with one trick.
A group of marines with loosened blouses and bloodshot eyes were at a table, trying to sing along with the rhythm and blues number on the gilded jukebox. A tired barmaid was serving them bottles of beer, while dexterously avoiding their pawing hands.
Through the smoke and noise, he located Momo, Dorie, and Dummy at a table in a corner. A young man Stark knew as a local junkie was standing before them, hands pressed down on the edge of the table talking intensely to Momo. As Stark moved forward, he could see that the guy was sweating rivulets and trembling in spasms.
“…money tomorrow, I swear to God, Momo…’’
Momo’s face hardened to the plea. Dorie seemed pale and embarrassed by the whining. Dummy’s cold eyes stared at the agonized face of the begging man. He could read his lips
“What’s up?” Stark asked, coming beside the man and speaking to Momo.
“This fool wants some shit on credit. He thinks I’m a fucking bank.”
Before answering, he patted Dummy, comradely, on the shoulder, noting him stiffen at his touch and glare at him.
The junkie turned to Stark, his face twisted into anger caused by pain. He seethed at the intrusion, though he knew Stark by sight, if not by name.
Before the man could say anything, Stark jumped in. “So you want some junk on credit… You look pretty sick.”
The man hesitated, not knowing what to say. Finally, he nodded. “Why? You got some?”
“Umm hmm. I might give you some credit.”
“Man, I’m sick.”
Momo opened his mouth to protest, but he waved him silent.
“It’ll cost,” Stark said. “Carrying charges are business.”
“How much?”
‘‘I’ll give you a gram for fifty dollars.”
“That’s almost three times the usual,” the man whined.
“Who ever heard of buying on credit? There’s two things that’s cash and carry in our world: junk and pussy. If you don’t like the tariff, cruise on up to L. A. and see if you can get credit.”
“I can’t drive that far. I’m sick.”
“Nobody would cuff you if you could. So you’re stuck with my price. What do you want to do?”
The junkie’s face shattered into deeper seams of pain. Tears welled up in his eyes. Stark almost sneered as he was already fingering what remained of the capsules in his pocket. He knew, exactly, what the guy was going through.
“When do I have to pay?”
“The next time you come to score. If I’m not here, give the money to Momo. And if you don’t have it, better leave town. We’ll find you.” The man nodded jerky acceptance, even as Stark was slipping the balloon from his own pocket into the man’s sweaty palm. The purchaser spun and rushed out, bouncing off a table without losing stride. In a few minutes the memory of the pain would disappear.
He pulled out a chair, winking at Momo. “You didn’t really think I was getting weak, did you?”
“I didn’t know. Do you think he’ll pay?”
“Sure. He pays or leaves town. You’re — we’re — the only connection. Anyway, it was only a little over half a gram.”
“You’re rotten,” Dorie said disgustedly. “The guy was in pain. Didn’t you just have the same experience? Where’s your heart?”
“Shut up,” Momo snapped.
“Yeah,” Stark said laconically, eyes burning into hers. “Just keep quiet. You’re not sick. You don’t have to steal or sell your pussy to keep from getting sick. So worry about yourself. You can’t carry the world on your shoulders. That’s the way it is in this life — cold and rotten. Dog eat dog.”
Dorie flushed, and fell silent.
Stark faced Dummy and exchanged greetings in sign language. The mute responded, but his manner was tense. Stark asked what was wrong, and Dummy shrugged him off. Just pointed a finger at him, like he was holding a gun. The response brought a flicker of anxiety, for he remembered the pistol in the mute’s hand earlier in the day. For a moment, he had a flash of real fear, but quickly turned to important business with Momo. “I saw my guy in Santa Ana. I’ve gotta go back in a few days, but it’s gonna be all right. He can move about an ounce a day.”
“Shit, that’s more than I’m moving right now.”
“It ain’t nothing. Tomorrow or the next day I’ll drive over to San Bernardino and Riverside and see some other people. We’re gonna be shittin’ in tall cotton.”
Momo gleamed. “Yeah, man.” He looked to Dorie, sipping her drink, her eyes downcast, still stung by Stark’s words.
“You hear that, baby? We’re gonna be making big money. I’m getting us out of that crummy pad. You’ll have some clothes that’ll stop traffic. We might even get you a little sports car. How’s that sound?” Stark watched Dorie’s face. He could see that her smile was forced and insincere. It wasn’t gifts that Dorie needed. Momo didn’t notice but rattled on about the big Cadillac he was going to buy himself.
Dummy paid no attention. He was staring across the crowded room at a young Eurasian prostitute in a tight dress split at the knee. She was a newcomer to Oceanview’s tenderloin. Stark knew the mute sometimes purchased sex and frequently took it without payment, but only from whores who couldn’t go to the police. Long ago, an indignant pimp had challenged these freebies and had been shot dead for his protest. There had been an arrest, but there were no witnesses. Since that time Dummy was accepted as an occupational hazard by the local whores. They preferred to submit and avoid the pos- sible bruises and black eyes for resisting that might put them out of business for a while. In fact, most of them seemed to enjoy Dummy, who had a rep for bizarre sex.
Stark ordered a drink and fished out a cigarette. He had no matches and signaled Dummy for a light. The mute took out a book of matches and flipped them instead on the table. He ignored the obvious slight, lit up, and closed the matchbook. He glanced at the gold lettered advertising on the blue cover. He started, for a moment, trying to disguise his reaction.
Aztec Travel Agency, La Jolla, California.
The Aztec Agency specialized in tours of Old Mexico, said the back of the matchbook. There it was in neat gold script. There it was: the Connection. There was no doubt. Someone at the Aztec Travel Agency was Momo’s source of supply. That was where Dummy, the runner, had picked up the matches. Why else would Dummy be in a travel agency? In La Jolla?
Feigning casualness, Stark tossed back the matches, checking to see if anyone had noticed his surprise. Nobody had. He puffed on the cigarette and guzzled the drink, the alcohol mixed with the excitement churning him. The puzzle was almost together, except for a few minor pieces. Later he would formulate a plan to use the information. Now, he had to be cool, though he couldn’t help but imagine how Crowley would like to know. Yes, it was a precious bit of knowledge for several reasons. It was another commodity to barter on the information market if things got tight. More important, it was the last obstacle to acing Momo. All he needed was to work a deal with the Man, and he already had a rough idea of how to go about that.
Dorie’s voice broke into his gloating reverie. “You look like the cat that ate the canary.”
He winked and grinned. “That’s how I feel, baby. Things are going good, better than we expected. Hell, we’re gonna be in fat city any minute. Think of all the good things your old man will get you.”
Dorie’s face clouded slightly. Stark saw it, but Momo did not. He was slightly drunk, and affectionately reached over to squeeze Stark’s shoulder.
“That’s my partner,” he said.
Dummy watched; his ice blue eyes gave away nothing, but seemed to see everything. He was like a cobra, wound up and ready to spring. He was cold. Real cold.
A chorus of raucous laughter exploded from the table of marines as one of them leaned too far back in his chair and crashed to the floor. The jukebox dropped another platter to the turntable, and a trumpet sound screamed into the smoke and laughter and tinkling glasses. The Panama Club throbbed with frenzied people and the neon life, trying to escape reality.
13
__________
Stark came awake with the sudden completeness of a wild animal. He had caught an alien sound through the growl of surf and the darkness. Someone was quietly coming up the wooden stairs, outside. He swung silently out of bed and padded to the dresser. From a drawer he took out a loaded .25 automatic, and cocked it. It was small, but still deadly.
Someone was knocking softly at the door, insistent.
The gun was for unexpected callers. Only Dorie knew the address. If it was the police — his thoughts went to his stash. He would throw both the junk and gun out another window to the beach. They couldn’t want him for anything so serious that he couldn’t make bail.
But it wasn’t the police, they didn’t knock softly. Instead of going to the door, still in shorts, he moved through the four a.m. darkness to a side window, where he could peer out on an angle to the landing. She stood in the shadows. She knocked again. He stared down into the blackness below, but there was nobody with her. He pushed open the window and she turned at the sound. He could not see her features in the gloom.
“What do you want?”
“Oh, I’m so glad. I almost decided you weren’t here.”
He grunted, closed the window, and went around to open the door. He still carried the pistol and was naked except for the shorts.
Dorie stepped inside and Stark locked the door, turning his back toward the bedroom without looking at her.
“Why the gun? Is that another pistol in your shorts?” asked Dorie, with a leer.
“What are you doing here? Did you tell anyone you were coming here?”
Dorie followed him to the bedroom, taking off her coat. She cradled it in her arms and stopped just inside the door, leaning against the frame.
Stark pushed the automatic under the mattress and reached for his pants on a chair. The girl’s arrival at this hour was a complication he didn’t need. Not yet.
“I left him,” Dorie said to the question he hadn’t yet asked. “I couldn’t take it anymore.” “Does he know you came here, came to me?” he interrupted.
“Does it matter if he knows?” Dorie’s green eyes stared at his lean face.
Stark fastened the belt and rubbed his unshaven jaw; it was flexed tight with growing anger. “Hell yes, it matters.”
“Why?”
“You’re jiving! You know damn well why. We’re just getting started as partners, and he’s got the Man. I need that connection to make big money.”
“We could move to Hollywood. I’ve got a couple grand in the bank.”
“We’d shoot that much in our arms if we’ve got to buy retail. Anyway, you wouldn’t make that much hustling in a few months after you were hooked real good and the dough ran out. It shows up bad on a broad.” Stark began to pace, shaking his head.
“Does he know where you were going?”
“No.”
“That’s one good thing.”
“I shouldn’t have come,” she said in a tremulous voice. “I thought you wanted me.”
Stark sighed, reached for a cigarette, and fell back on the disarrayed bed. He looked at the girl in the doorway and shook his head. She looked like she belonged on a college campus or in a hick town beauty contest; clean and wholesome, yet sexy as hell.
“Sure, I want you,” he said. “But why the hell did you have to make the move right now? In a few days he won’t be able to do anything about you. Why now? I thought you liked him.”
“I despised him all along… He was drunk tonight — you saw - and he said he loved me, wanted to get married. Imagine that… the pig. Love and marriage. I know I’m into punishing myself, but I’d rather kill myself.”
His face was quizzical. “So he loved you, and he’s a pig. You knew that he was a pig all along, and you’ve been opening your legs to him. Up to now you didn’t want to scram. Now ‘cause the slob loves you, the party’s over. I don’t know how to figure you.”
Dorie turned her large eyes to the carpet. Before speaking, she sat limply down on the foot of the bed. “Let me have some of that cigarette.”
Instead, Stark put a match to another and passed it over. She blew out a cloud of smoke and stared intently into space.
“What’s your story? Explain it,” he asked, propping on an elbow to watch her.
“I can’t love anyone,” she said. “And I don’t want anyone to love me.” Her words were said with a slow matter-of-factness that was more emphatic than any emotion could have been.
Stark opened his mouth to say something smartass, but instead licked his lips and shook his head. He knew that he would only get deeper into confusion, into a realm beyond his understanding.
“That’s why I’m here,” she went on. “You want to freak off and use my body. Maybe you want to use my mind. You’re too cold to fall in love with anyone. You’re a hundred times colder than Momo. He’s just a slob, not really evil. You’re evil. You just want to use people. You don’t love anyone. You can’t love anyone. You’re like me. Maybe we were meant for each other.”
“Chill, baby,” Stark cut in. “I don’t understand your kick or how you think or what you want. You’re in some kind of twilight zone all your own. One minute you act like I’m some kind of shit and you’re the Virgin Mary. The next minute you want to get as deep in the gutter with me as you can. I don’t understand, but it doesn’t matter one way or another. You’re here and I dig you. Love isn’t in this equation. Momo doesn’t know you’re with me, so you can stay. Just do what I tell you and stay out of sight for a few days until I can wrap this all up. Then we are out of here. Where’s your clothes?”
“I only had a few things. I left them. I just split when he wasn’t looking.”
Stark nodded, glanced at his watch on the nightstand. “It’s getting late. I’ve got a heavy day tomorrow. Come over here.” His voice thickened with meaning. Dorie understood his look and smiled. She unbuttoned the front of her white blouse and took off her bra. Her soft white breasts peeked teasingly from the open garment. Then she crawled along the bed until she was lying beside him. Their mouths met and her tongue explored his. When they ended the kiss she pressed his head down to her tits. He nibbled on them and felt the nipples rising to hard- ness against his teeth. She arched her back, combed her fingers through his hair and pulled him closer. She began to whimper and whisper, “Do me. Hurt me.”
When Stark awoke this morning it was not with the suddenness of other times. He felt logy and had to focus. His body hinted at the need for drugs, and his first thought was for a get-up shot. Then he became aware of the sleeping figure beside him, blankets drawn over her head. She was hell in bed, he thought, smiling faintly. Quietly disentangling himself, he picked up his shorts from where they had been discarded on the carpet, and moved toward the bathroom. He took half his morning fix, trying to cut back, and left enough capsules for Dorie to fix twice; she would need one when she woke and another later in the day. He would be gone until evening, would supply himself and bring some back while moving, but she would be alone. He hoped there was some food around. He was not comfortable with any responsibility for someone else. Through the window the sky was a grey shroud from the sea mist. It was a high overcast, but it kept him from guessing the time. It could be anytime between dawn and eleven-thirty. With sudden anxiety he found his wristwatch and checked it. It was only a few minutes after eight, earlier than he usually got up. His plans had caused him to come awake.
He shaved
in the shower while the water pelted him. After deodorant and cologne the scent of her was gone. He slipped into doeskin slacks and hung a shirt and sweater from a doorknob. Dorie was still sleeping, and he decided to make the first telephone call before she got up. On tiptoe, he left the bedroom, making certain she hadn’t moved before gently closing the door.
There was a growing knot of tension in his belly as he dialed. This was the first cast of the dice, in a calculated parlay gamble.
“Talk smooth, Mr. Slick,” he muttered to himself as the receiver began its rhythmic buzzing.
“Oceanview Police,” a female operator answered.
“Let me have Lieutenant Crowley’s extension.”
“One moment, please.”
There was a click and another buzzing. Then Stark heard the receiver rise.
“Narcotics Division, Lieutenant Crowley.”
“Ernie Stark, boss…”
“Stark,” spluttered Crowley; Stark could visualize the blotchy reddening of the policeman’s face. “I know all about it,” Crowley seethed. “Wilson called me last night. I told him what a rat you are and advised him not to trust you. I want you to know that. But he insisted, so you’re free… for now. Are you happy, punk? Your info caused the death of a cop. Forget the bad guys you ratted out.”
“Look, lieutenant, it wasn’t like you think. It wasn’t a game. But you were too impatient, put too much pressure on me. I didn’t want you to put the heat on me. I know you’ve got the upper hand. I’m sorry about the dead cop.”
“I’ll bet you are. You’ll know it better when Wilson gets tired of your bullshit, and I get back in the act. You’re gonna know it from the jail ward in the hospital. When I think about you, I wish I could get my hands on you. You’re the rottenest excuse for a human being I ever met.”
Stark held the phone away from his ear and listened to the tirade of contempt with an expression of wry boredom on his face. When it began to subside, he brought up the mouthpiece.
Stark: A Novel Page 9
