After another double shot, the bourbon began to take effect. Anxiety started to fade away. His eyes roamed over the garish confines of the club, now filling with its usual crowd. Without consciously looking for her, he found himself focusing on the Asian-American mentioned by the bartender; she was the same girl Dummy had stared at the evening before. She was beautiful, small and perfectly proportioned, and seemed very young. By some strange alchemy, the mixture of blood created an aura similar to that exuded by Dorie, of sensuality and innocence. Her raven tresses were pulled back from high cheekbones and knotted in a bun, accentuating the pixie face and almond eyes. At the moment, her head was cocked to one side in a quizzical pose as she listened to an older hustler. Her almond-shaped eyes met Stark’s.
Stark caught the glance of the bartender and beckoned him. “You know that little broad, huh?”
“Which one?”
“The little doll down there. The one we were talking about.”
“Oh, yeah, Toy. If you wanna meet her, she’s on the market.”
“Has she got an old man?”
“No. She’s an outlaw. Plenty are making plays for her, though.”
“I’ll bet. What did you say her name was?”
“Toy.”
“That fits her. Tell her to come on down. I wanna buy her a drink.”
The bartender nodded, and started away.
“Toy,” muttered Stark, watching the girl as the bartender motioned her to lean close. With Dorie having left, he might need a new girlfriend with no complications. Certainly, she was the most attractive babe in the neighborhood. He tossed down the remains of his drink and watched the girl walk toward him.
There was an uncommon grace about her, provocative without the blatancy of most of the streetwalking breed. Her smile, when she reached Stark, was professionally impish and jaded. She took in his slight intoxication from the glaze of his eyes.
“You wanted to see me about something?” The way she said it was not a question; it was both a challenge and an invitation.
“I just wanted to talk a little bit.”
The smile faded slightly. “Time is money, honey.”
“I know. Mine’s real valuable.”
The smile was gone, replaced by perplexity. She did not speak for a long time, nor could her thoughts be read in the blackness of her eyes.
“So?” she asked finally.
“Sit down and have a drink.” He waved toward a stool.
She looked at the stool, then back at him. He knew she was wondering if he was naive or joking.
He grinned and brought out the fat roll of bills. “I’m not usually a john, pretty, but tonight I’m a little lushed, I’m rich, so what’s the fee for conversation?”
Toy glanced nervously around the room to see if there were any vice officers to note the flash of green. She hesitated, then perched on a stool.
“Put it away. Talk costs only a drink. Anything else -we’ll talk about it then. You seem to know the game.”
“Baby, I’m the one that originated the game.”
Toy smiled at his boast.
“So what can I buy you?”
“Screwdriver.”
He snapped his fingers for the bartender and ordered for her and a refill for himself.
“Don’t lose any money on account of me, baby,” he said. “If a live one shows up, take care of business.” He winked. She blushed. “It’s nice you can do that,” he said. “Blush, I mean. You’re not as tough as you act.”
“We’ll see how tough if someone walks in.”
“You do what you have to do. That’s taking care of business.” He laughed and she joined him. The smile lines made her look like a young, innocent kid. “They call you Toy. What’s your last name?”
“O’Neill.”
“Toy O’Neill. That’s a gas. Real professional, like Suzy Wong or something.” He looked at her glistening eyes, the pureness of her skin. “You’re a doll, baby, a real swinger.”
“So are you. You sure know how to talk the talk.” But she glowed with stimulation.
“That’s me, beautiful. Ernie Stark, con man, gambler, and the world’s foremost talker. But you almost leave me speechless. I might even spend some money and time with you.”
She laughed. “You’re too much.”
“Tell me about yourself.”
“About myself. What do you want, the sordid story of how some man done me wrong and now I want to get revenge on men? Or how I was tricked into this?”
“Tell me anything. A good lie is better than the dull truth.”
“One thing, don’t give me the old bit about how I ought to find a man, get married, and settle down and raise children.”
“Baby,” Stark said, feigning hurt indignation. “I would never tell you that. I’m not the marrying kind myself. Love ‘em and leave ‘em. This is the crazy life, fast and dan- gerous. I love it.” The bartender brought their drinks. He paid and picked his up. “In fact, let’s drink to the way we live. It might not last long, but who cares?” Stark tossed down the double shot in two quick gulps and immediately looked for the bartender.
Toy O’Neill was fascinated by Stark; she watched him with a smile etched on her face. He looked back to her, and now he had a serious expression.
“What happens when you’re not young and pretty?”
“I thought you said ‘who cares?”‘
“That was minutes ago. I’m liable to say anything.”
“It’ll be a long time. I’m only twenty.”
“Twenty. Damn, you ain’t even supposed to be in here drinking.”
“You’re not serious.” Then she saw the gleam of laughter and reached out to playfully slap his wrist. “Quit it.”
“Seriously, where’d you come from? You’re new here.”
“I’m on parole from the state school for girls.”
“They didn’t parole you to do this.”
“No. They paroled me to be a waitress in a hash joint in downtown L.A.”
“You’re better off here. Oceanview’s all right. It’s small and there’s not too much competition for the action. You get to know who’s who and this and that. I do all right.”
“You must - if that roll of money means anything. What’s your hustle? It’s not from an old lady, is it?”
He made a derogatory gesture with his hand. “No broad can make as much as me. They can’t stand the pace. I move, baby. I keep it on the road.” There was a surge of glibness and a feeling of power; the bragging in hip phrases was the truth at this moment — his truth. “Me, I’m king of everything… ‘cause I’m cold, baby, because I’m slick and I’m cold. I do what I want and I don’t feel a thing. If anybody gets in my way, I jerk their legs out — they know something bad happened, but they don’t know how. The bankroll is fat now, but in a week or so I’m gonna have a lot more. I might even buy this joint. I’ve got something going…” He let the story trail off without giving any details; despite the whiskey, he was too well trained to spill too much.
Toy was curious; it showed in her wrinkled forehead and the way she leaned closer. But she was well enough versed in the ways of guys with fat rolls of dough who knew the game that she did not press for information.
He talked on, saying nothing, just liking to hear himself. He was alternately flattering to Toy and boastful about himself. The monologue had a twang of humor, just enough to hide the ego. It kept the girl giggling and fascinated.
The conversation was interrupted by the bartender, who summoned Toy aside and whispered that a big money trick was at the other end of the bar. Toy came back and looked to Stark with apology. She explained the situation and finished, “A girl has to make a living.”
She waited for comment. He was now bleary-eyed and did not notice her pause for his approval.
“No problem?” she finally asked.
“A girl’s got to take care of business. Business always comes first.” He laughed and winked.
She slid off the stool. “
When will I see you? Later tonight?”
Stark looked at her pretty face, not yet hardened. She would be good. “Tomorrow. I might even fill your whole dance card, if things go right.”
“You don’t have to,” she said quietly.
He blinked, realizing that she had propositioned him. Before he could put the idea together, Toy was gone. He watched her wiggle down the bar. “Damn,” he muttered. “I am sharp. I caught the finest whore on the scene without trying.” He gloated about the offer and then remembered to look at the time. It was nine-thirty. Without emotion, he realized that it was time to telephone Crowley and find out what he was so hot about. Was he still holding Momo? He glanced at Toy flirting with the trick. Tomorrow he would see her. They had a date. He pushed himself away from the bar and moved uncertainly toward the door. Around him the Panama Club was in full swing. The broken-souled people laughed to tears, the music throbbed, the smoke was thick.
17
__________
With the coming of night, a chill fog had rolled into Oceanview. It pressed the glow of the street lamps back against the bulbs and blurred the outlines of the buildings and parked cars. There was no breeze, but the air was damp and cold against his cheeks. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes, trying to clear his head. The sounds from the club grew dimmer as he walked toward the station wagon around the corner. He had a slight headache and his stomach was queasy. As soon as the phone call to Crowley was finished, a fix was in order. That opiate would take care of all the pain.
He turned the corner and saw his car at the curb two blocks away. The side street was dimmer and empty of traffic. Only the shadowy figure of a heavy-set dark faced guy was visible, across the street from his car.
He saw an automobile approaching through the fog. As it came abreast of the stranger, there was a series of loud backfires. They exploded loudly and reverberated against the walls of the surrounding buildings. The sound was familiar. Shots. He was twenty yards from the guy, who was now moving in his direction. He felt as though he was just watching the scene play out, and yet, even through the haze of bourbon, reality registered on him. Something electric coursed through him. Someone was shooting at him. This guy didn’t look like Dummy, he was moving too slowly. Had Mrs. Klein sent him? Was this her answer?
Without hesitation, Stark stepped between two automobiles and out onto the asphalt. The instantaneous fear verged on panic. He moved across the street, glancing back toward the sidewalk. The figure turned between two other cars to intercept him. He spun back, and sprinted, back in the general direction he had come from.
The noise of heavy-footed steps came from the fog behind him. He almost cried out and hurried his pace. The thudding steps sounded closer. He looked back just as the revolver flashed a tongue of fire and the report came at him simultaneously. A piece of brick from the wall beside him kicked off against his cheek. Two more shots followed in almost one explosion.
Terror made his legs fly. He reached the corner of the main street and turned right, hurtling down the sidewalk, then ducking to the left between other parked cars and continuing down the asphalt, keeping the steel bodies between him and the bullets.
No more shots followed him, though every muscle was tensed for the impact. He reached the next intersection and glanced back as he turned another corner. The street was empty. On the next block there was a crowd of people beneath the light of the Panama Club door, drawn by the sound of gunfire. He had the urge to slip back into the protection of the crowd, but he knew there was no real safety there. Death might be lurking in the shadows, might be anywhere. He turned left again, running for half a block and then turning into a driveway. The gravel crunched loudly, seeming to scream his whereabouts.
The driveway led to an old frame apartment house with a row of locked garages and a dirt yard. The yard was bounded by a high board fence. Stark came up to the barrier and spun around, heart pounding, eyes wild. He was trapped, afraid to climb the fence and enter the alley beyond, afraid of what might be lurking there. Through the drifting fog he saw a row of trash barrels beside the looming shape of an incinerator. Panting and whimpering, he stumbled over and crouched down behind them, staring out at the mouth of the driveway. The street lamps made the driveway a lighter gray.
His senses were keyed to hear the sound of feet, to see the figure rise up. But nothing moved, only the swirling fog. There was silence except for faint strains of radio music from somewhere in the apartment house, and the occasional swoosh of an automobile passing. Once, a car came slowly down the alley, its headlights splashing through the cracks in the fence. He cowered farther down, wondering if the unseen driver was the mute.
The minutes ticked into half an hour. His pounding heartbeat and blind terror slowly subsided. He was afraid of leaving, but clung to his temporary safety. He sat down and extended his legs, relieving the muscle ache. An itch on his face caused him to scratch, and he discovered a dried rivulet of blood running to his chin. It was a cut from the chip of brick. Dampening his handkerchief on his tongue, he wiped away the blood, then trembled with the awareness of how near death had come.
“Jesus, that was close,” he muttered, the sound of his voice seeming unreal. He shook his head, began to think…
Klein had marked him for death. This was certain. But why? He tried to imagine where he had slipped and couldn’t. He’d given her a terrific deal. Why the cross up? After considering everything he could imagine, he could only conclude that she didn’t want to leave anyone alive who could identify her. He thought about it and decided it was the same decision he might have made in a similar predicament; especially to a con man junkie who had come from nowhere and knew too much. Hell, there were a number of things that might have happened, and no way to know which of them was right. Could Momo have found out about him and Dorie or him and Crowley?
The problem now was what to do. Quickly, he ran sev- eral alternatives: go to Klein and try to smooth things over; make an anonymous call to the police; or go on the run. These ideas crowded upon each other, and were rejected almost as swiftly. Klein was too dangerous, and she might send another killer to get him. For once, the police were out of the question; even with an anonymous call there would be too much digging and too many things might come out. He was fucked.
The only thing to do was disappear. Klein could not track him in another city, perhaps another state. There might be some hunt by the police, but not much. He could take Dorie with him. Where? San Francisco came to mind. The price of junk in the Bay Area was twice that of Los Angeles. He had almost twelve hundred dollars’ worth at those prices, plus the thirteen hundred cash in his pocket. It was a fair bankroll, and Stark knew a madame with a whorehouse in the Napa Valley where Dorie could be safe. Many of the smaller counties in the northern part of the state had poker rooms he could hustle. He had options. Not many.
Several other places came to mind, but the first choice seemed the best, all things considered.
“Yeah, it’s time to blow,” he said to himself. Tomorrow morning, in daylight, it would be safe to pick up the station wagon. The neighborhood would be filled with people. What to do until then? How much time did he have?
He lit a cigarette, carefully shielding the match so there was no glare, and went over the situation again. The factor that required special consideration was the police. If they really put out the heat, they would find him. One way to get Crowley off his back would be to call him and give him Klein. He hadn’t met the Mex boss, so he couldn’t throw him that, as well. He had to find a phone booth.
On the corner, its light casting a weird glow in the fog, was an all-night cigar store. Stark slipped into one of the booths, put his nickel in the slot and rang the police station. He was put through to Crowley immediately.
“Where the fuck are you, you lousy rat?” was his greeting.
“I’ll tell you where if you give me a moment to get a word in edgewise. I’ve been ducking bullets. Someone was shooting at me. I don’t think it was Dummy.
Some other guy? Who knows about us?”
“Listen, I couldn’t care less what happened to you, now that you dumped a murder in my lap.”
“What murder? Who got killed?”
“You mean you didn’t murder your pal, your partner, Momo?”
“Shit, you’re telling me he’s dead?”
“You don’t know? Now here I’m thinking that you set me up for a patsy. Take Momo in for a few hours. Shake him up. Scare him - all so you can take the afternoon off and fuck his girlfriend. What do I look like to you, a fuckin’ pimp?”
“Where was he killed? When?”
“A few hours after I turned him loose, I got a call from some dame. She told me to send an ambulance to his apartment. When we got there, he was dead - and the girlfriend was not around. If you didn’t kill him off, maybe she did.”
“Dorie is no killer, believe me. She’s her own worst enemy. I don’t think she’d know how to fire a gun.”
“Well, I sent out an A.P.B. to find her and you. I’d rather make you as Momo’s killer. You could be facing the gas chamber, even for offing a creep like that. You better turn yourself in.”
“Maybe we can cut a deal. Maybe whoever murdered Momo was the guy shooting at me just now. I didn’t kill Momo, believe me. And it wasn’t Dorie shooting at me. Give me until the morning and I’ll tie the whole thing up in a neat package for you. And throw in the identity of the Man.”
“Too late. I won’t call off the watchdogs. I want you in a cell. Tonight.”
The phone clicked off.
18
__________
There’s only one place Dorie could be. She must have gone back to his apartment. Had Momo come on to her one time too many? Had she killed him? Or had Dummy? How did she get away? He better call her to warn her to stay low.
Stark: A Novel Page 12
