He hadn’t left the phone booth. He fished around in his pockets for another coin and rang his number. The phone rang and rang. No one picked up. Then, finally, a hesitant voice, hers, asked, “Hello?”
“Are you okay?”
Pause. “Yes.”
“Was it you who called the cops? Do you know who killed Momo?”
“No, it happened while I was in the bathroom, geezing. Momo came home a few minutes earlier and was very nervous. He said the cops had taken him for questioning, but oddly, had never searched him, despite the felony load he was carrying. He didn’t understand what was going on, but thought you might have had something to do with it. He was freaking and making me very nervous. I had to have a shot. I was just nodding off in the john when I heard two shots. I locked the bathroom door. When I came out, Momo was lying in a pool of blood. He was dead. I thought maybe you were the killer, dissolving your partnership. Momo wouldn’t open the door for anybody, just you or Dummy.”
“Listen, babe. I’m a two-bit hustler, con artist, junkie. I’ve never fired a gun in my life.”
“Don’t you have a gun? I saw one in your hand the night I dropped in on you.”
“That’s purely for protection. If junkies know you’re carrying shit, you’re a prime target, but I’m no gunman.”
“Well, you better learn to use your gun - fast. Whoever offed Momo may be coming after you next.”
“I’m very aware of the danger. That’s why I’m calling. It’s time for us to get out of town. Give me an hour. I’ll come by with my car. I’ll blow the horn twice. Come down fast. Leave everything except my shit and kit and some dough I have stashed. You’ll find it all under the sink. It’s on a little shelf attached to the bottom. Remember, I’ll honk twice. If you’re not down in two minutes, I’m leaving you on your own.”
“Thanks a lot.” And she hung up.
Having made his decision, he was calm. The tension of the last few days was gone; everything was over. The play had failed, but there would be others. He’d learned the game from other failures. In fact, his misgivings were so slight that he wondered why he didn’t feel more relief. He grunted and shook his head. His life was still in danger, but he’d managed to disappear before. He wondered where Dummy was. He and the shooter were still around. His station wagon was hidden but might be a hot spot. He was safe for a while, if he could dodge the cops. He almost laughed at the idea that both the good guys and the bad guys wanted him dead. He found a hidden spot down the block from his car. He could watch it for a while to see if the shooter was around.
Might as well geeze while I wait, he thought, digging one of the ounce packages out of a pocket. He carefully opened the tinfoil, laying it flat. He wet the tip of one of his fingers, dipped it in the white powder, and lifted it to his gums and his nose. He sniffed deep and sharp, drawing the heroin into his nose, then repeated the process. It was slower than the needle and wasteful, but his end was achieved. The glow began to creep up. Five minutes later, the hard, damp earth was as comfortable as a downy mattress. It was weird how swift his own reaction had been to the dark figure when the automobile backfired, the result of conditioning. He knew gunfire when he heard it.
Dummy was forgotten as he slipped into euphoria. Discomfort, fog, death - nothing managed to touch him. He could have entered the gas chamber without trembling; his fear would be sugar-coated by a sense of unreality. It seemed unbelievable that only an hour before he had been stricken with such terror that his mind refused to act. His body went on automatic defense.
Later, he roused himself. The luminous steel hands of his wristwatch pointed to five o’clock. It was beginning to get light — time to get Dorie.
Cautiously, yet without fear, he climbed on one of the metal trash barrels and peered over the fence. The alley was deserted. With a creak of protesting wood, he swung over the fence and dropped, landing in a crouch and not moving, eyes and ears directed to any sound or movement. There was only the faint whirr of an automobile on another street, somewhere in the fog.
His stride was swift and silent. At the first street he waited a long time in the shadows. Then he bolted across the open area and back into the alley blackness. Ahead, through the fog, could be seen the flash of lights from the main boulevard. Like a horse sensing water or home, he quickened his pace. In a few moments he was in his car, heading toward the apartment.
In the fog, the headlights of approaching vehicles on the highway were yellowed and lifeless. The foaming surf of the adjacent beach was no more than a sound in the grayness. He drove slowly, still in happy land. This was no time to get stoned. He was too vulnerable — and too stupid. He swore he’d get off the junk. Tomorrow. Finally, he pulled up across the street from the front of his apartment building. He thought of Dorie waiting for him, probably half sick for the need of him. She probably had geezed as soon as he told her where he hid his stash. Not a smart move. He blew the horn twice and waited.
Five minutes went by.
He blew the horn twice, again.
No Dorie.
He got out of the car and looked up to the windows of his apartment. Dorie was there. She was signaling him to come upstairs. What the fuck? Why didn’t she open the window? Why didn’t she come downstairs? He decided to drag her down. He didn’t want to leave without her. He slipped across the street after making certain that Dummy and the cops were not in sight.
At the wooden stairs he slowed his ascent as something suddenly probed at his consciousness. He realized that his place was dark. It shouldn’t be. Was Dorie signaling him to beat it? Was Dummy up there waiting for him? How had he found his pad? The same sense of danger he’d felt when the car backfired near the Panama Club now surged over him. His stomach rolled over.
Thoughts came at him with stark clarity. His first urge was to turn and run, but he crept up the remaining stairs. He felt certain that Dorie was not alone. Dummy or the other shooter must have had instructions to murder both him and Momo. If that was the case, he wouldn’t be leaving Dorie alive as a possible witness, even if she knew nothing of Klein. He wouldn’t be able to surprise anyone waiting for him. He sneaked out the .25 automatic and armed it. Took off the safety. He turned off the light in his hallway and waited. If someone was holding Dorie, he’d be holding a gun just waiting for him to open the door and start blasting. Hadn’t he seen Humphrey Bogart in a scene just like this? What did he do?
He slipped by the door, went down on his knees, reached around with the door key to unlock the door. He was not in the doorway and stayed low as he turned the knob, giving the door a soft push with his gun.
“Watch out! He’s got a gun, and he’s behind the door,” shouted Dorie from the darkness.
Immediately came two blasts from inside the room. Bullets fragmented the door and hit the hallway wall behind him. Stark returned fire through the door in the direction of the holes. He heard a whimper of pain and then a thud. A body was blocking the door from opening further. The hallway was full of gunsmoke.
“Dorie, are you OK?”
There was no answer. He had to take a chance and push the door open. “Dorie, are you OK?”
“Yeah, but Dummy looks dead.”
He pushed the door open, but Dummy’s body lay across the threshold.
“Help me move his body. We got to amscray before the heat arrives in droves. They’ll be coming fast and in numbers.”
He turned Dummy’s body over. Both of his bullets had scored hits. Too bad Dummy was working for the wrong team. Klein would have to get herself another boy.
A much shaken Dorie switched on the light.
“What are you doing? Let’s get out of here. With my record, the cops will be putting me in the gas chamber as fast as they can. We only have minutes to spare.”
He and Dorie rushed down the stairs to his car.
“Where to now, Stark? Or aren’t you finished killing for today?”
“Did Dummy hurt you?”
“No, but he must have followed me from
Momo’s place, hoping I would lead him to you. When he knocked at the door, I thought it had to be you. You told me you’d be here in an hour.”
“Well, I had to stay out of sight. But if Dummy followed you here, who was it that took shots at me outside the club? Does Klein have more than one runner?”
“Who’s Klein?”
“Klein is the Man. Momo’s connection. But he’s a she. Would you believe a middle-aged business lady? Some front.”
“Well, where are we headed? San Francisco?”
“Yeah, but first I need to make a short stop in La Jolla. I need to collect on a past due debt. You remember to bring my stash and cash?”
As he put the key in the ignition, suddenly the car’s two back doors were yanked open. Two dark-skinned Mexicans slipped in behind them each pointing a .45. “Who the fuck are you guys? Are the cops hiring Mexs these days?”
“We not the cops, señor. Jefe says to bring you in dead or alive. It don’t matter whichever. He wants to talk to you. You one lucky hombre. First, he didn’t much care. Later, he change his mind.”
“So, it was you who shot at me?”
“No, my friend here. You lucky he is bad shot.”
Stark realized now that this was the same Mexican he’d met earlier and given samples of the high-grade heroin.
“You good salesman. Jefe don’t like competition. He kill competition. Your friend, he told us to look for you at your club — before he died.”
“You mean Alfie’s dead?”
“Si, señor. One dead gringo. But you shoot good, too. Before we can follow you up the stairs, bang, bang, bang. Somebody dead? Now drive. Vamos!”
Stark pulled away from the curb, thinking maybe he and Dorie wouldn’t be going to San Francisco after all.
“How did you find me?”
“I remember your big car. I know you come for it. I call Jefe, and he tell me not to kill you. He want meet your boss. We follow your car. Maybe you live.”
“Where we going?”
“We making a little trip to Mejico. You will love it there, señor.”
Stark realized that they hadn’t frisked him. He still had his pistol. It had only three bullets left. Not enough of a heavy hand against a couple of .45s. He wouldn’t mind giving up Klein if it would save his neck and Dorie’s. Two guys were dead because of Klein - including poor Dummy. They all took advantage of him. He wondered who would get Dummy’s car. It was probably parked around here.
As they drove off, Stark hoped that somebody in his building, hearing the shots, looked out the window and saw the thugs forcing their way into his car. Maybe Crowley would think these guys killed Dummy and kidnapped him and the girl.
“Why are you smiling?” Dorie asked. “What’s so funny? Am I going to see a third killing in one day? Am I the fourth? What have you gotten me into, Mr. Big Business Man? Why am I always attracted to losers? And you are the biggest loser I’ve ever met. I’m going to hook up with Mr. Square next. That is, if I get another chance.”
“Stop talking, por favor. Drive south,” came a voice from the rear.
The fog had not lifted as the night progressed. If anything, it was thicker. The oncoming lights of cars, headed north, were like fast moving ships that loomed past them out of the gloom.
It would be a long night. Their only chance was a possible road block, but in this fog, a battleship could slip past the cops. What would Bogart do now? he wondered.
19
__________
Two slow, agonizing hours later, they were still on the road.
“We need to stop for gas,” Stark announced.
“Okay. Be fast or you dead.”
They pulled into a brightly lit gas station. It was like a beacon in the dark fog. A young kid came out with a big smile. Probably something he was supposed to do for the customers. Nobody could be happy on a night like this. He told the kid to fill it up. He desperately needed a fix.
“I got to go to the bathroom.”
“Me, too,” said Dorie.
She knew what he really wanted. “My compadre go with you. No funny business, or you dead.”
“I wish he’d get another line,” said Dorie, flippantly.
They got to the bathrooms, their bodyguard dogging their steps, his gun down at his side, away from the attendant. When Dorie tried to open her door, she turned the knob and said, “It’s locked.”
“Okay,” Stark said, “join me.” He opened his door and Dorie slipped inside before she could be stopped.
“I know you’ve come in to geeze. I need some, too,” she said.
“I don’t have an outfit. We’ll just have to share this one hit.” He opened the package, and after wetting the tip, he dipped his little finger in the white powder and started rubbing his gums. He passed her the package for a taste. Meanwhile, there was a loud knocking at the door.
“Quick, do you have any lipstick on you?”
“Why? Are your lips chapped? Are you switching sides?” she asked with a wry smile.
“When did you become such a comic? I want to leave a message on the mirror.”
The hammering got louder.
He scribbled a quick note. “Call Lt. Crowley 276-9000. We’re being kidnapped to Mex. Stark.”
The door gave way and Dorie was pulled out first. A gun was shoved, hard, in his side.
“Vamos.”
“That will be six dollars twenty-five,” said the kid. “Can I check your oil? Water? This is the last gas station open before San Diego.”
“No. We’re fine. Here’s the dough. Keep the change,” Stark said.
They pulled away, back into the fog. It was getting a little lighter. Dawn was still a couple of hours away. As he got into the car, he’d slipped the gun out of his pocket. It lay on the seat, next to him. He didn’t know if he’d have the chance to use it. The taste had set him up; instead of nodding off, he was alert, on edge, ready to go.
They passed San Diego. Dorie had fallen asleep, as had the silent thug in the back. His snoring reverberated through the car. Stark tried to move the rearview mirror so he could see if the guy behind him was awake.
“Why you do that? Fix mirror. Drive. I right behind you. Make move, you dead.”
“Great,” he thought. A guy with a one track mind. If only there was a way to quickly turn around and plug him while the other guy slept. Not likely. He was no Humphrey Bogart. It was blind luck that he’d been able to hit Dummy through that door.
It was getting lighter, the sun about to rise as they passed through the border without a second look from the guards. They didn’t care what you brought into Mexico — even if it was two gringo hostages.
As they drove into Tijuana, the town was fast asleep. The garish neon lights turned off. The dusty streets abandoned to the stray dogs and a couple of drunks sleeping it off in a doorway. “Turn left at light. Go slow. I tell you when to stop.”
They stopped at an open cantina. At a table in the back, a tall, light-skinned Mexican stood up. He was wearing a rumpled white suit, white shoes, open white shirt. He was handsome, with nearly black hair swept back. He strode to the car and stuck his hand out to Stark.
“Welcome to my country, Mr. Stark. So glad you could come on this visit,” he said with a smile, his white teeth flashing. But his eyes were cold. He was the kind of guy who would be smiling as he put a couple of bullets in you.
“You speak very good English,” said Stark. “Are you American? Chicano?”
“Yes, Mr. Stark. The G.I. Bill paid for two years of college because I fought for your country in Korea.”
As Stark slowly got out of the car, ignoring the still outstretched hand, the thugs got out, guns drawn. Fortunately, his own had slid beneath the seat.
“I’m not exactly what you call a voluntary guest, Mr….?”
“I shall just give you my professional name. Pablo.” The smile was still there. “Come inside. Out of the sun. I have a business proposition for you.” He told the heavies to wait.
“And who is this lovely señorita?”
“Dorie. That’s my professional name, too, since we’re getting so informal. So chummy.”
They followed him into the cantina. With a wave of his hand, someone brought out coffee for the three of them. It was strong and bitter; it braced them both. “Mr. Stark, I hope we can do business. If not, neither of you will leave Mexico. The choice is up to you.”
“Some choice.”
“I tasted some of the heroin you gave as free samples to one of my dealers. You think I need a new supplier? That shit is twice as strong as my product. And at half the price. Either that shit is stolen merchandise that hasn’t been cut, or your boss is bringing it in from some place like Cambodia. I need to meet with your boss. Excuse me.”
Pablo got up and held a brief, whispered conversation with one of their guards. He smiled, again, as he returned to the table. “My colleague tells me that you were involved in a shooting in your apartment. They don’t know who was killed. I am curious. Was it you that did the shooting, or the young lady? Who was killed? Maybe you can’t go back to the States, after all. Dead or alive.”
Stark thought about his answers. He didn’t owe Klein a thing. She had Dummy murder Momo and would have had him killed, too. It was too bad he’d had to kill the mute. Violence wasn’t his game, but here he was, up to his neck in it.
“Maybe my boss and you can do business,” answered Stark, avoiding talk of Dummy’s murder. “He’s got the product, you have the distribution. As long as neither one of you competes with the other. There’s no reason for any more killings. It’s not good business. You strike me as a practical businessman, Pablo.”
“Don’t talk down to me. I’m not stupid,” responded Pablo testily. “I’m a lot smarter than you are, junkie. I’ll decide whether we join forces or sever things — permanently. Where is this boss?”
“He runs a travel agency in La Jolla.” Stark was keeping Klein’s identity a secret. It was one way of staying alive. “I’ll take you to him. He won’t talk business unless I’m there.”
Stark: A Novel Page 13
