Stark: A Novel (10 page)

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.

__________

T
he 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 slid across the front seat to the window, expecting some greeting. There was none, so he opened the door and stepped out. The skinny, freckled youth moved a few feet forward.

“What you want, man?” the youth asked; his manner and voice were challenging.

He grinned, trying to ease the suspicion. “I’m looking for your brother. Anyway, I think he’s your brother. You look like him. Alfie.”

“Oh, yeah. Who are you?”

“Not a parole officer or the fuzz.”

Before the boy could respond, the screen door squeaked open and out popped the head of a hard-faced slattern wearing a red bandanna as a hair scarf. “Who’s that, Clyde?” she called.

“A guy look in’ for Alfie, Ma.”

“A friend of his,” Stark added.

“If you’re a copper,” she yelled, “he ain’t here, and he ain’t gonna be here.”

“Ya don’t know where ah could find him, do ya, ma’am?” Stark called, hoping a southern drawl would ease the hostility. “Do I look like the heat?”

“He oughta be in hell… but he’s likely in some honky tonk with some junkies… like you. An’ ya better get outta here or I’ll call the law.”

“Ah sure ain’t no junkie, but I’ll get to gettin’.”

“Ya no damn good, whatever ya are.”

He was already turning to leave. Clyde stepped closer and spoke so his mother could not see or hear. “You’d better split before she calls the cops. Alfie’s probably at the Pit Stop.”

“What’s that?”

“A roadhouse two miles on the highway. If you see him, tell him I’ll be there tonight.”

“I’ll tell him. Thanks.”

He went three miles outside town, in the direction of Los Angeles and found the roadhouse. Only four cars were in the front parking lot of the nondescript building that had been designed as something other than a night spot. It was ugly, gray, and low, and the original broad windows had been painted over. On the highway shoulder was a blue neon sign. A larger sign rose from the roof. Both announced: PIT STOP. COCKTAILS. DANCING. A banner dangled down the front of the building to announce that Arnold Hunter’s combo played there three nights a week.

Stark knew the brand of entertainment to be found there after dark. Places like these sprouted on the highways outside cities and catered to a trade that was fast and loud and undiscerning. He got out and pushed through the heavy doors. The interior was dim and cool. The tables had been roped off, but the long bar was open, though there were only three customers - two young women in dresses too sleek for daytime in the hot weather and this rural setting and a slender young man in a filmy white shirt so soft as to be almost feminine. His sandy hair was clipped collegiate short and he was sipping a Tom Collins.

Stark came up beside him. “Alfie.”

The young man turned. His face was clean cut, tanned, and liberally freckled. His green eyes were clear and bright. He was in his early twenties. He grinned, exposing even, pearly teeth. “Ernie Stark, you punk! Where’s the ten dollars you borrowed?”

He laughed. “Man, the statute of limitations ran out on that debt.”

They shook hands. He took the adjacent stool and ordered a Tom Collins to match Alfie’s. The bartender moved away to make it.

“Forget the dime,” the younger man said. “I learned more than that from you in jail. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Stark tossed a shoulder. “You never know in the underworld.”

“What brings you around here?”

“I was looking for you.”

Alfie’s clean face wrinkled. “How’d you find me?”

“Your kid brother. I went by your pad. He gave me the address. By the way, he said to tell you he’ll be in.” “He wants some weed. You’re lucky he was there. My ma wouldn’t tell you.”

“She wanted to call the heat.”

Alfie laughed and shook his head, then sobered. “Anyway, what brings you? Are you on the lam?”

“No. I got a proposition. You look like you’re doing all right.”

“You taught me some tricks. I’ve got a little broad hustling out of here, and I’m the night bartender. It isn’t a million, but I haven’t got any heat and that T-bird out there is mine… mine and the Bank of America.”

“Are you using?”

Alfie shook his drink around and stared into it. “A little. I ain’t hooked. Why? You got some?”

“If you want a fix… Where can we get gear?”

“In the toilet back there. I’ve got a ‘fit.”

The bartender brought his drink and when Stark reached to pay, Alfie waved him away. He said to the bartender: “Tab me for it.”

“Thanks, sport,” Stark said.

“Ain’t nothing. Anyway —” Alfie grinned, “I give you a drink and you give me a fix. I’m ahead.”

Stark took a swallow from the sweet cocktail. “Pretty good. It’d taste better after some junk. Let’s go geeze.”