Stark: A Novel (3 page)

“Not here. It’s near my pad. It won’t take long to get to.”

“At your bargain prices, I should take a couple days’ worth.”

Momo nodded. “How soon do you need it? The club closes in another hour.”

“The sooner the better. This weed’s got my brain fuzzy as the jute mill in San Quentin.”

Momo nodded his head again, this time sympathetically. “Marijuana is for sex freaks. I don’t mess with it myself.” He lifted a shot glass of cheap bar whiskey and dumped it down his throat. On the way out, Momo paused at the jukebox to wave to Dummy. The mute nodded goodbye and stared at Stark, his eyes never leaving the two as they departed.

On the street outside, followed by the strains of music and surrounded by a light fog, Stark said, “Dummy makes me nervous. His eyes are scary. Even in the joint guys avoided him. He’s cold, man. You’d think after our doing time together he’d be friendlier.”

“He’s okay,” Momo said. “He’s reliable. And people don’t fuck with him. A little crazy, maybe. But reliable.”

“Does he work for you? How does he make his dough? Is he a stickup artist?” Momo ignored his questions, but smiled. “The dames seem to find him attractive.”

Both men grinned sardonically and entered the parking lot where Stark’s six-year-old Chevy wagon was parked. The vehicle was the remnant of his brief employment by a Los Angeles vending machine company. They’d provided the wreck. He kept it when they split. He’d had a nice little side racket going, before the cops nabbed him. He’d been skimming the machines and competing with them by selling owners and bartenders untaxed butts he brought in from Mexico. He hadn’t bargained on being caught by the cops before the Mob noticed a drop-off in sales. He was lucky that all he got was two years in the slammer and three years parole. It was not his first offense. Earlier, another foolproof scam had gone wrong, and he’d been caught. He was twenty-eight years old and had a total of five years in jail - including his juvie stretch. That was three years ago. A lifetime back.

The ride to Momo’s dump was brief and quiet. On the way, Stark found himself remembering a story he’d heard about Dummy. Seems like the first time he got busted, he and another kid had tried to hold up a gas station. The other kid was underage, Dummy was eighteen. When the attendant refused to open the cash register, Dummy made noises, which made the guy laugh, despite the gun Dummy was holding. “Go on home and give your pa his gun,” the guy cracked. This made Dummy mad, and he hit him on the side of his head with the gun, which went off. The two would-be robbers ran off with nothing. The attendant identified the kid, who lived in the neighborhood. The kid gave up Dummy. The kid went to juvenile hall, and Dummy went to prison. It was later reported that shortly after Dummy got out of prison, the kid was found stabbed to death.

And Crowley expects me to rat out this guy? Better Momo, a pal, than that killer.

At Momo’s address the two men went quickly up the creaking stairs and down the dreary hallway, lit only by a bare lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. Momo turned his key in the lock and nudged the door open.

“Wait inside,” he said, “I’ll go get the stash.”

“Make it quick, sport. I wanna geeze.”

“Just a few minutes. Make yourself comfortable.”

Momo went back down the hall. Stark heard the creak of stairs and moved into the apartment. It was one dark room with a bathroom and kitchenette. The only light was the wan rectangle from the hallway where he stood. It splashed out over a double bed. Stark was instantly aware that someone was sleeping in it. A glance around showed a dame’s clothes on the back of a chair. A foot, with carmine toenails, protruded from the mounds of sheets and blankets.

When Stark shut the door and found the light switch, the sleeper shifted around, face still hidden.

“Is that you, baby?” asked a husky voice.

“It’s me, baby, whoever I am. But am I the baby you’re talking about?”

The girl swam above the blankets, rubbing her eyes from sleep. When she stopped rubbing them, he could see her beautiful emerald eyes with their telltale pinpoint pupils.

“Who the fuck are you? How’d you get in?”

“Name’s Stark. Friend and associate of Momo. Sorry about waking you up. He just let me in. He’s gone to get something I need.”

“That’s no big thing. Traffic’s heavy here.” She reached for a pack of cigarettes on a cluttered nightstand, found it empty, and with a sigh threw it, crumpled, onto an overflowing ashtray.

Silently Stark lit two cigarettes and handed her one. He wondered what this good-looking dame was doing, shacked up in a dump with a grub like Momo. If she was hooked, she was pretty enough to work as a call girl in the big leagues of the Apple or Hollywood.

“Have you got a name?” he asked, “or do I just call you ‘pretty’?”

“Call me pretty by all means, but Dorie Williams is my name.” She smiled. It lit up her entire face, especially those green eyes flecked with gold. For a brief moment she was a bright little girl with auburn hair and traces of freckles across her unpowdered nose. “And your name is… I forgot?”

“Stark.”

“Stark. That’s neat. Man of few words. I like that.”

“Action speaks louder than words. That’s me.”

Stark sat down in a straight-backed chair and tilted it back against the wall, stretching out his long legs. Dorie dragged on her cigarette and let the smoke curl from her wide mouth into her nostrils.

“Where’s Momo?”

“He went down the hall. He’s taking care of business.”

Dorie nodded. She was wide awake now and moved back against the headboard, her knees up, still covered to her neck by the sheet. She watched him closely, studying.

“How do I know you’re not a burglar or a rapo?”

“You can’t. I’m too smart to be a burglar, that’s not my racket. And as for being a rapo, why steal what’s available for sale?”

Dorie blushed for a moment, then threw back her head and laughed. “You talk just like Humphrey Bogart. I’ve only known you five minutes, and you think I’m for sale. That’s pretty cold,” she said, her voice mocking.

“You might call me that.”

They were momentarily silent, appraising each other. Dorie moved to mash out the cigarette and the sheet slipped away from her breasts, exposing full brownish-nippled whiteness. He wondered if the flash was on purpose.

“Where’d Momo find you?” Dorie asked.

“Find me?”

“Yeah, find you? Locate you? Meet you? Catch you?”

“You mean, he’s never mentioned my name? We’re old friends. I’ve just been away for a while.”

“Away? Prison? A guy like you? Too smart to be a burglar?”

“Hey, everyone makes mistakes. Even you. How’d you hook up with Momo? And why?”

“Same as you. Shooting up and going to hell. It’s as good a place as any. But for your information, Momo found me in a nuthouse.”

“I was going to guess that. Camarillo?”

“Yes.”

“You were taking a cure?”

“That and recuperating from a nervous breakdown. They fixed the last but not the first.”

“How long were you there?”

“Six months. It was a self-commitment.”

“And Momo was there to beat a felony charge. Now back in the twilight zone.”

“Yep. I’m what you might call real friendly with my connection. And it’s a ball. Real choice.”

“Whatever you like for kicks, I guess.”

“I like to try everything once.”

Stark fell silent, eyes flitting to the door, ears tuned for the first sound of Momo’s approaching steps.

“He should be back by now,” Dorie said. “It doesn’t usually take him that long.”

“Maybe he got busted. What’ll you do then?”

She shrugged. “You look promising… for a while.”

The statement was scarcely out of her mouth when the door knob turned. Dorie pulled the sheets up as Momo slipped in and fastened the nightchain.

“Sorry to hang you up,” he said. “It took a little longer than usual to get your order.”

“Where did you go?” asked Stark.

“The less you know the better.”

Stark grinned. “Cool by me. Can I fix here?”

“I guess it’s okay. I’m gonna fix myself. What about you, Dorie?”

“Never leave me out of that automobile ride, honey. I love it.”

Momo led them to the bathroom. He handed Stark one of the toy red balloons. They were tied at the top, making tiny asymmetrical balls. Within each was ten capsules of shit.

“Get the outfit, baby,” Momo commanded Dorie. Then he extended his hand palm upward to Stark. “That’ll be forty bucks for the bindles.”

“You’re sure a trusting soul,” Stark said, as he slipped him a few bills.

Momo grabbed the bills and stuffed them in his pocket, uncounted, in his impatience to get fixed. He stepped to the doorway, looking at Dorie. She was on the far side of the room, standing tiptoe on a chair by the front door, probing with eager fingers in a crevice of the moulding overhead.

“You gonna take all night to get the goddamn outfit?” Momo asked.

“It’s wedged in, honey. Be cool and I’ll have it in a second.”

Momo grunted unintelligibly and waited, watching her. She didn’t seem to be making progress. The sight of her ass trembling through her sheer negligee as she struggled somehow increased his impatience. He was moving forward to get it himself when she turned.

“Here it is,” she said. She came lithely down from the chair, extending the outfit. He took it wordlessly and spun back to the tiny bathroom.

Stark was beside the sink. He had taken the spoon from the medicine cabinet and it lay on the yellowed porcelain. In the spoon was white powder.

“Let me have it.” Stark said.

“Have what?” Momo asked.

“The fit.” He gestured to the spread-out paraphernalia. “I’m ready and I’m in a hurry. Let me go first.”

Momo looked at the spoon and shook his head incredulously. “You’ve got balls. This is my pad. I fix first. Ain’t that right, baby?”

Dorie smiled enigmatically and shrugged. She wouldn’t take sides.

“What the hell are you trying to pull?” Momo flared.

“Shouldn’t a good host let a guest, a paying guest, go first?” said Stark.

Momo’s face flushed. His jaws flexed and his lips pressed tightly. He did not like Stark’s thinly veiled sarcasm.

“Are ya lookin’ for a trip to the hospital?” Momo asked. He leaned forward in a challenge.

Stark saw the danger and shifted gears. He grinned widely and slapped Momo on the shoulder. “Man, don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to pull a fast one, and I don’t want to hassle with you. You’re my pal… and the best connection in town. And you ain’t no chump. I know that. It’s just that I’m in a hurry, got things on my mind.” He spoke fast, joshingly, with seeming sincerity.

Momo’s face softened. He looked down. “Okay, man, let it go. Forget it. I just lost my temper for a second.”

“You ought to apologize for threatening your friends,” Stark chided. “Instead, let me fix first and then I’ll know you’re sorry.”

Momo froze, blinked, and then guffawed. He waved a hand toward the sink. “Be my guest.” He turned to Dorie, who had watched intently. “This guy could sell chastity belts to prostitutes. But I like him, the bastard.”

“Yes, I know. He’s attractive, in a dumb kind of way. A real hustler.”

Stark brushed Dorie with a sharp glance. She had made several strange remarks in the brief minutes since he met her. She had a weird quickness of mind he liked but that could be dangerous. He would have to watch her, but damn it if she didn’t have his number.

“Do me a favor, baby,” he said. “Get me something to tie off with.”

“An old nylon of mine. How’s that?” Her eyebrows raised in mock coquettishness and her voice was affectedly husky, a little Veronica Lake. She, too, was a blonde.

“That’ll do it,” he said. He ignored the gambit.

Momo was too preoccupied in unwrapping the makeshift hypodermic kit to notice the exchange. He placed the needle and eyedropper next to the spoon, and then half filled a glass with water.

“Make it quick,” he said. “I’m next.” Stark ignored both Momo and Dorie. She left the bathroom to fetch the nylon. The shapely dame moved with the swift sureness of a priest performing a grotesque ritual. The needle was fitted onto the eyedropper, the tip of which was wrapped in black thread. Water was sucked from the glass through the needle to make sure it would not clog. A much smaller amount of water was drained into the powder-filled spoon. Several matches were lit simultaneously, the scent of burning sulphur rising up to churn Stark’s stomach with nausea. The spoon was moved over the flame and the powder dissolved, becoming a steamy clear liquid tinted faintly brown.

Stark carefully placed the spoon on the sink and picked up a tiny piece of cotton. He rolled it between thumb and forefinger into a hard little ball, and dropped it into the bubbling junk. With trembling fingers he pressed the tip of the needle against the cotton and sucked up the liquid. He handed the eyedropper to Momo — whose eyes were glittering black — and shed his coat. Dorie had returned, the stocking stretched chest high between both hands. As Stark finished rolling up his sleeve, she moved forward and wordlessly wrapped the nylon around his left bicep, brushing one of her breasts across the other arm as she leaned over.