Stark: A Novel (6 page)

“You bastard,” she said. “You cold bastard. You led me on…” She choked back the irate words and tugged up the Capris, but fumbled in fastening them, the impeding blouse in her hand. “So what makes you so superior? You’re nothing but a cheap hustler. You’re so used to cheap whores, you wouldn’t know a good thing when you saw it.”

Though his body ached with desire, this was not the time or the place. He enjoyed seeing her anger. It made him feel superior to her. In charge.

“Hell hath no fury,” he jibed.

Dorie spun away from him, slipping into the blouse. She stalked to a dusty window overlooking the street and reached back to button herself. Stark could see she was having difficulty. He came up quietly behind her.

“Let me,” he said. “I’ll do it for you.”

She did not answer but her hands dropped in a silent acceptance. As he fumbled with the buttons, Stark touched his lips softly to her ear. She didn’t move to accept or reject his touch. She ignored him.

“Don’t be mad, pretty,” he whispered. “You’re a fucking junkie.”

“No worse than you. We can’t right now, because your lover will be back.”

“He’s not a lover. He’s good to me.”

“C’mon, baby, you don’t have to lie. He may be good, but he’s still a trick.”

“No, he’s not. I’m no whore.”

“Tell me you love him. Or are you just fucking him? Five minutes after I met you, you said you’d go away with me if he was busted.”

“If he was busted, I’d have to go someplace. Not home. My father’s a minister. Besides, Momo’s been kind to me.”

Stark’s brow wrinkled. This defense of Momo was completely unexpected. Maybe she did care for the fat Hawaiian. He had no time to discuss it. As he glanced out the window, Dummy’s Corvette came to the curb, and from it alighted the object of their conversation. Momo disappeared beneath them, entering the building. The sports car pulled away with a roar.

“Speak of the devil,” he said, releasing Dorie as casually as he had touched her.

__________

S
tark was seated on a chair tilted against a wall, his legs stretched out, when Dorie Williams opened the door.

“He said he had business with you,” she explained, taking in Momo’s instantly angry glance. “He said it wasn’t about junk, and it was important.”

Looking at Stark, Momo jerked his head, asking a question without speaking.

“If you wanna make some money real easy and real fast without any risk, I’ve got a helluva proposition for you.”

Momo grunted with pig-like ill humor. Stark realized the response was not to his words, which he’d scarcely heard. This was instead, the reaction of an ugly man inse- cure with a pretty girl and suspicious of finding another man, a possible threat, inside his home.

“You don’t seem very enthusiastic,” he said.

“I’m not. You’re a con artist. A good one. Too good. What’s this going to cost me?”

Stark puckered his lips and shook his head in disbelief. He was careful not to look at Dorie, who hovered inconspicuously near the bathroom door.

“I told you this is found money,” Stark said. “I need help on a cinch score. My regular partner is out of town, and I thought I’d throw it your way. I also want to show you how good I am with business. You’d make five big ones, for a couple hours’ work.”

“Why do you want to do anything for me?” Momo asked, still peering suspiciously, but now his curiosity piqued, the money having been mentioned.

“You can’t think anyone would want to be your friend, could trust you, so let’s just say I want to keep on the good side of my connection.”

Momo sneered, but he could not help sniffing at what Stark said.

“Momo, I wouldn’t trust this guy. He’s a hustler,” said Dorie.

“Ignore the broad. What does she know about business? This is soft and smooth. Now I’ve got some work clothes down in the car. Let me lay it out and see what you think…”

Twenty minutes later, Stark leaned against the glass wall of a telephone booth and dialed the number of the cocktail lounge on the Coast Highway. Momo stood in the booth’s doorway. Both men were on edge.

“Christy’s Lounge,” the bartender said, “Al speaking.”

“Hey, Al… This here’s George Splivens, the fella who was in this mornin’.”

“Yeah —” excitedly, “What’s happening?”

“He didn’t wanna. Ah talked and talked for ya. He was scared ‘bout his job an’ the cops an’ all. Ah tole him ya’ll was an ol’ friend of mine.

“What happened?” Al interrupted. “Is it all right?”

“Ah was just tellin’ ya. He didn’t wanna but ah talked him inta it. Can ya get down to Oceanview right now with the money?” There was a pause.

“How soon?”

“Forty-five minutes?”

“That’s pretty quick. I’ve got to get somebody to watch the joint. The owner doesn’t know about this deal.” Stark could visualize Al’s eagerness. He winked at Momo. It was obvious the bartender planned to charge the owner a standard wholesale price for the booze and thereby reap the profit in a quick turnover. It was the oldest profit system, everyone making money except the last guy in line.

“It’s gotta be quick. Hell, ah hadda talk like an ol’ medicine man to my buddy, an’ he might wanna back out, if he thinks about it too long.”

“Yeah, okay. It’s a deal. I want fifteen hundred dollars’ worth. Where do I meet you?”

“Have ya got a truck?”

“I can borrow a panel job from the television shop next door. I already talked to the guy.”

“Then drive on down to Oceanview… Know where Johnson’s Liquor Warehouse is?”

“No.”

“On Beale Street. Jus’ offen the main drag. One seventeen south. Ya park ‘cross the street an’ we’ll be waitin’. Bring the money.”

“Okay. I’ll be there in half an hour. Goodbye.”

“‘Bye now.”

With a flourish, he dropped the receiver on the hook and playfully slapped Momo on the shoulder. “Let’s have a quick drink and I’ll write the dialogue for you. The sucker’ll be there in thirty minutes. You have to change into work clothes.”

At the appointed time, Stark loitered on the sidewalk near where Al had to park. The large brick warehouse and offices of Johnson’s were across the street. Momo was there, hidden in the shadows of a sealed-up doorway, unseen from where Stark stood or Al would park.

Stark jammed his hands down in his khaki pants and propped one foot against a wall. He appeared to any onlooker like one of the poor working stiffs common to industrial neighborhoods. A figure that attracted no second glance. But his eyes were not dull or lifeless like those men. His were shifting, carefully examining every delivery truck that sped past, knowing that many carried goods highly saleable on the hot market, where he had many fences. It was another of his hustles to pick out one of these trucks, especially those carrying garments to retail stores, and follow it on its route. Even if it took all day, eventually the driver would make a mistake and park in a bad spot during a stop. In the few minutes it took the man to go inside, Stark could remove a thousand dollars’ worth of suits or dresses. It was swift and easy, requiring only a jimmy bar, timing, and boldness. Now he looked at the passing vehicles to see something worth examining for another day. He would remember the company name of a likely prospect. He had a very good memory for possible jobs. He’d always had a good memory, even in school. He could have gone to college, but crime was more exciting. The hustle got his adrenaline going. It beat studying for exams.

A few minutes later, a blue panel truck with the name of a television repair shop pulled to the curb. Al could be seen through the windshield. Stark pushed away from the wall and came swiftly to the passenger side. He opened the door and slipped in.

“Hey there, ol’ hoss,” he said, grinning toothily.

Al was fidgeting nervously, gripping the wheel tightly. “Is everything all right?” he asked tensely.

“Shore nuff is. Don’t be worryin’. This here’s easy as takin’ candy from a baby.”

“You can say that. You’re not breaking the law. I’m taking the risk. Me and your friend. Where is he?”

“Hell, I ain’t takin’ no risk, but I ain’t makin’ much money either. All ah done, ah done for my buddy. Ahm hardly makin’ change in this deal. You don’t seem to ‘preate that.” Al looked sheepish. “You’re right, man. I’m sorry. I’m just nervous. But where is he?”

“Should be long any minute.”

They waited and almost as if on cue, Momo appeared from the doorway. He was wearing a uniform of polished blue cotton such as those used by service station attendants and delivery men. On the breast of the shirt was embroidered the legend: JOHNSON’S WHOLESALE LIQUORS. The uniform gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. He paused for a lull in traffic and then came over. He’d bought the outfit for a hundred bucks from a former employee. It was the best investment he’d ever made.

“Is that him?” Al asked.

“Sure is. By gawd he’s a good boy. Give ya the shirt offen his back.” Al watched Momo approach. Stark leaned back in the corner and studied Al’s florid face in profile. The confidence man was looking for some flicker of suspicion. There was none.

Momo came around the front of the truck to the rider’s side where Stark sat. He didn’t open the door but stepped on the running board and peered inside.

“I can’t stay. One of the girls might see me from the office window. Is this the guy, Spliv?”

“Sure is.”

Momo eyed Al with feigned suspicion. “I’m not so sure.”

“He’s all right. Al’s my buddy,” Stark said. He almost winced, though, as he looked at Momo. The drug peddler appeared sinister as a Mexican hood. “I guess it’s okay then,” Momo said. He looked at Al. “Did George tell you what to do?”

“More or less.”

“I’m foreman on the loading dock in the back. I fill the orders. When you drive in back, park near the west end and I’ll take care of it from there. You’ll be getting twenty cases of top of the line bourbon. Give the money to George. I don’t want to carry it back there. He’ll tell you just what to do. I can’t stay.” Before Al could protest, Momo nodded quick goodbyes and ducked around the back of the truck. Stark could see the bartender’s confusion and moved in quickly so the man could not call Momo back.

“It ain’t good somebody should see him talkin’ to ya. They can see out the window an’ you’re goin’ in thar right now. They might think it was kinda funny.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Al said, grudgingly bringing his eyes away from the departing figure. “I didn’t get much out of him, though. Is he Mex?”

“He’s dark, but he’s originally from Hawaii. He just wanted to see ya — make sure ya was okay. Ah’ll tell ya what to do.”

“You ever done this before, either of you?”

“Naw, we ain’t habituals. But we done talked it over a whole lot. Ain’t hardly nothin’ can go wrong.” Stark reached over and clasped Al’s shoulder to give him reassurance. “Say, man, ya been frettin’ like an ol’ bull fulla Spanish fly without a cow. It’s all right. He runs things back there.” Al chuckled, suddenly relaxing. “Maybe I am worrying too much. Now just what do I do?”

“Ya go in theat door right over thar, an’ ya fill out an order for two or three cases of whiskey. Ya pay for it an’ they give ya some papers. Ya take the papers ‘roun the back… so the people see ya hand them to Willie. He tells ‘em what to put in the truck.”

“I take the truck around the back?”

“Yep. Unless ya wanna carry it home.”

“No, I don’t want to do that.” Al was now in a good humor. He shook his head. “If that’s all there is to it, it’s pretty easy. Where are you going to be?”

“Wall, ah can’t go in back with ya. Some of them swampers know ah’m a friend of Willie’s. Ah’ll wait here ‘til you come outta the office, then I’ll get the money and leave.”

Al nodded. “When do I start?”

“Go right now. They close in about thirty minutes. An’ Willie’s probably nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof right now.”

Al quickly activated himself. Patting his right hand pocket (Stark saw the move and knew the money was there), he exited the truck and went across into the building. He watched him go; then, lighting a cigarette, he got out and went to stand beside the panel truck. He wanted to be on the sidewalk when Al returned.

The bartender’s face was beaming when he came back. In his hand was the red, yellow and white triplicate order form. He came around to where Stark stood. “How’d it go?”

“Like silk. Like you said. Man, we can do it regularly.”

“Ah don’t know if my buddy wants to. This is only ‘cause he needs the money… fact, ya better give it to me now. I don’t want you takin’ off with the booze and our dough.” Stark extended his hand casually, but his veiled eyes noted every move that might show the man’s thoughts or reservations. There was a brief flicker of uncertainty.

“It ain’t for me. My friend said to get it,” Stark said quickly.

Al laughed. He was trying to copy the off-handed manner. He brought out a roll of fifty dollar bills and surrendered them. “Want to count it?”

“Naw. Hell fire, we gotta trust each other, an’ there ain’t time. Now you hustle ‘round there an’ get your stuff.”