Stark: A Novel (9 page)

“Where’s Lieutenant Crowley?” Stark asked, pressing his lips to the corner of the door. “I want to see him.”

“He went home fifteen minutes ago,” the detective said and departed. Stark cursed under his breath and went back to the bench. “I’ll be a sick sonofabitch in the morning. And he’s a dirty sonofabitch for doing this.”

The first hours were not uncomfortable or filled with dread. Shit did not allow pain or worry, but created a sense of being removed from the drama. He knew precisely the reality of the situation, but as if it was happening to someone else, a character in a motion picture.

Because of his disassociation he was able to hold the facts and turn them different ways. He lay on the bench, head propped on his rolled up jacket. He smoked incessantly until the cigarettes were gone, pitching the short butts unheeded on the floor, and later re-lighting the larger of those for a few more puffs. Meanwhile he reflected on how to handle the situation. There was no doubt that this was punishment and a scare by Crowley. After a night of torment and some conversation, he would be released. But by the same token, this arrest was a clear indication that his time was running short. Crowley’s patience was strained and he would not accept further stories or delays.

Yet Stark could not formulate a definite plan. He hoped, as usual, that he could play the scene by instinct and make the right decisions in the moment of crisis. Still, even a general outline eluded him. He knew he wanted too many things, and could not make all of them mesh together. It would be simple if he could trade Momo and his connection. But he couldn’t bring himself to do that. Not that he cared about the still unknown connec- tion, or his own underworld morality. It was only that by using him, his new partner, he could become more successful. A year of being a big dealer and he could buy a chain of cigarette machines and a small nightclub. Even keep Dorie. He lay there, smoked, and shook his head.

After midnight the first pains of withdrawal commenced; the tremors of pain increased minute by minute to become, after a few hours, an agony blotting out virtually every other thing. Logical thoughts were swept away. He writhed and kicked and puked and cursed the sickness.

By morning he was so weak that he could only stumble to his feet when Crowley unlocked the cell. His usual sleek appearance was rumpled and foul. Drops of spattering vomit had dried on his shoes and the cuffs of his trousers. His matted hair was wild and his clothes were creased with deep wrinkles.

He stumbled against the door frame as he marched past the well-fed, morning-chipper detective, who smirked at the wrecked apparition.

“You look just fine this morning,” Pat Crowley said genially.

“Stick it in your ass,” Stark said with as much fire as he could raise. He staggered along the sterile corridor and the red-faced man lumbered behind. From experience Stark knew where to go - a soundproofed interrogation room. Despite the agony, his brain functioned, though not with the clarity of the previous evening.

“Sit on down, chum,” Crowley said, closing the door and waving him toward a chair behind a bare table.

Stark flopped down, shivering with a sudden chill. He did not see the flash of a grin on Pat Crowley’s face. The detective slid a pack of cigarettes across the table. “Have a smoke.”

“They’d taste like something from a sewage plant.”

“You don’t feel so good, huh?”

“You know damn well how I feel,” Stark snapped, managing a splutter of anger.

“Serves you right, punk,” Crowley capped back with more sarcasm than anger. He spun a chair around across the table and squatted on it, his forearms crossed on the back. Stark was sweating and yawning and twisting. Crowley watched him as if studying something new, though he had seen countless sick junkies in his career. “It must be real good,” he said, “for anyone to put up with the agony when it’s gone… and then go back to it again every chance there is.”

Stark didn’t answer. In his sickness he wished only to get over the matter at hand.

“Well, Stark, you’re smart enough to know this is just a slap on the wrist for ducking out on me yesterday.”

“I couldn’t… something was happening right then,” Stark interrupted.

Pat Crowley waved him quiet. “I don’t want to hear it. You didn’t come, so I sent for you. Now you’re sick and I don’t really give a damn… ‘cause you’re just a piece of garbage to me. You already know what I think about you. But this time you’re getting another chance. You’re still useful to me. But when I say ‘shit’ after this, I want you to squat and start grunting real hard. Understand?”

Stark’s head was slumped forward, but every word was heard, and he nodded. He was too sick even to hate the arrogant bastard.

Crowley paused in his one-sided conversation long enough to fire up a cigarette. He exhaled in a stream. “Now what’ve you got for me? Anything?”

Stark shook his head.

Crowley glared. “To hell with it. I’m gonna throw the key away on you.” He pushed himself from the chair. “Let’s go down to the booking desk.”

Stark forced down a gasp of nausea. “Wait… a second. I’m not feeling good. I think I got something.”

“It better be good.”

“I’m sick… can’t talk,” Stark croaked. “Gimme a fix so I can tell you.”

Crowley raised himself to full height and sneered. “You’re joking. Spit out something I like and you can go back to your cesspool and fix yourself.”

Stark flinched, steeled himself, trying to control his trembling body. “The big connection is in La Jolla. I thought his shit was coming in from Hawaii, but it’s a local operator.”

Crowley’s blue eyes twinkled with interest. “That’s not good enough for your bail. Give me some more. Who’s the Man? Where does Momo hide the stuff?”

Stark shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Crowley appeared disgusted. “You’re not making much progress. Maybe I should let Dummy know that you’re trying to rat out Momo.”

“Momo’s taking me in as a partner. I’ll find out who his connection is. Momo’s going to introduce me to him… but it might take a couple of days. The Man is very cautious. Dammit, you’re driving me to my knees. Ease the pressure.” Stark suddenly went into a quaking, teeth-chattering spasm. Though the worst of it passed in a few seconds, he still vibrated visibly. “Got a plan,” he gasped. “Gimme something so I can talk… can’t like this.”

Crowley nonchalantly dropped the consumed cigarette to the floor and ground it beneath his heel, mulling slowly on the information. “We don’t have medicine for sick junkies. I’ll let you get your own. You go and call me this afternoon or you’ll kick your habit in a cell.” Crowley’s eyes bulged with emphasis.

Stark nodded once, jerkily. “Where’s my car?”

“Still on the street. I didn’t plan to keep you so it wasn’t towed in. A prowl car can drop you off.”

“Just get me a cab.”

“Suit yourself. Wait here while I clear you downstairs.”

Crowley walked out, leaving the door ajar. Stark moved only once - to lean sideways and vomit a few bilious leavings from a wretched stomach. He waited in a silent stupor and could not think of anything beyond his next fix. It felt like he was dying. He had told himself that he wasn’t a real junkie. Just liked a taste once in a while. The night in the cell proved otherwise. He’d have to cut back.

__________

I
t was only luck that kept Stark from having several wrecks as he drove like a madman from the Panama Club to Momo’s. He ran a stop light without seeing it. A two-ton truck screeched and swerved to avoid collision and was banged by a following automobile. Stark drove on heedlessly, weaving through traffic, blasting the horn frequently, and cursing the slower cars.

At Momo’s he forgot his normal caution and parked directly in front of the doorway. He scrambled out and ran up the stairs, not slowing his pace as his stomach retched and dry-heaved.

At the door he pounded, then leaned in weakness against the frame, panting as if having a heart attack. Nobody responded. Stark waited less than a minute, then squatted on his haunches and peered into the keyhole. It was blocked by the key inside. He pounded harder.

“Momo! Dorie! Open up. I’m sick! I know you’re in there.”

“Who is it?” Momo asked. From the voice Stark knew he was just inside; and the voice was shrill and taut.

“Ernie Stark.”

There was another pause. “Are you alone?” Momo asked.

“No. Your mother’s with me… For Christ’s sake, open up. I’m sick out here… sick!”

“Wait a minute.”

Stark cursed silently. From within came the muffled sound of movement. Seconds ticked off that seemed hours. He raised a hand to knock again just as the key was turned. Momo’s face appeared behind the nightchain, eyes wide as he peered beyond Stark to see the hallway. He allowed the nightlatch to clatter free and Stark weaved inside, bending slightly forward with stomach cramps.

“I need to geeze,” he said.

Momo fastened the door but did not move away from it or speak. Stark caught the silence and was puzzled. He looked around for Dorie. She wasn’t in the room, but in the corner behind the door stood Dummy, his clothes gleaming with Italian-silk elegance, a gigantic .45 dangling in his hand. The mute’s face wore its usual inscrutability. “What’s this?” Stark asked, panic mixing with pain. “Why the heater?”

Momo came away from the door.

“We didn’t know who it was. You scared us with that racket… sounded like a platoon of cops.” He motioned Dummy to come forward and then faced the closed bathroom door. “Dorie, it’s okay, come on out.”

Dorie Williams appeared, carrying a lidless shoebox. Over its rim, he could see the contents: several plastic-wrapped packages of shit. Obviously she had been sent into the bathroom to flush it down the toilet if the pounded summons proved to be the police. Had Dummy just made a delivery?

“Cook a jolt for me,” he begged, going to the bed and he flopped down. He was too ill to notice that nobody moved. Momo and Dummy stood together, watching him; Dorie faded to the background.

“Where you been?” Momo asked.

Stark raised his head, saw the hardened faces, and propped himself on an elbow. “I’ve been in the police station. You know damn well where I’ve been.”

“You weren’t booked,” Momo said with suspicion. “Dummy saw you get pinched, and I had a bondsman call the jail.”

Stark scanned each of their cold faces and Dorie’s frightened eyes. He sneered at the gun in Dummy’s hand. “What’s wrong with you, Momo?”

“I want to know how you got out so quick.”

“I finked on your mother. She’s going to Alcatraz… Man, don’t be stupid. You’re acting like a sucker… you and that no speaking fool. I got out because they didn’t have any case. It was just a roust. I swallowed the last bindle I had before they rousted me. They had no proof, but grabbed me anyway.”

“You didn’t tell them about me. About us, did you?”

“Man, I’ll tell you about it when I’m fixed. I feel too goddamn bad to talk.” He trembled suddenly as if to demonstrate.

Momo blinked, thrown off-stride by the surly barrage. He managed to hold his ground, however. “I want to hear something right now.”

“They thought if I went cold turkey overnight, I would talk. I didn’t, so they let me go. They ain’t here, are they?”

Momo nodded, satisfied. He touched the mute’s arm and signaled to put the gun away. It disappeared into a shoulder holster. Dummy motioned Momo to follow him to a corner of the room where he took out a small tablet and scribbled a message. The Hawaiian read it and nodded yes. Dummy gestured that he was leaving, stared hard at Stark, ignored the girl, and departed.

“If my stomach wasn’t empty,” Stark said, “I’d puke over your bed. What’re you gonna do?”

“Man, I’m sorry. Dorie, get some stuff out. We’ve gotta give my partner some medicine.”

Minutes later, Dorie and Stark were alone in the bathroom. She cooked the fix. There was no conversation until after he jerked the needle from his body. The nausea disappeared so quickly that it seemed never to have existed. He stretched himself, wrinkled his nose at his own odor, and eyed Dorie. She had scarcely looked at him since he entered the apartment.

“What’s up, baby?” he whispered. “Why the cold shoulder? I thought it was you and me.

“I didn’t like to see you sick and weak. It made me feel bad. I don’t like to see anyone in pain.”

“The world is pain, baby. The whole world gets hurt. It’s a jungle with lions, foxes, and snakes. I’m all of them when the times call for it. Look at how I handle those two fools in there. I turn them on and off like a light.” He spoke with such contempt that it brought a flush of anger to her face.

“Always the con artist, but Dummy didn’t buy your story. Didn’t you notice?” she said. “And to think I felt bad for you.” She spun away. Swiftly he stepped forward and grabbed her arm, restraining her while he leaned close to whisper.

“Listen to me. Get it straight. I’m a loner. My old man was a junkie. I’ve been in this life since I can remember. You’re a newcomer, and you’ve still got your church upbringing with you. You don’t really know what’s with this fast life, and you’ve never met anyone like me, but I’ve never met anyone like you, either. I will hurt you.” He added quietly, “But, I wish I could trust you. I don’t know why.” He was flushing, unable to say more.