Stick (13 page)

Barry said, “Buddy? What's this buddy shit?”

“I mean it,” Kyle said.

“Then walk, for Christ sake. You want to walk, walk.”

Stick touched his boss's arm. “Mr. Stam?” Still pleasant. “I'm the one with the driving suit on.”

Barry stared up at him with his boozy eyes, pink shirt open, necktie gone. He said, “Stick? Shit, I know why they call you that. Got nothing to do with Stickley, huh?” Barry getting a shrewd-drunk look now, crafty eyes. “You stick people up is why they call you Stick. Isn't that right?”

Stick made a gun of his hand, pointing it at Barry, saying, “Yes, sir, you got it right,” crowding him into the front-seat opening, staying close, jamming him, so that Barry was forced to get in, Stick's head and shoulders following. Now with his back filling the doorway, in there with Barry, away from everyone outside watching, Stick said, “You little fucker, you say another word I'll punch you into the backseat. I drive. You can fire me tomorrow, but tonight I drive. You got it?” He waited. Barry stared straight ahead, rigid. His face bore a strained expression now that made his nose appear larger, vulnerable. But he didn't move or make a sound.

Stick came out of the car. He opened the rear door, turned to Diane and Kyle and said, “Ladies . . .”

 

* * *

Barry's expression had turned to stone. He refused to speak. He walked with exaggerated care along the hallway, brushing the wall with his shoulder, turned into his bedroom and fell across the bed. Stick looked in from the hall at Barry in his brown-canopied sultan's bed, a royal tent, the sides gathered up with gold roping. The poor little guy.

He waited for Diane to come out. “I'll undress him if you want. Put him under the covers . . .  tuck him in.”

She said, “He'll be all right,” not smiling but calm once more, brown eyes impassive. “But if you would, please, go down to the boat . . .” She hesitated. “I want to be sure the key isn't there.”

“I'll be glad to.”

“If you don't mind.” The voice so quiet and soft.

Not wanting to leave he wondered what would make her smile. Or show any kind of emotion. Her eyes seemed to daydream, looking at him and giving him the feeling he was in the dream. Letting him look at her . . .  at the pearls lying against her skin, lips slightly parted and the eyes again, reflecting . . .  what?

“Is there anything else I can do?”

Hesitant. “I don't think so . . .”

“Can I get you something?” He said it knowing it made little sense. Yet she seemed to accept it without question. He felt that if he took her by the hand and
led her through the house and out the garage, to his room, she would follow along without a word, without making a sound. Her gaze lulled him.

“Well, if you need me . . .”

He turned to go and she said, “I'll be up for a little while.”

He paused. He nodded. He couldn't think of anything else to say. “All right . . .”

She turned the light off in Barry's room, looked at him once more and walked past him and across the hall to a bedroom door, pushed it open and went in. A slanting patch of light appeared on the hall floor. The door closed. He didn't hear the lock click. A narrow line of light remained on the polished marble. It took him several moments to move away.

Kyle was waiting on the terrace, holding her arms—her brown arms and shoulders bare in the blue cotton shift—looking up at the sky. She turned as Stick approached, coming down the steps.

“Is he all right?”

“He passed out.”

“What did you say to him in the car?”

The pool lay behind her in light green illumination, darkness beyond.

“I told him to behave himself.”

She narrowed her eyes—for fun, it didn't matter. “I'll bet.”

“You want, I'll walk you home.”

“Fine.” And started off, as though she was expecting it: crossed the patio toward the walk that led to the tennis court, Kyle telling him Barry was a terrible drinker and knew it and didn't get smashed very often. Booze wasn't that important to him.

“Like making money,” Stick said.

“Barry's last day on earth he'll spend on the phone with his broker,” Kyle said, “but not because he wants to make more money . . .”

“He just likes to talk on the phone.”

“No—he gets his thrill playing with the money, risking it. He's got more than he'll ever be able to spend, but when he plays the market and
wins,
then he's outsmarted the game and that's his satisfaction, his accomplishment.”

“But if he loses,” Stick said, “what's he out? It's not like betting the farm. Is it?”

She said, with realization, “I should be telling you about taking risks . . .”

Stick said, “Oh,” with his own sense of realization, that Barry had been talking about him. “I forgot I'm one of his exhibits now.”

“You said you sold cars . . .”

“Used ones.”

“You didn't mention you stole them first, and you were about to take off in Barry's Rolls when he came out and caught you.”

“Is that how he tells it? He caught me? No, I helped him out, that's all, and he took a liking to me.”

“I'm never sure when you're serious.” They walked along the white squares of cement. “You want to know what he said?” Her tone changed to a mild street-sound imitation of Barry. “Jesus Christ, I got Aurora on the boat and Diane pacing up and down on the terrace and I got a new driver who was in prison for armed robbery and I don't know which one of my cars he's gonna steal . . .  This was before we left for the club, waiting for Diane. She takes longer to get dressed than anyone I know.”

“He say prison?”

“No, you're right. He said, in the slammer. Then at dinner he started in again, about you. Diane seemed interested and kept him going . . .”

“She did?”

“But you don't have to urge Barry when he's on. Which is almost all the time. The way he was drinking, I think it was for dramatic effect, so I'd think he's pining for Aurora. Or he wanted Diane to ask him what was wrong and he could say, oh, nothing. But she didn't. So he talked about you—you're right, with all the words—because he can get into the part and sound tough.”

“He sounds like the Bowery Boys at Miami Beach,” Stick said. “Why's he do that?”

They had crossed the tennis court and were following the walk that led to the front of the guest house. He saw the pale length of the cabin cruiser, windows dark—wondering if Diane wanted him to find somebody aboard and come running back to tell. Or if she wanted him to report back, tell her no, the key wasn't in the ignition. But no hired skipper was going to leave the key and she'd know that.

Kyle was saying that maybe Barry acted tough because he was insecure. “Maybe as a kid he was a little smartass and got beat up all the time. Barry loves to start fights in bars.”

“He does?”

“Yes, but only when he's sure somebody'll stop it. You know, before they come to blows. Barry's got a problem.”

They were coming to her front steps now.

Stick said, “Well, I've done some dumb things, I guess, trying to do it the hard way, but I haven't been in a fistfight since about the eighth grade.”

“You sound just like my brother.”

“You kidding? The Fed?”

She turned to him in the amber glow of the light by the door. “Barry tell you that?”

“Cornell. He says he'd change color for you.”

“God, he's funny. I wish he were a client, instead of most of the ones I have. I could listen to him all day.” She meant it, too, her eyes smiling. “No, you
remind me of my other brother, the stockbroker. He used to pitch for the Red Sox.”

“Jim McLaren, that's your brother?”

“Ah, you're a baseball fan.”

“Sure, I used to watch him, when the Sox came to Detroit. He was always accused of throwing spitters. Right?”

“Or, as they say, doctoring the ball with a foreign substance. Jim used to say sweat isn't foreign, it's mine.”

“What'd he do on a cold day?”

“Well, his pitch, he had a forkball and a gorgeous slider that broke down and in on a right-handed batter. Otherwise, Fenway Park, he could've gotten killed.”

“That short left-field porch,” Stick said. “So Jim McLaren's your brother, that's something. I always admired his nerve—the skinny southpaw with the high leg-kick. He isn't very big, is he?”

“About your size. He's heavier now.”

“That was about, what, ten years ago.”

“ ‘Seventy-one was his last year. I was going to school in Boston, so I got to see him all the time.”

“Lemme guess—Harvard Business School.”

“Nope, I was at Boston U. In sociology, then I switched to speech therapy. But I left school, decided not to fight it and got a job as a market analyst. My dad's a stockbroker, he was pushing me toward Wall Street as far back as I can remember.”

“You don't have to have a special degree?”

“No . . .  You can't be dumb, but just selling stock you're usually no more than an order-taker anyway. You learn the words. I sold options for a few years, then got into commodities . . .”

“I don't understand any of that.”

“Well, in that end of the market the next stop's Las Vegas. I got out of trading, came down to Palm Beach, the big bucks, and opened an office as an investment counselor. Anyway, you remind me a lot of Jim.

“When he's throwing spitters or selling stock?”

“You sound like him. But I didn't think of it till this evening, when Barry was talking about you. That's why I remembered you, I guess.”

“You have fun at the club?”

“It was all right. Except for the music. As soon as I heard them swing into
Alley Cat,
God . . .”

Stick said, “Yeah? . . .”

“I was going to get up and leave. I can't stand that insipid goddamn song.”

Stick said, “How about
Climb Every Mountain and You Light Up My Life?”

She began to smile, those knowing eyes looking right at him. “How about a nightcap? We've got scotch, champagne and Gatorade.”

“You drink with the help?”

“I'm help, too, aren't I?”

He said, “I have to do something for Mrs. Stam. How about if I come right back?”

Her expression didn't change; though the amused look in her eyes seemed different somehow. She said, “Well, if you make it, fine.”

She went inside, leaving it up to him.

HE WASN'T SURE IF HE
should sneak aboard the docked cruiser or make noise. Either way he could scare hell out of the poor girl, probably waiting below.
A Prisoner of
Love. Perry Como, 1950-something. His mom's favorite. He had the feeling, ducking into the main cabin, even the guy's boat was bigger than any house he'd ever lived in. There was a light on below . . .  down a short ladder . . .  he felt his way along and came to a stateroom with—he couldn't believe it—a double bed. The spread—a blue, red and yellow rainbow design— was mussed, the rainbow pillows pulled out from beneath the cover. He heard a noise, a pumping action, water running . . .

The girl came into the room with her head down. She wore a man's turtleneck sweater and was holding the bottom of it with her wrists, bunched up, while she buttoned the waist of her white shorts, rings on all her fingers.

Stick said, “Aurora?”

She jumped with a strangled sound, drawing back.

“It's okay. I'm a friend.”

“Who
are
you?” All eyes.

“I work for Barry.”

“Where is he?” About to cry, she seemed so frightened. “Did he tell you to get me?”

“He's in bed.”

“In
bed
!”

“Shhhh. You don't want to wake up his wife.”

“The hell I don't! You know how long I've been on this fucking boat?” She had the eyes of a cat now, a mean one.

“I know. I dropped him off yesterday to meet you. I'm his chauffeur.”

“You're not Cecil.”

“I wouldn't want to be. I'm the new one.”

She seemed suspicious, but got over it right away. “Good. You can drive me home. That son of a bitch, I'm telling you . . .”

“I'm supposed to see if the key's here.”

“What key?”

Was she scowling or pouting? Her lower lip stuck out.

“The one you start the boat with. Is it here?”

“How would I know? I don't want you to drive me home in
this.
I don't want to ever see this fucking boat again as long as I live. I mean in a car.”

“I don't think I can do that.”

“Why not?”

“I mean unless he tells me.”

“You're driving me home,” Aurora said. “I don't give a shit what Barry says. All I do is wait for him.”

“You too, huh?”

She didn't hear him. Aurora was pulling the sweater up over her head and he was staring at her bare breasts. Two round red eyes staring back at him as she fought the sweater, trying to work the snug neck past her chin, her breasts swaying, bouncing up and down, big ones. When the sweater came off it left her hair sticking out in all directions. She was the wild woman of Bal Harbour now, the cat woman of Biscayne Bay.

“You too, huh?”

“What?”

“You said all you do is wait.”

“
Wait?
You don't even know.”

“Yes, I do,” Stick said. He couldn't take his eyes off her breasts as she smoothed her hair now, not looking at him. They were beauties. They were show breasts. “I wait around till he wants to go out, then we go someplace and I have to wait around again, hours sometimes.”

“The big shit,” Aurora said. “Why does he have to be so mean?”

“Well, that's what he is,” Stick said, “a meany. I'll tell you something though. I'd never make you wait.” No,
sir
.

“You wouldn't?” She looked at him, caught him staring, hypnotized, but didn't seem to mind. “I've been all by myself since last night. Not
any
body came to see me.” She was unbuttoning the shorts now, pushed them down, stepped out with one foot and kicked them across the bed with the other. She stood with hands on hips in narrow bikini panties, looking around the stateroom. “I don't know where I put my clothes.”

Stick didn't know where to look. At her tiny white panties between tan tummy and thighs or at her big white breasts. It was better than a cellblock dream, beyond imagination. She came to the foot of the bed, bent over, aimed her can at him and picked up a pair of designer jeans, turned then and sat down on the bed with the jeans in her lap.

“I don't know what to do.” That lower lip quivering a little, pushing out.

Stick knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to bite that lip off. First. He walked over to her, reached out carefully and put his hand on her shoulder. There, there. She didn't spook, draw back. He said, “Don't worry, I'll”—what?—”help you out. If I can.” And saw those kitty eyes raised, peering out from among long dark lashes. He eased down on the bed, arm moving around her back. The poor little thing. She snuggled against him, laid her hand on the tight material across his thigh.

“He doesn't care about me. How I feel.” Yes, she wanted to be comforted—this little girl all by herself. He brought his hand past those beauties to her bare arm and stroked it gently, saw her face raise in the lamplight, her sorrowful eyes. “I feel so lonely.”

“I know . . .”

“Will you be nice to me?”

“I'll try—I mean I
will.
I'll be nice as can be to you.”

She slid up around his black suit, cat turning to snake, arms going around his neck, acrobatic tan thighs twisting, uncoiling to straddle him, feeling her pushing and letting himself be pushed over to lie on the rainbow-design spread, her mouth coming down on his now, murmuring, “Will you take me home after?”

His mouth on hers made mmmmm sounds, like he was humming.

Did he sleep? Maybe for a minute, fading out and back again, opening his eyes to her lazy gaze, a tangle of dark hair spread over the rainbow pillow.

She said, very softly, “Boy, you're good. Whoever you are.” She said, surprised, but still softly, “You still have your tie on.” She said, sounding drowsy, eyes closing, “Would I love a glass of milk.”

It sounded good, an ice-cold glass. But he chose a can of Bud instead, closed the refrigerator, light
gone from the kitchen again, and popped the can. Aurora could have her milk in the morning, when she woke up. He wanted a cigarette. He hadn't had a cigarette in almost four years but he wanted one now. He could live on simple pleasures. Every once in a while accept one not so simple. When the sound came from the hall he thought of an animal; it was like a series of grunts, low snuffling sounds. Close.

He placed his beer on the counter and stepped over to the doorway to listen. Mrs. Hoffer, snoring. The cook's room was right there, a wing off the kitchen. The maids went home to Little Havana when they were through. Barry said they went home every night and brushed their hair, a hundred strokes, then they'd do the other leg.

A voice said, “Oh . . .”

He turned to see a figure in the hall, faint light from a window far behind telling him it was Mrs. Stam, a silhouette within a sheer cover that reached the floor.

“Did you hear something?” Her voice a whisper.

“I think it's Mrs. Hoffer.”

“No, I mean outside.”

“It could've been me. I just came in.”

“No, it was something else. Would you look, please?”

She turned and he followed her, hearing bare feet pat on marble. She brought him out to the morning
room past fat chairs finished in canvas and over to one of the arched openings. They stood at a border of flower pots, Stick behind her, hunching a little to see out past the awning at eye level. They looked out at the terrace in clear, cloudless moonlight, at the sweep of lawn beyond the pool, the bay like a little ocean and there it was in the night sky. He felt a warm rush, an irresistible urge and had to say it.

“Shine on my love and me.”

Diane's head turned, chin to her shoulder, so that he saw her profile in soft illumination and caught the expensive scent of her perfume. She said, “What?”

“Moon over Miami,” Stick said. “It's true. There it is.”

She said, “Oh.” After a moment she said, “Yes, it is.” She stood without moving.

He said, “What are we listening for?”

“Wait.” Quietly, a hushed tone.

She turned then very slowly, staring out at the terrace. Her shoulder touched his chest. She remained this way until her face came closer and she said, though not looking at him, “I'm frightened.”

“Of what?”

“Would you walk out by the hedge?”

“What am I looking for?”

“I'm not sure. Whatever it is . . .”

“Whatever what is?”

“Please . . .”

He ducked under the awning, walked across the flagstones to the low hedge that bordered the top level of the terrace, looked across at the tiers descending to the pool. Looked the other way, past the sloping lawn to the turnaround by the garage. He came full circle, slowly, until he was facing the house again.

Diane stood within the oval arch, facing him in moonlight, waiting . . .  that picture out of early memory more than thirty years ago of a bare naked lady with a bush of hair between her legs and it hadn't changed one bit, it was true and beautiful as ever, as real as that moon over Miami and he was a boy again in a grown-man's chauffeur's suit with the lady of the house ready to go for a ride . . .  on fat canvas cushions on the floor, as it turned out. She nearly killed him she was so much moving female telling him to do it, do it, saying oh, God, oh, God, do it, that quiet woman set free, Stick wondering what kind of glittering phase of his life he was going through this woman so pleased she couldn't believe it, breathless the way he stayed with her and never let up till she was wrung limp and Stick was soaring to his own stars and said to her, cocky, “Now it's my turn . . .”

Kyle said, “You've changed. Good.”

He followed her into the yellow living room softly lighted, set to music he couldn't identify but good
stuff that had a George Benson sound with subtle percussion rimshots rocking it along. He had changed into his lime green knit shirt and laundered khakis, and brushed his teeth, and washed up here and there.

“I hope I didn't take too long. I was afraid you'd be in bed.”

“No, I'm wide awake. You're the one looks tired.”

“Been a long day,” Stick said. And not over yet. “They keep me jumping, when I'm not waiting around.”

Was she looking at him funny? She wasn't as tall as before; barefoot now, but still wearing the dress with little thin straps. Her tan skin glowed in the lamplight. The whites of her eyes seemed whiter. When they settled into the deep sofa with the scotch she poured, Kyle sat low with her legs stretched out, bare feet crossed on the cocktail table. She was a cushion away from him. He thought of her in the car this afternoon and said, “What's float mean? And P-E?”

She said, “Is that what you want to talk about?” The way she had sounded when she told Barry she was tired.

“No, but tell me some time. There a lot of words you have to learn?”

“No more than if you wanted to be a croupier. Or a car salesman. You probably know a lot of words I
don't. So there you are.” Now she sounded more relaxed than tired, her head turned against the cushion, looking at him.

Stick said, “I wondered—you don't mind I was in jail? It doesn't make you nervous?”

“No, it surprises me, you lived that kind of life. I know you're smarter than that, just talking to you.”

“It looked easy,” Stick said. “What do you have to know to steal a car? Get in and start it.”

“What about the risk, was that part of it? The excitement?”

“I was making a living. I'd drive a cement truck, a transit-mix for a while, then go back to it. I don't know—maybe I thought I was getting away with something. I was a lot younger and dumber then. I did a little time for cars; then I was picked up again and thought I'd be going away for quite a while. But at the pretrial exam the witness got on the stand and said he made a mistake, he'd never seen me before. I couldn't believe it. Till after, I find out he has a plan of his own. Did Barry mention Frank Ryan to you?”

“Was that your partner?”

Stick nodded. “I never said a word about Frank, but he knew all about him, like somebody read him my sheet.”

“Barry has a friend in the Dade State Attorney's office,” Kyle said. “That's his source. His friend called the Detroit police.”

“That's what I thought. Anyway, Frank Ryan was the witness. He was a car salesman. I mean a real one. So after I was let off Frank took me aside and told me his plan—his ten rules for success and happiness in armed robbery—and we went in business together.”

“You're kidding.”

“No, he had ten rules. I remember he wrote 'em down for me on cocktail napkins.”

“Were you successful?”

“For about three months.”

“Happy?”

“When I wasn't scared to death. It was a lot different than picking up a Cadillac and selling it down in Ohio for parts, but there was a lot of money in it too.”

“What were some of the rules?”

“Well, like, always be polite on the job. Say please and thank you.”

“You serious?”

“Keeps everybody calm. Never call your partner by name, when you're in the place. Never use your own car. Never flash money. Never tell anybody your business . . .  Like that, just common sense. They worked, too.”

“Then why'd you get caught?”

“We broke rule number ten. Never associate with people known to be in crime. We teamed up with
some guys that Frank knew and . . .  well, it didn't work out.”

“Where's Frank? Still in prison?”

“He died in Jackson. Cirrhosis. He got hooked on moonshine they made out of potatoes. Toward the end his stomach was out to here, his liver . . .  Dumb shit. I told him, he wouldn't listen. He never learned how to jail. You know, live in a place like that. So, he died.”