Stick (16 page)

“Guess.”

“Not dope . . .  Are you?”

“I never was into that. No, tips on the market. I'm a Wall Street tout, unless there's another name for it.”

She said, “
Nine
hundred dollars?”

“Two hundred up front for a hot one about to take off, like Ranco. And I sold some over-the-counter stuff for fifty bucks each.”

“
Nine
hundred dollars?”

“Cash, flat-rate deal, Em. I haven't figured out yet how to charge a percentage or if I should.”

“Well, first you need a license.” She was aware of the trace of amazement still in her voice. Now it was
Em,
like last night, familiar.

“I think I could even make up names of phony companies, they'd buy 'em. They've got that much faith in Barry. They think he's a wizard, up from boy wonder. They think you give him inside information, but he's the one who picks the winners. And you know what, he loves it. He said sell 'em anything you want.”

They passed from sunlight into the shade of malaleucas and hibiscus lining the drive, the blacktop hard and firm now.

“So I guess what it comes down to,” Stick said, “selling's pretty easy if you have what people want. Is that it?”

She was recovering. “They don't even have to want it,” Kyle said. “They only have to believe they'd be fools to pass it up.”

Barry called to them as they were crossing the terrace, walking away from the house. “Hey, where you going with my driver?”

He appeared out of a dark archway of the morning room—where his wife had stood in moonlight. Stick saw her again with a wince of guilt, a minor tug that was losing its edge.

Barry came out to the grass. “Stickley, I got a favor to ask. Guy's coming in from New York, five something. You want to go meet him?” Barry stood with one arm raised straight up, wrist bent, finger pointing somewhere beyond Biscayne Bay.

“It's my day off.”

“I know it is. I'm not
telling
you to pick the guy up, I'm asking you.”

“What if I wasn't here?” Stick said.

Kyle took a few aimless steps away and turned back, to be able to watch both of them.

“If you weren't here,” Barry said, “then I'd have to pick him up myself or get Cornell, but you're here. I can see you, you're standing right there.” Barry pointed. “That's you, isn't it?”

“Since it's my day off,” Stick said, “I think it should be the same as I'm not here. Otherwise what good's a day off?”

“Jesus Christ,” Barry said, “all I'm asking you to do is go to the fucking airport and pick somebody up. Take you maybe an hour and a half. Here—” He stepped back into the morning room and reappeared holding a rectangle of white cardboard, a shirt stiffener, that said in black Magic Marker mr. leo firestone. “You hold this up as the passengers come off the flight. You don't even have to say anything.”

Stick looked at Barry holding the sign against his chest. “I don't think I could do that.”

Kyle said, “I couldn't either.”

Barry said, “Whatta you mean you don't think you could do it? You don't
do
anything, you hold the fucking sign up, that's all.”

Stick said, “You asking me if I want to do it?”

“As a favor, yeah.”

“If you're giving me a choice,” Stick said, “then I pass. I think you should handle it as if I'm not here. Okay?” He turned to Kyle. She shrugged and they started off across the terrace. Barry yelled at them, “I don't believe it!” but they kept going.

Kyle said, “Instead of trying to get fired, why don't you just quit?”

“I'm not trying to get fired.” Stick seemed a little surprised. “You know him—he eats that up. Gives him something to tell his friends, act it out.”

She said, “You're right, he'll work it into an I-don't-get-no-respect routine. But it's still chancy, meeting him head to head like that.”

“You give in too easy. He picks your brain to pieces and you let him. You have to act like you don't need him.”

“I don't,” Kyle said, “but I like him. I'm not sure why exactly . . .”

“Well, you're in a position you know what you're doing, you can afford to let him take advantage of you. I'm still feeling around, learning a few things . . .”

“Fast,” Kyle said.

“Doing some thinking . . .”

“Maybe I can help you.”

“I bet you can, Em. Who's Leo Firestone?”

A horn blared loud behind the van parked in the seagrape and Moke jumped, lifted the curled brim from his eyes to check the outside mirror.

Nestor's car, the Fleetwood Caddy.

Well, now they were getting someplace. Moke got out and walked back on the driver's side, away from the road, hunching as the Cadillac window went down fast, automatically, and there was Avilanosa, with no expression but an odor of garlic that hit Moke in the face and he tried not to breathe.

“We going to take flowers,” Avilanosa said.

“Shit,” Moke said, “bust through the gate. All they got there's a rent-a-cop.”

“We going to take flowers,” Avilanosa said. “Nestor talk to Chucky, Chucky say he talk to the man lives there. He say the man is going to leave pretty soon.”

Moke straightened, restless, fooled with his hat and hunched over again. “Why don't we just go
in
? Me and you.”

“Listen to me,” Avilanosa said. “The guy will be there alone he thinks, in the garage where he lives. We take him away from here to do it. They have business. You understand? So they don't want police to come and bother them.”

“
Bus
iness? Jeez-us Christ, what's business got to do with it?” He saw the window start to rise. “Wait! You bring my piece?”

The window stopped for a moment. “I give it to you later,” Avilanosa said, “when I come back.”

KYLE GAVE STICK THE PROSPECTUS
to look over while she showered, telling him, “This is what a film offering looks like. It describes what you have to invest to become a limited partner and how you share in the profits, if and when.”

“They all do it this way, make movies?”

“The independents do. Then they go to one of the major studios and try to make a distribution deal.”

He sat on the guest-house patio turning pages, trying to get a quick idea of what it was about. There was a story synopsis—he read some of it—also names of actors he recognized; but most of it looked like a legal contract or a subpoena, or the kind of words you'd see in a small-print moneyback guarantee and skip over.

The prospectus was spiral-bound, the size of a nine-by-twelve notebook with about sixty pages in it. The embossed plastic cover read:

 

FIRESTONE ENTERPRISES

PRESENTS A

LEO NORMAN FIRESTONE PRODUCTION

“SHUCK & JIVE”

 

He was interested but the legal tone stopped him and he didn't feel like concentrating. He would look off at the bright expanse of Miami—a postcard picture with sailboats and seagulls—but aware of Kyle's bedroom, its sliding glass doors right behind him. Kyle in there now where they'd been last night. Coming out of the shower, slipping on her skimpy white panties . . .  Neither of them had mentioned last night. Everything seemed to be moving along fine, so he sure wasn't going to bring it up. The best thing to do with failure, put it out of your mind.

Kyle didn't take long. She came out in a sundress, barefoot, with a tray that held a bucket of ice, a bottle of Dewar's and glasses—this girl didn't fool around—and placed the tray on the patio table. She asked him what he thought of the movie deal, beginning to pour drinks.

“This isn't the tire company—buy now and look for a takeover, is it?”

“No, no relation. This is Leo Firestone, Hollywood film producer. It says. His credits are in there.”

“I saw them. I mean I saw the list, but I must've missed the pictures when they came out. I never heard of any of them.”

“You didn't see
Gringo Guns?
About five years ago.”

“I was in prison.”

“You were lucky. He did one of those, too.
Big House Breakout.
But he's best known for
The Cowboy and the Alien.
”

Stick turned to a page in the prospectus. “This
Shuck and Jive
 . . .  ‘the hilarious escapades of a couple of undercover narcotics agents' . . .  is he serious?”

“Two and a half million,” Kyle said, “that's fairly serious. It's also zany, with riveting suspense and sizzling love.”

He turned a few more pages. “Mostly, all I see is a lot of legal stuff.”

“It describes the company, who the general partners are and their background, the risk factors, a budget estimate, a distribution plan . . .” She handed Stick a drink and sat down in a canvas director's chair with her own. “You'll see a tax opinion that runs about ten pages I think Leo Firestone's brother-in-law must've written. The story synopsis—you saw that—and some of the Hollywood stars Leo expects to sign.”

“What you're telling me,” Stick said, “this isn't your idea. You didn't bring Leo in.”

“No, Barry ran into him somewhere, I think Bimini, and now Barry wants to be in the movie business. He thinks Leo is an extremely talented guy.”

“Have you met him?”

“Not yet, but I can hardly wait. I told Barry months ago I'd shop a film venture for him if he was interested; they come along all the time. But the way Barry operates, he decides he wants to go
now,
he goes. He told Firestone he'd round up as many investors as he needed, with their checkbooks, and sit them down for the pitch. Leo must've kissed him.”

“So if Barry goes in the others will too . . .”

“It's quite likely.”

Stick turned to the first inside page. “It says a hundred and seventy-five Limited Partnership units at fourteen thousand two-eighty-five each . . .  minimum purchase five units. That's . . .  seventy grand to get in. Is that right? To raise two and a half million.”

“You're close,” Kyle said. “See, the offering's limited to thirty-five qualified investors. So the minimum you have to invest to get in is exactly seventy-one thousand four-hundred twenty-eight dollars and fifty-seven cents.”

“And what does that get you?”

“Wait. That's the original prospectus you have,” Kyle said. “Firestone, Barry says, is going to simplify the first couple of pages for the meeting tomorrow, sweeten the deal. Now the offering will call for ten
investors to put in a hundred thousand each. A million bucks. Then Firestone will take that to the bank to leverage another million and a half on a note payable in five years. The limited partners put in a hundred thousand each for twenty percent of the picture, but they each get a tax write-off of two-hundred fifty thousand.”

Stick said, “I'm not sure I understand that.”

“How the tax law applies?”

“I don't think I'm ready for it,” Stick said. “But the way it works here, Firestone makes his pitch and they walk up and they each hand him a hundred grand?”

“Right.”

“How do they know he's gonna make the movie? Or if he does if it's gonna be any good?”

“In there under
risk
it states you should seek the counsel of an independent tax advisor,” Kyle said. “Which these guys may or may not do. As I mentioned, if Barry goes in, the rest of them will probably follow.”

“All that dough,” Stick said, looking at the cover again, “for this.”

“At least the title works,” Kyle said. “I think the whole deal's shuck and jive.”

Avilanosa made a U-turn, came around toward the van and pulled in behind it. Once he had backed into
position the trunk of the Cadillac was only a few feet from the van's rear doors. Moke was out waiting, fooling with his Bullrider hat, setting it loose on his head. He looked at the Cadillac trunk as he heard it pop open but didn't touch it. Avilanosa, his belly sticking out of his summer-plaid sportcoat, came back and raised the lid, not looking at Moke. The trunk held a half-dozen pots of begonias.

“What'd you get so many for?”

“This is from Nestor and Chucky. I have the card,” Avilanosa said. “Did the man leave?”

“Wasn't more'n a few minutes ago. Had his nigger driving him in the Rolls-Royce.” Moke turned aside to spit into the sand. “Looks like an old woman's car.”

“All right,” Avilanosa said, his dark features closing in a squint as he looked off across the road, down the beach side of Collins Avenue. “What is that, what it says?”

Moke turned to look. “That's the Singapore Motel.”

“Sing-apore,” Avilanosa said, studying the sign.

“It's a place in China,” Moke said.

“I know where it is,” Avilanosa said. “All right, I'm going to leave this car over there.” He looked up and down Collins, then reached into the trunk behind the red-flowering plants and brought out, wrapped loosely in a chamois, a 9-mm Beretta Parabellum
that held fifteen rounds, blue steel with a wood grip. He raised the skirt of his coat and worked the automatic into the waist of his trousers.

Moke said, “Where's mine?” Avilanosa nodded to the trunk. Moke stuck his head in, felt around behind the flowers and came out with a High Standard 44 Mag Crusader with the long 8?-inch barrel, a dull blue finish. Moke said with a whine, “Shit, I wanted my pearl-handle Smith for this one, my favorite.”

Avilanosa pushed him, getting his attention, and said, “Put it under your clothes. And take off your hat. You don't look like somebody that brings flowers wearing that hat.”

Stick said, “But there were some funny things that happened, too. There was an Armenian guy that owned a party store . . .  That story Barry told about wanting to chew his arm off reminded me. You hear him tell that or were you asleep?”

“I've heard it before,” Kyle said. “Barry calls it his coyote story.”

“The guy, the Armenian, had thirty-eight bucks in the cash register and absolutely refused to tell us where he hid his money. This place had to be worth eight to twelve hundred, a Saturday night. So Frank sticks his gun in the guy's ear and tells him
I'm
gonna rape his wife if he doesn't get the dough out, quick. The wife's this dark, bent-over little old lady
with a mustache I'd put in the bathroom. I want to say to Frank, not me, man, you do it. The guy, the Armenian, didn't say a word, nothing. Frank threatens to shoot him, counts to three and now the guy says, ‘Kill me! I don't care—kill me!' So we left. And you know what? We forgot the thirty-eight bucks.”

“You're right,” Kyle said, pouring them another Dewar's, “you were in the wrong business. What you could do, though, maybe, is give Leo Firestone a pretty good story.”

“Another time we're sitting in a bar, we're just about to make the move—a guy comes out of the men's room with a shotgun and holds the place up. Does it all wrong. Still, he got the dough. We waited till he was about to walk out and took it away from him. So we locked him in the storeroom where they kept the booze supply, cases stacked up—the guy and all the patrons that were in the place. The next day we read in the paper they were in there six hours. The cops open the door, everybody's smashed, having a great time and the holdup man, it said, appeared to have suffered a severe beating. I think he was in the wrong business, too.” Stick shook his head. “I remember the guy was wearing a gold satin athletic jacket with
Port Huron Bullets
on the back.”

She said, “Daring holdup pair get away with—how much on that one?”

“I don't remember. Our career only lasted a hundred days and it was over for good.”

“But exciting, huh?”

“I'm not sure that's the word.”

“I knew a couple of guys who sold commodities options, which is illegal, but not exactly dangerous,” Kyle said. “And, I had a client who lost a hundred thousand in a real-estate swindle. I advised against getting into it and he said, ‘But look who's investing, and named a very prominent local businessman. It turned out the
name
that lent so much assurance to this very shaky development was part of the scheme and the investors lost nine million dollars.”

Stick said, “Without having to point a gun at anybody.”

“You go to the same prison though,” Kyle said.

Stick nodded. “That's the truth.”

What it came down to every time if you lost: dirty drafty place with broken windows, awful food and dumb people, few you could talk to . . .  far from Biscayne Bay sipping Dewar's on ice, watching the gulls and sailboats, the first red streaks of sunset. He felt at home here. He had felt at home down on South Beach, too, in that cheap retirement hotel. Strange? He hadn't liked that place any less. Maybe he didn't know where he belonged.

He said, “You know who else is from Norman? My old hometown?”

Kyle said, “Wait, let me guess.”

He watched her thinking about it, that beautiful nose raised in the air, the delicate line of her nostril . . .  looking at him again with clear blue eyes, interested.

“Is he a famous outlaw?”

“Uh-unh, James Garner. I wonder if they could get him for
Shuck and Jive.
My first choice would be Warren Oates, but he's gone.”

She seemed surprised. “What happened to him?”

Stick didn't answer; he looked off, listening. “You hear a car door?”

“It's probably Diane,” Kyle said. “Barry would be gone by now.” She watched him get up, walk away from the patio.

Now Kyle got up. She followed him across the front of the guest house to the corner. It was nearly a hundred yards from here to the garage turnaround—beyond the tennis court, the palm trees, the terraced front yard—but they were able to make out the shape of the van, blue metal in the cavernous shade of old trees. A figure appeared from behind the van, carrying something that obscured him. Then another figure appeared. They were unloading plants.

Stick felt Kyle's hand touch him, stroke down his back. She said, “More customers for you?”

He shook his head. “I don't think so.”

“If it's the same van,” Kyle said, “it was parked out on the beach road when I came back. But there was only one person in it. This looks like a delivery.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

“Not really. He was wearing a cowboy hat and reminded me of somebody. A very creepy guy who's a friend of Chucky's. If Chucky isn't creepy enough for you—” And stopped as Stick came around, taking her arm and she was moving with him back to the patio.

He said, “Put some shoes on.”