Stick (21 page)

Still nobody around. He rolled his window down. All he heard were crickets. He could sit and watch that Cadillac with its goddamn dark-tinted windows and Stickley might be in the car and he might not. He would have had time to get out and go into the clubhouse. Maybe have some drinks. Maybe he knew a waitress in there. Or he could be in that car waiting for somebody to come out, maybe picking up a waitress after work. If he
was
in that car, sitting there . . .

There was another car close on the driver's side of the Cadillac, empty space on the other.

Moke raised his door handle, pushed with his shoulder and slipped down off the seat. He pulled his 44 Mag, gleaming in the dusk, and his jeans felt loose on him. He did not have to check the loads; he was ready. Tiptoe up on the passenger side of the Cadillac . . .

Which he did, concentrating on his game. Got all the way to the right-side door, eased in close, pressed his headband against the glass . . .

Empty.

The son of a bitch must have gone inside the clubhouse. It gave Moke little choice. He walked toward the clubhouse, looked over the near grounds, out at the fairways getting dark. Shit. He walked back to the van, got up behind the wheel and slammed the door. What difference did it make? Son of a bitch. He'd sat in here all day Sunday—his butt'd
be growing into the seat pretty soon. He bent over and laid the Mag on the floor between his boots, handy.

It was when he straightened up again that the cord or whatever it was came over his head and around his neck—Christ!—yanked him back tight against the seat, making him gag, the cord or whatever it was digging into his throat, slick plastic-coated, and when he tried to pull it free his head was yanked back by the hair—Christ!—pulling his scalp, pulling his eyes open wide as they would go looking at the van ceiling.

Stick's voice, close, directly behind him, said, “You got a problem, son. How you're gonna hand me your gun without strangling to death.”

BARRY WAS GOING TO KILL HIM.
The car telephone was still attached to one end of the cord. But he'd rather have Barry threaten and try than Moke, any day.

One fist clenched in a stringy handful of hair, the other twisting, pulling on the cord, keeping it taut, Stick did not want to let go. But he would have to give Moke some slack.

He said, “You think you can do it?”

Moke gagged, managed to say, breathless, “I can't breathe.”

“I believe you,” Stick said. “I want to see you reach down and pick up that piece by the barrel . . .  Go ahead, try it.” He rose on his knees, extending his arms to stay with Moke, saw the revolver, the clean mother-of-pearl grip. Stick let go of the telephone cord, took the solid weight of the Mag in his right hand and felt a world better. He pressed the tip of the barrel into the back of Moke's neck.

“Now your other one.”

“I don't have no other one,” Moke said.

Stick tightened his grip in Moke's greasy hair, yanked back hard and Moke screamed. Stick raised enough to look down into Moke's upturned face, into wide eyes rolled back, mouth open.

“You're gonna be bald-headed or dead, one. I want the piece you had Sunday.”

“It's down underneath the seat.”

“Let's see you bring it out the same way.”

Moke found it, handed back the High Standard, and Stick released his hair to take it. He hefted the two revolvers; they felt of equal weight.

“Around eight pounds of heavy metal. You put on a show, don't you?”

“You gonna kill me?”

“I could. Save you doing time.”

“Well, get her done.”

Stick almost hit him with the gun, staring at the headband where he'd lay the barrel across Moke's skull. He put the High Standard down next to him, grabbed hold of Moke's hair again and got a howl from him as he yanked back as hard as he could.

He said, “Are you that fucking dumb? Is there something wrong with you?” Staring down into Moke's face, into those round dull eyes that knew nothing about him. “You think I wouldn't do it? I don't have the nerve? . . .  I've
done
it.”

He felt himself shaking. He had to let his body relax, sit back on his legs. He had to make a conscious effort to open his fist, release his hold on Moke's hair. Strands of it came away, twisted between his fingers.

Moke said, “Owww,” a whine, and pulled himself up slowly, hunching, looking over his shoulder at Stick.

“We're going to get in the Cadillac,” Stick said. “You're going to drive. You're going to take me to see Nestor.”

Moke said, “Jeez-us Christ . . .”

“But don't open your mouth,” Stick said. “I'm afraid I'd shoot you through the head, and I don't want us to have an accident.”

Nestor dreamed of a jaguar that had walked down the deserted main street of Filadelfia, the town where he was born in the Chaco region of Paraguay. The street was deserted because of the jaguar, the people watching the wild animal from windows and from doors that were open a few inches. This jaguar was very likely the one that had killed several cows, a goat or two and an old horse; but no one threatened the life of the jaguar because of the wonder of seeing it in the street, in civilization. Walking past a truck, sniffing. Turning to look at a dog barking from a porch. Sniffing its way along the dirt street from one
end to the other. Nestor was a small boy the day the jaguar came to town. He was there, but he wasn't certain now if his dreams came from what he had actually seen or what had been told to him many times and was able to see in his mind. It was winter, the dry time, and they said the jaguar was thirsty. They marveled at it and held children up to look at it. Then the men of the village—not
the Mennonites who farmed here, but the men of the country who spoke Guaraní more times than Spanish—followed the cat out into the lifeless desert and on the second day the men shot it twenty times with their rifles and held a drawing, a lottery, for its skin.

Nestor dreamed occasionally of other places. He dreamed of Barranquilla in Colombia, of filth in narrow streets and the smell of fish. He dreamed of Cuba, of black smoke rising to the sky, fields on fire, the men going out to do battle with the cane. He could remember the fires clearly as well as dream about them.

But he dreamed most often of the jaguar in the Chaco, a place he could not recall from memory except for a few glimpses and smells. So if the jaguar was in his mind, coming uninvited as it did, it must be a sign.

Yes?

He told it to Stick on the backyard patio of the walled home in South Miami, the big revolvers lying
on the stone table between them, the grass illuminated like a polo field, for security, the
santería
shrine against the cement wall, off in a corner, an altar to African gods that resembled an outdoor barbecue. Moke was gone. Sent home. Avilanosa brought them beer and left without a word. Nestor offered cocaine. Stick shook his head.

He said, “I wish I had a dream like that. I fall down steep, narrow stairs.”

“What does it mean to you?”

“It means I'm not getting anywhere fast.”

“Or there is danger up those stairs, uh? The sign being you shouldn't go there.”

Stick thought about it. “Don't overreach. Don't bite off more than you can chew.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Or sometimes I see myself in a dream. I'm on a busy street, or I'm in a church . . .”

“Yes?”

“And I don't have any clothes on. I'm naked.”

“It means you have nothing to hide,” Nestor said. “I think it's good you tell me that. It's the same as with the jaguar dream. I see I don't have to worry about you. You come here . . .  I see you, ah, isn't it something very unusual to see? How many men would do it?”

“But”—Stick wasn't sure how to say it—”the people of the town went out and shot the jaguar . . .”

“Yes, because it was their enemy again. The sign was over, the sign that you take with you and . . . 
Como se dice, aplicar
?”

“Apply?”

“Yes, you apply it in your life to other things. I apply it to you. I think already I don't have to worry, you tell me you not going to the police or to the state attorney. All right, this afternoon I sleep, I have the dream. This evening, finally you come. Well, it's very clear to me then. You see it?”

“But if you never had the dream? . . .”

“I don't know. Shit. I get tired thinking. The dreams make it much easier to know things.”

“Did a dream tell you to shoot Rene?” He said it quickly to have said it. Then knew it was all right.

Nestor smiled. “I wait for that. No, it was my intelligence told me. It was too bad. I know Rene, but he was the one Chucky sent. So, if I want to stay in the business, huh? .
. .
Not be ripped off, take to a cleaner . . .”

“I want to take somebody to a cleaner,” Stick said.

Nestor smiled again. “The jaguar came looking for water. Now we find out what you come for.”

“Permission,” Stick said.

“How do you know to do this?”

“I was in prison. Or I just know, I'm not sure.”

“You want that money from Chucky he promise you. Five thousand, uh?”

“Maybe more.”

“Why not? If you can do it.”

“But not if you say no. It wouldn't be worth it.”

“It's your business with Chucky,” Nestor said. “Only if you going to turn him in I say no. Because Chucky, they lock him in a room he start talking. He's very crazy, you know that. You give him to the police then I have to go to Colombia for a year or two and I don't want to do that. I like this place, this country, it's very good place to live.”

“Make a lot of money here?”

“Yes, all you want.”

“You pay income tax?”

“Some. But it's hard, I don't keep good records.”

“Is Chucky dangerous?”

“Of course he is. The people he has, no. They're like waiters to him. He's afraid to have strong people, they throw him out, see they don't need him and take over his business. But Chucky himself, yes. Don't let him walk behind you.”

“That's what I thought.”

“If you know that, well . . .  But he's not sitting there waiting to go to the cleaner. You have to know he would like you dead.”

“He sent Moke to get me?”

“No, no one sent Moke. He like the shoot-them-up business. He wants everyone to think he's very bad. Sure, so Chucky, he try to buy Moke. And
Moke, he's so stupid, from the country, huh? You can buy him for a cowboy hat. But he has no honor in remaining bought. Do you understand?”

“But you keep him around.”

Nestor smiled. “Of course. Who knows when I have to send a—what is it, a
maleta
—a bag to someone in payment, huh?” Nestor shook his head, relaxed in his high-backed cane chair, hands hanging limp, diamond reflecting a cold spark of light. “I tell you, in this business, it's very difficult to find people of honor. Or people who have the custom of being generous. Chucky say you're . . .  what is it? Enterprising. You sell information about the stock markets. You must be intelligent yourself to do that.”

“It's only what I hear.”

“Yes? What is it looks good these days?”

“Well,” Stick said, “let me see. You know Chi-Chi's, the fast-food chain? It's at eighteen and a quarter. They say it should go up to thirty. Another one, Wendy's, looks good . . .”

Nestor took a pen from his shirt pocket, reached for an envelope among his mail lying on the stone table next to the two revolvers.

“How does it look, that one, McDonald's?”

“I think it's around seventy-five,” Stick said.

“Yes, seventy-five and five-eights this morning.”

“Yeah, well, I understand it should be up over a hundred pretty soon.”

“I don't think so,” Nestor said.

“Well, I got a thousand bucks, or will have,” Stick said, “thinks it'll be a hundred or better by January.”

He watched Nestor mark it down on his envelope.

STICK WROTE ON TABLET PAPER:
Although Buck and Charlie are famous and experienced trafficers dealers, they are able to get be believed to be government agents, because of all the confusion there is among the different state and U.S. law enforcement groups that are falling all over each other and not telling each other what they are doing in their work of trying to stop the trafficing dealing in controlled substances and apprehend the alleged
 . . .

Jesus.

It was hard.

Why didn't he just say:
Since none of the feds know what the fuck they are doing, they believe that Buck and Charlie are
 . . .

Cornell came out of his bedroom, sleep in his eyes. “You doing, writing to your mama?”

“Yeah, got to let her know I'm all right.”

Cornell scratched himself idly, down to the bulge in his low-slung briefs. “I didn't hear you come in.”

“I made a stop on the way home. Figured nobody'd be looking for me.”

“They going out in the boat today. You suppose to meet them up in Lauderdale. I believe the man say five o'clock.”

“What suit do I wear?”

“Didn't tell me that. Why don't you surprise him? Wear the tan suit with the black car and see if it freaks him any.”

Stick thought of the telephone in the Cadillac, the cord ripped out of the box. He could see Barry picking it up his look of amazement . . .

He said, “Or the gray suit with the tan car?”

“Whatever your imagination tells you,” Cornell said. “The maids call early this morning. You hear it?”

“Not a sound.”

“They call
me
to tell the madam they don't have a ride today. The car won't start, like they know it ahead of time. Monday, the cook's day off . . .  gonna be quiet around here. You got any plans? You could probably go someplace, you wanted to.”

“You trying to get rid of me?”

“Man, free time, take it when you can.”

It sounded good. Stick wrote two entire pages while Cornell made coffee and had his breakfast. When Cornell went into the bathroom Stick picked up the phone and dialed a number.

“Mary Lou? Hi, it's me . . .  Come on—I want to talk to Katy . . .  You sure? . . .  The only reason I ask, the last time you thought she was sleeping she wasn't even home.” He held the phone at arm's length while Mary Lou commented and he caught only some of the words, like, “Boy, you think you're so smart,” and so forth along those lines. Stick brought the phone to his face again and said, “Mary Lou? If I have to get a court order I'm going to talk to Katy whether she's sleeping or what.” Mary Lou hung up on him. He called her back and said, “I think we had a bad connection.” Mary Lou said, “We sure did,” and hung up again. Jesus. A lovely person. The mother of his only child. Himself forty-two and not too likely to have any more, unless . . .  He dialed the number again. “Mary Lou? Could I ask you a special favor?” He
heard her say, away from the phone, “Nobody,” and heard his daughter's voice in the background. He yelled, “Katy!” loud. Very loud. He heard her voice in the background say, “But I want to talk to him . . .”

And heard her say into the phone, “Hi. What're you doing?” As though she really wanted to know.

Stick grinned. “Nothing. What're you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“You want to do something?”

“Sure.”

“You want to do some typing, take you about an hour maybe?”

“Sure. But I don't have a typewriter.”

Stick said, “Honey, that's the least of our worries.”

Kyle was having breakfast with Barry on the patio.

Stick watched them from the edge of the acacia trees, near the garage. He would like to avoid Barry this morning, but he wanted to see Kyle. He missed her. When he wasn't with her he imagined and believed she had already changed her mind about him. From the good feeling he saw in her eyes to no feeling. He couldn't hold on to the confidence he felt when he was with her. Was it a sign? He hadn't dreamed about her yet. But maybe she was at the top of the stairs he kept falling down.

Ask Nestor.

The cruiser
Seaweed
rumbled in out of the bay, stark, clean white, sunlight flashing on its glass and bright metal. Barry headed for the dock with his newspapers.

And Kyle was looking toward the house, the garage . . .  Stick felt his confidence in place again, as though there had been no hollow feeling, doubts of any kind. He walked across the lawn and she was coming toward him now, coming so close he put his arms around her and was self-conscious for only a moment. It didn't matter if anyone was watching, they had to touch each other, renew the familiar feel.

He said, “Well, I got it straightened out.”

“How?”

“I saw Nestor. We had a nice talk.”

“Just like that,” Kyle said. “You make everything sound easy.”

She seemed relieved, though with a hint of suspicion, not knowing what he was doing; left out.

“You saw him last night?”

“I thought I might as well get it over with. I went to see him . . .  He's scary, but you can talk to him.”

“Ernest?” Looking up at him with those eyes. “Are you playing with me?”

“I would never do that. Spooky things're going on around us, but I think we're safe.”

“I'm going home Wednesday or Thursday. After that I'll be in Boston a few days.”

He said, “How'll we work it?”

She said, “When it's no longer convenient? I don't know, I'm going to leave it up to you.”

He said, “Emma? . . .”

She took a moment to answer him. “What?”

“If I make a lot of money, will you tell me what to do with it?”

She said, “Any time. But I don't think you need me.” And seemed to smile then, almost, and said, “I miss you, Ernest, and I don't know what to do about it.”

Stick said, “We'll think of something.”

 

* * *

He stood with Cornell and waved as
Seaweed
put out to sea. “It's the custom,” the houseman said. “Wave some more. Like the man's going out to kill whales and won't be home till Christmas. Bye, bye. Have fun, y'all. Don't worry about us stay-at-homes . . .”

Cornell was watching television when Stick came out of his room, dressed to go, wearing his tan suitcoat, his gray trousers, a pale blue shirt and black tie. Cornell looked over and blinked.

“Gonna freak the man outta his head. What color car?”

“I haven't decided yet.”

“Take the green Mercedes, the lady ain't going nowhere. Yeah, gonna freak him good. So where you off to?”

“The bank first. I want to open an account. I think over at Florida First National.”

“That's a good one.”

“Then I'm going up to Pompano, see my little girl.”

“Beautiful. Have a nice day, man.”

Stick felt like he was on display sitting by the big plate-glass window, people going by on Thirty-sixth Street—he felt them watching him as he filled out the application.

The assistant manager said, “That should do it. Now, let me give you a receipt.” He counted the four
fifties and the three one-hundred-dollar bills again. To make sure, Stick felt, he hadn't palmed one back in his pocket.

“And what type of business is it, Mr. Norman?”

“Mr. Stickley,” Stick said.

“Yes, I beg your pardon.” Looking at the application again. “Mr. Stickley, yes. And the company is Norman Enterprises. May I ask what you do?” Looking interested, leaning forward on the desk.

Stick said, “No, I don't think you better.”

The assistant manager laughed politely and smiled and waited. Stick thanked him and left with his receipt.

Next—a pay phone.

It didn't occur to Stick until this moment that Chucky's number was not likely to be found in a telephone directory. He looked, before leaving the bank, and it wasn't. He tried Information and was told there was no listing. So he'd have to go back to the Stam residence and hope the number was somewhere in Barry's den. He said to himself, see? A simple thing like that. He'd have to get in the habit of writing down what he had to do. And then said, what do you mean, get in the habit? This was a one-shot deal.

Wasn't it?

Stick left the Cadillac in the shady part of the turnaround. He felt like a burglar walking into the house,
not hearing a sound. It seemed empty and might be, though he had seen no one outside or expected to. Diane wasn't a sunbather and it wouldn't do much for Cornell to sit out there; though he could have deepened his color up at Butler, chopping weeds. Road gang tan. And look at us now—couple of former inmates walking around here where no hack would ever set foot, no probation or parole officer, none of those people on the good side.

He went into Barry's black den, almost all black but for rich touches of red and gold, the blown-up Barry in black and white looking down from the wall, innocent eyes open wide. Who, me?

Yes, you. Showboater.

But a nice guy, basically. If you had to work for anybody for any length of time and didn't want a boss-type boss.

Barry's leather-bound address book, red Morocco, sat on the black desk. Chucky was not among the Gs. No, he was with the Cs. Chucky Gorman on Sunrise, Fort Lauderdale. Might as well do it now.

Stick dialed.

Lionel answered. He said wait.

When Chucky's voice came on it sounded strange, clear but distant, small.

Stick said, “You know who this is?”

“You want to appraise my furniture, my paintings?”

“I'd like to talk to you . . .”

“Yeah?”

“I mean in private. I can't talk here.”

“You want to come up?”

“I was thinking someplace else.”

“You can't get it any more private. I mean this is
private,
man.”

“It's too high up.”

“What're we going to discuss? If it's five grand and I were you I wouldn't come here either.”

“No, I understand. I thought it was worth a shot.”

“One, that's all. So tell me what we're gonna discuss you're afraid if I don't like it I'll drop you out the fifteen-story window?”

“All I can say—I mean over the phone—if you like it, fine. You don't, okay. Nobody's out anything. But it's the kind of deal could interest you. I happened to find out about it . . .  I thought, well, I'll lay it on you. You like it, then you know I'm not holding nothing against you.”

“You think I give a shit if you are?”

“You know what I mean. I can't explain it, I got to show you.”

“You trying to sell me a stock tip?”

“No, it's not like that, but”—he dropped his voice—”it's from that source, if you know what I mean.”

“Something Barry's into?”

“You got it.”

“Where you want to meet? ‘Cross the street?”

“That's fine. How about three o'clock? Around in there.”

“I'll think about it.”

Stick said, “That's all I ask, Mr. Gorman.” Which might have been the most difficult thing he ever said in his life. He hated to lie.

A typewriter . . .

Right there, trim little Olivetti portable electric. He was not disappointed when he could not find the case; he walked out into the hall carrying the typewriter in front of him, and stopped.

What he saw was real. Cornell carrying a silver tray, silver decanter with a long, delicately curved spout, two silver goblets. He had come out of the hall from the kitchen, turned into this main, lateral hallway about twenty feet from Stick—turned before seeing him—and was now walking toward the bedroom wing.

What was unreal, Cornell wore a gold headband around his moderate natural and that was it. Otherwise the man was naked, showing a pronounced demarcation between back and buttocks, burnt sienna over caramel.

Stick followed—he would say he was unable to stop himself—drawn along with the typewriter to
Diane's bedroom . . .  cautiously through the room to a view of the atrium, the enclosed garden between the Stams' master bedrooms.

Stick remained inside the room, at the edge of drawn gold draperies, with a clear view of Cornell dropping to one knee, head bowed, offering the silver wine service to Diane, who sat on something Stick could not see, hidden by the folds of her transparent white negligee, her pale body naked beneath.

Diane said, “Arise, slave. And as you offer the cup, say how you will delight me with rites of barbaric pleasure.”

Cornell rose, placed the tray on a low pedestal next to Diane. He poured champagne into the goblets, bowed as he handed one to Diane and said, “Yes, O Queen. What I am going to perform up one royal side of you and down the other, in the dark and savage land where I come from is called . . .  the Freaky Deaky.”

Diane said, “Let the rites begin.”

Cornell turned and came into the bedroom. He walked past Stick to a stereo system, snapped in a cassette and turned it on. As the Dazz Band came out in full strength, began to funk its way through
Let It Whip,
he turned up the volume, started back to the atrium and stopped. Cornell looked directly at Stick holding the typewriter.

Said, “Come bearing a gift, huh? You want to be a barbarian rapist or a slave that gives pleasure?”

Stick said, “I got to go up the road . . .”

Cornell said, “It's cool. We catch you next time.”