Stick (24 page)

MOKE RODE UP TO FIFTEEN,
all the way to the top, thinking: it was big time working for Nestor; but what did he get out of it other than a bunch of shit from Avilanosa? Thinking: if a turd like Chucky could have his own world up here, live how he wanted acting like a weird and nervous woman, then why couldn't Eddie Moke have it too? Or take what Chucky had from him?

Lionel opened the door and Moke opened his worn-out leather jacket to show the pearl grip of his 44.

“You see it?”

Lionel nodded. “You high, huh?”

“I been higher. Climb up another line or two. Nestor's coming to visit. He don't want none of you guys around here.”

“It's okay,” Lionel said.

“I'll watch Chucky he don't come to harm.”

“I better tell him,” Lionel said.

“No, I'll tell him. What's he doing?”

Lionel didn't answer. He said after a moment, “You going to kill him?”

It surprised Moke, made him curious. “What if I said that was the deal? What would you do?”

“Go to Miami, see my old woman,” Lionel said. “When do we come back?”

“Later on tonight'd be okay.”

“There's somebody in there with him. A woman,” Lionel said.

“Don't worry about us,” Moke said. “We be fine.”

He stepped in, bringing Lionel out and closed the door on him. Moke knew the layout, enough of it. He walked down the front hall and turned left at the first door, Chucky's den with the phone deal and the hats . . .  but no Crested Beaut or Bullrider hanging up there—the son of a bitch, the man's time was coming. Moke set the white yachting cap down on his eyes, strolled past the balcony glass catching some reflection to the living room door. He stooped to peer through the spy hole.

Kyle said, “Would you sit down? Please. And listen. You haven't heard anything I've said. You've got your mind made up.”

Chucky moved. “You haven't said anything makes sense.” And moved back, side to side, swaying. “You don't know anything about the deal, but you know what the story's about.”

“No, I said it was a misunderstanding.”

“Honey, I know when I'm getting fucked, I get this tingling sensation different than my other twitches and tingles . . .”

“Listen to me, okay? Just listen.” She began slowly then. “He picked up an old prospectus, it was Leo's original offering, and thought we were going with it.”

“Why would he think that?”

“He must've heard us talking about revising the story. It was a possibility . . .”

“You
told
me the story in the bar.”

“I thought he was telling you what he'd heard. I was playing along. You know how you take a story and elaborate on it? . . .  The way I understand it, he was trying to do you a favor, that's all.”

Chucky glanced toward the door to his den and back to Kyle. “The first time you came here you said, you want to invest in a movie? You had it in mind
then
.”

“A movie, any movie. I wasn't talking about this one. Believe me, Barry's not involved in any kind of film project.”

“Then I want to know what's going on . . .”

Moke slammed the door behind him to get their attention. He said, “I do, too. What're you people arguing about? Chucky, you're not suppose to fight with women.” He nodded to Kyle on the sofa. “How
you doing?” And looked at Chucky again. “I think you need your medicine.”

Chucky said, “Who let you in? . . .  You want to see me, wait in the other room. And take that hat off.”

Moke adjusted the yachting cap over his eyes. He liked to see the edge of the peak squared straight across his vision. It meant the person had it together and was not prone to accept bullshit of any kind. He said to Chucky, putting his hand in the pocket of his jacket and bringing it out in a fist, “Yeah, it must be medicine time how you're acting.” He opened his hand. Two white tablets dropped to the floor from the mound of pills he held.

“Got the real stuff here, the white tabs,” Moke said. “Some reds, that bootleg shit . . .  What're these blue ones for?”

Chucky started toward him. “Gimme those . . .”

Moke shoved his hand back into the pocket, left it there and pulled open his jacket with his other hand.

“See it?”

Chucky said, “I don't have time for you right now. Come on, gimme those.”

“I cleaned out your pill drawer so you won't OD on me, have to take you to the hospital . . .”

Kyle stood up. She said to Chucky, “I'll see you another time.”

“Stay there,” Moke said. “We like your company.” He said to Chucky, “They have to pump you out,
man, it'd take a dredge, wouldn't it? Get way down there in your bottomland.” Moke was having fun. He liked this smart, good-looking girl as an audience. She looked right at him and listened, as she was doing now. It was fun to act up in front of her. Moke walked over to the glass doors to the balcony, flicked off the catch and slid one of the doors all the way open.

He had their attention.

“Sun going down, starting to cool, huh? Best time of the day.”

Chucky said, “Tell me what you want, partner.”

“Don't call me that less you mean it.”

Chucky edged toward him and stopped. “Tell me.”

“I want you to be healthy,” Moke said, brought his hand out and looked at the pills. “I don't think you need these no more.”

There were two Cadillacs and Barry's Rolls in the high-rise circular drive, Lionel Oliva standing against the first car as the Mercedes came up the ramp toward him. Stick swung in past him and parked on the downgrade.

Lionel waited for him.

“You know Kyle McLaren? She upstairs?”

Lionel said, “You know Eddie Moke?”

Stick hesitated. “What's going on?”

“He's high, man. Got a funny look. He told me to get out.”

Stick walked away from him toward the entrance, stopped and came back.

“I think he's going to kill him,” Lionel said.

“You're his bodyguard . . .”

“No, it's not my business, this kind of thing.”

“You have a key to the place?”

Lionel looked at him but didn't answer.

“Let me use it.”

“You're crazy,” Lionel said.

“Gimme the key.”

Moke showed Chucky the three white tablets in the palm of his hand. “This the good stuff?”

Chucky shuffled, shook his head sadly and looked at Moke again. “You having fun?”

“How'd you know?”

“Take one. Mellow you down so you recognize your old pard.”

“I got my old pard by the yang, ain't I?” Moke said. He stepped out on the balcony. “Watch.” Closed his hand on the pills and threw them out over the rail.

Chucky moved a step toward him and Moke brought out the nickel-plated Mag in a practiced draw, effortless, a gesture.

“Like the policeman says, freeze, motherfucker . . .  Hey, you know what? I never said that before.
Freeze, motherfucker. Maybe I ought to be a cop. A narc type, huh? Confiscate the dope”—digging into his pocket again—”and give it the deep six,” flinging out his fist with a handful of caps and tabs, red, white and blue visible for only a moment, dots against the dull sky.

Chucky wanted to run. He felt he could run right through the wall, no problem, pull open his pill drawer . . .  there were some in the kitchen too. No, he'd eaten them. Ones in the bedroom, eaten. Bathroom, eaten. Down in the car, maybe. No, eaten. If there were no more in the pill drawer Moke had all he owned, a pocketful and dropping from between his fingers on the balcony, couple of red ones, the bootleg street, ‘ludes. He tried to say to Moke as calmly as he could, as a statement and nothing else, “What're you picking on me for?” But it didn't sound at all the way he wanted it to. It sounded like he was starting to cry. Now Moke was saying it back to him the same way, whining, “What're you picking on me for?” With his ugly mouth curling, his ugliness oozing out of him. “What're you picking on me for?” He didn't want to scream. God, he didn't want to. But Moke's hand was coming out of the pocket again.
He could see Moke making a habit of this once he started. Doing it any time he liked. Having fun. Doing it when he wasn't down at the dump
shooting gulls. Doing it when he hadn't anything else on. He did
not
want to scream. He wished he could tell somebody, explain how he felt. But as Moke said something looking away—looking at what, it didn't matter—he did scream and rushed at him to grab that hand held in the air . . .

A distraction—and Moke's attention was on Stick coming into the room like he was late for supper, then stopping dead as though he'd found himself in the wrong place or had busted into a surprise party. Look, there was surprise all over his face.

Moke said, “Well, look it here . . .”

Then was instantly inspired, seeing his prize, and said like a happy give-away show emcee, “Well, come on down!” And felt air go out of him . . .

Chucky hit him with his body, arm raised reaching for the fist holding the pills. The force, the impact took them to the iron railing that came to Chucky's navel the times he leaned over it and stared at toy boats down on the Intracoastal. This time his side struck the rail, still reaching to grab the hand. But it was empty now, the hand clawing at his shirt, the other hand hitting at him with the gun barrel. Chucky screamed again or was still screaming without beginning or end, holding this squirming leather smelly thing, lifting Moke up, Moke twisting on him, and
got Moke over the rail, his upper body and his head hanging down, hat gone, gun barrel banging on wrought iron now and somebody yelling at him—he heard the voice—somebody yelling to put him down. He had Moke by the legs and would put him down, all right, all the way down. He was between Moke's legs and saw the leather arm with the nickel-plate come through the iron bars, felt it against his shin and he raised his sneaker and brought
it down hard to step on the gun, hold it against the floor. He raised the two legs, slippery, greasy jeans, cowboy boots up by his face and said down to Moke behind the bars, “Give me my pills!” Again, so different than he expected to hear it, breathless, on the edge of panic. He saw Moke's hand grope at the pocket, dig inside. He saw Moke's hand come out and saw pills falling in colors, pouring out of the upside-down pocket, Moke opening his hand to hold an iron bar and those pills going too, gone.

Somebody touched him on the shoulder. Chucky felt it. He twisted enough to see Stick on the balcony and yelled at him, “Get away from me!”

He heard Stick say, “Let me help you . . .”

Help him what? He yelled again, “Get away from me or I'll put him over!”

And didn't see Stick again.

He had to get his breath—in and out, in and out, slowly. It didn't do much good. He felt like he was
running. He held Moke's ankles, raising them as he went down to his knees and sat back on his sneakers to look at Moke's upside-down face through the bars, Chucky breathing in and out, in and out.

He said, “How you doing, pard?”

Believing he was in control but hearing the words as a raw, breathless sound. It did him good to look at Moke, at Moke's eyes bugged out, face livid, straining, veins coming blue on his forehead. He wanted to tell Moke, “Don't move,” and go get his camera. Lighten up the situation. But his shoulders and arms ached and what he wanted was to end it. He said, “You had enough?” He said, “You gonna be a good boy?”

Moke said, straining, but making the words clear enough, “Fuck you.”

Chucky stared and began to experience a feeling of deep sadness, despair creeping over him. He was tired, his arms ached . . .  What he should do was jump up, move—let's go!—grab a hat, psych himself, be somebody,
any
body. But with the sad feeling he knew that if he tried even to scream, to lose himself in the effort of emptying his lungs, the sound would come out a moan. He stared at Moke's upside-down face, hair hanging as though electrified. Looked into blunt eyes, unforgiving, that would never change. He thought, oh well. Raised Moke's legs above his head and gave a push.

Moke did it for him. Screamed.

 

* * *

They watched him eat pills he found on the floor of the balcony. They watched him pick up the revolver and come in, closing the glass door, closing out whatever was outside. He sat down in a deep chair, holding the gun in his lap.

Kyle waited. She swallowed to wet the dryness of her mouth; she felt her heart beating. She looked up, surprised, as Stick came over. He didn't say anything. It was like he was checking on her; yes, she was still here. She watched him walk over to Chucky, touch his shoulder, reach to take the revolver. But Chucky came alive for a moment, pointed the gun at him and Stick stepped away. She would remember him talking to Chucky, the quiet tone of his voice.

He said, the first thing he said was, “You have a lawyer?”

Chucky didn't answer. The room was so still.

“You have money to hire a good one?”

Chucky didn't answer.

“I owe you some. Soon as my checks come I'll pay you back. Seventy-two five. Man. Well . . .  You want anything? Is there anything I can get you?”

Chucky didn't answer.

“I'd think about dropping the piece over the side. It's his, let the cops find it with him. He assaulted you, didn't he?”

Chucky didn't answer.

“I'll talk to them if you want. I'll talk to Nestor, tell him what happened . . .  Let's call nine-eleven and get it over with. What do you say?”

Kyle watched Chucky look up. He said, “I'm not going to jail.” He said, “I am not going to jail.” She would remember looking at Stick then as he said:

“I don't blame you.”