Stick (6 page)

“Can you give him a call?”

“Where? It's his day off. Wherever he is he's smashed by now. That's it for Cecil. No more of this bullshit, I'm telling you . . .”

Stick got up. He brushed at the seat of his new faded khaki pants. Smoothed the front of his lime green shirt with the little polo player on it. He was going to pick up his canvas bag, then decided not to, not yet. Look interested, but casual about it.

He said, “Maybe I can help you.”

Barry said, “What, get in the car? All I had to do was get in the car I'd break the goddamn window. I got to get
in
and I got to be in Bal Harbour”—he looked at his Rolex—”shit, in less'n forty minutes. And I need stuff that's
in
the car and I gotta make about five phone calls on the way.”

“You got a phone in the car?”

“I got two phones. Channel Grabber in the car, another one in a briefcase in the trunk.”

“What year's the Rolls?”

Barry paused. “Sixty-seven. Silver Shadow, man. They stopped making 'em not too long after.”

Stick nodded. He said, “I bet you I can get in and have it started in . . .  fifty seconds.”

Barry paused again. “You kidding me?”

“Bet you a hundred bucks,” Stick said.

Barry said, “You're
not
kidding, are you? Jesus Christ, you're serious.”

He watched Stick hunch down over his canvas bag, zip it open and feel around inside. Watched him take out a coat hanger. Watched him feel around again and take out a length of lamp cord, several feet of it with metal clips at each end.

Barry's mouth opened. He said, “What're you, a car thief? I don't believe it. Jesus, you want a car thief—you think there's ever a car thief around when you need one? Honest to God, I don't believe it—right before my eyes.” He paused a moment. “What were you going to do, swing with my car?”

“Hundred bucks,” Stick said, bending out the coat hanger without looking at it.

Barry stared, his expression grave. “The Polack runs in this place, he says, ‘Gimme a coat hanger quick. My wife and kids're locked in the car.' “ He raised his arm to look at his Rolex, paused and said, “Go!”

Stick wasn't going to appear hurried. He walked over to the Rolls and had the coat hanger ready by the time he reached the car door, worked it in over the top of the window and lowered the hooked end to the door handle without fishing, got an angle on it and tugged, twice, three times. Pulled the coat hanger
out and opened the door. He said to Barry, “Now pop the hood.”

“The bonnet,” Barry said. “With the Rolls Silver Shadow, man, you get a bonnet.”

Stick got in under the hood, Barry watching him with interest, seeing how he clipped one end of the lamp cord to the battery and the other end to the ignition coil. Stick bent the coat hanger into a U-shape then touched the solenoid activator terminal with one end, the battery terminal with the other. The starter whirred, the engine came to life in a roar and idled down. Stick turned his head to Barry. “How long?”

Barry looked at his watch. “You just made a hundred bucks. About . . .  four seconds to spare. Not bad.”

Stick lowered the hood, the bonnet, and brushed his hands together. “One problem, though. You're going to burn out the ignition you run it this way. You have to get a ballast resistor put on.”

Barry said, “What do I have to worry about my ignition I got you, the phantom jumper. Get in the car, you can tell me all about yourself . . .  your record, how many convictions, anything you want.
You
drive.”

Stick was still at the front end. “I wasn't planning on going to Bal Harbour.”

“What're you talking about?” Barry said. He was by the door on the passenger side now. “The engine
dies I'm fucked, right? You have to jump it again. Come on, you got me into this, you got to make sure I get home.”

Stick said, “Bal Harbour? That where you live?”

“You'll love it,” Barry said. “Get in the car.”

AT FIRST STICK THOUGHT HE
was talking about cars to whoever it was on the phone, saying, “No, long term I'm only looking at convertibles now,” like he was going to buy a fleet of them. “Short term, yeah, I'll listen.” But then, Stick realized, he was talking about stocks and bonds and probably had a stockbroker on the other end of the line. The guy asking about “capital-gain potential” and “default risk.”

Here they were cruising south on 95, traffic beginning to tighten up, following the same route he and Rainy had taken last week.

The guy, Barry Stam, had the phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder as he wrote words and figures on a yellow legal pad, scrawled them on a slant with a gold pen. The guy sitting there in his cutoffs and sneakers,
The Wall Street Journal
and dark-brown alligator case on his hairy legs. It was a picture, something Stick had never seen before. Driving away from Wolfgang's, the guy said, “Barry
Stam,” offering his hand. Stick took it, saying “Ernest Stickley.” And the guy said, “But they call you Stick, right? What else.”

He was saying into the phone now, “Gimme it again. Parkview? . . .  Yeah, million and a half at, what was that, eight and a half? . . .  Eight point seven . . .  Yeah, I got it. Due when? . . .  What? . . .  I know it isn't, for Christ sake, it's a municipal. Listen, I may help you out, Arthur. Gimme a minute to ponder, I'll get back to you.”

Stick kept his gaze straight ahead in the traffic, down the length of that pearl-gray hood, squinting a little against the afternoon glare. It was cool and quiet inside, nice feel to the leather seat.

“You got to keep it working,” Barry said, punching a number on the phone system. “We sleep, you and I, right? But money never sleeps, man. Play golf on the weekend, the money's still working its ass off. Work work work . . .”

Stick said, “You talking about it earning interest?”

But Barry was on the phone again. “Hi, babe. Me again . . .  No, the boat's in Lauderdale, I'm on my way home.” Relaxed now, comfortable, a warmth to his tone that wasn't there with the broker. “I just talked to Art. I mean Arthur please, what's the matter with me. He's got a tax anticipation note, million and a half at eight point seven due in July . . . 
Parkview public schools.” A police car screamed past them, lights flashing. “What? The fuzz're after some poor asshole . . . 
No,
not me, for Christ sake. You know I'm an
ex
-cellent driver.”

Stick looked over and Barry was waiting, gave him a wink. With his thick dark young-movie-star hair down over his ears and forehead the guy looked like he was acting into the phone.

“Yeah, due in July, the fifteenth.” He paused, listening. “Why June?” Writing something on the legal pad now. “Yeah, okay, I'll see what he says. Hey, Kyle? . . .  Love you, babe.” He listened for a moment, a grin forming. “Hey, come on. Don't say it less you mean it.” He listened again. “Wait. When do you get back? . . .  Then why don't you come into Miami? Save some time. I'll pick you up . . .  Sure, no problem . . .  Okay, babe, have a nice trip. I'll see you.”

He rang off and punched another phone number. “Lemme have Arthur.” Waited and said, “Arthur? Gimme a June fifteen come-due on the Parkview note I'll do you a special favor, take the whole load.” He waited, but not long. “End of June I'm into”—he searched over the yellow pad with his pen—”housing or some goddamn thing. Or is it soybean futures? I don't know, I can't find the . . .  What?” He listened and then said patiently, “ 'cause the funds're promised, Arthur, earmarked. Out of this into that. It never sleeps, man. It doesn't even stop to fucking catch its
breath. Don't you know your business, for Christ sake?” Glancing at Stick, but getting no reaction. “Yeah, all right. Lemme know.” Near the end now, trailing off. “No, call me at home . . .  Hey, Arthur? No more government securities. Keep that shit to yourself for a while . . . 
Yeah, all right.”

Stick let him make a few notes and put the yellow pad in the case before he glanced over.

“You do a lot of investing, uh?”

“You want a simple yes or no or an in-depth answer?” Barry said, reaching around to drop the case and the newspaper on the backseat. He crossed his legs then, got comfortable. “What you should ask is what I do when I'm not investing, trading or speculating in this and that. And the answer is, nothing. 'cause whatever I'm doing, I'm also at the same time investing, trading or speculating. It's like it's my life force. You understand what I mean? Like you're breathing while you're doing other things, but if you weren't breathing, man, you wouldn't be doing
anything
.” He seemed mildly pleased with himself. “That answer your question?”

Stick wondered why he'd asked it. He gave Barry a nod. Barry was looking at him, staring.

“What do you do? When you're not hot-wiring cars.”

“Same as you,” Stick said. “Nothing. Only when I'm doing it I'm not investing, trading or speculating. When I do nothing, I believe in doing nothing.”

“How many cars you steal in your career?”

“Somewhere between three and four hundred.”

“There any money in it?”

“I don't know, I don't do it anymore,” Stick said. “That was a long time ago.”

“You just happen to have the jump-wire in your bag.”

Stick didn't say anything to that. Why bother.

“Lemme try an easy one,” Barry said. “You live here? In Florida?”

“I used to.”

“You do any time?”

Stick kept his eyes on the road. “Some.”

“Raiford?”

“No. Up north. You ever hear of Jackson?”

“No shit,” Barry said, impressed. “That's heavy duty.”

Stick glanced over at him.

“For car theft?”

“Robbery.”

“What kind? From a building? Little B and E?”

“Armed.”

“No shit. Don't tell me a bank . . .”

“No banks,” Stick said, beginning to warm up, not caring what he told the guy, or maybe wanting to impress him. “Banks are for thrill-seekers.”

“How many convictions?”

“I did a bit in Milan before. Wasn't much, ten months.”

“What's Milan?”

“Federal. It's up near Detroit.”

“UDAA?”

“No, but I got probation on one of those. The next one I went to Milan on. You go, normally, from joy-riding to unlawfully driving away; then you go big-time, transporting across a state line and you get the feds after you. Familiar?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, before you started not doing anything while you're playing the stock market,” Stick said, “I think you were a lawyer.”

“That's very perceptive of you,” Barry said. “I practiced a couple years, picked up on contracts, all that corporate bullshit, how to avoid paying taxes . . .  So you had two raps up in Michigan, you come down to where the action is . . .  You going for three?”

“I came here to visit my little girl.”

“Really? I love it—an early Robert Mitchum. Nice guy gets fucked over . . .  ‘It's a bum rap, I didn't do it, I swear.' “

“I did it,” Stick said.

“And now you're sorry for all your past sins?”

“Most of 'em.”

“Most of 'em,” Barry said, “the ones you got nailed for. I love it. How'd you make out in the joint?”

Stick looked over. “How'd I make out?”

“You have to take a lot of shit?”

“There isn't anything else they offer.”

“But you made it okay? Got rehabilitated?”

“Yes sir, I've learned my lesson.”

Barry said, “You want a job?”

Stick glanced at him. “Doing what?”

“What you're doing. Driving.”

“You mean be a chauffeur? I've never done it.”

“Well, if you've driven three, four-hundred different cars, right, that's what you said? You must have a pretty good feel for it.”

Stick was watching the green freeway signs. “Bal Harbour, where do we get off?”

“Hundred and twenty-fifth. It's the next one. Goes over to Broad Causeway.”

“What happens when we get there?”

“What do you want to happen?”

“I mean if I don't take your offer? You going to give me bus fare or what?”

“Jesus, you're already into me for a hundred bucks.”

“You owe me a hundred, but I haven't seen it yet,” Stick said. He looked at the rearview mirror and began edging over, into the lane to his right.

Barry said, “Don't worry about it, you'll get it.”

Stick got over to the far-right lane, followed the exit ramp off, descending, turned left on 125th Street and moved along slowly—in more traffic than he
could ever remember, it seemed everywhere you went down here—until he was able to swing in next to the curb at an Amoco station and set the hand brake.

He turned to face Barry now. “When?”

“When what?”

“When do I get the hundred?”

“Jesus Christ,” Barry said. “You don't trust me?”

“I don't know you,” Stick said. “You could've come in first in the bullshit finals and I didn't hear about it. Last week I was in a deal with a friend of mine, we didn't ask for our pay up front and we missed out. My friend, I can't tell you how
he
missed out. Now, I don't know. It wasn't the kind of deal you can take the guy to court, you know, and sue him.”

Barry seemed amazed and Stick wasn't sure if he'd been listening.

“You don't trust me . . .” Barry said.

“If I did I'd have to trust everybody I meet, wouldn't I?”

“You're the one did time, for Christ sake, not me!”

“That's right,” Stick said, “and I'll tell you how it works in a place like that. You owe somebody you better fucking pay up as quick as you can. You make people wait in there or they get the wrong idea about you, your mom gets a letter, you passed away in surgery. The way it works here, I get out of the car, take my jumper and go home.”

“Hey,” Barry said.

“What?”

“It's cool.” Giving him the level-eye look now. One of the boys. “You want me to pay you right this fucking instant? All right, I'll pay you. I thought, I guess it was my presumption, you understood.” Very serious now. Rolling to one side as he spoke, digging into his back pocket to bring out a fold of currency in a silver clip.

“Where I'm coming from. Understood what?”

“That my word—when I give my fucking
word,
when I tell a guy on the phone I'm putting up a million and a half for a tax anticipation note it means I'm going to come across with a million and a half and he
knows
it. I don't have to sign anything, he
knows
it. You follow me?”

“I should've upped the bet,” Stick said.

“I say I owe you a hundred, here . . .” Barry snapped off a clean new bill and extended it. “Here's the hundred. Are we all right? We square?”

Stick took the bill. He said, “Thank you very much.” Put the Rolls in gear and they continued west on 125th Street, followed the causeway across the upper neck of Biscayne Bay, passed through Bay Harbour Islands and came to the Atlantic Ocean at Collins Avenue, a much different Collins Avenue from the one down in South Beach—a fifteen-minute ride from the Amoco station on 125th and neither of
them opened his mouth, made a sound, until they were looking at the ocean and Barry said, “Left.”

Now they were in Florida postcardland, surf and sunny sky, lush tropical greenery. Stick took it all in, watched it get better and better. They turned left again, off Collins, and came to a gatehouse. A guard in a white shirt with epaulets and a blue pith-helmet—the guy was
armed—
waved the Rolls through, not even ducking down to look in, and now it got even better than before, though with a manicured look: a maintained tropical park of white walls and high trimmed hedges, palm trees against the sky, all kinds of flowering plants, occasionally a black-topped drive and a glimpse of wonderland . . .  worlds away from a bleached house in Norman on an oil lease or a flat on the west side of Detroit, playing ball in sight of railroad switchyards and the stacks at Ford Rouge.

“Next one on the right,” Barry said, “we're home.”

Stick turned into the drive, 100 Bali Way, followed the blacktop through a patch of jungle and came in view of the house, white with a whiter roof; it reminded Stick of a mausoleum, neat and simple. Barry said, “Around back.” They came to a turnaround area of cobblestones, four garage doors, a covered walk leading to the house and Stick couldn't believe the size and sprawl of the place. Like an
assortment of low modules stuck together, open sides and walls of glass set at angles, the grounds dropping away from the house in gradual tiers, with wide steps that might front a museum leading down to the terraced patio and on to the swimming pool. A sweep of manicured lawn extended to a boat dock and a southwest view of Biscayne Bay, downtown Miami standing in rows of highrises beyond. On the far side of the swimming pool, past shrubbery and palm trees, Stick saw a red tennis court with a red striped awning along one side and beyond that a second house that was like a wing of the main house, a module
broken off and moved two hundred feet away. Stick's gaze came back to the row of garage doors.

“How many cars you have?”

“Four,” Barry said, “at the moment.” He got out, then stuck his head back in and reached for his attaché case. “It's all right to be impressed. I am and I own the joint.”

Stick sat behind the wheel taking it in. He saw a woman in a green robe standing on the terrace, looking this way, brown hair with gleams of red in the sunlight.