Stick

by Elmore Leonard

  It took her a moment. “That was last week.” She seemed to study him, cocking her head. “You were with Rainy?”

  “Remember the hairy guy? Made a pass at you?”

  “That was you?”

  “No—guy in a beach outfit, long hair. He grabbed your hand.”

  Her mouth opened. She said after a moment, “The one, you called him . . . short eyes?”

  “Yeah, I might’ve.”

  She was nodding, thoughtful. “Yeah, I remember.” Then frowned. “What’s it mean? Short eyes.”

  “Well, usually, I guess it refers to a child molester.”

  She didn’t speak right away, putting something together in her mind. Then seemed to have the answer, sure of it.

  “You were with Rainy, weren’t you? Up in Michigan.”

  “Jackson,” Stick said. The beer tasted good; it was one of the things he had missed the most.

  “I used to write to him,” Bobbi said. “Well, I wrote a couple times. Yeah, I remember now when you said that I thought, it sounds like something you’d hear, you know, where you and Rainy were.”

  “In prison,” Stick said. “It’s all right to say it. We were in prison together.”

  “But why’d you call him that?”

  “That’s what he looked like to me. At that time. I know—it wasn’t any of my business.”

  “I’m used to it. You should see some of the old farts come in here, try and make out. Bunch a dirty old men.”

  “I can believe it,” Stick said. He didn’t feel old at all this time. He felt in shape, the way she was looking at him, confiding. He saw her with him in brief flashes, a balcony on the ocean, her eyes smiling in amber candlelight, wine glasses, soft bossa nova, a dreamy look as she stretched, reached behind her and slowly pulled off the pink shirt. She said:

  “Where’s Rainy? I haven’t seen him.”

  Stick shook his head. “I haven’t either.”

  “I don’t think he’s been in since the last time, when you were here.” She smiled then. “Yeah, I remember you now. Boy, have you changed.” She seemed at ease with him, like they were old friends.

  “It’s nice to be remembered,” Stick said. “Sometimes, anyway.” He pushed the glass toward her. “Why don’t you give me another one of those.”

  She drew several more for him while he watched the boats go by and saw, finally, the dark-haired Cuban-looking guys in their tight suits and sportshirts across the way . . . and began to think of another time in another bar, in Detroit, sitting with Frank Ryan while Frank told him his rules for success and happiness in armed robbery. And Stick, fresh out of the Wayne County jail, feeling as lucky and confident as he did right now, had listened. He could have walked away from Frank and saved himself seven years.

  He could walk away from this place . . .

  A heavyset dark-haired guy in a pale blue suit and blue print shirt came in from the terrace, passed behind Stick and stood at the empty bar a few stools away. He rapped on the rounded edge of the bar with a car key and said, “Hey, Bobbi!”

  Stick turned to look at his profile. It was Lionel Oliva. Lionel ordered a rum and tonic. As he waited, lightly tapping his key on the bar, he called out to Bobbi, “Turn a music on. This place is dead.”

  Stick said to him, “How’s it going?”

  Lionel looked at him, stared a moment with no expression of interest and shrugged. He turned back to wait for Bobbi.

  Stick felt himself relax more as he sipped his beer.

  He could walk away clean. Go out to the parking lot. He’d noticed when he came in a Mercedes, a couple of Cadillacs, a brand-new Corvette he could get five grand for easy, even without a delivery order . . . and not have to go up to the top floor of that condominium, try and talk Chucky out of it and worry about getting thrown off a fifteen-story balcony.

  The prize out in the parking lot was a Rolls Silver Shadow, light gray, that was about fifteen years old and in show condition. Though the ‘Vette would be easier to move. Get some plates off another car, drive up to Atlanta and unload it. Fly back tomorrow night, see his little girl . . . Except a ‘Vette, the new ones, they say you had to punch a hole through the steering column and it was easy to butcher. The old-model Rolls would be a lot easier to get into and take off.

  Lionel walked past him with his drink, going out to the terrace. He didn’t look back. And they had stared at each other in Chucky’s place.

  Bobbi came over. He thought she was going to mention Lionel, but she said, “That tab you were asking about? I remember, it’s taken care of.”

  “Who paid it?”

  “You were suppose to meet Chucky that time?” Stick nodded. “Well, when you didn’t come back I put it on his charge. Is that all right?”

  “That’s fine. You can put these on it too, you want.”

  “Chucky always forgets to sign, so we have a pen that writes just like his.”

  “I’ll have to thank him,” Stick said.

  “That was his bodyguard was just here. So Chucky’ll probably be in.”

  “Yeah? What’s he need a bodyguard for?”

  Bobbi said, “I make drinks, but I’m not dumb. You know as well as I do if you’re a friend of Rainy’s, and that’s all I’m gonna say.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Stick said.

  He watched her walk away and began thinking of his partner again, Frank Ryan: sitting in the bar telling Frank he was going to Florida to see his little girl—Christ, almost seven and a half years later he still hadn’t seen her . . . No, he’d listened to Frank tell him that in the area of taking money that didn’t belong to you—as opposed to lifting goods you had to fence—the method that paid the most for “percentagewise” the least amount of risk was armed robbery. He’d said, big deal. After all that buildup. And Frank had said, “Say it backwards, robbery comma armed. It can be a very big deal,” and had even quoted actual statistics, saying they could follow his rules for success and happiness in armed robbery and make three to five grand a week, easy. That was when he should have walked out, right at that moment, when he didn’t have a dime, but was calm inside. Confident, reasonably happy. And most of all, free.

  He caught Bobbi’s eye. Coming over she said, “Same way?”

  Stick shook his head. He said, “No, I think it’s time to check out.” He hesitated and said, “I’m going to see my little girl.”

  Bobbi said, “Oh?” and sounded surprised. “How old is she?”

  “She’s fourteen now,” Stick said. “You remind me of her. You sort of look alike.”

  He walked out feeling absolved, almost proud of himself. Though he couldn’t help catching another glimpse of her taking off that pink shirt in amber candlelight, the waves breaking outside in the dark . . .

  Barry came off the Seaweed with its port side still three feet from the dock, engines rumbling low, inching the fifty-eight-foot Hatteras gently into berth.

  Chucky and a girl named Pam and Barry’s friend Aurora stood by the deck chairs in the stern watching Barry, wanting to stop him. Not wringing their hands exactly, but caught in a tableau of surprise: Chucky in a striped red-white-and-blue T-shirt down over his hips, the two girls in skimpy little nothing bikinis.

  Chucky said, “You coming back, what?”

  Aurora, dark hair shining, voice whining, said, “Bar-ry! Will you wait, please!”

  Barry was pointing to the stern line his deckhand had thrown onto the dock, Barry gesturing, saying something to Lionel, who stood there in his light blue suit and didn’t seem to know what to do. Barry’s captain sat up on the flying bridge of the Seaweed observing, unconcerned behind his sunglasses, as the deckhand ran forward and jumped dockside with the bowline.

  Barry looked up, squinting. He said to the boat, “Rorie? Chucky’s going to run you home, babe. Okay? I gotta run.”

  Chucky said, “I am?”

  Aurora, pouting, said, “You promised we’re going to have dinner.”

  “I got a call,” Barry said. “Didn�
��t I get a call? I was on the goddamn phone—how long? You saw me.”

  Aurora said, “You’re always on the goddamn phone.”

  Barry said, “Call you later, babe.”

  Aurora tried once more to stop him. “Bar-ry!”

  But he was gone.

  Bobbi’s face brightened, broke into a big smile as she saw him coming. Then tried to turn it off but couldn’t and a small grin lingered as Barry came over to the bar, his expression blank. Not grim, not serious; blank.

  He made a gun of his right hand, index finger extended, and cocked it at Bobbi’s face.

  “What’s the last thing that goes through a bug’s mind as it hits the windshield?”

  Bobbi said, “I don’t know, what?”

  “Its asshole . . . Where’re the keys?”

  “What keys?”

  “The car keys. Cecil was here, right? Tell me he was here.”

  “He was here.”

  “And he gave you the keys to the Rolls.”

  “Uh-unh. He tried to give me a hard time though.”

  Barry put the palm of his hand to his forehead, said, “Oh, Christ,” and did a half turn before looking at Bobbi again. “He was drinking?”

  “I don’t know why you ever hired him in the first place,” Bobbi said, serious, with innocent eyes.

  Barry said, “Hey.” He paused for emphasis. “I’ll take care of Cecil. Okay? You say he was drinking?”

  “He had a few.”

  Barry shook his head, then leaned on the bar, weary. “He leave the Rolls? I don’t know what good it’d do me, but tell me at least he left the car.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Bobbi said. “He came in, sat down right there. Didn’t have his uniform on . . .”

  “It’s his day off.”

  “Had four Chivas with a couple of beers and left, pissed.”

  “Pissed off.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “There’s a difference,” Barry said. He slapped the bar and said, “Shit.” Then glanced toward the terrace at the sound of Chucky’s voice—Chucky coming in with the two girls. They were wearing short beach covers to their hips, looking nude underneath. Barry said to Bobbi, “They sit around drinking, it’s Chucky’s party, not mine. Don’t give Aurora any martinis; she’ll lay every guy that comes in.” He looked toward the terrace again as he moved down the bar. “Rorie, I’ll see you later, babe. Call you as soon as I can.”

  He heard her say, “Bar-ry!” but kept moving down the length of the bar, out.

  Stick watched the guy in cutoff jeans and plain white sneakers—he had very hairy legs—come tearing out of the place and run over to the Rolls-Royce. He tried the door. Locked. He bent over to peer into the car, shielding his eyes with his hands. Then started yanking on the door, trying to tear the handle off. Then straightened up and banged his fist on the roof of the car, swearing, saying Jesus Christ and goddamn it. Really mad. Having a little tantrum. Stick wondered—assuming the guy had locked his key in the car—what there was to get so excited about.

  Stick was sitting on Wolfgang’s front steps under the awning, at a point where he’d decided this was not the place to pick up a car, not in daylight—he’d have to go to a shopping mall or a movie theater parking lot—when this little guy in the cutoffs came flying out. Dark hair down over his ears. At first Stick thought the guy was Cuban, all the Cubans around. But then decided no, no Cuban who could afford a Rolls was going to run around in cutoffs and a yellow alligator shirt hanging out. No, the guy was probably Jewish, a rich young Jewish guy in his early thirties. He reminded Stick of Frankie Avalon, the hair, or a young Tony Curtis.

  Stick said to him, “You need a coat hanger?”

  Barry looked over at Stick for the first time. With hope, or surprise. Then seemed to lose it and put his hands on his hips, shoulders rounding, though he seemed to be standing up straight.

  “No keys. It wouldn’t do me any good even if I got in.”

  “You lose ’em?”

  “My asshole driver’s suppose to drop the car off, leave the keys at the bar. Sounds easy, right? Take the keys out, hand ’em to the girl? Totally wrong.”

  “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.”

  7

  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.”