Stick

by Elmore Leonard

  Moke came down one step in his cowboy boots, hesitated and stayed there. He said, “I’ve seen you someplace.”

  Stick walked toward him now, to the edge of the awning. Moke turned sideways, raised a boot to the top step again. He appeared uncertain, confused by a dude with a Cadillac coming on like a street fighter. He stared hard but was cautious and seemed ready to run back inside if he had to.

  “You know me,” Stick said, “or not?”

  Moke didn’t answer. Stick walked back to the car. He paused with his hand on the door to look at Moke again.

  “I know you,” Stick said.

  He got in the car and drove off, west on Sunrise, Moke watching the Cadillac till it was out of sight.

  Chucky could recover from anything, including great bodily harm, in a matter of a few minutes once he was home and got his caps working. Oh, my God—the sheer physical relief of coming down, able to move in slow motion again, at this moment bathed and naked beneath a gold lamé robe that brushed the parquet floor as he moved to the mood, gliding past the muted streaks of sunset outside the sliding glass doors. He heard a male French voice singing Le Mer, upbeat, big band in the background, drummer pushing, driving Chucky to slip and slide, doing a funky soft-shoe in his sweat socks, his world turned upside down . . .

  His natural state like being on speed or semi-blacked-out drunk, remembering things after and asking himself, did I do that? The only one remembered clearly was killing the dog. Twenty years ago, in the beginning. Picking up the little dog nipping at him, running home and choking it and throwing it against the brick wall. Yes. But others . . . Did I do that? Frag the Easy Company CO? The son of a bitch constantly on his back. Rolled the grenade into his hootch and Lieutenant . . . he couldn’t even think of his name, was sent home in a bag. Did I do that? Run over the guy who wanted to argue about a parking place? Vaguely remembering the guy coming back toward the car with his short sleeves tight around his biceps, one of those. Took the guy out with a squeal of rubber and ripped off his door . . . Cut some Cuban hustler across the street from Neon Leon’s with a steak knife? . . . Well, when he was young and full of the Old Nick maybe, hadn’t yet settled down on the right amount of caps. “Brain scan your ass,” he’d said to the neurologist, “it’s down in my tummy where it starts.”

  He heard the door open, came around with the beat to see Lionel.

  “Moke is here.”

  And stopped dead in ringing silence.

  “Who’s with him?”

  “Nobody with him, he’s alone. He’s mad at something.”

  “You sure? If that cane cutter’s with him—I see Avilanosa you’re fired.”

  “What was I suppose to do?” Lionel said. “I couldn’ do nothing.”

  “What good are you”—picking up Lionel’s accent—”you couldn’ do nothing? Guy’s beating me on the head, you stand there.”

  “I don’t know what you want us to do,” Lionel said, “you don’t say nothing.”

  “How could I? I’m on the ground—you’re standing there watching.”

  “I didn’t want to leave you,” Lionel said.

  Chucky did a slow turn with his arms extended like airplane wings, came all the way around and Lionel was still there, faithful servant who wouldn’t leave him. “Send in Moke,” Chucky said, holding his pose, ready to fly at the snake, buzz and confuse him. But it was Chucky who was caught by surprise. Moke stepped in and sailed his Crested Beaut hard in Chucky’s direction to land on the floor upright, creased and cracked, the crown stove in.

  “What’d you do?”

  “Son of a bitch stomped on it.”

  “You let him?”

  “Son of a bitch grabbed it, stomped it, run out and took off in his Caddy ‘fore I could stop him. License BS-two.” Moke looked over at Chucky’s home computer. “Ask that thing whose car it belongs to.”

  Chucky took a moment—all this coming at once. He felt a warm glow rise through him, closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose and said, “Black Cadillac, Florida vanity license plate BS-two. Owner, Barry Stam. Address . . . something Bali Way. The number isn’t clear.”

  Moke was staring, mouth slack. Chucky thought for a moment of slipping over and kicking him in the balls. It brought a smile and he said, “You mean little Barry Stam took your hat off your head and did a dance number on it? Ah, Cecil was with him . . .”

  “Wasn’t nobody with him. He grab it and run out.”

  “Where was this, ‘cross the street?”

  “Wolfgang’s. Nestor said hang out there and wait for the fella if he come back. And what do you know,” Moke said, his ugly mouth curling into a grin.

  Chucky frowned. “Wait. This guy we’re talking about, he’s around five-seven with thick dark hair, Jewish?”

  When Moke didn’t understand something he became mean. “You know what he looks like same as me. Thin fella, ’bout my size. Only now he’s all dressed up, got a suit of clothes. I knew him. See, I knew him but I didn’t. Till he goes, ‘You know me?’ I still wasn’t sure ’cause it was dark in the van that time. Then he goes, ‘Well, I know you.’ And right then I knew who it was.”

  Chucky was trying to catch up, get the facts straight in his mind. “I thought he stomped your hat and ran. Now you say you talked to him?”

  Moke got meaner. He said, “You hear what I’m telling you, fatass? It was the guy was with Rainy we been looking for, for Christ sake!” Quieter then. “Only with a suit on. Driving this black Caddy.”

  Chucky became a statue, wondering how long he could hold without moving.

  Moke said, “Well, goddamnit, say something.”

  “Son of a gun,” Chucky said.

  12

  WAITING AGAIN. THIS TIME AT Miami International. Down under the terminal near the Eastern baggage claim area. This time in the Lincoln Continental, color coordinated in his tan chauffeur’s outfit. While sporty Barry, in a starched workshirt and pressed faded jeans, had gone inside to meet somebody named Kyle McLaren, arriving from New York.

  Did he dress like that, Stick wondered, so people would think he worked? Mistake him for a regular guy?

  Regular guys didn’t have color-coordinated chauffeurs.

  Regular guys didn’t keep their girlfriends on a yacht tied up in the front yard 150 feet from where their wives walked around outside in flowing see-through robes.

  How did they keep their faces straight?

  A little more than an hour and a half ago he had walked from the garage to the pool in his tans, ready to go. Had waited for Barry, swimming his morning lengths, to come up the ladder in his briefs, lean, hairy, very dark, shaking water from limp hands, gold chain glistening. Had looked at his new watch as Barry slipped on a white terrycloth robe and announced it was 11:30. Barry said, “So?”

  “You said the flight arrives at one?”

  “I said one-oh-five.”

  “What time you want to leave?”

  Barry looked out at the bay, the narrow sea at Miami’s high-rise shore, and placed his hands on his hips inside the robe, if not defiant a little pissed off.

  “Stickley, anybody gets to an airport more than ten minutes before a flight leaves or a flight arrives doesn’t have anything to do.”

  Stick said, “I didn’t know you were busy.” Barry looked at him and Stick added, “Very good, sir.”

  He walked back to the garage to find Cornell standing just inside the door he’d rolled up earlier to bring out the Lincoln. At the edge of shade, holding binoculars to his face, Cornell said, “I knew it.” He lowered the glasses after a moment and handed them to Stick. “Look out there at the boat. Tell me what you see.”

  Stick raised the glasses, adjusted the focus. “A seagull.”

  “Not that bird, another bird. In the boat.”

  He saw the superstructure dazzling white, the empty flying bridge moving with a slight roll, the yacht close in his vision, riding above the gray-weathered dock pilings.

  “Toward the back end,” C
ornell’s voice said.

  He saw the figure now, a woman moving about in the cabin, wearing something white, a beach cover hanging open. A young woman with dark hair, long and full around her shoulders.

  “See her?”

  “Is that Aurora?”

  “That’s Aurora. The man’s number one at the moment. Now look at the man . . . dying.”

  Stick edged the binoculars left, past trunks of palm trees, brought his vision down to the swimming pool. Barry was at the umbrella table with his morning papers, a silver service of coffee. He faced the bay, holding a section of newspaper folded lengthwise.

  “Mr. Cool,” Cornell said. “Love it. Love it . . . Uh-oh, here she come.”

  Stick cut his gaze back to the yacht.

  “No, the terrace. Up on the terrace, man. Here come Miz Diane.”

  Stick made a quarter turn and put the glasses squarely on Mrs. Stam coming through the formal garden to the terrace steps: silky, see-through lavender negligee stirring, sunlight defining her legs as she descended, laying fire in her hair, glinting on sunglasses that concealed her expression.

  “Saturday morning soap,” Cornell said. “Better than All My Children put together. Lady of the house saying to the lady in the boat, ‘He might be fucking you, girl, but I got it all.’ “

  Stick lowered the glasses. “She knows?”

  “Course she knows. Last night she see him tippy-toeing out the house—she knows. He tell her he has to see Neil, that’s his captain, Neil King, he drives the boat like you drive cars. She tell him, ‘Neil ain’t there, I saw him leave.’ He tell her yeah, he has to get these important papers he forgot. Man leaves important papers wherever he wants to go. Now he like to sneak out there again, but Miz Diane’s standing over him with the rolling pin.”

  Stick put the glasses on Mrs. Stam again, seated now on a lounge, lying back, the negligee coming open to show her bathing suit, two strips of lavender, her pale flesh, the inside of her raised thigh.

  “She’s going to get burned.”

  “Never tans, never burns,” Cornell said. “She don’t stay out long enough. Like shady places best.”

  Stick held the glasses fixed on Mrs. Stam and felt a stirring in his crotch. She didn’t have a Playboy body, perfect measurements; it wasn’t that. What her body did for him, it met requirements fixed in his mind a long time ago, a day of revelation: Back in Norman when he was ten and saw the full-grown woman friend of his mother naked one time, visiting, and had walked in their bathroom and saw that white skin and that thick patch of hair between her legs. Thinking thereafter that was the ticket when it came to a bare-naked woman, pleasure that would turn you inside out just to look at. He was thoughtful bringing the glasses down, squinting in the bright sunlight, wondering if he was a simple soul. But if he was, what was wrong with that?

  He said, “What if Diane wants to go for a boat ride?”

  “Make her seasick,” Cornell said. “The man’s crazy but he ain’t dumb. This afternoon he’ll say, ‘Come on, who wants to go out on the boat?’ He sometime he even begs her, say, ‘You be all right, babe. It’s calm out today.’ Uh-unh, she won’t set foot on it.”

  Stick looked toward the pool, at the woman’s white body resting on the lounge. “What does she get out of this?”

  “Anything she wants. Believe it.”

  “It’s a show, isn’t it?”

  “It’s cuckooland, what it is.”

  “Fun to watch,” Stick said, “if you don’t happen to be doing anything.”

  “ ‘Specially if you listen,” Cornell said. “Don’t forget to listen.”

  First Barry was talking, animated, swinging a tote bag up over his shoulder. Now the girl—who would be Kyle McLaren—was giving it back, though with more controlled gestures, raising her hand as a point of attention and using it to brush her hair back from her face. She carried a straw purse and flat leather briefcase in her other hand. A skycap waited behind them with two bags. Stick had not recognized her yet.

  He pulled the Continental forward, edging into the third lane from the curb, popped the trunk release and got out. Across the roofs of cars he could see Barry stretching, face raised, looking everywhere but directly in front of him. Stick went back to the trunk, raised the lid. When he looked over again they were coming toward the car, Barry in his starched work clothes, his hand on the girl’s arm. She looked familiar . . .

  Then recognized her, the girl in Chucky’s living room, remembering the streaked blond hair, the girl he’d thought of as athletic, with the calm, knowing eyes. He moved around to the door and held it open.

  The girl was saying, “I’m talking about a direct correlation between effort and results. The payoff, and I don’t mean money—” She stopped. She was looking directly at him now, close enough to shake hands. “Isn’t satisfying enough.”

  Barry said, “Everybody’s got problems, babe. Get in the car.”

  Away from the terminal Stick’s hand went to the rearview mirror—Kyle McLaren was sitting directly behind him—and adjusted the angle to her face. She was relating something about her father, that she’d felt impatient with him for the first time and wasn’t sure why. Stick heard her say, “He’s always gotten away with being a snob and a cynic because he’s funny, with that dry delivery. But this time, I don’t know why, it was tiresome and I thought, do I sound like that?”

  “I want to call Arthur,” Barry said. “Gimme the names, whatever you got for me.”

  “Today’s Saturday.”

  “And tomorrow’s Sunday—Arthur doesn’t care. You kidding?”

  “I’m trying to tell you something that concerns me for a change. Is that all right?”

  “Hey, come on, I always listen. I better, I pay you enough.”

  “I told my dad about Chucky.”

  Stick looked up at the mirror.

  Kyle was looking at the mirror.

  Seeing each other’s eyes.

  Stick’s gaze returned to the freeway. They were on 112 now, going toward the ocean in fairly light traffic. He heard her say, “I practically acted him out, and I do a pretty good Chucky, if I have to say so myself.”

  “You think I don’t listen? You say something like that, it hurts me.”

  “Just shut up for a minute, okay? First I did Chucky paying his hospital bill with cash. The three thousand and something for his constipation problem. Then, Chucky carrying an ice-cooler full of hundred-dollar bills into First Boston, dumping it on their conference table, the board of directors standing there watching—”

  “Where’s Arthur’s home phone?” Barry had his attaché case open on his lap. “I got it here someplace.” He looked over, poked her arm. “Hey. I’m playing with you. Tonight do your Chucky for me. When we have time.”

  “You’re exactly like my dad,” Kyle said. “I tell him about Chucky and he says, ‘How do you stand the humidity down there?’ He’s been here once. He took my mother to the Roney Plaza in ‘Forty-seven. He could tell then it was a breeding ground for stuntmen and third-raters.” Stick heard her say she was tired. She sounded tired, disinterested. He saw her unzip her soft leather case and take out a file folder.

  He saw Barry with the phone now, dialing, handing Kyle a sheet of legal paper, saying, “Get Chucky—you want my advice—get him into commodities and lose his ass, or else he’s going to drive you nuts. Here, take it.” She was looking out the window and Barry had to wave the legal sheet in front of her. Stick looked away, approaching the 95 interchange, followed the gradual curve down and around to head north. It was a beautiful day, but neither of them had said anything about the weather. He thought of Cornell telling him to listen, maybe learn something.

  He met her eyes again, briefly, as she looked up from the yellow legal sheet. She said, “Good, stay with cheap play for the time being. Few more months, anyway. I like Kaneb, I like Fleetwood . . .”

  Barry was saying, “Whatta you mean, who is it? Cut the shit, Arthur, and turn on your recorder. I want to go with
Kaneb Services”—he looked at Kyle and she held up her hand, fingers spread—”another five thousand . . . Right.” He listened, saying “Yeah,” then put his hand over the phone. “Arthur says put another ten in Automated Medical. Whatta you think? . . . Hey.”

  “I’m sorry. What?”

  “Automated Medical Labs. I forgot what they do.”

  “Interferon,” Kyle said, “the cancer treatment. They’re also working on herpes.”

  “Jesus, you’re kidding . . . Arthur, let’s go ahead with Automated Medical . . . No, couple thousand shares . . .You bet.” He listened again, nodding. “Let me think about it a minute.” He turned to Kyle. “Wake up. Ranco Manufacturing—they were at twelve, they’re up to seventeen. Arthur’s been telling me all week it’s time to get out. Whatta you say?”

  It was a name Stick had heard before. Ranco. The one Barry had told him to give to the chauffeurs, but not before he sold his shares.

  She was saying, “I’m going to sleep all week.”

  “Come on, Ranco. It’s at seventeen. Sell or not?”

  “What’s your position?”

  “Four thousand shares. It’s one you gave me last year.”

  Stick watched her paging through her folder. He heard her say, after a moment, “Yeah, I remember now. It’s a very thin issue.”

  “Come on, Arthur’s waiting.”

  “The float’s only three-hundred-fifty thousand. Ask him what the net earnings are per share. And predicted year-end.”

  Stick tried to make sense out of it. Barry spoke to Arthur, then put his hand over the phone. “Two and a quarter. Projected to go up another buck a share, but Arthur says we’ve heard that song before.”

  Kyle said, “What do they make? Something for the military, isn’t it? Water tanks?”

  “Right, portable tanks, they pull ’em behind a truck. And some other equipment, all government contract.”

  Stick saw her face as she looked up. She didn’t seem interested. She said, “The P-E ratio for Ranco should be about twenty to one, at least. They’re forecasting three and a quarter and the stock’s only at seventeen?”