When he returned, Stark was ready. Fumbling in his pocket, he pinched out a quarter and carefully slid it along the bar.
“Shore wish ah could be drinkin’ what ah got in the bag.” He twanged the words with a southern drawl and smacked his lips at the end.
“Ain’t it yours?”
“Sorta… Leastways after I pay a friend three dollars for ‘em. But ah don’t get paid ‘til next week. Hot damn, it’s hell to be a workin’ stiff.” Stark’s eyes were saucer round and bland with simplicity.
“Three dollars!” the bartender said. “That’s half the wholesale price.”
“Shore is — but ah gotta sell it. Need the money.”
“Have you got a buyer yet?”
“Yeah. A guy up in Long Beach. Sold him ten bottles last week.”
“Long Beach is twenty miles. You can sell it right here. I’ll give you three fifty apiece of them.”
Stark deliberated lengthily. “Ah dunno. Ah’m sorta obligated… but it sure is a long drive to pick up three dollars. Ain’t really worth the gas. But ah gotta see if he wants more, maybe a whole lot. My friend needs some money… wife’s divorcin’ him an’ he had an accident.” Stark continued to ramble, debating aloud the pros and cons of the situation.
“How much more booze can you get?” the bartender interrupted, ignoring the people at the rear who were vying for his attention.
“Hell fire, ah dunno,” he said laconically, guzzling a swig of beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ah guess a whole goddamn warehouse - Scotch, bourbon, brandy, whatever… He ain’t never got more’n ten or twelve bottles before, but that ain’t cause he can’t. He ain’t needed no money ‘fore now.”
The bartender hungrily accepted the information, trying to puzzle the possibilities of the situation.
“Hey, bartender!” the blonde called. “How about a little service?”
“Don’t go away,” the bartender said to him. “Soon as I take care of these people we’ll talk about it.” He moved away to fill the orders of the woman and the two men.
Stark had no intention of leaving. He looked at himself in the dim reflection of the mirror and winked. This was going good, better than he expected. First cast of the line and he had a solid bite. The hook was sunk deep. Now to play it along and reel the fish in. The whole thing might be pulled off in two quick meetings, rather than the usual prolonged build up. And he needed dough — fast.
Stark waited until the bartender was at the cash register, then the con man slipped from the stool, picked up the bag, and started leisurely toward the door.
“Hey, mister,” the bartender called, coming quickly down beside him. “What’s the hurry? I thought we had some business to talk about. Have a seat and a beer on me.”
Stark’s eyes were again round and naive as he slid back onto a stool.
“Are ya serious? Ah can’t be foolin’. I gotta help my buddy.”
“I’m serious… maybe about buying the whole lot of it. But give me some details, some facts.”
“Well, here’s how it is… my name’s George Splivens. What’s yours?” Stark stuck his hand out before beginning the story…
5
__________
Two hours later Stark was back in Oceanview, cursing in frustration when he discovered that his usual con partner was in Las Vegas. Not that the man was a friend. He was only another predator, wolfish and ruthless, having worked bunco so long that he thought everyone in the world was a potential sucker. For this game, Stark required someone to help finish the score. It was going faster than he expected. The sucker was ready to be clipped immediately, almost begging to surrender his money.
Stark checked his watch. It was after one in the afternoon. Unless he found another partner in a half-hour, he would have to postpone the sting at least a day, and he didn’t want to do that. The blood scent of the kill was in his nostrils. Too often suckers cooled off.
He wheeled the station wagon to the Panama Club. In the squalid lair he hoped to find Momo, hoped he was capable of playing the role and willing to do it for a third of the take. It might also be a door open with Momo.
Stark swept to the door and peered inside. It was like any cheap nightclub in daylight, depressing as a hangover. The only occupant was a tired whore draped across the bar. Stark let the door swing shut. Momo might still be in his apartment with Dorie. He couldn’t blame him.
Before driving off, Stark glanced down the street. What he saw froze him. Crowley was double-parked on the far side of the boulevard. The detective beckoned him with a meaty paw.
“Christ,” muttered Stark to himself, “in broad daylight … the fool.” He checked the entire street to see if any local characters were nearby. None could be seen, but someone might be watching, peeking out a window. Stark hated the risk of talking to a cop openly. He shook his head negatively and waved Crowley off. The bulldog face reddened, but the policeman nodded. He pointed down the block, indicating that Stark should meet him some distance away. Stark nodded, and the Ford slid into motion.
He didn’t wait to see where the car stopped. The panic had disappeared in an instant. Even as he nodded assent, he had decided to ignore the summons. He ducked back into the vacant club, skirted between the tables, and went out through the kitchen to the alley. Crowley would be pissed, but he’d think of something. The cop would go for a good story. He’d think of one. Right now he needed to find Momo and make some money.
His car was left parked at the curb in front. He could pick it up later. A yellow cab was hailed. Out of habit, Stark got out of the car a block away from his destination. This distance he covered in a swift walk, and when he hit the stairs he broke into a climbing run. He was breathing heavily as he tapped on the door - tapped instead of knocked. In the paranoid dope world a pounded summons was usually the cops. The voice of Dorie Williams came muffled through the wood:
“Who’s there?”
“Ernie Stark.”
“Momo’s not here. He went out.”
“Shit,” he muttered. “When’s he coming back? I’ve gotta see him.”
Dorie misinterpreted the urgency of the situation. “You’ll have to come back. I can’t sell you anything. He doesn’t want me dealing.”
“I don’t want to geeze. I want Momo. When do you expect him?”
There was a hesitancy beyond the door. Stark could imagine her, face puzzled, perhaps nibbling at a fingernail while her green eyes were clouded with indecision.
“I gotta know,” Stark pressed. “I need him for something.”
“He should be back in twenty or thirty minutes.”
“Let me in. I’ll wait for him.”
Again she hesitated, but not very long. The lock clicked open, the nightlatch clattered free, and the door swung inward. Stark stepped through, and the girl instantly fastened the locks and braced a chair beneath the doorknob.
Stark stopped in the center of the dreary room and watched her security measures, noting the way her movements caused full thighs and rounded buttocks to press tight against her white Capri pants. These clothes were a better come on for her sexy body than the preceding nights partial nakedness. She turned quizzically toward him.
“You’re a cautious creature, baby,” he said with sarcasm.
“It’s better to be safe than in jail.”
“Oh, I’m sure the cops’ll get in if they want to. Don’t worry about that. I’ve seen cops crash through more than one door.”
“Maybe they will… but it will slow them down enough that I can flush everything down the toilet.”
“Good luck. Me, I guess I play it more risky, to the brink of disaster. It makes the game more fun.”
“Not me. Besides, Momo gets frantic if I’m not careful.”
“You don’t have to apologize for being scared of cops -or Momo, either.”
“I’m not,” she snapped, flushing. “Goddamn you, why must you needle me?” “Maybe for the same reason it gets to you so quick. Because you’re
pretty fast with the needle yourself,” he tossed off with laconic flippancy and punctuated it with a knowing leer. The double entendre was intended.
“So I like junk. So do you. Big deal.”
“Yeah, but I’d rather pay for it in cash.”
Dories face deepened in color, confusing Stark. He had intended it as a jibe, and her response surprised him. She should not have been embarrassed by his mentioning her relationship with Momo. Slowly, it dawned on him that he had unearthed a truth. He smiled.
She looked at him as if she knew what he was waiting for.
For half a minute they stared at each other, each waiting for the other to make a move. He could see the hint of brassiere pressing its tips against the sheer white of her thin blouse. She stood with her long legs mannishly apart, and as the coloring of her cheeks receded, she threw her head back in defiance. Slowly she put her hands behind her back, the move forcing her full breasts out even more.
“Let’s get down to it,” she whispered as slowly she began to unbutton her blouse from the rear. When it was free she slipped it off.
She stood for his inspection, breathing in slowly and deeply. Her waist was tiny, her hips wide, and the pants stretched down along every curve of her body. She began to unfasten them, to wiggle and tug them down over her hips. Staring at him, mocking him. Turning him on.
Stark hadn’t moved. “We haven’t got time for this,” he said bluntly.
Dorie froze. She straightened, confusion etching her face.
“Put your clothes back on,” he said coolly. “There’s not enough time. Well get around to it, later, when I want you.”
It took a few seconds for the truth to sink in. Then, with an angry, sweeping motion, she scooped up the fallen blouse and glared at Stark.
“You bastard,” she said. “You cold bastard. You led me on…” She choked back the irate words and tugged up the Capris, but fumbled in fastening them, the impeding blouse in her hand. “So what makes you so superior? You’re nothing but a cheap hustler. You’re so used to cheap whores, you wouldn’t know a good thing when you saw it.”
Though his body ached with desire, this was not the time or the place. He enjoyed seeing her anger. It made him feel superior to her. In charge.
“Hell hath no fury,” he jibed.
Dorie spun away from him, slipping into the blouse. She stalked to a dusty window overlooking the street and reached back to button herself. Stark could see she was having difficulty. He came up quietly behind her.
“Let me,” he said. “I’ll do it for you.”
She did not answer but her hands dropped in a silent acceptance. As he fumbled with the buttons, Stark touched his lips softly to her ear. She didn’t move to accept or reject his touch. She ignored him.
“Don’t be mad, pretty,” he whispered. “You’re a fucking junkie.”
“No worse than you. We can’t right now, because your lover will be back.”
“He’s not a lover. He’s good to me.”
“C’mon, baby, you don’t have to lie. He may be good, but he’s still a trick.”
“No, he’s not. I’m no whore.”
“Tell me you love him. Or are you just fucking him? Five minutes after I met you, you said you’d go away with me if he was busted.”
“If he was busted, I’d have to go someplace. Not home. My father’s a minister. Besides, Momo’s been kind to me.”
Stark’s brow wrinkled. This defense of Momo was completely unexpected. Maybe she did care for the fat Hawaiian. He had no time to discuss it. As he glanced out the window, Dummy’s Corvette came to the curb, and from it alighted the object of their conversation. Momo disappeared beneath them, entering the building. The sports car pulled away with a roar.
“Speak of the devil,” he said, releasing Dorie as casually as he had touched her.
6
__________
Stark was seated on a chair tilted against a wall, his legs stretched out, when Dorie Williams opened the door.
“He said he had business with you,” she explained, taking in Momo’s instantly angry glance. “He said it wasn’t about junk, and it was important.”
Looking at Stark, Momo jerked his head, asking a question without speaking.
“If you wanna make some money real easy and real fast without any risk, I’ve got a helluva proposition for you.”
Momo grunted with pig-like ill humor. Stark realized the response was not to his words, which he’d scarcely heard. This was instead, the reaction of an ugly man inse- cure with a pretty girl and suspicious of finding another man, a possible threat, inside his home.
“You don’t seem very enthusiastic,” he said.
“I’m not. You’re a con artist. A good one. Too good. What’s this going to cost me?”
Stark puckered his lips and shook his head in disbelief. He was careful not to look at Dorie, who hovered inconspicuously near the bathroom door.
“I told you this is found money,” Stark said. “I need help on a cinch score. My regular partner is out of town, and I thought I’d throw it your way. I also want to show you how good I am with business. You’d make five big ones, for a couple hours’ work.”
“Why do you want to do anything for me?” Momo asked, still peering suspiciously, but now his curiosity piqued, the money having been mentioned.
“You can’t think anyone would want to be your friend, could trust you, so let’s just say I want to keep on the good side of my connection.”
Momo sneered, but he could not help sniffing at what Stark said.
“Momo, I wouldn’t trust this guy. He’s a hustler,” said Dorie.
“Ignore the broad. What does she know about business? This is soft and smooth. Now I’ve got some work clothes down in the car. Let me lay it out and see what you think…”
Twenty minutes later, Stark leaned against the glass wall of a telephone booth and dialed the number of the cocktail lounge on the Coast Highway. Momo stood in the booth’s doorway. Both men were on edge.
“Christy’s Lounge,” the bartender said, “Al speaking.”
“Hey, Al… This here’s George Splivens, the fella who was in this mornin’.”
“Yeah —” excitedly, “What’s happening?”
“He didn’t wanna. Ah talked and talked for ya. He was scared ‘bout his job an’ the cops an’ all. Ah tole him ya’ll was an ol’ friend of mine.
“What happened?” Al interrupted. “Is it all right?”
“Ah was just tellin’ ya. He didn’t wanna but ah talked him inta it. Can ya get down to Oceanview right now with the money?” There was a pause.
“How soon?”
“Forty-five minutes?”
“That’s pretty quick. I’ve got to get somebody to watch the joint. The owner doesn’t know about this deal.” Stark could visualize Al’s eagerness. He winked at Momo. It was obvious the bartender planned to charge the owner a standard wholesale price for the booze and thereby reap the profit in a quick turnover. It was the oldest profit system, everyone making money except the last guy in line.
“It’s gotta be quick. Hell, ah hadda talk like an ol’ medicine man to my buddy, an’ he might wanna back out, if he thinks about it too long.”
“Yeah, okay. It’s a deal. I want fifteen hundred dollars’ worth. Where do I meet you?”
“Have ya got a truck?”
“I can borrow a panel job from the television shop next door. I already talked to the guy.”
“Then drive on down to Oceanview… Know where Johnson’s Liquor Warehouse is?”
“No.”
“On Beale Street. Jus’ offen the main drag. One seventeen south. Ya park ‘cross the street an’ we’ll be waitin’. Bring the money.”
“Okay. I’ll be there in half an hour. Goodbye.”
“‘Bye now.”
With a flourish, he dropped the receiver on the hook and playfully slapped Momo on the shoulder. “Let’s have a quick drink and I’ll write the dialogue for you. The sucker’ll
be there in thirty minutes. You have to change into work clothes.”
At the appointed time, Stark loitered on the sidewalk near where Al had to park. The large brick warehouse and offices of Johnson’s were across the street. Momo was there, hidden in the shadows of a sealed-up doorway, unseen from where Stark stood or Al would park.
Stark jammed his hands down in his khaki pants and propped one foot against a wall. He appeared to any onlooker like one of the poor working stiffs common to industrial neighborhoods. A figure that attracted no second glance. But his eyes were not dull or lifeless like those men. His were shifting, carefully examining every delivery truck that sped past, knowing that many carried goods highly saleable on the hot market, where he had many fences. It was another of his hustles to pick out one of these trucks, especially those carrying garments to retail stores, and follow it on its route. Even if it took all day, eventually the driver would make a mistake and park in a bad spot during a stop. In the few minutes it took the man to go inside, Stark could remove a thousand dollars’ worth of suits or dresses. It was swift and easy, requiring only a jimmy bar, timing, and boldness. Now he looked at the passing vehicles to see something worth examining for another day. He would remember the company name of a likely prospect. He had a very good memory for possible jobs. He’d always had a good memory, even in school. He could have gone to college, but crime was more exciting. The hustle got his adrenaline going. It beat studying for exams.
A few minutes later, a blue panel truck with the name of a television repair shop pulled to the curb. Al could be seen through the windshield. Stark pushed away from the wall and came swiftly to the passenger side. He opened the door and slipped in.
“Hey there, ol’ hoss,” he said, grinning toothily.
Al was fidgeting nervously, gripping the wheel tightly. “Is everything all right?” he asked tensely.
“Shore nuff is. Don’t be worryin’. This here’s easy as takin’ candy from a baby.”
“You can say that. You’re not breaking the law. I’m taking the risk. Me and your friend. Where is he?”
Stark: A Novel Page 4