Stark: A Novel

by Edward Bunker

  “Hell, I ain’t takin’ no risk, but I ain’t makin’ much money either. All ah done, ah done for my buddy. Ahm hardly makin’ change in this deal. You don’t seem to ‘preate that.” Al looked sheepish. “You’re right, man. I’m sorry. I’m just nervous. But where is he?”

  “Should be long any minute.”

  They waited and almost as if on cue, Momo appeared from the doorway. He was wearing a uniform of polished blue cotton such as those used by service station attendants and delivery men. On the breast of the shirt was embroidered the legend: JOHNSON’S WHOLESALE LIQUORS. The uniform gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. He paused for a lull in traffic and then came over. He’d bought the outfit for a hundred bucks from a former employee. It was the best investment he’d ever made.

  “Is that him?” Al asked.

  “Sure is. By gawd he’s a good boy. Give ya the shirt offen his back.” Al watched Momo approach. Stark leaned back in the corner and studied Al’s florid face in profile. The confidence man was looking for some flicker of suspicion. There was none.

  Momo came around the front of the truck to the rider’s side where Stark sat. He didn’t open the door but stepped on the running board and peered inside.

  “I can’t stay. One of the girls might see me from the office window. Is this the guy, Spliv?”

  “Sure is.”

  Momo eyed Al with feigned suspicion. “I’m not so sure.”

  “He’s all right. Al’s my buddy,” Stark said. He almost winced, though, as he looked at Momo. The drug peddler appeared sinister as a Mexican hood. “I guess it’s okay then,” Momo said. He looked at Al. “Did George tell you what to do?”

  “More or less.”

  “I’m foreman on the loading dock in the back. I fill the orders. When you drive in back, park near the west end and I’ll take care of it from there. You’ll be getting twenty cases of top of the line bourbon. Give the money to George. I don’t want to carry it back there. He’ll tell you just what to do. I can’t stay.” Before Al could protest, Momo nodded quick goodbyes and ducked around the back of the truck. Stark could see the bartender’s confusion and moved in quickly so the man could not call Momo back.

  “It ain’t good somebody should see him talkin’ to ya. They can see out the window an’ you’re goin’ in thar right now. They might think it was kinda funny.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Al said, grudgingly bringing his eyes away from the departing figure. “I didn’t get much out of him, though. Is he Mex?”

  “He’s dark, but he’s originally from Hawaii. He just wanted to see ya — make sure ya was okay. Ah’ll tell ya what to do.”

  “You ever done this before, either of you?”

  “Naw, we ain’t habituals. But we done talked it over a whole lot. Ain’t hardly nothin’ can go wrong.” Stark reached over and clasped Al’s shoulder to give him reassurance. “Say, man, ya been frettin’ like an ol’ bull fulla Spanish fly without a cow. It’s all right. He runs things back there.” Al chuckled, suddenly relaxing. “Maybe I am worrying too much. Now just what do I do?”

  “Ya go in theat door right over thar, an’ ya fill out an order for two or three cases of whiskey. Ya pay for it an’ they give ya some papers. Ya take the papers ‘roun the back… so the people see ya hand them to Willie. He tells ‘em what to put in the truck.”

  “I take the truck around the back?”

  “Yep. Unless ya wanna carry it home.”

  “No, I don’t want to do that.” Al was now in a good humor. He shook his head. “If that’s all there is to it, it’s pretty easy. Where are you going to be?”

  “Wall, ah can’t go in back with ya. Some of them swampers know ah’m a friend of Willie’s. Ah’ll wait here ‘til you come outta the office, then I’ll get the money and leave.”

  Al nodded. “When do I start?”

  “Go right now. They close in about thirty minutes. An’ Willie’s probably nervous as a cat on a hot tin roof right now.”

  Al quickly activated himself. Patting his right hand pocket (Stark saw the move and knew the money was there), he exited the truck and went across into the building. He watched him go; then, lighting a cigarette, he got out and went to stand beside the panel truck. He wanted to be on the sidewalk when Al returned.

  The bartender’s face was beaming when he came back. In his hand was the red, yellow and white triplicate order form. He came around to where Stark stood. “How’d it go?”

  “Like silk. Like you said. Man, we can do it regularly.”

  “Ah don’t know if my buddy wants to. This is only ‘cause he needs the money… fact, ya better give it to me now. I don’t want you takin’ off with the booze and our dough.” Stark extended his hand casually, but his veiled eyes noted every move that might show the man’s thoughts or reservations. There was a brief flicker of uncertainty.

  “It ain’t for me. My friend said to get it,” Stark said quickly.

  Al laughed. He was trying to copy the off-handed manner. He brought out a roll of fifty dollar bills and surrendered them. “Want to count it?”

  “Naw. Hell fire, we gotta trust each other, an’ there ain’t time. Now you hustle ‘round there an’ get your stuff.”

  “Damn right we have to trust each other. If we can’t, who can we trust?” Al grinned, thinking his comment humorous. Stark wondered if the man would grin if he knew how funny the statement really was.

  He smiled in return, and winked. “Ah like you. Damned if ah don’t. Better get goin’. He’ll be worried. Ya saw how he is. Ah’ll give ya a call tomorrow. Maybe we can do this again, six months.”

  “Great. Great. Thanks for everything.” The bartender extended his hand and Ernie Stark shook it firmly. Al went around to enter the truck.

  The moment the blue vehicle was in motion, Stark started toward the corner and quickly went around it to get a taxi. Momo came from the doorway and scurried to catch up. When they were together they began to laugh spontaneously, envisioning the expression of horror on the bartender’s face when the amount of the triplicate order was loaded on the truck - that, and no more.

  7

  __________

  Minutes later Ernie Stark and Momo Mendoza were speeding down the highway in the back seat of a taxi, faces lighted with the exhilarated satisfaction of predators who have made their kill and gorged themselves on red meat. Both were high on the successful con.

  The taxi driver was a gnome-faced runt with ears like a bat’s wings. A procurer of servicemen for the prostitutes of the Panama Club, he was a close-mouthed underworld fringe character, so Stark and Momo were not afraid to talk freely.

  “That’s the softest money I ever saw,” Momo said, shaking his head in wonder. Stark’s eyelids fluttered and the smile of a Cheshire cat played across his thin lips. He nodded with fatuous complacency. “Yeah, real sweet bunco… but -” he shrugged and let the thought trail off.

  “But what?” Momo asked. “There’s nothing wrong, is there?” the quick suspicion of the paranoid junkie in his voice.

  “No, everything’s lovely. We won’t even have any heat, nine chances out of ten.”

  “Won’t the sucker call the fuzz?”

  “Not usually. He can’t say how the swindle went down or the Board will jerk the bar’s license… padlock the joint and put him out of business.”

  “That wasn’t the owner.”

  “The owner is responsible for his agent’s actions. And the feds wouldn’t like avoidance of the tax on liquor sales, either.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah. And the one thing that drives bar owners out of their minds is worrying about losing their license. They pay a shyster a grand to represent them at a hearing for something as simple as a juvenile buying cigarettes out of a machine… No, they won’t go to the fuzz. They just lick their wounds and mark it down as a loss. A few might try to find you and get their money or fuck you up, but it’s like they’re trying to find a needle in a haystack.”

  M
omo shook his head in slow wonder. “Man, you should be making a million dollars with a gimmick like that. It’s the slickest game I ever saw.” “Yeah, I’ve made some money,” he said in a depressed manner. “And when I do, nowadays you usually wind up with it.” Yet he noticed the respect, even awe, that was in Momo’s voice. It was a sharp change from his previous attitude to him. Momo had made the switch without seeming to remember the arrogance of yesterday, or even this morning. It made Stark even more contemptuous of his dealer. This new relationship might be used to good advantage, for himself and perhaps Crowley.

  “It’s sweet,” Stark agreed, “but I’ve burned it out. About fifteen bars have bit in the last eighteen months. The word gets around. I tried one spot a couple of weeks ago and the owner set me up to get my arms broken. A couple of goons were waiting in a parking lot. I cut one and ran. Seems I trimmed the guy’s brother somewhere down the line.” Stark shook his head. “Yeah, it’s just about burned out. All good things come to an end, I guess. You’re the one with the best hustle. There’s never a depression in your business, and you can make big money if you can get enough shit. There are more customers than you can handle.”

  “I can get the product,” Momo announced proudly, “but Oceanview ain’t got but a few junkies. I just got enough business to keep up my habit. Ain’t no big action here.”

  “If I had your connection I’d do more than that. I’d be crappin’ in tall cotton… not living in a bust-out pad making nickels and dimes. That broad could be wearing mink, and you could be driving a Caddy.” Momo rubbed a hand hard across his face, as he might do upon just wakening. He probed a nostril with a fingernail and snorted. Stark could not tell if these gestures had any meaning, or if the man’s mind had wandered. Stark decided to be more specific.

  “In a month we could be selling five times what you’re moving. With less risk. We’d have an organization with other people in front. We should get together and work out something real good for both of us. Besides, I figured that this new shit was coming to you from a bud back in Hawaii. I haven’t figured out how you’re getting it into the country.”

  Momo laughed. “This shit is coming from no further than La Jolla. I don’t have any friends left in the islands.”

  For the first time Momo saw the possibilities. His surly face registered the kernel of an idea. His lips pursed, and his brow drew down. Stark watched him as a hawk might, high above a rabbit. The Hawaiian sucked a substance from his teeth, probed for it with a forefinger, and shook his head.

  “Man,” he said, “if you’d made me a partnership proposition last week I’d have laughed. I used to think you were just a lot of words, pure bullshit. After today, I give you a whole lot of credit. Let me think about us working together. It’s just an idea. Don’t rush me.”

  “We’ll make a sackful of money. I’ll find us new customers all over the place.”

  “But I don’t think I can cut you into the connection. He won’t meet anybody. He’s weird. The product has to come through me — only.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Stark said slowly. He paused, then accused: “What’s wrong? You don’t trust me? Think I’m a snitch or I’ll ace you out of the connection?”

  “No, man. I got to protect myself. As long as I supply the product in our partnership, you won’t have the opportunity to ace me out. Besides, the Man is very nervous.” He spread his hands wide, a gestured plea for understanding. “He won’t go for it, and he’ll freeze me out if I try. He doesn’t know about hustlers. He’s a square-john businessman trying to make a killing on the side. He’s scared of his shadow. He doesn’t even know I use. You don’t need to meet him. I can make the arrangements for what we need.”

  Momo spoke with such plaintive sincerity that Stark knew he couldn’t press further at this point without losing ground.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t have to know him. We can make money anyway.”

  “Sure. We’ll try and see what happens.” Momo hesitated, then looked Stark coldly in the eye. “One thing, though, I’m not sharing that broad.”

  “Ah, man,” Stark said, poking Momo reassuringly on the arm. “I know she’s your property.”

  The object of Momo’s admonishment was not at the apartment. According to a scribbled note, she had gone out to a movie. Momo accepted the information with his characteristic grunt. He was in a good mood and chattered with glee about the easy five hundred dollars he’d just made. He listened attentively to Stark’s brief sketch of the plan. They would enlist peddlers in the nearby small communities. Each had at least one base, a cocktail lounge or a pool hall, and a handful of junkie customers. The junkies presently had to travel fifty or more miles to Los Angeles to make purchases. Stark would set up one dealer in each area to work on consignment initially, and a runner to make the deliveries.

  “But we’ll work it out later,” Stark said as they finished fixing. He also pocketed two free grams for later. “There’s a lot of details, but that’s the basic idea. I’ve already got an idea for the runner, somebody who can’t run his mouth. Dummy.”

  Momo burst into wild laughter.

  “What’s so funny?” Stark asked.

  “Dummy!” gasped Momo, “as a runner!”

  “What’s so funny about that?” Stark asked irritably.

  “Nothing, except he’s my runner. And you don’t want to cross him. Believe me.”

  Stark rode another taxi downtown. He sat in a drug-induced snooze and let a cigarette burn down to finger-searing shortness, before flipping it from the window. He mulled on the puzzle of Dummy and the Man, wondering how he could track the guy to his quarry. Yet, try as he might, Stark could not associate Dummy with any businessman in Oceanview, nor anywhere else. Stark reached through his memory for any clue, but finally had to shake his head and put it off until he had more facts. The connection was still anonymous. Now, however, the bits of knowledge were filling into place. He’d find him. And maybe turn him in to Crowley. And then again, maybe not. His idea for a new dope network was beginning to seem attractive. Maybe it could work. Maybe Crowley would have to get another boy.

  8

  __________

  It was easy enough to find Dorie Williams. The beach community had only three movie theaters, and only one of these showed weekday matinees. There were only a handful of patrons. She was in an aisle seat, halfway down.

  Stark halted, while still unnoticed, beside her. A malicious grin crossed his face. He leaned down and dropped a hand firmly on her shoulder.

  “We want to talk to you at the station, Miss Williams,” he said coldly.

  Dorie jerked at the touch and words. A reflexive gasp issued from her. Stark knew the panic she felt. He chuckled as she turned to see what she assumed was a cop. “Oh, you asshole,” she said. “You fucking creep. I thought you were a cop.”

  “Funny, huh?” he said, sliding past her legs and plopping into the next seat. On the screen John Wayne was mauling the villain.

  “Good movie?” he asked.

  “It was awful, until you got here. Now it’s worse.”

  “Then let’s get out of here.”

  “You’re crazy. How’d you find me?”

  “I got your note.”

  “I left that for Momo.”

  “You put his name on it, but I knew it was for me.”

  “Did you steal it?”

  “No.”

  “You’re awfully sure of yourself…” Her voice rose sharply and stood out against a sudden lull of sound on the screen. Someone nearby made an irate “shhh” sound.

  “Come on,” Stark whispered, leaning close to breathe in the sweet scent of her perfume, and putting a hand gently on her arm. “We didn’t have time to talk before… We’ve got time now. I want to continue our conversation. Don’t you?”

  Dorie wavered, looked into his face in the flickering dimness; then, with a sigh of resignation, gathered her purse. He hungrily watched the swish of her wide hips as he followed her up the aisle.

>   It was dusk when they came out of the theater. Oceanview’s main drag was crowded with traffic hurrying from work, with square Johns and Janes trying to finish shopping and get home. Cars choked the streets in a honking tangle, crowds jostled in and out of the stores. A breeze was rising. In the deepening twilight the neon signs were throwing off their first glow, a halo-like aura that had not yet grabbed enough darkness to be brilliant. Dorie waited on the sidewalk. The breeze whipped her skirt against her legs.

  “Where should we go?” she asked. Her voice was thick and tense.

  “He won’t worry about you for a couple of hours.”

  She nodded slowly and dropped her eyes.

  “Yes. I have about two hours.”

  They hesitated, waiting for thoughts to jell. The pedestrians broke around them and hurried on. The street’s traffic struggled forward.

  “We can have a drink… or we can go to my place.”

  “Whatever you want.” She looked at him. He could not tell whether it was with surrender or hate. Stark took her arm and they started toward a cab stand.

  In the taxi there was silence for the first few blocks as he wondered why he was taking her to his pad. Then they were beyond the downtown section and the automobile picked up speed.

  “Is it very far?” Dorie asked.

  “About ten minutes’ drive.” Stark looked at her in profile against the backdrop of a red sun sinking into the sea. Hers was not a hardened face. There was something childish and undefiled - or perhaps only half defiled. It was not purity, really; neither was it evil. He did not know what it was, but it was fascinating.

  “I don’t know why I’m doing this,” Dorie said, speaking suddenly. “I don’t like you. You’re no good. Momo’s a crude animal, but you’re like a snake with shiny scales.”

  She spoke so quietly that Stark could not become angry. Instead, he felt dirty. He needed to lighten her up. He needed to lessen her loathing. He thought that humor might do it. “Maybe it’s like Bess and Crown - you know, in ‘Porgy and Bess’ — she couldn’t stay away from the evil Crown, even though she loved Porgy. When Crown called, she had to go.” He spoke in a semi-singing voice, jocularly.