Stark: A Novel

by Edward Bunker

  Stark slid across the front seat to the window, expecting some greeting. There was none, so he opened the door and stepped out. The skinny, freckled youth moved a few feet forward.

  “What you want, man?” the youth asked; his manner and voice were challenging.

  He grinned, trying to ease the suspicion. “I’m looking for your brother. Anyway, I think he’s your brother. You look like him. Alfie.”

  “Oh, yeah. Who are you?”

  “Not a parole officer or the fuzz.”

  Before the boy could respond, the screen door squeaked open and out popped the head of a hard-faced slattern wearing a red bandanna as a hair scarf. “Who’s that, Clyde?” she called.

  “A guy look in’ for Alfie, Ma.”

  “A friend of his,” Stark added.

  “If you’re a copper,” she yelled, “he ain’t here, and he ain’t gonna be here.”

  “Ya don’t know where ah could find him, do ya, ma’am?” Stark called, hoping a southern drawl would ease the hostility. “Do I look like the heat?”

  “He oughta be in hell… but he’s likely in some honky tonk with some junkies… like you. An’ ya better get outta here or I’ll call the law.”

  “Ah sure ain’t no junkie, but I’ll get to gettin’.”

  “Ya no damn good, whatever ya are.”

  He was already turning to leave. Clyde stepped closer and spoke so his mother could not see or hear. “You’d better split before she calls the cops. Alfie’s probably at the Pit Stop.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A roadhouse two miles on the highway. If you see him, tell him I’ll be there tonight.”

  “I’ll tell him. Thanks.”

  He went three miles outside town, in the direction of Los Angeles and found the roadhouse. Only four cars were in the front parking lot of the nondescript building that had been designed as something other than a night spot. It was ugly, gray, and low, and the original broad windows had been painted over. On the highway shoulder was a blue neon sign. A larger sign rose from the roof. Both announced: PIT STOP. COCKTAILS. DANCING. A banner dangled down the front of the building to announce that Arnold Hunter’s combo played there three nights a week.

  Stark knew the brand of entertainment to be found there after dark. Places like these sprouted on the highways outside cities and catered to a trade that was fast and loud and undiscerning. He got out and pushed through the heavy doors. The interior was dim and cool. The tables had been roped off, but the long bar was open, though there were only three customers - two young women in dresses too sleek for daytime in the hot weather and this rural setting and a slender young man in a filmy white shirt so soft as to be almost feminine. His sandy hair was clipped collegiate short and he was sipping a Tom Collins.

  Stark came up beside him. “Alfie.”

  The young man turned. His face was clean cut, tanned, and liberally freckled. His green eyes were clear and bright. He was in his early twenties. He grinned, exposing even, pearly teeth. “Ernie Stark, you punk! Where’s the ten dollars you borrowed?”

  He laughed. “Man, the statute of limitations ran out on that debt.”

  They shook hands. He took the adjacent stool and ordered a Tom Collins to match Alfie’s. The bartender moved away to make it.

  “Forget the dime,” the younger man said. “I learned more than that from you in jail. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

  Stark tossed a shoulder. “You never know in the underworld.”

  “What brings you around here?”

  “I was looking for you.”

  Alfie’s clean face wrinkled. “How’d you find me?”

  “Your kid brother. I went by your pad. He gave me the address. By the way, he said to tell you he’ll be in.” “He wants some weed. You’re lucky he was there. My ma wouldn’t tell you.”

  “She wanted to call the heat.”

  Alfie laughed and shook his head, then sobered. “Anyway, what brings you? Are you on the lam?”

  “No. I got a proposition. You look like you’re doing all right.”

  “You taught me some tricks. I’ve got a little broad hustling out of here, and I’m the night bartender. It isn’t a million, but I haven’t got any heat and that T-bird out there is mine… mine and the Bank of America.”

  “Are you using?”

  Alfie shook his drink around and stared into it. “A little. I ain’t hooked. Why? You got some?”

  “If you want a fix… Where can we get gear?”

  “In the toilet back there. I’ve got a ‘fit.”

  The bartender brought his drink and when Stark reached to pay, Alfie waved him away. He said to the bartender: “Tab me for it.”

  “Thanks, sport,” Stark said.

  “Ain’t nothing. Anyway —” Alfie grinned, “I give you a drink and you give me a fix. I’m ahead.”

  Stark took a swallow from the sweet cocktail. “Pretty good. It’d taste better after some junk. Let’s go geeze.”

  “You must be hooked,” Alfie said, moving off the stool. They went down the bar toward the rear.

  “How many junkies in Santa Ana?” Stark asked.

  “Nine or ten… hooked. Fifteen or twenty more who use stuff once in a while.” “You know ‘em?”

  “Most, I guess.” He opened the door to the men’s room and bolted it when they were inside. From beneath the sink he brought out an outfit wrapped in a handkerchief. They stopped talking until the eye dropper was squeezed empty into their veins. Alfie dabbed soap on the tip of his forefinger and carefully massaged the red dot on the puncture on his arm.

  “This is fucking great shit,” he said huskily, then faced Stark with glazed eyes.

  “So what’s the deal?”

  “Let’s go back outside.”

  Alfie hid the outfit in the same niche and the men went back to the gloomy main room. The girls had departed, and the bartender glared disapprovingly at the men. He guessed what they had done. But it was none of his business, so he kept away.

  The iced liquid tasted especially good to his dry mouth. Alfie was waiting. The men put their heads together and in soft tones he related the plan to Alfie. The younger man’s All-American face was chiseled hard as he listened; his green eyes blazed with the naked intensity of the hunter as he followed what was said. Yet, he did not glow with enthusiasm; his interest seemed remote. Stark sensed the reserved attitude and halted his pitch.

  “What’s wrong, man? Don’t you want to get involved? If you don’t, maybe there’s someone else here who wants to make some money and keep up a habit. It’s a good deal. The supply will be steady, and there’ll be a runner making the drops.”

  Alfie shook his head. “It ain’t that. I’d go for it myself only I don’t think you can move enough stuff to make it worthwhile.”

  “Why not?” There’s ten dope fiends buying steady and that’s two or three hundred a day gross. Those others who chippy will get hooked if the supply is steady. You know how that goes.”

  “The supply is steady already.”

  “Somebody else dealing?”

  Alfie nodded. “Not somebody from around here. One of those high rolling Mexican dope peddlers had the same idea as you. He’s got a guy making a run every day. Not only in Santa Ana but all the other little towns around here. I heard they’re bringing the shit in carloads.”

  “Sonofabitch,” Stark cursed.

  “The shit ain’t as good as yours, but most of the real customers are Mexicans and they’d buy from another Mexican first. There’s not enough customers for two connections.”

  Stark was deflated. While laying out his game, he had sold himself. His own words had added to his imagination. Now there was a major problem. A competitor. Silently, he glared into space.

  “Aw, fuck it,” he said. He sucked violently on his cigarette, exhaled the smoke in a tight stream as an expression of anger, and then mashed out the butt, sizzling, in the leavings of his glass. A scowl darkened his face. “Fuck this, now I got to
worry about goddamn Mexicans,” he snapped in frustration.

  “I know it’s a drag,” Alfie said with a shrug. “I’d like to pick up a few hundred a week… And it’d be so soft. There’s no heat on heavy narcotics around here at all.”

  “I wish I could say that about Oceanview.” Stark thought of the jowled face of Crowley. He knew that it would not be many days before the cop stormed back down on him with both flat feet. He winced in anticipation. The mood of confidence he had felt while driving to Santa Ana was now dispelled, despite the shot he’d just had. His habit was growing.

  “Man,” he said. “Here I got the best product, but no way to get it to the market. And I’m surrounded by fucking Mexs. I don’t like to snivel, but man oh man, you can’t imagine the hassles I’ve been in.”

  “If you need some bread, I can let you have fifty. You won’t pay it back, but I can afford it.”

  “No. I don’t need money. I need a smile from God, something.”

  “I ain’t got no drag in heaven,” Alfie grinned, then sobered, shaking his head. “I don’t know what to tell you. I can imagine how you feel, sitting on a gold mine with no way to get it out.”

  “My partner looks Mexican, but he doesn’t speak Spanish. He’s Hawaiian. Would they buy from him…” He trailed off, and his thoughts drifted to the situation of Momo and Dorie. Any intense feeling for a woman in his world was a sign of weakness. Dope fiends, thieves, and pimps would chuckle and ridicule. In fact, Stark found it hard to admit his growing attachment for Dorie, even to himself. He resented having her so constantly on his mind. He pushed away the problem and attempted to talk of other interests.

  “Have you seen anybody from the felony tank?” “A couple hoosiers,” Alfie said. “That old check writer Martin comes in here on the prowl for young chicks. My old lady ripped him off a couple of times.” Alfie gazed at his glass and fingered it, looking to attract the bartender’s attention. Then he suddenly brightened. “Hey, remember those two kids in the last cell?”

  Stark searched back. “Johnson and Kleger. Yeah, I remember.”

  “They stopped by here a couple times. They’re burning up with heat. They’ve been heisting everything in the state from Sacramento to San Diego. They shot up a market in Stockton. They’re only young punks, but they’ve got a pocketful of money and shoulder holsters with big pistols. They swaggered around here like they were Dillingers, had two drinks apiece and couldn’t stand up. My old lady balled one of them for a hundred pesos.” “They’ve got a short life expectancy.” “They’re making money. Living the good life.” “That’s good,” Stark said, sneering. “They’ll have memories during all the years they’ll serve. When they get pinched, if they don’t get killed, they can kiss everything off for a dozen years.”

  Alfie’s enthusiasm dulled under Stark’s bleak response. The younger man flagged the bartender and motioned toward the glass.

  “Yeah, they’re damned fools,” he muttered. “They’re staying at some dump called the Rendezvous Motel just the other side of Disneyland. They called up and wanted me to score some weed and bring it to them. I passed. Man, I wouldn’t get around them and maybe wind up in the middle of a gun battle with the cops. It ain’t my style. Those gunsels are crazy.”

  Stark shook his head. “I know what you mean. The whole game in the underworld today is just to survive and stay low. Scenes of shotguns and heavy capers belong back in the thirties.”

  The conversation died a natural death, each of them drifting off.

  He finished another drink and excused himself. They exchanged telephone numbers, Alfie giving that of an apartment and Stark the Panama Club.

  “If you get anything going, get in touch with me,” Alfie said. “I want to get enough together to buy a bar of my own and retire.”

  “At twenty-eight?”

  “The best time.”

  “I may have an angle. Can you set up a meet with the local Mex dealer? I’ll call you.”

  “Give me a couple hours’ notice.”

  Stark got up and gestured goodbye. Alfie sat quiet.

  “Don’t take a hot shot,” he said, smiling. Stark squeezed his bicep in a comradely gesture, winked, and then walked outside to blink in the dazzling yellow ferocity of Southern California sunlight.

  The highway was a torrent of vehicles, swift projectiles of cars whipping past relentless trucks. He joined this river, holding the station wagon in the slow lane behind a school bus carting boisterous high school students home.

  The Dodgers game was on the radio, and he listened with partial attention while he examined his dilemma. It wasn’t anxiety gnawing at him, but rather a plodding anger. He featured himself as a man swordfighting several opponents simultaneously, and unable to take enough time to finish one off.

  The idea came with startling suddenness. In an instant, he had the whole plan, and after a more deliberate examination and certain modifications and additions it got even better. It was a move of finesse to checkmate Pat Crowley, use the Mexican network, and pave the way to double crossing Momo. It struck him as being so clever as to be hilarious. He began to laugh. He laughed so hard that he almost didn’t see the bus in front of him come to a halt. He stomped the brake and swerved wildly to avoid a collision. The crisis momentarily sobered him, but as the highway opened again, he grinned at the beauty of his plan.

  A glance at his wristwatch told him there was still time to reach Los Angeles. He began to watch for the first cutoff to turn around. He was excitedly nervous the whole way.

  12

  __________

  The powerfully built man with slate blue eyes and the flattened nose of an ex-prizefighter sat behind the cluttered desk, listening intently, meanwhile thoughtlessly fingering an unlighted meerschaum pipe. Covering much of the wall behind him was a map of Southern California. He was the state’s chief narcotics officer for the region.

  Stark’s story and proposition spilled out in a driven mumble, accompanied by hand-wringing worry and a fearful demeanor. He was whining and servile, keeping his eyes down - though his mind was razor sharp. When he ran out of words, the man behind the desk held up a hand to restrain him. A silence ensued. The officer reflected, frowning on what he’d been told.

  “It’s interesting,” he said. “It’s reasonable, but it’s strange as hell. You’re coming here to set somebody up because Lieutenant Crowley — I know him — made a deal you can’t keep.”

  “It’s the truth, Mr. Wilson. I can help you but I can’t get what he wants. He isn’t interested in East L.A. or Santa Ana. It isn’t his territory. But it’s yours. If I can get out of this mess, I’ll straighten up my life.”

  Wilson snorted. “Don’t toss me that crap. All you want is some daylight.” Wilson mused again, face wrinkled. Prickles of doubt rose in Stark; he watched for some sign. Finally the man made a decision. “I haven’t got anything to lose. You wandered in here on your own. I can’t tell Crowley what to do. But I can talk to Pat and he’ll go along with me, I’m sure. I’ve heard about this delivery operation. It’s pretty big. Those small towns don’t have much of a narcotics squad so it’s up to me.”

  “I want to do this,” he said, and he wasn’t lying.

  “Are you sure you can do it?”

  “That’s why I came. Haven’t I told you the truth?”

  Mr. Wilson nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’ve got to say that. How long before you can set it up?”

  “Like I said, I’ll do it my way. I’ll be able to get the runner tomorrow, but we’ll wait a few days until I can get next to his boss. Then I’ll arrange something like a big delivery and you can get him on the way.”

  The state agent slowly filled his pipe with tobacco, his unblinking eyes never leaving Stark as he did so. He didn’t speak until he had finished lighting the pipe and the smoke curled around his face. He seemed to stare into Stark’s soul.

  Stark felt naked, nervous. The man frightened him. He wished he hadn’t come here, yet he searched for something more, hoping to
turn off the penetrating gaze. Then, he remembered something.

  “This isn’t a narcotics problem,” he said, “but there’s a couple kids who’ve been heisting markets… trigger happy punks. They’re wanted real bad. Johnson and Kleger…’’

  “What about them?”

  “They’re holed up in the Rendezvous Motel, near Disneyland.”

  Wilson reached for a telephone. His attitude toward Stark was now more relaxed. Stark sighed and looked out the window. It was getting late in the day; the smog filtered sun was just beginning to wane.

  It was almost dark when the station wagon slowed its plunge to enter the outskirts of Oceanview. The boulevard lights cast their brilliant, sterile glows, spilled in pools onto the asphalt, flashed across the waxed enamel of hurtling automobiles and made them gleam in varied hues.

  He had the car radio on, listening to the soft music and waiting for the baseball scores. The hourly news broadcast mentioned events in the far corners of the globe, and then, closer to home, tersely mentioned that a highway patrolman and a bandit had been slain in a gun battle at an Anaheim motel. Dead were Officer William Canton and a twenty-year-old, identified as ex-convict, Donald Kleger. Stark’s ears focused. A second bandit had been flushed with tear gas and captured. The officer was survived by a wife and three children.

  “Shitheads,” Stark muttered, thinking of Kleger and Johnson. “That’s what they get for playing Dillinger…” One was dead and the other would go to the gas chamber for the cop - which wasn’t really a bad trade. He felt no guilt over what his tip had caused. He wished he could trade a criminal’s life for a cop’s more often…

  A minute later they were forgotten. He was imagining Crowley and the look on his fat face when Wilson told him. It was worth a chuckle. Maybe Crowley would work himself into a heart attack and die. Only that was too much to hope for. As for the Mexicans, they were so dumb they wouldn’t know how or why they’d been caught.

  Momo’s apartment was less than a block off his route, so Stark stopped there. But the tenement dwelling was empty. He drove on to his own apartment to bathe, fix, and change clothes. On the way back to town, he halted at a beachside steakhouse, leisurely consuming a chop, and propositioning the indignant waitress.