Stick Read online

  Stick didn’t know where to look. At her tiny white panties between tan tummy and thighs or at her big white breasts. It was better than a cellblock dream, beyond imagination. She came to the foot of the bed, bent over, aimed her can at him and picked up a pair of designer jeans, turned then and sat down on the bed with the jeans in her lap.

  “I don’t know what to do.” That lower lip quivering a little, pushing out.

  Stick knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to bite that lip off. First. He walked over to her, reached out carefully and put his hand on her shoulder. There, there. She didn’t spook, draw back. He said, “Don’t worry, I’ll”—what?—”help you out. If I can.” And saw those kitty eyes raised, peering out from among long dark lashes. He eased down on the bed, arm moving around her back. The poor little thing. She snuggled against him, laid her hand on the tight material across his thigh.

  “He doesn’t care about me. How I feel.” Yes, she wanted to be comforted—this little girl all by herself. He brought his hand past those beauties to her bare arm and stroked it gently, saw her face raise in the lamplight, her sorrowful eyes. “I feel so lonely.”

  “I know . . .”

  “Will you be nice to me?”

  “I’ll try—I mean I will. I’ll be nice as can be to you.”

  She slid up around his black suit, cat turning to snake, arms going around his neck, acrobatic tan thighs twisting, uncoiling to straddle him, feeling her pushing and letting himself be pushed over to lie on the rainbow-design spread, her mouth coming down on his now, murmuring, “Will you take me home after?”

  His mouth on hers made mmmmm sounds, like he was humming.

  Did he sleep? Maybe for a minute, fading out and back again, opening his eyes to her lazy gaze, a tangle of dark hair spread over the rainbow pillow.

  She said, very softly, “Boy, you’re good. Whoever you are.” She said, surprised, but still softly, “You still have your tie on.” She said, sounding drowsy, eyes closing, “Would I love a glass of milk.”

  It sounded good, an ice-cold glass. But he chose a can of Bud instead, closed the refrigerator, light gone from the kitchen again, and popped the can. Aurora could have her milk in the morning, when she woke up. He wanted a cigarette. He hadn’t had a cigarette in almost four years but he wanted one now. He could live on simple pleasures. Every once in a while accept one not so simple. When the sound came from the hall he thought of an animal; it was like a series of grunts, low snuffling sounds. Close.

  He placed his beer on the counter and stepped over to the doorway to listen. Mrs. Hoffer, snoring. The cook’s room was right there, a wing off the kitchen. The maids went home to Little Havana when they were through. Barry said they went home every night and brushed their hair, a hundred strokes, then they’d do the other leg.

  A voice said, “Oh . . .”

  He turned to see a figure in the hall, faint light from a window far behind telling him it was Mrs. Stam, a silhouette within a sheer cover that reached the floor.

  “Did you hear something?” Her voice a whisper.

  “I think it’s Mrs. Hoffer.”

  “No, I mean outside.”

  “It could’ve been me. I just came in.”

  “No, it was something else. Would you look, please?”

  She turned and he followed her, hearing bare feet pat on marble. She brought him out to the morning room past fat chairs finished in canvas and over to one of the arched openings. They stood at a border of flower pots, Stick behind her, hunching a little to see out past the awning at eye level. They looked out at the terrace in clear, cloudless moonlight, at the sweep of lawn beyond the pool, the bay like a little ocean and there it was in the night sky. He felt a warm rush, an irresistible urge and had to say it.

  “Shine on my love and me.”

  Diane’s head turned, chin to her shoulder, so that he saw her profile in soft illumination and caught the expensive scent of her perfume. She said, “What?”

  “Moon over Miami,” Stick said. “It’s true. There it is.”

  She said, “Oh.” After a moment she said, “Yes, it is.” She stood without moving.

  He said, “What are we listening for?”

  “Wait.” Quietly, a hushed tone.

  She turned then very slowly, staring out at the terrace. Her shoulder touched his chest. She remained this way until her face came closer and she said, though not looking at him, “I’m frightened.”

  “Of what?”

  “Would you walk out by the hedge?”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “I’m not sure. Whatever it is . . .”

  “Whatever what is?”

  “Please . . .”

  He ducked under the awning, walked across the flagstones to the low hedge that bordered the top level of the terrace, looked across at the tiers descending to the pool. Looked the other way, past the sloping lawn to the turnaround by the garage. He came full circle, slowly, until he was facing the house again.

  Diane stood within the oval arch, facing him in moonlight, waiting . . . that picture out of early memory more than thirty years ago of a bare naked lady with a bush of hair between her legs and it hadn’t changed one bit, it was true and beautiful as ever, as real as that moon over Miami and he was a boy again in a grown-man’s chauffeur’s suit with the lady of the house ready to go for a ride . . . on fat canvas cushions on the floor, as it turned out. She nearly killed him she was so much moving female telling him to do it, do it, saying oh, God, oh, God, do it, that quiet woman set free, Stick wondering what kind of glittering phase of his life he was going through this woman so pleased she couldn’t believe it, breathless the way he stayed with her and never let up till she was wrung limp and Stick was soaring to his own stars and said to her, cocky, “Now it’s my turn . . .”

  Kyle said, “You’ve changed. Good.”

  He followed her into the yellow living room softly lighted, set to music he couldn’t identify but good stuff that had a George Benson sound with subtle percussion rimshots rocking it along. He had changed into his lime green knit shirt and laundered khakis, and brushed his teeth, and washed up here and there.

  “I hope I didn’t take too long. I was afraid you’d be in bed.”

  “No, I’m wide awake. You’re the one looks tired.”

  “Been a long day,” Stick said. And not over yet. “They keep me jumping, when I’m not waiting around.”

  Was she looking at him funny? She wasn’t as tall as before; barefoot now, but still wearing the dress with little thin straps. Her tan skin glowed in the lamplight. The whites of her eyes seemed whiter. When they settled into the deep sofa with the scotch she poured, Kyle sat low with her legs stretched out, bare feet crossed on the cocktail table. She was a cushion away from him. He thought of her in the car this afternoon and said, “What’s float mean? And P-E?”

  She said, “Is that what you want to talk about?” The way she had sounded when she told Barry she was tired.

  “No, but tell me some time. There a lot of words you have to learn?”

  “No more than if you wanted to be a croupier. Or a car salesman. You probably know a lot of words I don’t. So there you are.” Now she sounded more relaxed than tired, her head turned against the cushion, looking at him.

  Stick said, “I wondered—you don’t mind I was in jail? It doesn’t make you nervous?”

  “No, it surprises me, you lived that kind of life. I know you’re smarter than that, just talking to you.”

  “It looked easy,” Stick said. “What do you have to know to steal a car? Get in and start it.”

  “What about the risk, was that part of it? The excitement?”

  “I was making a living. I’d drive a cement truck, a transit-mix for a while, then go back to it. I don’t know—maybe I thought I was getting away with something. I was a lot younger and dumber then. I did a little time for cars; then I was picked up again and thought I’d be going away for quite a while. But at the pretrial exam the witness got
on the stand and said he made a mistake, he’d never seen me before. I couldn’t believe it. Till after, I find out he has a plan of his own. Did Barry mention Frank Ryan to you?”

  “Was that your partner?”

  Stick nodded. “I never said a word about Frank, but he knew all about him, like somebody read him my sheet.”

  “Barry has a friend in the Dade State Attorney’s office,” Kyle said. “That’s his source. His friend called the Detroit police.”

  “That’s what I thought. Anyway, Frank Ryan was the witness. He was a car salesman. I mean a real one. So after I was let off Frank took me aside and told me his plan—his ten rules for success and happiness in armed robbery—and we went in business together.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, he had ten rules. I remember he wrote ’em down for me on cocktail napkins.”

  “Were you successful?”

  “For about three months.”

  “Happy?”

  “When I wasn’t scared to death. It was a lot different than picking up a Cadillac and selling it down in Ohio for parts, but there was a lot of money in it too.”

  “What were some of the rules?”

  “Well, like, always be polite on the job. Say please and thank you.”

  “You serious?”

  “Keeps everybody calm. Never call your partner by name, when you’re in the place. Never use your own car. Never flash money. Never tell anybody your business . . . Like that, just common sense. They worked, too.”

  “Then why’d you get caught?”

  “We broke rule number ten. Never associate with people known to be in crime. We teamed up with some guys that Frank knew and . . . well, it didn’t work out.”

  “Where’s Frank? Still in prison?”

  “He died in Jackson. Cirrhosis. He got hooked on moonshine they made out of potatoes. Toward the end his stomach was out to here, his liver . . . Dumb shit. I told him, he wouldn’t listen. He never learned how to jail. You know, live in a place like that. So, he died.”

  “Were you good friends?”

  “Well, we were together all the time. We had a nice apartment. Sometimes, it was like we were married, the kind of arguments we had. Over little picky things that didn’t matter. But we had a good time for a while. It was different, I’ll say that.”

  “What’re you smiling at?”

  “Nothing, really. I can hear him bitching, like an old lady.”

  “Do you miss him?”

  “Do I miss him? No, I don’t miss him, I remember him, you know, I suppose we were pretty close at that. But it was a different kind of life and it’s over.”

  She said, “Didn’t you feel you were doing anything wrong? Stealing?”

  “Sure, I knew it was wrong. And I knew I’d have to pay for it if I got caught. I accepted that. And that’s what happened and now it’s over with. Done. Now I’m going to get in the stock market, become a financial expert.”

  She said, “You probably could”—still with her head against the cushion—”if you wanted to. Why not? We could trade places. I’ll get a designer chauffeur uniform.”

  “What’s the matter with what you’re doing?”

  “I don’t know—I’m tired of it.”

  “I think I mentioned that this afternoon.”

  “I know you did. But I’m not tired of it—as you implied, because I tell my clients what to do and they make all the money. Money doesn’t have anything to do with it. I’m tired of this middle position, advising. There’s no tangible satisfaction. What I’d like, I think, is to run a manufacturing business. Produce something, an end product, and not just deal in paper.”

  “How about portable water tanks?” Stick said. “I understand, you sell to the military there’s a lot of money in it.”

  She said, just barely smiling, “You’re kind of a show-off, aren’t you? But very subtle. ‘Do you see anything you like?’ And before Chucky knows it he’s your straight man, ‘No, I guess not,’ and walk away. You’re an actor, aren’t you?”

  “Nope. I’m a very simple soul.”

  “What’s the name of the water tank company?”

  “Ranco Manufacturing.”

  “What’re some other good buys?”

  “Automated Medical Labs. Kaneb Services. Firestone, maybe, if there’s a takeover.”

  “You’re scary.”

  Stick eased over to rest his arm on the cushion separating them, leaning closer to her. “But I still don’t know what a float is, or options.”

  She said, “I have a feeling you could learn everything there is to know in about two days.”

  “You want to teach me?” He touched her hand lying in her lap, fingertips tracing fine bones.

  She said, “I don’t know if I’m ready for you,” though she turned her hand over, felt his calloused palm and slowly laced her fingers into his, still with her head against the cushion of the backrest, eyes mildly appraising, perhaps curious. “I think I’m out of practice. I deal with people who read balance sheets and play business golf and go from the club to board-of-directors meetings.”

  “You don’t have any fun?”

  She said, “I have friends—we go to polo matches, we go sailing, we play tennis . . .”

  “Yeah? . . .”

  “When I’m home, but I travel quite a lot.”

  “You going with a guy?”

  “No, not really. I see the same people most of the time . . . I go to dinner parties and sit next to recently divorced men, most of them very wealthy . . .”

  “Yeah? . . .”

  “And listen to them talk about themselves. Or real estate.”

  “You get to laugh much?”

  “Politely. Nothing’s that funny.”

  “It sounds like the whole show is.”

  “Yeah, if there was somebody else, you know, to nudge and say, God, listen to that pontificating asshole; but I feel like I’m alone, I don’t fit in.”

  Stick worked up closer to her, laid his head against the cushion to face hers, only a few inches away. He said, “You poor little girl, you could be having fun and you’re stuck with humbuggers. You need somebody to play with.” Meaning to volunteer and wondering seriously if this was the evening he’d go for the hat trick.

  Three goals, three different girls, this one with blue eyes becoming sad and a soft powdery scent—this one a giant step beyond the other two, a girl he could talk to and nudge and they’d give each other knowing looks. He was confident with the feeling he had engraved himself on her and she was attracted to him, for whatever reason.

  She said, “I’m not sure what to call you.”

  What difference did it make? He said, “Ernest. That’s my real name. I don’t think of it much one way or the other. Stick I’m used to, it’s all right. But now Kyle, that’s a winner.”

  She said, “You want to know something?”

  He said, “Uh-oh. What?”

  “I made it up.”

  “Come on—you did?”

  “You want to know my real name? . . . Emma.”

  He said, “Emma,” rolled it around in his head and began to nod, slowly. “Emma. Emma Peel. What’s wrong with it?”

  “It sounds like enema. That’s what kids used to call me.”

  He said, “But you’re grown up now, Em,” and raised his head enough to place his mouth on hers, kissed her with meaning while holding back a little, showing her he had restraint and was in control of himself, and so he would not look awkward if she twisted away. But she didn’t. Her mouth began to work on his, gradually getting more serious about it—Stick keeping up, with no more glimpses of those other two, no more comparing or counting goals—until Kyle said, “I want to go to bed with you . . .”

  He recognized Herbie Hancock working away in the living room now, the chorus telling them Give It All Your Heart, with drive, determination, but something had happened to his timing and across the bay the moon was gone, down behind Miami.

  He said in the dark
, “I don’t know what’s the matter.”

  She said, “It’s all right. Let’s go to sleep.”

  “I guess it’s just one of those things. You never know.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m agreeing with you. It’s just one of those things. Don’t get mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad . . . You think I’m mad?”

  “Why don’t we go to sleep? All right?”

  “Fine . . .”

  15

  THE FIRST THING STICK’S FORMER wife Mary Lou said to him after seven and a half years was, “Do you know what time it is?” Holding the door open with one hand, her robe closed with the other. She had three pink curlers sitting squarely on top of her head.

  “It’s about nine o’clock,” Stick said. “Can I come in?”

  “It’s ten minutes of,” Mary Lou said. “You woke me up—you know what time you woke me up?”

  “I think it was about eight,” Stick said.

  “It was seven-forty. Because I looked at the clock. I could not imagine who could possibly be calling at seven-forty on Sunday morning.”

  Stick said, “What happened, I got a car to use right after I talked to you, if I’d drop somebody off in Lauderdale first. So I had to do it right away. Otherwise I’d be thumbing half the day and still might not get here.”

  She was looking past him toward the street. “That’s the car? It’s pretty old, isn’t it?”

  “A Rolls-Royce, Mary Lou, it doesn’t matter how old it is.” He glanced around at it, sitting out there on a street of cement ranch bungalows, bikes and toys on front lawns, where no Rolls had ever been before: Pompano Beach, a block off Federal Highway.

  She said, as he knew she’d have to, “Did you steal it?” She had not changed one bit, still with that drawn look about the nose, like she was smelling her own bitter aura.

  He said, “It’s my boss’s. We gonna stand here and talk or can I come in and see Katy?”