Stick Page 23

  “It’s only what I hear.”

  “Yes? What is it looks good these days?”

  “Well,” Stick said, “let me see. You know Chi-Chi’s, the fast-food chain? It’s at eighteen and a quarter. They say it should go up to thirty. Another one, Wendy’s, looks good . . .”

  Nestor took a pen from his shirt pocket, reached for an envelope among his mail lying on the stone table next to the two revolvers.

  “How does it look, that one, McDonald’s?”

  “I think it’s around seventy-five,” Stick said.

  “Yes, seventy-five and five-eights this morning.”

  “Yeah, well, I understand it should be up over a hundred pretty soon.”

  “I don’t think so,” Nestor said.

  “Well, I got a thousand bucks, or will have,” Stick said, “thinks it’ll be a hundred or better by January.”

  He watched Nestor mark it down on his envelope.

  23

  STICK WROTE ON TABLET PAPER: Although Buck and Charlie are famous and experienced trafficers dealers, they are able to get be believed to be government agents, because of all the confusion there is among the different state and U.S. law enforcement groups that are falling all over each other and not telling each other what they are doing in their work of trying to stop the trafficing dealing in controlled substances and apprehend the alleged . . .

  Jesus.

  It was hard.

  Why didn’t he just say: Since none of the feds know what the fuck they are doing, they believe that Buck and Charlie are . . .

  Cornell came out of his bedroom, sleep in his eyes. “You doing, writing to your mama?”

  “Yeah, got to let her know I’m all right.”

  Cornell scratched himself idly, down to the bulge in his low-slung briefs. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I made a stop on the way home. Figured nobody’d be looking for me.”

  “They going out in the boat today. You suppose to meet them up in Lauderdale. I believe the man say five o’clock.”

  “What suit do I wear?”

  “Didn’t tell me that. Why don’t you surprise him? Wear the tan suit with the black car and see if it freaks him any.”

  Stick thought of the telephone in the Cadillac, the cord ripped out of the box. He could see Barry picking it up his look of amazement . . .

  He said, “Or the gray suit with the tan car?”

  “Whatever your imagination tells you,” Cornell said. “The maids call early this morning. You hear it?”

  “Not a sound.”

  “They call me to tell the madam they don’t have a ride today. The car won’t start, like they know it ahead of time. Monday, the cook’s day off . . . gonna be quiet around here. You got any plans? You could probably go someplace, you wanted to.”

  “You trying to get rid of me?”

  “Man, free time, take it when you can.”

  It sounded good. Stick wrote two entire pages while Cornell made coffee and had his breakfast. When Cornell went into the bathroom Stick picked up the phone and dialed a number.

  “Mary Lou? Hi, it’s me . . . Come on—I want to talk to Katy . . . You sure? . . . The only reason I ask, the last time you thought she was sleeping she wasn’t even home.” He held the phone at arm’s length while Mary Lou commented and he caught only some of the words, like, “Boy, you think you’re so smart,” and so forth along those lines. Stick brought the phone to his face again and said, “Mary Lou? If I have to get a court order I’m going to talk to Katy whether she’s sleeping or what.” Mary Lou hung up on him. He called her back and said, “I think we had a bad connection.” Mary Lou said, “We sure did,” and hung up again. Jesus. A lovely person. The mother of his only child. Himself forty-two and not too likely to have any more, unless . . . He dialed the number again. “Mary Lou? Could I ask you a special favor?” He heard her say, away from the phone, “Nobody,” and heard his daughter’s voice in the background. He yelled, “Katy!” loud. Very loud. He heard her voice in the background say, “But I want to talk to him . . .”

  And heard her say into the phone, “Hi. What’re you doing?” As though she really wanted to know.

  Stick grinned. “Nothing. What’re you doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You want to do something?”

  “Sure.”

  “You want to do some typing, take you about an hour maybe?”

  “Sure. But I don’t have a typewriter.”

  Stick said, “Honey, that’s the least of our worries.”

  Kyle was having breakfast with Barry on the patio.

  Stick watched them from the edge of the acacia trees, near the garage. He would like to avoid Barry this morning, but he wanted to see Kyle. He missed her. When he wasn’t with her he imagined and believed she had already changed her mind about him. From the good feeling he saw in her eyes to no feeling. He couldn’t hold on to the confidence he felt when he was with her. Was it a sign? He hadn’t dreamed about her yet. But maybe she was at the top of the stairs he kept falling down.

  Ask Nestor.

  The cruiser Seaweed rumbled in out of the bay, stark, clean white, sunlight flashing on its glass and bright metal. Barry headed for the dock with his newspapers.

  And Kyle was looking toward the house, the garage . . . Stick felt his confidence in place again, as though there had been no hollow feeling, doubts of any kind. He walked across the lawn and she was coming toward him now, coming so close he put his arms around her and was self-conscious for only a moment. It didn’t matter if anyone was watching, they had to touch each other, renew the familiar feel.

  He said, “Well, I got it straightened out.”

  “How?”

  “I saw Nestor. We had a nice talk.”

  “Just like that,” Kyle said. “You make everything sound easy.”

  She seemed relieved, though with a hint of suspicion, not knowing what he was doing; left out.

  “You saw him last night?”

  “I thought I might as well get it over with. I went to see him . . . He’s scary, but you can talk to him.”

  “Ernest?” Looking up at him with those eyes. “Are you playing with me?”

  “I would never do that. Spooky things’re going on around us, but I think we’re safe.”

  “I’m going home Wednesday or Thursday. After that I’ll be in Boston a few days.”

  He said, “How’ll we work it?”

  She said, “When it’s no longer convenient? I don’t know, I’m going to leave it up to you.”

  He said, “Emma? . . .”

  She took a moment to answer him. “What?”

  “If I make a lot of money, will you tell me what to do with it?”

  She said, “Any time. But I don’t think you need me.” And seemed to smile then, almost, and said, “I miss you, Ernest, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

  Stick said, “We’ll think of something.”

  * * *

  He stood with Cornell and waved as Seaweed put out to sea. “It’s the custom,” the houseman said. “Wave some more. Like the man’s going out to kill whales and won’t be home till Christmas. Bye, bye. Have fun, y’all. Don’t worry about us stay-at-homes . . .”

  Cornell was watching television when Stick came out of his room, dressed to go, wearing his tan suitcoat, his gray trousers, a pale blue shirt and black tie. Cornell looked over and blinked.

  “Gonna freak the man outta his head. What color car?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Take the green Mercedes, the lady ain’t going nowhere. Yeah, gonna freak him good. So where you off to?”

  “The bank first. I want to open an account. I think over at Florida First National.”

  “That’s a good one.”

  “Then I’m going up to Pompano, see my little girl.”

  “Beautiful. Have a nice day, man.”

  Stick felt like he was on display sitting by the big plate-glass window, people going by on
Thirty-sixth Street—he felt them watching him as he filled out the application.

  The assistant manager said, “That should do it. Now, let me give you a receipt.” He counted the four fifties and the three one-hundred-dollar bills again. To make sure, Stick felt, he hadn’t palmed one back in his pocket.

  “And what type of business is it, Mr. Norman?”

  “Mr. Stickley,” Stick said.

  “Yes, I beg your pardon.” Looking at the application again. “Mr. Stickley, yes. And the company is Norman Enterprises. May I ask what you do?” Looking interested, leaning forward on the desk.

  Stick said, “No, I don’t think you better.”

  The assistant manager laughed politely and smiled and waited. Stick thanked him and left with his receipt.

  Next—a pay phone.

  It didn’t occur to Stick until this moment that Chucky’s number was not likely to be found in a telephone directory. He looked, before leaving the bank, and it wasn’t. He tried Information and was told there was no listing. So he’d have to go back to the Stam residence and hope the number was somewhere in Barry’s den. He said to himself, see? A simple thing like that. He’d have to get in the habit of writing down what he had to do. And then said, what do you mean, get in the habit? This was a one-shot deal.

  Wasn’t it?

  Stick left the Cadillac in the shady part of the turnaround. He felt like a burglar walking into the house, not hearing a sound. It seemed empty and might be, though he had seen no one outside or expected to. Diane wasn’t a sunbather and it wouldn’t do much for Cornell to sit out there; though he could have deepened his color up at Butler, chopping weeds. Road gang tan. And look at us now—couple of former inmates walking around here where no hack would ever set foot, no probation or parole officer, none of those people on the good side.

  He went into Barry’s black den, almost all black but for rich touches of red and gold, the blown-up Barry in black and white looking down from the wall, innocent eyes open wide. Who, me?

  Yes, you. Showboater.

  But a nice guy, basically. If you had to work for anybody for any length of time and didn’t want a boss-type boss.

  Barry’s leather-bound address book, red Morocco, sat on the black desk. Chucky was not among the Gs. No, he was with the Cs. Chucky Gorman on Sunrise, Fort Lauderdale. Might as well do it now.

  Stick dialed.

  Lionel answered. He said wait.

  When Chucky’s voice came on it sounded strange, clear but distant, small.

  Stick said, “You know who this is?”

  “You want to appraise my furniture, my paintings?”

  “I’d like to talk to you . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “I mean in private. I can’t talk here.”

  “You want to come up?”

  “I was thinking someplace else.”

  “You can’t get it any more private. I mean this is private, man.”

  “It’s too high up.”

  “What’re we going to discuss? If it’s five grand and I were you I wouldn’t come here either.”

  “No, I understand. I thought it was worth a shot.”

  “One, that’s all. So tell me what we’re gonna discuss you’re afraid if I don’t like it I’ll drop you out the fifteen-story window?”

  “All I can say—I mean over the phone—if you like it, fine. You don’t, okay. Nobody’s out anything. But it’s the kind of deal could interest you. I happened to find out about it . . . I thought, well, I’ll lay it on you. You like it, then you know I’m not holding nothing against you.”

  “You think I give a shit if you are?”

  “You know what I mean. I can’t explain it, I got to show you.”

  “You trying to sell me a stock tip?”

  “No, it’s not like that, but”—he dropped his voice—”it’s from that source, if you know what I mean.”

  “Something Barry’s into?”

  “You got it.”

  “Where you want to meet? ‘Cross the street?”

  “That’s fine. How about three o’clock? Around in there.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Stick said, “That’s all I ask, Mr. Gorman.” Which might have been the most difficult thing he ever said in his life. He hated to lie.

  A typewriter . . .

  Right there, trim little Olivetti portable electric. He was not disappointed when he could not find the case; he walked out into the hall carrying the typewriter in front of him, and stopped.

  What he saw was real. Cornell carrying a silver tray, silver decanter with a long, delicately curved spout, two silver goblets. He had come out of the hall from the kitchen, turned into this main, lateral hallway about twenty feet from Stick—turned before seeing him—and was now walking toward the bedroom wing.

  What was unreal, Cornell wore a gold headband around his moderate natural and that was it. Otherwise the man was naked, showing a pronounced demarcation between back and buttocks, burnt sienna over caramel.

  Stick followed—he would say he was unable to stop himself—drawn along with the typewriter to Diane’s bedroom . . . cautiously through the room to a view of the atrium, the enclosed garden between the Stams’ master bedrooms.

  Stick remained inside the room, at the edge of drawn gold draperies, with a clear view of Cornell dropping to one knee, head bowed, offering the silver wine service to Diane, who sat on something Stick could not see, hidden by the folds of her transparent white negligee, her pale body naked beneath.

  Diane said, “Arise, slave. And as you offer the cup, say how you will delight me with rites of barbaric pleasure.”

  Cornell rose, placed the tray on a low pedestal next to Diane. He poured champagne into the goblets, bowed as he handed one to Diane and said, “Yes, O Queen. What I am going to perform up one royal side of you and down the other, in the dark and savage land where I come from is called . . . the Freaky Deaky.”

  Diane said, “Let the rites begin.”

  Cornell turned and came into the bedroom. He walked past Stick to a stereo system, snapped in a cassette and turned it on. As the Dazz Band came out in full strength, began to funk its way through Let It Whip, he turned up the volume, started back to the atrium and stopped. Cornell looked directly at Stick holding the typewriter.

  Said, “Come bearing a gift, huh? You want to be a barbarian rapist or a slave that gives pleasure?”

  Stick said, “I got to go up the road . . .”

  Cornell said, “It’s cool. We catch you next time.”

  24

  STICK GOT TO WOLFGANG’S ATten after three, came into the dimness, the beer smell, with a thick manila envelope under his arm. He saw Chucky and Lionel right away, at a table in back talking to the guy who owned the place. Stick went up to the bar and waited for Bobbi to notice him. There—the big smile. This girl always made him feel good.

  “Well, how you doing?”

  “Not too bad.”

  “What’re you up to now?” Nodding at his outfit. “You still working for Barry?”

  “Yeah, for a while anyway.”

  “How’s your daughter?”

  “I’m glad you asked,” Stick said. “You should see her type.” He held up the nine-by-twelve manila envelope, placed it on the bar. “Fourteen years old, she could get a job in an office. Typed about ten pages for me, no mistakes. I offered to pay her”—he seemed both proud of this and surprised—”she wouldn’t take it.”

  “Well, of course not. You’re her dad.”

  “But I made her. Since I’m about seven years behind in her allowance.”

  Bobbi said, “Keep your shirt buttoned, Stickley, your heart’ll fall out.”

  Lionel came over while Bobbi was pouring him a bourbon. He’d wanted to have a quick one or two first, but Lionel said, “What you doing? Chucky’s waiting for you.”

  Stick turned on the stool with his surprised look. “Yeah? Where?”

  Chucky was wearing his fishing cap that had an extra
-long peak, tan cotton with the restful smoked-plastic visor he could pull down eye level and turn day to gray evening. He felt no pain or anxiety—he was moving product, already most of the load Nestor had delivered—and he did not see his life at the present time in abnormal danger. If he had to tell what he felt at the moment—watching Ernest Stickley coming from the bar in sporty tan and gray attire—he would say curiosity. With a little suspicion thrown in to keep him on his toes. Living in what Chucky believed was the rip-off capital of the world could do that to you. Make you squint at life.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Stick said, holding the envelope to his chest, his drink in the other hand.

  He glanced around the room as he sat down. Chucky noted this and said, “Nobody here but afternoon drunks, a few tourists and maybe a sporty opportunist.” Watching Stick closely, testing him with, “I called Barry this morning . . .”

  Stick said, “Oh, shit,” like all was lost.

  “But he was gone,” Chucky said, grinning now. He saw Stick nervous, leaning in close to the table, looking so different than he did that first time.

  “Jesus,” Stick said, “I thought you understood. Mr. Stam finds out about this I’m out of work.”

  “Well, let’s have it,” Chucky said. “Whatcha got?”

  Stick had the envelope in front of him on the table. He pressed a hand on it as Chucky reached over.

  “I don’t think you better read it here.”

  “You picked this place.”

  “Well, just look at the first part. Okay?” He brought the prospectus out of the envelope and handed it to Chucky.

  A familiar feel, familiar words, most of them. Chucky said, “You putting me on? This is the same shit as yesterday.”

  Stick shook his head. “Look at it good. Norman Enterprises . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “You see the title? Scam. Turn to the next page. No, the next one. See how it works? Thirty-five limited partners putting in seventy-two five each?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s almost the same deal. But it’s different. They worked on it yesterday, Barry and Leo Firestone, till late last night. They got a different story now. About a couple of dealers named Charlie and Buck . . .”