Chucky took her hand. He said, “Jane, you want to be in show biz you ought to do some exercise, build up those pectorals.”
Stick watched the girl smile as she shrugged, a nice lazy move. She said, “I work behind the camera, Mr. Gorman, so it really doesn’t matter if I have tits or don’t have them, does it?” She said, “Very nice meeting you,” and walked away.
Chucky said, “How ’bout that?” looking past his shoulder. “That’s a spunky girl, you know it?” He came back to Stick. “And you have to be some kind of spunky fella, hanging around here. We been looking all over for you.”
Stick said, “How come?”
“Well, we thought you might be confused, what happened to Rainy . . .”
Barry’s voice said, “Gentlemen, if you’ll take a seat, we’d like to get started.”
Stick leaned on the bar. He said, “Chucky?” and waited as he glanced around at Barry and then at Nestor. Chucky seemed anxious now. “I did time, twice, and made it, no problem.”
“I heard that,” Chucky said.
“Doesn’t it tell you anything? Am I gonna go to Metro, give ’em a statement? They punch a button my sheet’s on the screen. I say I was there, they gonna believe I was just watching?”
Barry’s voice said, “Gentlemen . . . Chucky, hey, come on!”
Chucky said to Stick, “I’m not your problem, man. Nestor wants to talk to you.”
“That’s fine,” Stick said. Chucky started to turn away and Stick said, “Hey, Chucky? I’m not a problem long as you pay what you owe me.”
Chucky frowned at him. “You talking about?”
“Five grand,” Stick said. “The suitcase was delivered, wasn’t it?”
Chucky stared; he seemed about to say something, but Barry called his name again and Chucky walked over to the conference table.
Barry introduced Leo Firestone, who rose and said, “Gentlemen, when you’re making love to a Jewish woman, you know how to tell when she reaches her climax?” He looked down the long table of impassive faces. “My dear wife Roz, the original princess, mother of two fine boys, Scott and Sherm, always blushes becomingly when I get to the punch line. Okay, from the top. You’re making love to a Jewish woman—you know how to tell when she reaches her climax?” Firestone snapped his fingers. “Cue the blush from Roz. Punch line: she drops her emery board.”
Barry raised his eyebrows. “It’s true, believe me.”
Firestone said, “What I want to do here is get you guys to drop your emery boards and realize this isn’t another dry, boring investment proposal. It’s an opportunity to have some fun for a change around a conference table. A profit opportunity to get those twenty million or more people who go to the movies every week to drop their emery boards, buy tickets and contribute to your financial stability. You with me so far?”
Jesus Christ, Stick thought.
From what he could see, behind the bar, Barry was with the guy. The others down the table seemed patient but that was about all. Each one of them had a prospectus at his place; some were open. Chucky leaned toward Nestor and whispered something, maybe translating; Nestor’s face immobile, carved from dark wood. At the foot of the table Kyle sat next to the girl in the tank top, Jane; Kyle looking at the prospectus, Jane staring out at Biscayne Bay.
Firestone said, “I’m not going to go over the figures with you. It’s all in the offering circular and you guys know far more about how limited partnerships are structured than I ever will, doing my number over on the creative side. But I want to mention something that’s not in the prospectus I’ll explain in detail later. And that is, even if this project doesn’t get off the ground for one reason or another, I’ll give you a tax write-off of two and a half times your investment. Gimme shelter is still the name of the tune, when you can pull it off.”
Stick saw Kyle paying attention to that, making notes. The girl in the tank top was still looking out at the bay.
Firestone said, “So what we’ve got in Starsky and Hutch . . .” He grinned. “Testing you, see if you’re paying attention. What we’ve got in Shuck and Jive are a couple of laid-back undercover operatives privy to, if you will, all the shit, all the scummy stuff going down in the Miami area. These guys might look like hippie bums to you gentlemen, but I want to relate to that vast fourteen to twenty-four audience out there. We’ll see them cleaned up, too; but what I want to emphasize, these guys are pros. All the collars they’ve made down in Little Havana, I mean if you handcuffed them all side by side, lined them up, you’d have a spicket fence.”
Stick watched Firestone, the dumb shit, look out over the audience. The man’s gaze met Jane’s and Stick saw her shake her head, twice, and nod toward the table where Nestor was staring at Firestone with his trancelike expression.
“If there’s anyone here of Hispanic persuasion,” Firestone said, “that’s a bit of harmless levity along the lines I like to have a little fun with my Jewish ladies, God love ’em. No, we’ve been fortunate since the Bay of Pigs to receive into our land, our hearts, a great number of highly respectable and successful Spanish-speaking people. No, what we’re talking about in Shuck and Jive, the film, is another element entirely. The garbage that has washed up on our shores, the gangsters, the murderers, who traffic in the sale of controlled substances with no regard whatsoever for human life.”
Stick kept watching Nestor Soto. If he knew the guy and was sitting next to him, he’d give him a nudge with his elbow. Beautiful, sitting there listening to the bald-headed asshole from Hollywood.
“You read every day, I’m sure,” Firestone said, “about the cocaine busts, the boatloads of marijuana confiscated, the gangland-type killings and murders. But, gentlemen, let me assure you it’s only the tip of the iceberg you read about. If the papers even printed half the facts I’ve uncovered in my research it would literally curl your hair.” Firestone patted the top of his head. “Fortunately I’m immune. I can look at the raunchy underbelly of the dope business, look at the vermin that live there with the eye of the artist and select its most dramatic elements for portrayal in a major motion picture.” He held up the palms of his hands to the table. “But you ask me my source I’ll plead the Fifth, so don’t, okay? Believe me, you would not want to know these people.”
Barry said, “Leo, let’s move on to casting, okay?” Barry wide eyed, trying to appear innocent and interested at the same time.
Stick counted heads at the table. He believed Firestone had already lost three of his prospective investors—Chucky, Nestor and the guy who ran Wolfgang’s, Gabe something—and might have to run for it before he was through. He sure seemed dumb for a Hollywood producer about to make another major motion picture.
Firestone moved to casting and told of several actors who had read the property and “flipped” and were under serious consideration. “You know,” Firestone said, “what’s his name. Tremendously successful recording star, plays Vegas.” He looked down the center of the table.
And Jane said, “Neil Diamond.”
“Right, Neil Diamond. He’s perfect for the part of Jive, who plays cocktail piano as his cover . . . For Shuck we’re considering . . . I have to tell you Sly Stallone turned it down—okay, that happens—due to commitments, but . . . what’s his name, the guy that rides the motorcycle, the cop . . .”
“Erik Estrada,” Jane said.
Jesus Christ, Stick thought. Warren Oates dead, you bonehead, could play it better than Erik Estrada.
“Erik Estrada is a real possibility.” Firestone held up crossed fingers. “We’re considering Laurence Olivier—Sir Laurence, I should say—for the role of Domingo, the wise old Cuban who turns snitch. It’s a beautiful little cammie, could win Larry another best-supporting nomination. And for the female lead we’re seriously considering . . . she was an answer on Tic Tac Dough the other night. The one that’s emceed by my good friend Wink Martindale, reaches millions . . .”
“Linda Blair,” Jane said.
“That’s the girl, Linda Blair
. Tremendously successful in . . . you remember, the kid throws up the pea soup?”
“The Exorcist,” Jane said.
Firestone extended his arm, pointing to the back of the room. “My lovely assistant, Jane. If you wonder what I’d do without her . . . Listen, I’m going to open this up to the board of directors in a minute, you guys, and ask what you think of the story and what film stars you like that we might consider. There are a number of cameos I wouldn’t be surprised one or two of you gentlemen”—looking at Chucky and Nestor—”might not fit perfectly. And don’t tell me you’d turn it down. We’re going to do this picture our way, gentlemen. Sell off foreign rights, TV, cable, which will more than recoup your investment before the picture is even released. Then let the majors bid for domestic distribution. I wasn’t going to tell you this—but since I’ve got a handshake on it—listen up. Wherever David Begelman locates—and I know in my heart he’ll be back in the thick of the action any day now—we’ll cut a distribution deal. Take my word.”
Stick poured a Jack Daniel’s and stooped down to straighten the shelf beneath the bar while Firestone talked about bank loans and tax benefits, words that were hard to understand because they did not offer things to picture. By the time Stick finished his drink and stood up, Barry was saying, with his head cocked, “Yeah, I think I like it. I wouldn’t mind seeing more broads in it. I think we could lighten the story up, show that many of the dealers are good guys that’re only giving the public what they want. But on the whole I have to say, yeah, I think I like it very much.”
Chucky said, “I think you’re going to have to lighten it up considerably. I think you might even have to turn a few things around . . .”
Firestone winked and said, “That’s the kind of input we want. Listen, we can write in walk-ons for any pretty faces you gentlemen might consider star material.”
Barry said, “Okay, any questions about the investment itself, the risk, the tax angle? Anybody? Kyle, how about you? You have any questions?”
Stick watched her, seated with a pad of paper and the open prospectus on her lap. The girl in the tank top was watching her too, closely.
“Or any comments?” Barry said.
“Just one,” Kyle said. “It sounds to me like a tax fraud.”
Firestone pretended to do a double-take and then smiled, leaning over the table on his hands.
“I beg your pardon?”
Kyle said, “You want to raise a million here, a hundred thousand from each investor . . .”
“Very good,” Firestone said, animated.
“ . . . take it to the bank and leverage another million and a half . . .”
“I think you’ve got it.”
“ . . . and allow the investors to write off the bank loan even though they’re not obligated to the bank. You are, but they aren’t.”
“By Jove, I think she’s got it,” Firestone said.
What an asshole, Stick thought. He wanted Kyle to let him have it. The girl in the tank top was sitting up straight, giving Kyle her full attention.
“I’m teasing you, sweetheart,” Firestone said, “but you’re right. We sign a recourse note to a bank payable in five years. So the guys each get to write off two-hundred and fifty thousand. Their hundred grand investment plus their share of the note, another hundred and fifty grand. But . . . here’s the sweet spot of the deal. I give them each a signed memo that states they’re not responsible for the bank loan. They’ve already written it off. And by the time the note comes due, in five years, the statute will have run out and the IRS won’t be able to touch them. Now I think that’s pretty cute, if I have to say so myself.”
“Adorable,” Kyle said. “Except the statute of limitations has nothing to do with it. When you forgive them a note that’s due in five years—which they’ve already written off—then five years from now each investor will be a hundred and fifty thousand dollars ahead. Which is the same as income, and they’ll have to declare it and pay tax on it. If you don’t believe me, ask the IRS.”
Firestone stared at her, half-smiling. “You serious?”
Kyle didn’t answer him.
“Well,” Firestone said, playing to the audience, giving the rich guys a palms-up, what-can-I-do shrug, “what it comes down to, really, is that age-old entrepreneurial question . . . who’s to know?”
Kyle gave him her nice-girl smile and said, “I will, Mr. Firestone. That’s why I say it’s fraud . . .”
“Your interpretation . . .” Firestone said.
“ . . . and why I would advise any one of my clients to run if they ever see you coming.”
Stick began to clap—four times before deciding he’d better knock it off. Kyle was smiling at him.
Cornell came over to the bar. “Three scotch, two vodka tonic. You learn anything?”
“Never open your mouth,” Stick said, “when you’re fulla shit. What happened—they’re ordering regular drinks?”
It was interesting, everybody talking now, getting into it among themselves. Stick saw Kyle and the girl in the tank top in close conversation, the girl on the edge of her seat, nodding as she listened. While at the other end of the table Barry, shaking his head with a solemn expression—What can I tell you?—seemed to be finishing Firestone off, denying a reprieve.
Stick turned to watch Kyle and found Chucky standing at the bar, directly in front of him.
“Nestor’s ready to talk to you.”
20
THEY STOOD IN ACACIA SHADE among expensive automobiles, Nestor looking him over, making no pretext of doing anything else, in control, letting Stick know it would be up to him.
Stick was not going to push him. There was a ritual of respect to be observed here, at the least a show of deference to the man who could order your death if he wanted it. Still, the way Stick saw it, he wasn’t going to wait forever.
He said, “How long’s it been? Three, four weeks? If I told Metro you’d a heard from them by now. Don’t you think?” Trying not to get a plea in his voice. But the Cuban was not an ordinary-looking Cuban made up of black and Spanish parts going back four hundred years. This was an Indian-looking Cuban with a mask face he must have practiced for some time and could use now when he needed to scare hell out of people without saying a word. Who was he? What did he do on Sunday? Did he let his wife yell at him?
“What else can I tell you?” Stick said.
Chucky said, “You can tell me where a blue Chevy van’s at for openers.”
“Last seen in Bayfront Park,” Stick said, “or impounded. You think I was gonna wait and talk to those guys? Moke’s got his gun out, in his hand. The other guy, he didn’t look like he even needed one. I left, that’s all.” He said to Chucky, “What would you do?”
Nestor kept staring at him.
Stick felt like pushing the Cuban. Let the Cuban take a swing and then belt him, crack the mask. He felt his stomach getting tighter and knew he would have to think, take his time before he said anything. But what was there to say? You didn’t tell this guy anything, you listened. It tightened him up even more to realize that.
Nestor, staring, said, “I don’t know . . .”
Stick asked him, “What do you want me to do?”
Nestor took his time. “You in the business?”
“No, I’m driving for Mr. Stam. That’s all I’m doing.”
“You were with Rene.”
“That’s right, I was with him, that’s all.”
“Got some action going, I understand,” Chucky said, “selling tips on the stock market. I mean this is an enterprising guy,” Chucky said to Nestor. “He came right out and asked me . . . You won’t believe this. The suitcase Rainy had? He tells me he wants five grand for making the delivery. Right here, while he’s working the bar.”
“Well, it was delivered,” Stick said, “and that’s what you told us you’d pay.”
Nestor’s eyes moved, a momentary look of interest, mild surprise.
Stick saw it. He said, “What am I do
ing? Am I down at the state attorney’s office? I’m standing here talking to you.”
Nestor said, “You ever been to that office?”
“I don’t even know where it is.”
“By the courts, Northwest Twelfth,” Nestor said. “They put a wire on you?”
“You want to feel me?”
“No, I don’t feel you,” Nestor said.
“He’s not wired,” Chucky said. “They wouldn’t wire him for something like this, listen to all the bullshit. But he was a friend of Rainy’s. How good a friend, that’s what I want to know.” Talking tough in front of Nestor.
Stick began to wonder which one was the problem, getting right down to it. Maybe it wasn’t Nestor. Maybe he could talk to Nestor, but not in front of Chucky. It was a feeling and did not come from anything Nestor said or the way the man stared at him. It was like trying to decide who you would rather talk to: a man who might shoot you in the back, or a man who tells you to your face he’s going to kill you?
This was in his mind now as he said to Nestor, not to Chucky, “I gotta go back to work. You want to talk to me sometime, give me a call. I’ll be right here.” Stick walked away.
It was Chucky who yelled after him, “Hey! I’m not done with you!” So he kept walking.
Chucky found Lionel and Avilanosa. While they were moving cars like parking attendants to work Nestor’s Cadillac out of the turnaround, Chucky said, “What do you think?”
Nestor said, “It don’t sound like The Godfather. I don’t think this movie would be very good.”
“I mean the guy,” Chucky said, “Ernest Stickley. What do we do with him?”
“What do you want to do with him?”
“You were the one, I remember correctly, was so anxious to find him.”
“Yes, and we did,” Nestor said. “Now I don’t worry about him so much. He ask a good question, what do you want him to do?” Nestor brushed at a fly close to his face, hand limp, diamond ring giving off a faint gleam. “He’s here, he’s not talking to nobody. I think what bothers you is what he wants you to do, uh? You promise Rene five thousand dollar?”