Chucky said, “I’m here to make a deposit.”
He snapped the suitcase open, turned it over as he raised it high, dumped banded packets of currency on the assistant manager’s desk, all hundred-dollar bills, and gave him a big smile.
“Seventy-two thousand five hundred dollars, pay to the account of Norman Enterprises. We’re in show business.”
The assistant manager said, “Oh, really?”
“He wasn’t too surprised,” Chucky said to Lionel, crossing the Julia Tuttle on their way to the Eden Roc.
“We’re in Miami,” Lionel said.
They went up to Suite 1503, Chucky with his signed subscription agreement in a plain white envelope, and knocked on the door. He waited and knocked again.
“She’s still at lunch,” Chucky said. “Though to look at her you wouldn’t think it would take long.”
They went down to the lounge and had a few, returned in an hour to knock on the door again and waited in silence.
“I’ll slip it under the door,” Chucky said. “It might even be better if I do it that way.”
They stopped at the main desk just to make sure. The clerk went to look, came back and said it seemed the party checked out this morning. Chucky said, “Gone on a trip to the Apple, huh? But they kept the suite, didn’t they? The production office?” The clerk said no, checked out and didn’t leave a forwarding address.
Chucky said to Lionel, “I want to go home right now.”
He needed a secure atmosphere in which to think. Maybe scream, if he had to.
Avilanosa had some fun with Moke when he came to get his revolvers. He said, “Let the man take your pistols, huh? Why you do that?”
Moke would like to have gotten out without seeing Avilanosa today. See Nestor, pick up his guns and leave. But Nestor was resting, not to be disturbed—most likely in a deep nod—and his father-in-law was in charge of the house.
Moke said, “Come on, gimme ’em.”
“What, these pistols?” Avilanosa said, offering them, then raising them over his head as Moke reached to take them.
“Come on, don’t fuck around.”
“Oh, listen to him, the pistolero,” Avilanosa said, “who lose his pistols. Let them be taken away from him. Here.”
Moke reached. Now, as Avilanosa raised the guns over his head, Moke shoved him hard. Avilanosa stumbled against the stone patio table, smiling, not appearing to be angry, playing with Moke. He said, “Here.” But now Moke wouldn’t take them, so Avilanosa placed the revolvers on the stone table and stepped aside. He waited for Moke to pick them up and work the barrels into his waist. At that moment he stepped toward Moke, chopped him with a backhand fist that was like a club, caught Moke across the face and sent him sprawling in the grass.
Moke came up with the nickel-plated Mag drawn and Avilanosa shook his head. He said, “You must not be feeling so good, you want to die. You should take some medicine, go to sleep.”
Moke lowered the revolver to his side.
Avilanosa said, “You have the truck again you always lose? Man, you lose your pistols and your truck, uh? Get in that truck and go see Chucky.”
“What for?”
“Scare him. Time to scare him so he don’t forget to pay. You think you can scare him good?”
Moke walked away from Avilanosa, toward the door in the wooden gate that sealed off the driveway, Avilanosa’s voice following him, pushing him: “Try see if you can scare him and not lose your pistols again . . .”
Barry told Stick that morning all four cars were ready for an oil change and lube; take them over to the Amoco station on 125th, he had a charge there. Stick said, “One at a time?” Seeing it as an all-day job.
Barry said, “No, you hook ’em end to end like a choo-choo, for Christ sake, of course one at a time. Get ’em gassed and washed, too.”
It sounded like make-work, which could take two hours a car, easy. While Barry and Kyle spent the morning in his den shuffling through papers and doing figures. Stick began with the Lincoln, took it over, brought it back and they were still in there. He couldn’t see a way to get Kyle alone. He called the bank around noon, gave his account number and said he wanted to verify his balance. The woman’s voice said, exactly five hundred dollars and no cents.
He drove the Rolls over. They were busier now at the station and it took two and a half hours, round trip. He called the bank again, gave his number and said he’d like to verify his balance. A different woman’s voice this time said, “Mr. Norman?”
“Mr. Stickley.”
“Yes, that balance, Mr. Stickley, is exactly . . . let’s see, seventy-three thousand dollars and no cents. Nice round figure.”
He said, “Jesus Christ.”
The woman said, “Pardon me?”
He had never had a feeling like this before in his life. He was worth at this moment seventy-three thousand dollars. He had thought up an idea with a little help, had talked to a guy for about a half hour selling him on the idea, and he was now worth seventy-three thousand dollars. The same thing they were doing in there in Barry’s den, the same kind of thing, making money without working. It seemed the way to do it. He wanted to tell Kyle, but they were still at it.
He wanted to tell Cornell, somebody. But when he saw Cornell he thought better of it and tried to appear calm.
“Well, what’re you up to today?”
“Cleaning silver.”
“What is this, clean-up, fix-up day?”
“Got to keep us busy, man.”
“Slave labor,” Stick said.
Cornell grinned at him. “That slave duty can wear you down, man. But you get into it, it’s kinda fun. You know what I’m saying? Lose yourself. Be anything you want.”
“You do other . . . different things like that?”
“Mostly the queen and the slave.”
“What’s she the queen of?”
“Queen—I don’t know exactly—queen of the afternoon with nothing to do. Queen of the Jelly Bellies. I never seen a lady wished so much she was a queen.”
“Well,” Stick said, “she looked like a pretty good one.”
What he thought of doing, go in the den and tell Barry he was quitting. Except he had to talk to Kyle first. He took the Cadillac over to the station, thought of the movie girl, Jane, as he waited and called the Eden Roc.
Gone.
He hung up with the feeling it had been close. That if the timing hadn’t been perfect he’d still be worth five hundred instead of seventy-three thousand. He said the number over and over again. He would like to sit down in a quiet, clean place without distractions, wrenches and tire irons hitting cement, and think about it. Prepare a speech. Hope that Kyle, later, would be in a realistic frame of mind. If she wasn’t, deliver the speech: why it would be wrong . . . morally wrong to give dope money back to a dealer so he could buy more dope, corrupt more people and not pay any income tax on it. When on the other hand he would use the money wisely. How? . . . Christ, any way he wanted! Buy things. Buy a car. Buy things for Katy, clothes. Buy a truck, buy a business. Buy Wild Turkey instead of Early Times. There were wonderful ways to spend money that he and Frank had only begun to experience when their hundred days ended, abruptly.
Back and forth, the Stickley shuttle. He wanted to tell the Amoco guy with Steve on his shirt, but he didn’t. It was nearly six by the time he got back with the Mercedes, the last one. Twenty-four hours since he’d pulled the deal of his life.
The Rolls was not in the garage.
He got out of the Mercedes, walked over to the edge of the grass. Barry was alone on the patio, sitting at the umbrella table with a drink and newspaper. Stick walked down there.
“All through.”
“That wasn’t too bad, was it?”
“No, sir, not at all.” Why was it easier to say having seventy-three thousand dollars?
“I noticed the Rolls is gone.”
“I let Kyle have it.”
“Oh . . .” Could he ask? He had to. “Where’d she go
?”
Barry looked up at him, frowning. “What?”
“I said, where’d she go?”
“That’s what I thought you said. She went to see Mr. Gorman.”
“When?”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“When?”
“Little while ago. What is this?”
“Did he call her or she call him?”
“He called.”
“And she left right away?”
“Yeah, soon after. The hell’s wrong with you?”
Stick turned and ran.
Barry stood up and yelled at him. It didn’t do any good. Stick was in the Mercedes now wheeling out of the drive.
26
MOKE RODE UP TO FIFTEEN, all the way to the top, thinking: it was big time working for Nestor; but what did he get out of it other than a bunch of shit from Avilanosa? Thinking: if a turd like Chucky could have his own world up here, live how he wanted acting like a weird and nervous woman, then why couldn’t Eddie Moke have it too? Or take what Chucky had from him?
Lionel opened the door and Moke opened his worn-out leather jacket to show the pearl grip of his 44.
“You see it?”
Lionel nodded. “You high, huh?”
“I been higher. Climb up another line or two. Nestor’s coming to visit. He don’t want none of you guys around here.”
“It’s okay,” Lionel said.
“I’ll watch Chucky he don’t come to harm.”
“I better tell him,” Lionel said.
“No, I’ll tell him. What’s he doing?”
Lionel didn’t answer. He said after a moment, “You going to kill him?”
It surprised Moke, made him curious. “What if I said that was the deal? What would you do?”
“Go to Miami, see my old woman,” Lionel said. “When do we come back?”
“Later on tonight’d be okay.”
“There’s somebody in there with him. A woman,” Lionel said.
“Don’t worry about us,” Moke said. “We be fine.”
He stepped in, bringing Lionel out and closed the door on him. Moke knew the layout, enough of it. He walked down the front hall and turned left at the first door, Chucky’s den with the phone deal and the hats . . . but no Crested Beaut or Bullrider hanging up there—the son of a bitch, the man’s time was coming. Moke set the white yachting cap down on his eyes, strolled past the balcony glass catching some reflection to the living room door. He stooped to peer through the spy hole.
Kyle said, “Would you sit down? Please. And listen. You haven’t heard anything I’ve said. You’ve got your mind made up.”
Chucky moved. “You haven’t said anything makes sense.” And moved back, side to side, swaying. “You don’t know anything about the deal, but you know what the story’s about.”
“No, I said it was a misunderstanding.”
“Honey, I know when I’m getting fucked, I get this tingling sensation different than my other twitches and tingles . . .”
“Listen to me, okay? Just listen.” She began slowly then. “He picked up an old prospectus, it was Leo’s original offering, and thought we were going with it.”
“Why would he think that?”
“He must’ve heard us talking about revising the story. It was a possibility . . .”
“You told me the story in the bar.”
“I thought he was telling you what he’d heard. I was playing along. You know how you take a story and elaborate on it? . . . The way I understand it, he was trying to do you a favor, that’s all.”
Chucky glanced toward the door to his den and back to Kyle. “The first time you came here you said, you want to invest in a movie? You had it in mind then.”
“A movie, any movie. I wasn’t talking about this one. Believe me, Barry’s not involved in any kind of film project.”
“Then I want to know what’s going on . . .”
Moke slammed the door behind him to get their attention. He said, “I do, too. What’re you people arguing about? Chucky, you’re not suppose to fight with women.” He nodded to Kyle on the sofa. “How you doing?” And looked at Chucky again. “I think you need your medicine.”
Chucky said, “Who let you in? . . . You want to see me, wait in the other room. And take that hat off.”
Moke adjusted the yachting cap over his eyes. He liked to see the edge of the peak squared straight across his vision. It meant the person had it together and was not prone to accept bullshit of any kind. He said to Chucky, putting his hand in the pocket of his jacket and bringing it out in a fist, “Yeah, it must be medicine time how you’re acting.” He opened his hand. Two white tablets dropped to the floor from the mound of pills he held.
“Got the real stuff here, the white tabs,” Moke said. “Some reds, that bootleg shit . . . What’re these blue ones for?”
Chucky started toward him. “Gimme those . . .”
Moke shoved his hand back into the pocket, left it there and pulled open his jacket with his other hand.
“See it?”
Chucky said, “I don’t have time for you right now. Come on, gimme those.”
“I cleaned out your pill drawer so you won’t OD on me, have to take you to the hospital . . .”
Kyle stood up. She said to Chucky, “I’ll see you another time.”
“Stay there,” Moke said. “We like your company.” He said to Chucky, “They have to pump you out, man, it’d take a dredge, wouldn’t it? Get way down there in your bottomland.” Moke was having fun. He liked this smart, good-looking girl as an audience. She looked right at him and listened, as she was doing now. It was fun to act up in front of her. Moke walked over to the glass doors to the balcony, flicked off the catch and slid one of the doors all the way open.
He had their attention.
“Sun going down, starting to cool, huh? Best time of the day.”
Chucky said, “Tell me what you want, partner.”
“Don’t call me that less you mean it.”
Chucky edged toward him and stopped. “Tell me.”
“I want you to be healthy,” Moke said, brought his hand out and looked at the pills. “I don’t think you need these no more.”
There were two Cadillacs and Barry’s Rolls in the high-rise circular drive, Lionel Oliva standing against the first car as the Mercedes came up the ramp toward him. Stick swung in past him and parked on the downgrade.
Lionel waited for him.
“You know Kyle McLaren? She upstairs?”
Lionel said, “You know Eddie Moke?”
Stick hesitated. “What’s going on?”
“He’s high, man. Got a funny look. He told me to get out.”
Stick walked away from him toward the entrance, stopped and came back.
“I think he’s going to kill him,” Lionel said.
“You’re his bodyguard . . .”
“No, it’s not my business, this kind of thing.”
“You have a key to the place?”
Lionel looked at him but didn’t answer.
“Let me use it.”
“You’re crazy,” Lionel said.
“Gimme the key.”
Moke showed Chucky the three white tablets in the palm of his hand. “This the good stuff?”
Chucky shuffled, shook his head sadly and looked at Moke again. “You having fun?”
“How’d you know?”
“Take one. Mellow you down so you recognize your old pard.”
“I got my old pard by the yang, ain’t I?” Moke said. He stepped out on the balcony. “Watch.” Closed his hand on the pills and threw them out over the rail.
Chucky moved a step toward him and Moke brought out the nickel-plated Mag in a practiced draw, effortless, a gesture.
“Like the policeman says, freeze, motherfucker . . . Hey, you know what? I never said that before. Freeze, motherfucker. Maybe I ought to be a cop. A narc type, huh? Confiscate the dope”—digging into his pocket again—”and give it the d
eep six,” flinging out his fist with a handful of caps and tabs, red, white and blue visible for only a moment, dots against the dull sky.
Chucky wanted to run. He felt he could run right through the wall, no problem, pull open his pill drawer . . . there were some in the kitchen too. No, he’d eaten them. Ones in the bedroom, eaten. Bathroom, eaten. Down in the car, maybe. No, eaten. If there were no more in the pill drawer Moke had all he owned, a pocketful and dropping from between his fingers on the balcony, couple of red ones, the bootleg street, ‘ludes. He tried to say to Moke as calmly as he could, as a statement and nothing else, “What’re you picking on me for?” But it didn’t sound at all the way he wanted it to. It sounded like he was starting to cry. Now Moke was saying it back to him the same way, whining, “What’re you picking on me for?” With his ugly mouth curling, his ugliness oozing out of him. “What’re you picking on me for?” He didn’t want to scream. God, he didn’t want to. But Moke’s hand was coming out of the pocket again. He could see Moke making a habit of this once he started. Doing it any time he liked. Having fun. Doing it when he wasn’t down at the dump shooting gulls. Doing it when he hadn’t anything else on. He did not want to scream. He wished he could tell somebody, explain how he felt. But as Moke said something looking away—looking at what, it didn’t matter—he did scream and rushed at him to grab that hand held in the air . . .
A distraction—and Moke’s attention was on Stick coming into the room like he was late for supper, then stopping dead as though he’d found himself in the wrong place or had busted into a surprise party. Look, there was surprise all over his face.
Moke said, “Well, look it here . . .”
Then was instantly inspired, seeing his prize, and said like a happy give-away show emcee, “Well, come on down!” And felt air go out of him . . .
Chucky hit him with his body, arm raised reaching for the fist holding the pills. The force, the impact took them to the iron railing that came to Chucky’s navel the times he leaned over it and stared at toy boats down on the Intracoastal. This time his side struck the rail, still reaching to grab the hand. But it was empty now, the hand clawing at his shirt, the other hand hitting at him with the gun barrel. Chucky screamed again or was still screaming without beginning or end, holding this squirming leather smelly thing, lifting Moke up, Moke twisting on him, and got Moke over the rail, his upper body and his head hanging down, hat gone, gun barrel banging on wrought iron now and somebody yelling at him—he heard the voice—somebody yelling to put him down. He had Moke by the legs and would put him down, all right, all the way down. He was between Moke’s legs and saw the leather arm with the nickel-plate come through the iron bars, felt it against his shin and he raised his sneaker and brought it down hard to step on the gun, hold it against the floor. He raised the two legs, slippery, greasy jeans, cowboy boots up by his face and said down to Moke behind the bars, “Give me my pills!” Again, so different than he expected to hear it, breathless, on the edge of panic. He saw Moke’s hand grope at the pocket, dig inside. He saw Moke’s hand come out and saw pills falling in colors, pouring out of the upside-down pocket, Moke opening his hand to hold an iron bar and those pills going too, gone.