Authors: Edward Bunker
The problem now was what to do. Quickly, he ran sev- eral alternatives: go to Klein and try to smooth things over; make an anonymous call to the police; or go on the run. These ideas crowded upon each other, and were rejected almost as swiftly. Klein was too dangerous, and she might send another killer to get him. For once, the police were out of the question; even with an anonymous call there would be too much digging and too many things might come out. He was fucked.
The only thing to do was disappear. Klein could not track him in another city, perhaps another state. There might be some hunt by the police, but not much. He could take Dorie with him. Where? San Francisco came to mind. The price of junk in the Bay Area was twice that of Los Angeles. He had almost twelve hundred dollars’ worth at those prices, plus the thirteen hundred cash in his pocket. It was a fair bankroll, and Stark knew a madame with a whorehouse in the Napa Valley where Dorie could be safe. Many of the smaller counties in the northern part of the state had poker rooms he could hustle. He had options. Not many.
Several other places came to mind, but the first choice seemed the best, all things considered.
“Yeah, it’s time to blow,” he said to himself. Tomorrow morning, in daylight, it would be safe to pick up the station wagon. The neighborhood would be filled with people. What to do until then? How much time did he have?
He lit a cigarette, carefully shielding the match so there was no glare, and went over the situation again. The factor that required special consideration was the police. If they really put out the heat, they would find him. One way to get Crowley off his back would be to call him and give him Klein. He hadn’t met the Mex boss, so he couldn’t throw him that, as well. He had to find a phone booth.
On the corner, its light casting a weird glow in the fog, was an all-night cigar store. Stark slipped into one of the booths, put his nickel in the slot and rang the police station. He was put through to Crowley immediately.
“Where the fuck are you, you lousy rat?” was his greeting.
“I’ll tell you where if you give me a moment to get a word in edgewise. I’ve been ducking bullets. Someone was shooting at me. I don’t think it was Dummy. Some other guy? Who knows about us?”
“Listen, I couldn’t care less what happened to you, now that you dumped a murder in my lap.”
“What murder? Who got killed?”
“You mean you didn’t murder your pal, your partner, Momo?”
“Shit, you’re telling me he’s dead?”
“You don’t know? Now here I’m thinking that you set me up for a patsy. Take Momo in for a few hours. Shake him up. Scare him - all so you can take the afternoon off and fuck his girlfriend. What do I look like to you, a fuckin’ pimp?”
“Where was he killed? When?”
“A few hours after I turned him loose, I got a call from some dame. She told me to send an ambulance to his apartment. When we got there, he was dead - and the girlfriend was not around. If you didn’t kill him off, maybe she did.”
“Dorie is no killer, believe me. She’s her own worst enemy. I don’t think she’d know how to fire a gun.”
“Well, I sent out an A.P.B. to find her and you. I’d rather make you as Momo’s killer. You could be facing the gas chamber, even for offing a creep like that. You better turn yourself in.”
“Maybe we can cut a deal. Maybe whoever murdered Momo was the guy shooting at me just now. I didn’t kill Momo, believe me. And it wasn’t Dorie shooting at me. Give me until the morning and I’ll tie the whole thing up in a neat package for you. And throw in the identity of the Man.”
“Too late. I won’t call off the watchdogs. I want you in a cell. Tonight.”
The phone clicked off.
__________
T
here’s only one place Dorie could be. She must have gone back to his apartment. Had Momo come on to her one time too many? Had she killed him? Or had Dummy? How did she get away? He better call her to warn her to stay low.
He hadn’t left the phone booth. He fished around in his pockets for another coin and rang his number. The phone rang and rang. No one picked up. Then, finally, a hesitant voice, hers, asked, “Hello?”
“Are you okay?”
Pause. “Yes.”
“Was it you who called the cops? Do you know who killed Momo?”
“No, it happened while I was in the bathroom, geezing. Momo came home a few minutes earlier and was very nervous. He said the cops had taken him for questioning, but oddly, had never searched him, despite the felony load he was carrying. He didn’t understand what was going on, but thought you might have had something to do with it. He was freaking and making me very nervous. I had to have a shot. I was just nodding off in the john when I heard two shots. I locked the bathroom door. When I came out, Momo was lying in a pool of blood. He was dead. I thought maybe you were the killer, dissolving your partnership. Momo wouldn’t open the door for anybody, just you or Dummy.”
“Listen, babe. I’m a two-bit hustler, con artist, junkie. I’ve never fired a gun in my life.”
“Don’t you have a gun? I saw one in your hand the night I dropped in on you.”
“That’s purely for protection. If junkies know you’re carrying shit, you’re a prime target, but I’m no gunman.”
“Well, you better learn to use your gun - fast. Whoever offed Momo may be coming after you next.”
“I’m very aware of the danger. That’s why I’m calling. It’s time for us to get out of town. Give me an hour. I’ll come by with my car. I’ll blow the horn twice. Come down fast. Leave everything except my shit and kit and some dough I have stashed. You’ll find it all under the sink. It’s on a little shelf attached to the bottom. Remember, I’ll honk twice. If you’re not down in two minutes, I’m leaving you on your own.”
“Thanks a lot.” And she hung up.
Having made his decision, he was calm. The tension of the last few days was gone; everything was over. The play had failed, but there would be others. He’d learned the game from other failures. In fact, his misgivings were so slight that he wondered why he didn’t feel more relief. He grunted and shook his head. His life was still in danger, but he’d managed to disappear before. He wondered where Dummy was. He and the shooter were still around. His station wagon was hidden but might be a hot spot. He was safe for a while, if he could dodge the cops. He almost laughed at the idea that both the good guys and the bad guys wanted him dead. He found a hidden spot down the block from his car. He could watch it for a while to see if the shooter was around.
Might as well geeze while I wait, he thought, digging one of the ounce packages out of a pocket. He carefully opened the tinfoil, laying it flat. He wet the tip of one of his fingers, dipped it in the white powder, and lifted it to his gums and his nose. He sniffed deep and sharp, drawing the heroin into his nose, then repeated the process. It was slower than the needle and wasteful, but his end was achieved. The glow began to creep up. Five minutes later, the hard, damp earth was as comfortable as a downy mattress. It was weird how swift his own reaction had been to the dark figure when the automobile backfired, the result of conditioning. He knew gunfire when he heard it.
Dummy was forgotten as he slipped into euphoria. Discomfort, fog, death - nothing managed to touch him. He could have entered the gas chamber without trembling; his fear would be sugar-coated by a sense of unreality. It seemed unbelievable that only an hour before he had been stricken with such terror that his mind refused to act. His body went on automatic defense.
Later, he roused himself. The luminous steel hands of his wristwatch pointed to five o’clock. It was beginning to
get
light — time to get Dorie.
Cautiously, yet without fear, he climbed on one of the metal trash barrels and peered over the fence. The alley was deserted. With a creak of protesting wood, he swung over the fence and dropped, landing in a crouch and not moving, eyes and ears directed to any sound or movement. There was only the faint whirr of an automobile on another street, somewhere in the fog.
His stride was swift and silent. At the first street he waited a long time in the shadows. Then he bolted across the open area and back into the alley blackness. Ahead, through the fog, could be seen the flash of lights from the main boulevard. Like a horse sensing water or home, he quickened his pace. In a few moments he was in his car, heading toward the apartment.
In the fog, the headlights of approaching vehicles on the highway were yellowed and lifeless. The foaming surf of the adjacent beach was no more than a sound in the grayness. He drove slowly, still in happy land. This was no time to get stoned. He was too vulnerable — and too stupid. He swore he’d get off the junk. Tomorrow. Finally, he pulled up across the street from the front of his apartment building. He thought of Dorie waiting for him, probably half sick for the need of him. She probably had geezed as soon as he told her where he hid his stash. Not a smart move. He blew the horn twice and waited.
Five minutes went by.
He blew the horn twice, again.
No Dorie.
He got out of the car and looked up to the windows of his apartment. Dorie was there. She was signaling him to come upstairs. What the fuck? Why didn’t she open the window? Why didn’t she come downstairs? He decided to drag her down. He didn’t want to leave without her. He slipped across the street after making certain that Dummy and the cops were not in sight.
At the wooden stairs he slowed his ascent as something suddenly probed at his consciousness. He realized that his place was dark. It shouldn’t be. Was Dorie signaling him to beat it? Was Dummy up there waiting for him? How had he found his pad? The same sense of danger he’d felt when the car backfired near the Panama Club now surged over him. His stomach rolled over.
Thoughts came at him with stark clarity. His first urge was to turn and run, but he crept up the remaining stairs. He felt certain that Dorie was not alone. Dummy or the other shooter must have had instructions to murder both him and Momo. If that was the case, he wouldn’t be leaving Dorie alive as a possible witness, even if she knew nothing of Klein. He wouldn’t be able to surprise anyone waiting for him. He sneaked out the .25 automatic and armed it. Took off the safety. He turned off the light in his hallway and waited. If someone was holding Dorie, he’d be holding a gun just waiting for him to open the door and start blasting. Hadn’t he seen Humphrey Bogart in a scene just like this? What did he do?
He slipped by the door, went down on his knees, reached around with the door key to unlock the door. He was not in the doorway and stayed low as he turned the knob, giving the door a soft push with his gun.
“Watch out! He’s got a gun, and he’s behind the door,” shouted Dorie from the darkness.
Immediately came two blasts from inside the room. Bullets fragmented the door and hit the hallway wall behind him. Stark returned fire through the door in the direction of the holes. He heard a whimper of pain and then a thud. A body was blocking the door from opening further. The hallway was full of gunsmoke.
“Dorie, are you OK?”
There was no answer. He had to take a chance and push the door open. “Dorie, are you OK?”
“Yeah, but Dummy looks dead.”
He pushed the door open, but Dummy’s body lay across the threshold.
“Help me move his body. We got to amscray before the heat arrives in droves. They’ll be coming fast and in numbers.”
He turned Dummy’s body over. Both of his bullets had scored hits. Too bad Dummy was working for the wrong team. Klein would have to get herself another boy.
A much shaken Dorie switched on the light.
“What are you doing? Let’s get out of here. With my record, the cops will be putting me in the gas chamber as fast as they can. We only have minutes to spare.”
He and Dorie rushed down the stairs to his car.
“Where to now, Stark? Or aren’t you finished killing for today?”
“Did Dummy hurt you?”
“No, but he must have followed me from Momo’s place, hoping I would lead him to you. When he knocked at the door, I thought it had to be you. You told me you’d be here in an hour.”
“Well, I had to stay out of sight. But if Dummy followed you here, who was it that took shots at me outside the club? Does Klein have more than one runner?”
“Who’s Klein?”
“Klein is the Man. Momo’s connection. But he’s a she. Would you believe a middle-aged business lady? Some front.”
“Well, where are we headed? San Francisco?”
“Yeah, but first I need to make a short stop in La Jolla. I need to collect on a past due debt. You remember to bring my stash and cash?”
As he put the key in the ignition, suddenly the car’s two back doors were yanked open. Two dark-skinned Mexicans slipped in behind them each pointing a .45. “Who the fuck are you guys? Are the cops hiring Mexs these days?”
“We not the cops, señor. Jefe says to bring you in dead or alive. It don’t matter whichever. He wants to talk to you. You one lucky hombre. First, he didn’t much care. Later, he change his mind.”
“So, it was you who shot at me?”
“No, my friend here. You lucky he is bad shot.”
Stark realized now that this was the same Mexican he’d met earlier and given samples of the high-grade heroin.