Authors: Edward Bunker
“You good salesman. Jefe don’t like competition. He kill competition. Your friend, he told us to look for you at your club — before he died.”
“You mean Alfie’s dead?”
“Si, señor. One dead gringo. But you shoot good, too. Before we can follow you up the stairs, bang, bang, bang. Somebody dead? Now drive. Vamos!”
Stark pulled away from the curb, thinking maybe he and Dorie wouldn’t be going to San Francisco after all.
“How did you find me?”
“I remember your big car. I know you come for it. I call Jefe, and he tell me not to kill you. He want meet your boss. We follow your car. Maybe you live.”
“Where we going?”
“We making a little trip to Mejico. You will love it there, señor.”
Stark realized that they hadn’t frisked him. He still had his pistol. It had only three bullets left. Not enough of a heavy hand against a couple of .45s. He wouldn’t mind giving up Klein if it would save his neck and Dorie’s. Two guys were dead because of Klein - including poor Dummy. They all took advantage of him. He wondered who would get Dummy’s car. It was probably parked around here.
As they drove off, Stark hoped that somebody in his building, hearing the shots, looked out the window and saw the thugs forcing their way into his car. Maybe Crowley would think these guys killed Dummy and kidnapped him and the girl.
“Why are you smiling?” Dorie asked. “What’s so funny? Am I going to see a third killing in one day? Am I the fourth? What have you gotten me into, Mr. Big Business Man? Why am I always attracted to losers? And you are the biggest loser I’ve ever met. I’m going to hook up with Mr. Square next. That is, if I get another chance.”
“Stop talking, por favor. Drive south,” came a voice from the rear.
The fog had not lifted as the night progressed. If anything, it was thicker. The oncoming lights of cars, headed north, were like fast moving ships that loomed past them out of the gloom.
It would be a long night. Their only chance was a possible road block, but in this fog, a battleship could slip past the cops. What would Bogart do now? he wondered.
__________
T
wo slow, agonizing hours later, they were still on the road.
“We need to stop for gas,” Stark announced.
“Okay. Be fast or you dead.”
They pulled into a brightly lit gas station. It was like a beacon in the dark fog. A young kid came out with a big smile. Probably something he was supposed to do for the customers. Nobody could be happy on a night like this. He told the kid to fill it up. He desperately needed a fix.
“I got to go to the bathroom.”
“Me, too,” said Dorie.
She knew what he really wanted. “My compadre go with you. No funny business, or you dead.”
“I wish he’d get another line,” said Dorie, flippantly.
They got to the bathrooms, their bodyguard dogging their steps, his gun down at his side, away from the attendant. When Dorie tried to open her door, she turned the knob and said, “It’s locked.”
“Okay,” Stark said, “join me.” He opened his door and Dorie slipped inside before she could be stopped.
“I know you’ve come in to geeze. I need some, too,” she said.
“I don’t have an outfit. We’ll just have to share this one hit.” He opened the package, and after wetting the tip, he dipped his little finger in the white powder and started rubbing his gums. He passed her the package for a taste. Meanwhile, there was a loud knocking at the door.
“Quick, do you have any lipstick on you?”
“Why? Are your lips chapped? Are you switching sides?” she asked with a wry smile.
“When did you become such a comic? I want to leave a message on the mirror.”
The hammering got louder.
He scribbled a quick note. “Call Lt. Crowley 276-9000. We’re being kidnapped to Mex. Stark.”
The door gave way and Dorie was pulled out first. A gun was shoved, hard, in his side.
“Vamos.”
“That will be six dollars twenty-five,” said the kid. “Can I check your oil? Water? This is the last gas station open before San Diego.”
“No. We’re fine. Here’s the dough. Keep the change,” Stark said.
They pulled away, back into the fog. It was getting a little lighter. Dawn was still a couple of hours away. As he got into the car, he’d slipped the gun out of his pocket. It lay on the seat, next to him. He didn’t know if he’d have the chance to use it. The taste had set him up; instead of nodding off, he was alert, on edge, ready to go.
They passed San Diego. Dorie had fallen asleep, as had the silent thug in the back. His snoring reverberated through the car. Stark tried to move the rearview mirror so he could see if the guy behind him was awake.
“Why you do that? Fix mirror. Drive. I right behind you. Make move, you dead.”
“Great,” he thought. A guy with a one track mind. If only there was a way to quickly turn around and plug him while the other guy slept. Not likely. He was no Humphrey Bogart. It was blind luck that he’d been able to hit Dummy through that door.
It was getting lighter, the sun about to rise as they passed through the border without a second look from the guards. They didn’t care what you brought into Mexico — even if it was two gringo hostages.
As they drove into Tijuana, the town was fast asleep. The garish neon lights turned off. The dusty streets abandoned to the stray dogs and a couple of drunks sleeping it off in a doorway. “Turn left at light. Go slow. I tell you when to stop.”
They stopped at an open cantina. At a table in the back, a tall, light-skinned Mexican stood up. He was wearing a rumpled white suit, white shoes, open white shirt. He was handsome, with nearly black hair swept back. He strode to the car and stuck his hand out to Stark.
“Welcome to my country, Mr. Stark. So glad you could come on this visit,” he said with a smile, his white teeth flashing. But his eyes were cold. He was the kind of guy who would be smiling as he put a couple of bullets in you.
“You speak very good English,” said Stark. “Are you American? Chicano?”
“Yes, Mr. Stark. The G.I. Bill paid for two years of college because I fought for your country in Korea.”
As Stark slowly got out of the car, ignoring the still outstretched hand, the thugs got out, guns drawn. Fortunately, his own had slid beneath the seat.
“I’m not exactly what you call a voluntary guest, Mr….?”
“I shall just give you my professional name. Pablo.” The smile was still there. “Come inside. Out of the sun. I have a business proposition for you.” He told the heavies to wait.
“And who is this lovely señorita?”
“Dorie. That’s my professional name, too, since we’re getting so informal. So chummy.”
They followed him into the cantina. With a wave of his hand, someone brought out coffee for the three of them. It was strong and bitter; it braced them both. “Mr. Stark, I hope we can do business. If not, neither of you will leave Mexico. The choice is up to you.”
“Some choice.”
“I tasted some of the heroin you gave as free samples to one of my dealers. You think I need a new supplier? That shit is twice as strong as my product. And at half the price. Either that shit is stolen merchandise that hasn’t been cut, or your boss is bringing it in from some place like Cambodia. I need to meet with your boss. Excuse me.”
Pablo got up and held a brief, whispered conversation with one of their guards. He smiled, again, as he returned to the table. “My colleague tells me that you were involved in a shooting in your apartment. They don’t know who was killed. I am curious. Was it you that did the shooting, or the young lady? Who was killed? Maybe you can’t go back to the States, after all. Dead or alive.”
Stark thought about his answers. He didn’t owe Klein a thing. She had Dummy murder Momo and would have had him killed, too. It was too bad he’d had to kill the mute. Violence wasn’t his game, but here he was, up to his neck in it.
“Maybe my boss and you can do business,” answered Stark, avoiding talk of Dummy’s murder. “He’s got the product, you have the distribution. As long as neither one of you competes with the other. There’s no reason for any more killings. It’s not good business. You strike me as a practical businessman, Pablo.”
“Don’t talk down to me. I’m not stupid,” responded Pablo testily. “I’m a lot smarter than you are, junkie. I’ll decide whether we join forces or sever things — permanently. Where is this boss?”
“He runs a travel agency in La Jolla.” Stark was keeping Klein’s identity a secret. It was one way of staying alive. “I’ll take you to him. He won’t talk business unless I’m there.”
“You didn’t answer me. Who was killed in your apartment?”
“It was a drug heist. The guy was waiting to rip me off. Dorie helped me to take him out,” he lied.
“Stand up,” Pablo demanded. He patted Stark down. No gun. “What did you kill him with? Where’s your gun?”
“I dunno. I must have dropped it on the way out. I ran with my girlfriend. So do you want to meet my boss?”
“Yeah, but your girlfriend stays here. I don’t want you to get any funny ideas. We’ll take your car.”
Pablo signaled to his men that he would go with Stark, alone, to La Jolla. Clearly he didn’t trust his own men. A few words in Spanish were passed. Stark didn’t understand a word, but clearly understood when a .45 automatic was passed to Pablo.
“Stark, are you leaving me with these animals? I don’t like the look of them. I’d rather they shoot me than fuck me.”
Stark asked Pablo for some woman to keep Dorie on ice until they returned. Pablo yelled in Spanish to the rear room of the cantina, and a fat, middle-aged Mex woman came out, wiping her hands. Clearly the patron’s wife.
Dorie stepped into Stark’s outstretched arms. She whis- pered in his ear. “Get back here safely. Watch yourself with this guy,” and then more loudly to Pablo, “Take care of my fella. I’ve gotten quite used to him.”
The two men went back to the car. Stark was still in the driver’s seat.
“I need something to keep me going. I’ve been driving all night. Been shot at by one of your goons and had to kill a thief. It’s been a long day and a longer night.”
“No fixes, junkie. I need you awake until we meet your boss. Then you’ll get a long sleep. Here’s a couple of dex-ies to keep you going.”
Stark dry-swallowed the pills, but didn’t at all like the bit about the long sleep. He put the car in gear and slowly drove down the dusty street, now alive with people and animals, as they headed back to the border.
As they approached the crossing point, he hoped the border cops would stop them.
“You signal these guys,” said Pablo, “and your girlfriend and you will both die. I’m not fucking around.” The gun prodded into his side. It made the point.
“Would you please open your trunk,” the border guard asked politely, after giving the interior of the car a quick glance. A few minutes later, they were back in the U.S. and on the highway headed north.
“I think I should call my boss to let him know we are coming. I’ll tell him you want another sample of his product, to make sure of the quality, but that you are coming to discuss a new distribution deal that will make everyone money.” “What’s your angle in all this, Mr. Stark? How do you fit in? As near as I can tell, you are a user of the product, not a seller. Why does your boss trust you? I wouldn’t. I don’t get it.”
“I’m not really hooked. I just geeze once in a while. The Beast from the East is not my real hang up. My first choice is weed.”
“Are you telling me that your shit comes from the East?”
“Nah, that’s just an expression we use. What about the call?”
“Okay. But I’ll be standing in the booth with you. One wrong word, and…”
“Okay, okay. I get the picture.”
Stark kept watching for a roadside phone booth. Or the cops. Maybe the gas station jockey had seen the lipstick on the mirror and called Crowley. Miracles do happen. Happen all the time in the movies.
Outside a gas station, he spotted a phone booth. Maybe he could leave another message in the bathroom. He thought not. This guy was no dummy.
It was crowded with the two of them and soon got hot in the narrow phone booth. After putting in the additional change for long distance, he was connected to the travel agency in La Jolla.
“Let me speak to Klein, it’s Burdman calling.”
A few minutes later, a hesitant Klein came on the phone. “Hello,” she asked. “Who is this?”
“Klein. It’s Stark. I’m on my way to your office. Should be there in about an hour. I’m bringing you a guy who will make you rich. I’ve given him some samples of your merchandise. He’s thinking of switching to your brand. He can handle a lot of volume.”
Pause.
“Have you heard from Dummy?”
“Yeah, he took care of Momo, but missed me. He had a bad accident. He won’t be calling in.” He chuckled at the idea. There was no laughter from the other end. “Now, you only have me and my new partner to deal with.”
“I told you I wanted to think about it. I’m still not ready to go big time.”