Trick Baby (28 page)

The wino desk clerk gave us a rheumy wink when he handed me the key. He probably thought I was a white queer about to receive a groovy transport to fairy heaven from One Pocket.

We walked into the dingy, smelly room. It stank worse than the old apartment back on Thirty-ninth Street. I raised the window and showed Blue three fingers and then ten. I went over and unlatched the door for Blue.

We waited fifteen minutes for him. I went to the window a half-dozen times. His Caddie was still parked at the curb. I started to worry when Blue came through the door with a large, stinking paper sack in his hand.

I said, “What the hell is that?”

He chuckled and said, “I went to the alley and got some atmosphere for the mark. I'm not planning to miss that seven grand. You hoodlum Detroit bastards have been doing a lot of sweating, farting, drinking and smoking in this funky sewer for more than a week.

“You know there is more to good con than what is dumped into a mark's ears. His eyes and nose should also take the con treatment.”

I watched as Blue opened the dirty bag of garbage. He filled the ashtrays about the room with crushed out cigarette butts. He put whiskey and wine bottles on the rickety dresser and at the sides of the bed.

He shoved a stack of greasy paper plates and crumpled paper napkins into the wastebasket near the door. He washed his hands in the face bowl across the room.

Pocket said, “Blue, did you bring a rod just in case the crazy mark wakes up?”

Blue pushed his palms toward Pocket and said softly, “Pocket, I swear on my sainted mama's grave that the gorilla can't wake up.
Our merchandise is top quality, and the best nigger con man in the country has told him the tale.

“Now you and Folks take off your clothes, down to your shorts, and hang them in the closet. Folks, then you lie down on the bed. I'm going to put that surgical scar on your noggin.”

I came back from the closet in my shorts and lay on the bed. Blue was at the dresser with his back to me. Finally he came and sat on the side of the bed.

He closed his pocketknife and dropped it into his shirt pocket. He had a ragged two-inch sliver of a deep pink candle in his palm. It was shades darker than my skin. He had pocked the top side of it so that it looked like a slice of mangled skin.

I saw the underside glistening with glue as he pasted it on my forehead. He screwed the point of a dark purple crayon into my forehead and up and down both sides of the wax scar for the healed stitches.

He went back to the dresser and brought a dime-sized uneven blob of pink wax and glued it to the side of my right calf. He dotted in deep purple stitch marks. He stood back and looked at his fake surgery.

He said, “It will look real to him. You're not going to stand up at all. So he'll never get close enough to see they're phonies.

“Make sure you turn that bullet wound so he ganders it. It will make him remember the part of the tale when your brother shot you in the leg to con the rollers that you were a stick-up victim.

“Now Pocket, you and Folks get upset when the mark cracks that ‘the stuff looks real, but can't you go with us and get a jeweler's glass put on it.' That will give us a chance to blow for the appraisal of the ring I palmed.

“At the instant that I palm the ring from your display, Pocket, you scoop up the stuff and put it back in this canvas bag. You're mad and irritated that the mark and I are too stupid to know real rocks when we see them.

“This makes it logical to the mark that you didn't miss the rock that I filched. Folks, you have the bag under your pillow when I
bring the mark in. Pocket, display on the dresser beneath that two-hundred watt bulb in the dresser lamp.

“I'm picking the mark up at two this afternoon. No later than three
P.M
., I'll be rapping three times on that door. “Pocket, when you open the door look suspiciously up and down the hall before you let us in. Let's give the gorilla a tight play right down the line. All right, that's it. Any intelligent questions?”

Pocket said, “Yeah, I got a good one. Ain't it going to be kinda bullshitty all around when the mark comes back to buy the stuff, and everybody is wise that a piece of the stuff is missing? Ain't I suppose to miss it even when we make the deal? It could pull his coat that we're in cahoots to trim him.”

Blue opened the door and said, That's a stupid sucker's question, Pocket. I'll play the intelligent answer out for you when I lug the mark in. Just give a natural response when I play it to you.”

Blue shut the door. I got up and looked in the dresser mirror. The bogus scar really looked like a croaker had been fiddling around inside my dome. I went to the open window and watched Blue pull the Caddie away from the curb.

I looked at my watch. It was noon. Two tattered Mutt and Jeff winos with scarlet faces were tussling feebly in the gutter across the street.

A tilted wine bottle glittered like rare crystal in the fierce stare of August sun. Jeff stiff-armed Mutt away and sucked the amber treasure down his gullet.

I glanced down at my Buick parked in front of the hotel. A withered Madison Street siren in a vomit-stained white satin ball gown teetered her bony bottom on a front fender.

I heard a faint melody of Stairway to the Stars through the screech and hum of traffic. I banged the window shut and pulled the shade down. I turned away. It was Phala's favorite tune. I sat on the side of the bed and watched Pocket nervously picking his nose.

I said, “Pocket, the guy you're rolling those pills for died yesterday. Stop worrying. Like Blue told us, the mark won't wake up.”

He jerked his finger out of his nostril and said, “I'm not worried about the mark I was thinking about Clara Sue, my young broad. She's kinda' salty with me. Her thing was too tender for them goddamn collars. They rubbed her sweet pussy raw.

“I got 'em soaking in castor oil to soften 'em up. I was sitting here trying to work out the con to play on her so I can use 'em again on her. Folks, I'm thirsty. I'm gonna slip on my clothes and go get a pint of Gordon's Gin. You want some rum?”

I said, “No, Pocket, I don't want any hard stuff. And neither do you until this play is over. Tell you what, I'll spring for a couple of quarts of Pabst Blue Ribbon if you'll make the trip.”

He said, “You're right about the hooch. I'll get the suds. I want to go to the drug store too. I'm gonna buy one of those switchblades I saw. Old Pocket ain't going to play for a crazy mark like Buster without some protection.

“A wise old Chinaman once said, ‘Even the shade of a toothpick is a blessing to a chump croaking in the desert sun.'”

We guzzled beer and rehearsed our lines until a quarter of three. I was propped up in bed and Pocket was in a chair beside me. We stared silently at the door.

At five after three my heart leaped at the three raps on the door. When Pocket went to the door I saw his legs trembling. He opened it and stuck his head into the hallway before stepping aside.

Blue came in followed by the brutish mark. I cocked my head sideways in the bird-like awareness of the blind. I hooked my eyes to wallpaper two feet away from the muscular black monster, as he stooped his six feet, seven inch bulk past the door frame. His slitted maroon eyes were burning through me.

Blue said, “Buster, this is Zambroski and his pal Hastings Street Harvey.”

The gorilla bared gold fangs and snarled in a Hell's Kitchen accent, “Ah'm inna hurrih. Whah's de spahklahs?”

I stared at the wallpaper and fumbled beneath the pillow for the
canvas bag. It was hard not to focus my eyes on his evil black face, crisscrossed with puckered razor slashes.

From the corner of my eye I saw the nostrils of his smashed, bridgeless nose quivering. I held out the bag toward Pocket. I watched as Pocket switched on the two-hundred watt dresser lamp and dumped the fancy fakes to the top of the dresser beneath the flattering spotlight.

Buster and Blue held each ring up close to the light and examined them. I saw a tiny wad fall into the waste basket at the door when Buster turned from the dresser and walked several paces toward me.

He glared down at the fake leg wound and said, “Polack, dis stuff looks kosha. But I ain't inna mood fuh no fuckin' pig inna pok. I want ya boids should go wid us and lat a jooler peep at de rocks. Polack, gimme de line on de stuff.”

Blue stiffened. Pocket shuddered and his Adam's apple fluttered. I didn't get it. I thought the mark wanted a recap of the tale Blue had told him so he could cross check Blue. Deadly silence hammered my eardrums.

I was about to deliver the tale when Pocket cut in and blurted, “It's a twenty-grand line. And we're not dealing with people who look at real stuff and don't know it. We don't have to stick out our necks to get lopped off by some fink jeweler.

“We know the stuff is real. We're sorry you don't. Besides, at six tomorrow night we show the stuff to a buyer who knows what we got and won't hassle. Forget it. We don't want to sell.”

Pocket angrily scooped up the nine rings and hurled them into the bag. He walked to the bed and stuck the bag under my pillow. Buster looked at Blue.

Blue said, “The man has a right to be careful. We know the stuff is real. But what the hell is wrong about a jeweler backing up our opinion? That's a lot of bullshit about having a buyer for those rocks. You hot bastards haven't stuck your asses out of that door since I talked to you Saturday morning.

“The man hasn't got ten grand. Maybe he can raise seven grand in an hour or so. We'll be back for the stuff at seven grand. You're fucking with the cemetery if we don't get that stuff at our price. We got some muscle nailing down this hotel. So, don't try to take a powder while we're gone.”

Pocket followed them to the door and blubbered, “This poor white boy is blind. His rocks got a eighty-grand legit value. Why you gonna rob him with a measly seven grand? It ain't right and I—”

The door slammed in his face. The ancient floor boards in the hallway squeaked as Blue and Bang Bang stomped away. Pocket mopped his brow with the back of his hand and sat in the chair beside the bed.

He shook his head and said, “Folks, my ticker almost stopped when Buster cracked on you for the line on the stuff. Line means the actual price doubled. It's inside code that jewelers, pawnbrokers and fences use.

“A big time heist man with eighty grand in real rocks would know that. We're lucky your stalling didn't pull his coat that you were a phony. Let's see the rocks. We want to make sure that Blue palmed the right fake that matches his real one for the appraisal.”

I dumped the bag of glass on the bed. The right one was missing. I noticed that all the ring bands were sticky. Pocket started feeling them. He reached for a corner of sheet to wipe them off.

I slapped his hand away. I got up and went to the waste basket. I remembered that I had seen something fall into it from Buster's hand. I looked down at a blob of half-chewed gum. Then it struck me.

I said, “Pocket, that suspicious Buster bastard marked every piece of our slum with sticky juice from a wad of gum. He's half-conned already that our stuff is real. The slick chump sonuvabitch took out insurance against a switch in rocks.

“Pocket! I just thought of something terrible. The genuine rock that Blue is going to switch in for the appraisal has no goo on it. What if Buster gets that ring in his mitt right after a jeweler has
certified it, and before Blue has a chance to switch it out after the appraisal?”

Pocket sat for a long moment frowning in deep thought. Finally he grinned and said, “Shit, I ain't gonna worry no more. Blue can handle that gorilla. I was leery at first. But after I heard Blue play that beautiful turn-around con for that mark, I ain't got no doubt that Blue will let him wake up.

“What did Blue say, ‘Don't try to take a powder. We got muscle nailing down the hotel'?

“Ain't Blue playing some sweet con on that sucker? Blue took charge and out-gorilla'd the gorilla.”

I got up and checked out my noggin scar in the dresser mirror.

I said, “Pocket, you're right. I guess Blue is just too fast and clever for a mark like Buster.”

A half hour later we heard three raps on the door. Pocket opened the door. Blue and Buster stepped in. Blue had a stern look on his face. The mark was poker faced. I rolled my eyes up to my favorite patch of wallpaper and cocked my head sideways.

Blue gritted, “All right, all right; the stuff, the stuff. Come up with it. The man has his seven grand.” I didn't move a muscle.

Pocket mumbled, “It ain't right. It just ain't right.”

Blue thundered, “You ugly, shit-colored uncle-tomming motherfucker. Do I have to pistol whip your nappy head to make you understand that we want those rocks now—for seven grand?”

I trembled all over and pulled the bag from beneath the pillow.

I held it out and said, “Here, Harvey, all the rocks in the world aren't worth a hair on your head.”

Pocket took it to the dresser and dumped the rings out. Blue and Buster examined them again. Buster ran a finger over each band for the goo test.

Blue winked at the mark. Then he turned and exploded, “There's a piece missing. We looked at ten. Look in that bed for the missing one.”

Pocket came to the bed and fumbled around the pillow. He looked under the bed.

He shrugged his shoulders helplessly and pleaded, “I swear we ain't holding out that piece. I don't know where it is.”

Suddenly Blue and Buster burst out laughing. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Buster shove his hand in front of Pocket's eyes. The glass duplicate to Blue's ring was on his pinkie.

Blue said, “You're a piss-poor seeing-eye dog for the Polack. I took that sample of the rocks with us to make sure that my client was really buying the quill. Polack, you're a damn fool to let the blind lead the blind.”