Free Stark: A Novel by Edward Bunker

not.”
    “Fuck it. Let’s go to hell together.”
    She shook her head again, this time emphatically. Stark did not press the issue, though he did not forget it either. He stood up, holding the full syringe in his fingers. “Here’s to hell anyway.”

9
    __________
     
     
    S tark entered the Panama Club as he had last departed it — from the alley at the rear into the kitchen. This was not out of fear of Crowley. It was merely that the club was closer than Momo’s apartment, so he exited first. It would not have been prudent to have some hood see him arrive in a taxi with Momo’s woman.
    He glided through the odors of cooking and slipped into the main room. He was met with the hubbub of laughter, the tinkle of glasses, blaring music, color and movement, and floating layers of cigarette smoke. He knew many of the occupants, but spoke to none. He crossed the room, planning to get the car. He wanted to drive and mull over the problems of Momo, Crowley, Dorie, Dummy, and the unknown big connection. It was sure as hell complicated. He wanted the girl, but she wouldn’t leave the skib. Even if she would, Stark could not afford to incur Momo’s anger right now. Not that Momo mattered, but without him, Pat Crowley’s hammer would fall. There would be no Dorie, or anything else except prison for several years.
    There was the beginning of a thought about somehow crossing Momo not only with the girl, but with the big connection as well. If only there wasn’t the ever-looming hulk of a police lieutenant. If only he could set Momo up for the fall, ease the pressure, and leave a clear field with Dorie and the Man. He could then be a major pusher. This would be the way to come out ahead. How to go about it was the dilemma. If he only knew Momo’s hidie-hole.
    Stark was preoccupied with these swirling ideas as he covered the short distance down the sidewalk to the old station wagon. He stepped around the rear and took out his keys.
    From the darkness across the street issued the beam of a spotlight, splashing him. The cops. He whirled, blinded by the glare, heard the click of car doors opening, and his first horrified thought was of the heroin in his pocket. He dug it out as feet pounded towards him. Uniformed shadows with drawn guns loomed up as he stuffed the small bindle in his mouth.
    “Swallow, you bastard, and I’ll blow your head off!” a voice boomed. Stark threw his hands in the air. “What’s this?” he cried, and though terrified, he swallowed what was in his mouth.
    No murderous gunshot sounded, but a fist came from the darkness and crunched into his jaw, sending his body crashing into the car and red lights through his brain. He drew his arms over his head and crouched down.
    “Goddamn, what the hell is this? What’s going on?”
    “You stinking junkie,” the voice said in rage. “I know what you did. I should shoot you. Run, dammit, run so I can shoot.”
    “Ma ain’t raised no damn fool,” Stark quipped, still cowering beneath his hands.
    A calmer voice sounded. “Take it easy. Let’s cuff him and take him in.”
    Rough hands spun him, fastened his wrists in crushing steel bracelets behind his back, frisked him, and then jerked him away from the car by the manacles. He was shoved, stumbling toward the police car. Once out of the spotlight glare he could see he was in the clutches of young harness bulls. Obviously they had staked out the station wagon.
    He was shoved headfirst into the rear of the prowl car and face down on the musty floorboard. The door slammed shut and a foot pressed down into the nape of his neck. His legs were doubled back against the closed door. It was a cramped, filthy position and an uncomfortable ride. Yet his attitude was not of anxiety or even really discomfort. Shock had not worn off enough for these things to be evident. If he felt anything, it was an undirected, numbed disgust at the whole mess.
    At the station the cops hustled him up the back stairs. At the directions