Free Stick by Elmore Leonard Page B

were wearing short beach covers to their hips, looking nude underneath. Barry said to Bobbi, “They sit around drinking, it’s Chucky’s party, not mine. Don’t give Aurora any martinis; she’ll lay every guy that comes in.” He looked toward the terrace again as he moved down the bar. “Rorie, I’ll see you later, babe. Call you as soon as I can.”
    He heard her say, “Bar- ry !” but kept moving down the length of the bar, out.
    Â 
    Stick watched the guy in cutoff jeans and plain white sneakers—he had very hairy legs—come tearing out of the place and run over to the Rolls-Royce.He tried the door. Locked. He bent over to peer into the car, shielding his eyes with his hands. Then started yanking on the door, trying to tear the handle off. Then straightened up and banged his fist on the roof of the car, swearing, saying Jesus Christ and goddamn it. Really mad. Having a little tantrum. Stick wondered—assuming the guy had locked his key in the car—what there was to get so excited about.
    Stick was sitting on Wolfgang’s front steps under the awning, at a point where he’d decided this was not the place to pick up a car, not in daylight—he’d have to go to a shopping mall or a movie theater parking lot—when this little guy in the cutoffs came flying out. Dark hair down over his ears. At first Stick thought the guy was Cuban, all the Cubans around. But then decided no, no Cuban who could afford a Rolls was going to run around in cutoffs and a yellow alligator shirt hanging out. No, the guy was probably Jewish, a rich young Jewish guy in his early thirties. He reminded Stick of Frankie Avalon, the hair, or a young Tony Curtis.
    Stick said to him, “You need a coat hanger?”
    Barry looked over at Stick for the first time. With hope, or surprise. Then seemed to lose it and put his hands on his hips, shoulders rounding, though he seemed to be standing up straight.
    â€œNo keys. It wouldn’t do me any good even if I got in.”
    â€œYou lose ’em?”
    â€œMy asshole driver’s suppose to drop the car off, leave the keys at the bar. Sounds easy, right? Take the keys out, hand ’em to the girl? Totally wrong.”
    â€œCan you give him a call?”
    â€œWhere? It’s his day off. Wherever he is he’s smashed by now. That’s it for Cecil. No more of this bullshit, I’m telling you . . .”
    Stick got up. He brushed at the seat of his new faded khaki pants. Smoothed the front of his lime green shirt with the little polo player on it. He was going to pick up his canvas bag, then decided not to, not yet. Look interested, but casual about it.
    He said, “Maybe I can help you.”
    Barry said, “What, get in the car? All I had to do was get in the car I’d break the goddamn window. I got to get in and I got to be in Bal Harbour”—he looked at his Rolex—”shit, in less’n forty minutes. And I need stuff that’s in the car and I gotta make about five phone calls on the way.”
    â€œYou got a phone in the car?”
    â€œI got two phones. Channel Grabber in the car, another one in a briefcase in the trunk.”
    â€œWhat year’s the Rolls?”
    Barry paused. “Sixty-seven. Silver Shadow, man. They stopped making ’em not too long after.”
    Stick nodded. He said, “I bet you I can get in and have it started in . . .  fifty seconds.”
    Barry paused again. “You kidding me?”
    â€œBet you a hundred bucks,” Stick said.
    Barry said, “You’re not kidding, are you? Jesus Christ, you’re serious.”
    He watched Stick hunch down over his canvas bag, zip it open and feel around inside. Watched him take out a coat hanger. Watched him feel around again and take out a length of lamp cord, several feet of it with metal clips at each end.
    Barry’s mouth opened. He said, “What’re