Stick Read Free Page A

Nestor that. I told you, you told him. ” Keep the record straight. “He gets delivery tonight. Two-hundred thousand paid in full. In hundreds—Lionel says he got all used hundreds and aSamsonite bag tested by a four-hundred-pound gorilla, so we know it won’t come open, right? Blow away. But giving him a person along with it . . .  that’s pretty weird shit we’re talking about there, you know it? I think it slips Nestor’s mind he’s living in Miami, Florida, now. You know what I mean? Mention to him if you would, we’re part-civilized here. Our gods don’t think much of human sacrifice.”
    â€œThey don’t?” Moke’s voice said.
    The boy could be dry if you fed him lines. Chucky moved from his desk toward the balcony, then remembered something and changed his direction. At the door to the living room he removed his hardhat and pressed in close to the door panel to look through a peephole.
    The girl sat at the near end of the sofa, giving Chucky her left profile from about fifteen feet. More than pleasant looking though not sensational. She sat paging through his latest copy of Shotgun News with some degree of interest. Sandals, slim legs crossed, she’d go about a hundred and five. It looked like a beige sundress under the white cotton blazer, the sleeves pushed up a little on her arms. Nice tan. No jewelry except for the Cartier-style watch with the leather band. Blond-streaked hair to her shoulders, cut off he would say abruptly, a manageable style, simple—rather than all swirly curly the way Chucky liked a girl’s hair. She didn’t look anything like he’dbeen picturing her since talking to his friend Barry and arranging the date. No, she looked like somebody’s sister, like she’d smile a lot with healthy uncapped teeth, hands folded in her lap and say, “Gee, Mr. Gorman . . .” She also looked, from here, about eighteen years old.
He’d see in a minute if she was any good.
    Chucky swapped the hardhat for the snappy yachting cap he tilted low over his eyes. Moving back to the desk he said, “Tell Nestor . . .  tell him before he starts free-basing this evening, gets to trembling and becomes devilish . . .  I expect a call.”
    The phone speaker remained silent.
    â€œTell him we have customs, too,” Chucky said. “Gringo customs. We kill a chicken, we eat it, we don’t shake beads and sprinkle its blood around. He wants a life for a life, he has to ask for it himself. It has to come from on high, not told to me by some messenger boy.”
    Silence. Though Chucky knew this one wouldn’t last.
    Moke’s voice said, “I expect you realize how much you need him, you want a good source.”
    â€œLike I need a three-foot yang-yang,” Chucky said. “The man comes through, why not, all the dough he’s making. But I’ll tell you, the association is far from comfortable. Nestor, all he has to do is see The Godfather on TV, he goes freaky for a week. Thepoint here is, he knows I wasn’t playing that tune. I didn’t set him up. I made an honest mistake . . .”
    â€œYou made a dumb mistake.”
    â€œWhich I’m paying for. But you tell him, hear? I’m sitting on the cashbox till he calls me.”
    Silence.
    â€œYou got it? Grunt once for yes, two for no.”
    â€œYou threaten him you know what he’ll do.”
    â€œTell me,” Chucky said. “Keep talking while your mouth’s still open.”
    â€œHe’ll cut off your product or your cojones, one.”
    Chucky said, “Do you know how many times in the past ten years I’ve been cut off, sold out, fucked over, picked up, jerked around one way or another and yet, look-it here, who’s still king of the shit pile?” Pink warning lights began popping before his eyes and he paused to let them settle, melt down, wanting