Know Me From Smoke, page 12
Phoenix said, “Hey, Royal. I want you to get off up here on Washington. I got somewhere I want to stop for a few minutes.”
“Oh, hell no. Last time I stopped with you, I—”
“Got paid. That’s what. Last time you stopped with me, you got the wad bought you this whip, am I right?” Phoenix leaned one shoulder against the passenger side window, glowered at Royal.
“Man, get over into the fast lane, will you?” Markie shifted in the back seat, tried to turn and see the traffic quickly gaining on them. “You need to pick up your speed, Royal. I’m telling you, man.” He slapped Royal on the shoulder. “Hit the gas pedal and drive like a man.”
Royal shifted lanes, hit the throttle and felt the surge of the Datsun’s engine. He looked over his left shoulder, cut off a fast-approaching Honda, and settled at high speed in the fast lane. “That okay with you, motherfuckers?”
“He just cut that guy off, man.” Markie laughed.
The Honda honked and whirled past them in the adjacent lane.
Royal noticed Phoenix hadn’t looked away from him, and the man was right. You need to give a man credit when he’s right, even if it hurts to do it. “You’re right, Phoenix. I’ll give you that—I got paid by you. No doubt about it. Good money, too.” He sighed, watched for brake lights ahead of them.
“And I know you want to keep getting paid. Because that’s what life is, everybody walking around trying to get paid.”
“I have a job.”
“You got another cage is what you got—that’s all a job is to people like me and you. It’s another form of the cage they want to put you in.”
Since he met Phoenix, Royal listened to the man talk this way. All it was, Royal knew, was a way to justify his actions, a way to get up for the things he wanted to do, the things he lusted to do. The poor, someone once said, want to take everything from the wealthy. But Phoenix didn’t care who he took from. For Royal, that was a new consideration. Way back when, the day he shot Stella’s husband, he’d been just like Phoenix. He was out for whatever he could take, and from whoever he could take it from—was he different after twenty years inside a cold prison?
He liked to think he was different. Royal wanted to think the fat prison guard spitting at him through the chain-link fence was wrong. He liked to think he was a new man moving in with a lady and headed for the common successes of the common—if boring—city boy. But in the back of his mind, and lurking at the bottom of his stomach, was a feeling he couldn’t get rid of. A cold-throat feeling that reached back through the decades to Royal’s old criminal self.
That image of old fat Officer Zane flared in Royal’s memory. He saw the blood-soaked white towels and the dead open eyes. He sniffed at the phantom scent of laundry soap and body odor, heard the clang of prison doors and the shouts of listless inmates. Murder—in that case—was revenge for Royal. He had to do it. But the robberies he’d done weren’t revenge. No sir, they were for the loot, but beyond that was the pure thrill of it. He missed the thrill.
It used to be that Royal wanted to feel adrenaline course through his veins. That’s what a robbery did for him. It made him feel alive somehow, as if the parts of him that meant nothing to the world were useful—all those mean, violent parts. And if he could use rage and violence, he used to think, why not use rage and violence for profit? Okay, so he did twenty years for the murder, but he got out. And now he had the dead man’s old lady. How’s that for profit? Not many could say they shot their way into a love affair. But Royal Atkins could.
A lopsided grin stretched across Royal’s face.
“The fuck’s with you, Royal?” Markie slapped his shoulder again. “Why you smiling like that, Royal?”
Up ahead, Royal saw the green freeway sign for the Washington Avenue exit. Without turning to look, he veered across three lanes. A volley of horns erupted and the thrum of engine brakes sounded. Behind them echoed the squeal of tires. “We’re getting off here, right gentlemen?” He smirked at Markie’s reflection in the rearview mirror.
“Christ almighty. Heaven and Earth. What the fuck?” Markie’s face clenched. “You are going to get us killed. Phoenix, this motherfucker is going to get us killed, man. Can’t you see that?”
“Shut up, Markie,” Phoenix said. He hadn’t flinched at all. His face was as expressionless and pockmarked as ever. “He’ll be alright. The man is getting in touch with his mean old self—that’s all this is. Take a right up here, Royal. Were going to run us a quick little errand. Get ourselves paid again.”
Part Three: Heartbreakers
Chapter 27
Outside Wally’s, leaning against the building’s brick facade and watching traffic zoom down Sixth Avenue, Stella brought a cigarette to her lips and puffed. She held the smoke at the back of her throat and exhaled. Stella didn’t smoke many cigarettes, but for some reason she needed to calm herself. She rested a hand on her stomach—over her tight-fitting red cocktail dress—and rubbed the firm muscles there. It’s just another night of singing, Stella thought. Why am I so nervous? She’d had the feeling before, and the feeling, more often than not, preceded one of those sucker punches so familiar to her. She watched the sun dip behind the low mid-city skyline; hues of purple and pink flared against scattered bulbous clouds. A beautiful place, this city—a place filled with memories and loss. Even beauty has a gray lining, Stella thought.
The door next to her whooshed open and the Wally’s bartender, Eddie, stepped onto the sidewalk. He pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and lit it with a book of matches. He leaned next to Stella to smoke. She could smell the vague scent of men’s cologne mixed with the pungent odor of gin on his hands.
Stella said, “You got an odd smell, Eddie.”
“How’s that?”
“Cologne and gin. Your own cocktail.”
“I’m intoxicating as fuck.”
Stella laughed and noticed the melodic rhythm to the sound as it reverberated against the brick facade and into city traffic.
Eddie cleared his throat and ran a hand over his gel-laden hair. “They say the fishmonger smells like fish, the firefighter smells like smoke, the cop smells like corruption, and the bartender smells like sex.”
This got another laugh from her. “A whole city in scents.”
“Right.”
Two young couples passed them on the sidewalk: four clean-cut men, their arms were interlaced into knots and they stepped in unison. Stella watched them as they moved up Sixth Avenue, and after a block and a half turned down the closest side street. “You remember being in love like that, Eddie?”
Eddie sighed. “Stella, I could tell you a love story.”
“How about a love-hate story?”
“That too. That too.” He smoked quietly and, after a minute, cleared his throat once more. “When I was about, oh, twenty-four, I had this girl I used to run around with. She was just a real... she was a piston firing fast as hell is what she was. Look, she had lots of guys, okay? I knew that—she told me how it was, that we couldn’t be together. Some bullshit about it not feeling right. But I know she loved me. I mean, she had to because—”
“You loved her.”
Eddie shifted his position against the wall, pressed his right shoulder against brick and dangled his cigarette along his left thigh. Smoke wafted along the sidewalk. Eddie’s eyes moved with the one-way traffic and back as he spoke—as if the man was watching a tennis match but couldn’t move his neck. “Yeah, she loved me. But love’s got nothing to do with—I don’t know—what happens in your life. It’s just a part of you, and it either gets to come along or it doesn’t. I remember we took a trip up to San Luis Obispo once, on the Central Coast? It was so cold up there, it was like you see in old pirate movies. The waves crashing against jagged rock and the sea foam hitting the gloomy sky. We stayed in a little motel and you could hear the beach and the seagulls. There was a dock where you could buy fish right from the fisherman, just go out there with twenty bucks and come back with some rockfish or sea bass. We had a kitchenette and we cooked the fish and drank cheap white wine for a couple nights. You know how it is, a constant buzz and all that gray atmosphere to make you stay in bed. It was a nice time, Stella. But there was something melancholy about it. Still can’t put my finger on what it was, what was wrong. We loved each other, and we both knew it. But it was just wrong somehow, kind of mismatched or…” His voice trailed off and he finished the cigarette, dropped it on the ground and stomped it out with a liquid-splattered dress shoe. “You get things like that sometimes—that’s how love is.”
Stella looked at Eddie, studied the wrinkles around his eyes and on his face. His hair was swept back from his forehead, and Stella could see where it was thinning against his pasty scalp. “But it didn’t work out, huh?”
“No ma’m, it did not. Like I said, love’s only part of the equation. You got to mix it with time, circumstance, with all the things that have to go into a life. Otherwise it’s just a madness you’re dealing with, a big hole in the bottom of your belly. It’s a trap, like quicksand. Looks solid, but…Well, hell.”
“Before you know it,” Stella said, “You’re waist deep.”
“And sinking.”
“And sinking.” Eddie clapped his hands together once, straightened his collar. “I need to get back in there. The rush will be on in an hour or so and I need to make sure I’m stocked.”
“Okay, Eddie.”
He nodded at her and went back inside Wally’s.
Stella put another another cigarette between her lips. Eddie had said love is like a big hole in your belly when it isn’t right—was he on the money? She ran a hand along her flat belly again. That feeling was still there, the one that made Stella think a sucker punch was headed her way. At the bottom of that feeling, through the inky black darkness in her head, Stella saw the chiseled outline of a man’s face. The face was pleasant to look at, though a scar ran along one side. The face belonged to Royal Atkins. Stella struck a match, lit her cigarette, shook out the flame and dropped the match onto the sidewalk. Her nose twitched. The fishmonger smells like fish and the bartender smells like sex. And what is it, Stella asked herself, that the devil smells like?
Like a match struck and shaken back into darkness—that old devil smells like sulfur.
The first lesson Royal remembered learning—way back from when he was a kid—was that you need to seem a hell of a lot meaner and madder than you actually are. That got you obedience. It got you feared. It got you what you wanted when and how you wanted it. That worked on the streets, it worked when he was locked up, and it sure as shit worked when you wanted money from a safe or a cash register. As the three men parked behind the Japanese restaurant and stepped out of the Datsun into dusk’s pink-laden air, Royal told himself: You’re the meanest motherfucker in this city, and anyone who talks to you is going to get a closed fist to the face, no matter how pretty they are. The restaurant was a little place in Mission Hills, just west of the hospital, in an area dappled with second-hand boutiques and respectable bars.
In the parking lot, Phoenix pulled a small pistol from his waistband. He looked at Markie who pulled his own gun. They planned to do something tonight. Planned to drag Royal into it, too. “What about me? I get a piece, or am I going in a sitting fucking duck?”
“You need a gun,” Phoenix said, “All you have to do is ask. But for now, yeah, you give it a go by wits and fists alone. You’re a big boy, Royal. I know you can do it. Besides, you’re going to lead the charge.”
“Fuck you, Phoenix.”
“We’re going in the back door there.” He lifted his gaze to a door propped open against a gray trash can.
Royal saw figures in white chef coats moving past each other through the doorway.
Phoenix said, “Hey, now.” When he had Royal’s attention again, he continued. “It’s an office off to the right. There’s a manager in there and she’s a girl with a nice figure. I happen to know they save the drop until tomorrow morning. And, right now, they should have a whole day’s cash in there. Plus whatever petty cash they have. A couple grand is my guess.”
“This is almost broad fucking daylight,” Royal said. “Plus, we’re standing out here talking this thing through and—”
“It’s all good, Royal.” Markie cut him with a glare. “I thought Phoenix said you were a big boy?”
“Look, man—listen.” Phoenix came around the Datsun and put a hand on Royal’s shoulder. “You just walk in and we’ll be right behind you. Now you take the first right and the office is going to be open. If not, you knock. As soon as that door opens, we ask real nice for the money. And then we’re gone.”
“Fuck me.” Royal’s heart beat steadily and sweat pooled beneath his arms. Seemed like no matter what he did, Royal was always running into bad guys and trouble. He told himself again: You are one mean motherfucker. “Let’s get this over with.” At the open door, Royal saw through the kitchen and into the dining room. The place was busy and the waitstaff hustled among the three chefs. Japanese phrases flew across the kitchen like insults. Hearty conversation came from the dining room. A radio was playing somewhere to the right. Royal stepped inside and stared at his boots against the small red floor tiles.
Behind him, Phoenix said, “To the right and in the office. Be a big boy now.”
Royal clenched his teeth. Phoenix was pissing him off. Forget it, man. Worry about all that later. After this is done and the getaway is clean. He moved forward, made a quick right and they were in the office.
The woman Phoenix mentioned was sitting on a counter to Royal’s left. Her legs were crossed and she bounced one high-heeled foot in the air. In front of Royal, in a revolving office chair, was a young Asian man with a high and tight fade—a clubbing look to him—and tattoos on his neck. Royal sensed the gun on the counter before he saw it. He marked the open safe and the three piles of cash inside—Royal did not remember closing his fist into a hard ball, and he didn’t remember planting his feet, but he did remember the satisfying crunch from his fist against the back of the Asian guy’s head. The girl yelped, but Phoenix had his gun on her and that shut her up. The man pitched forward—crumpled, really—and fell against the desk. The office chair rolled from beneath him and he hit the floor like a sandbag. Royal watched for movement, but all he saw was the man’s belly rising and falling.
Royal said, “Time for a nap, huh?” He looked at the woman. Phoenix was right. She was nice-looking, if a little too young for him. “This your boyfriend, sister? Or he just the assistant manager?”
“My boss.”
“He don’t look like a boss to me. Too young for managerial service.”
At the door, Markie turned and said to someone in the kitchen, “Staff meeting, motherfuckers. Get your sorry asses back to work.”
Phoenix held the gun on the woman and said, “We taking the money. You good with that?” He motioned to Royal. “Go on and get it.”
Royal put the three stacks of cash—maybe it was four or five thousand, and all small bills—into two manila envelopes. He left the safe open, but dug around inside first. It was all paperwork: receipts and invoices and inventory lists. “That’s it,” he said. “All there is.”
Phoenix said, “Check his pockets.”
Royal dug through the guy’s pockets, came out with a cell phone and a money clip filled with hundreds. “Bingo, motherfucker.” He shoved the money clip into an envelope, dropped the phone on the guy’s chest.
Phoenix stepped toward the woman, put his small gun to her forehead.
Her eyes crushed together and a wrinkle formed on her chin. That bouncing high heel stopped mid-swing.
“Phoenix, man, that’s not necessary.” Royal moved toward him, placed his hand on the man’s extended arm.
“Staff meeting in progress, motherfucker. Come back later.” It was Markie. He turned to them and said, “They know my pretty face now, boys.”
Royal said, “No reason to do this, man. We got what we came for.” He scooped up the gun on the desk. It was a nine millimeter with silver grips. Gangster-style, he supposed. He lodged it between his belt and belly, covered it with his shirt. “I got me a piece, too.”
Phoenix sighed, lowered the gun. “Thanks for the paycheck, sister.”
She squinted at them, but said nothing.
The three men left the office and walked out the back door. As he opened the driver’s side door and folded himself into the seat, Royal heard what he figured was the woman’s voice.
The words floated out through the back door and into the cool dusk atmosphere: “Fuck you, motherfuckers! Fuck you, you fucking motherfuckers!”
Chapter 28
Ice cubes in their private collisions. Cocktail glasses tapping against walnut. The soft plink of lone notes on a piano. Tired pleasantries slurred through dim light. These were the things that reminded Stella of her cocktail lounge life, her underbelly paradise. And she heard and felt them now as she sat on the Wally’s stage, her hands resting on the piano keys. When she first started singing, Stella was a little girl—her mother sang and her father played trumpet. They used to do old Louis Armstrong tunes at the kitchen table, a diminishing bottle of gin between them, twisted cigarettes akimbo in an ashtray.
And there was Stella, her sundress drooping off kid shoulders, one finger in her mouth, biting a nail as she watched her father’s cheeks puff in and out. It was cartoon-like to see him puffing on his horn, a gold trumpet he carried in a frayed brown case with all kinds of messages scrawled into it.
She remembered a few, including her favorite: I’m so lost, I’m found.
Stella always wondered what that meant, even now as she sat with her hands on a piano, lyrics bubbling up inside her throat. Her mother used to sing wordless melodies, simple nonsense that ran into the kitchen air as if conjured from a spell. It was as if her mother was singing in tongues, like what religious people do on television specials. Stella knew it was those summer nights—those aimless melodies tossed back and forth across a wobbly kitchen table—that made her a singer. The simplicity of it. The lack of purpose, but still so full of purpose.
