Hooligans

SCREWING UP ROYALLY

Dutch stood in front of the room, a Teutonic frown etched into his heavy features.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Any time.”

“I don‟t want to upset anybody,” he said, turning to his troops, “but these.., ash lochers have been

under our surveillance two weeks. A whole family of them, and we didn‟t even know it!”

The group looked stricken, none more than Charlie One Ear.

“I can‟t believe it,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Not so much as a hint from any of my

canaries about this. I should think somebody, somebody, would have heard some goddamn thing!”

The rest of them stared at the floor and moved imaginary objects around with their feet. All except

Lewis, who stared at a corner of the room through squinted eyes, and Callahan, who spoke up again.

“Why you getting steamed up, Dutch?” he said. “We didn‟t know who they were until last week. Up

till then we were just following them because Charlie One Ear had a hunch.”

“I‟m including myself,” Dutch said. „We been making a lot of racket for these past nine months.

Busting pimps and pros, dropping dealers with a nickel bag in their shorts. We got a little too big for

our hats.”

“We didn‟t know until—” Salvatore started.

“He‟s right,” Charlie One Ear said. “We were much too casual about this mob. I was one of the

worst.”

“You, Chino, you were on Tagliani tonight, right?” Dutch asked.

“Who?”

“Franco Tagliani,” Dutch said, leaning an inch from the Mexican‟s face. “He‟s the one got killed

tonight while you were parked in his front yard. Remember?”

“I keep forgetting the new names,” Zapata said.

“Well, stop forgetting them. I don‟t want to hear any more about Frank Turner or Nat Sherman or any

of the other monikers their people are using. From now on, we use their real-life names, okay?”

The group nodded in unison.

“So what happened?”

“On Sundays, oh. . . Tagliani and... oh.. . Nicky Stinetto go to. . . Bronicata‟s joint for dinner, so I

went there and waited. Shit, you stand out like a blind man at a tit show, out there on Thunderhead

Island. There‟s only one other house on Tur. . . Tagliani‟s street. Twice I been hassled by the fuckin‟

downtown blue and whites, fer Christ sakes.”

“So it‟s your call to jump ahead of your mark that way?” Dutch asked.

“It was just a routine surveillance, Dutch. Shit, I was hungry, nothing to eat for seven hours. I went

ahead, grabbed some groceries so I‟d be ready when he split. Who had any thought he was gonna get

hit?”

“I‟m sorry you didn‟t get a printed invitation!” Dutch said. “How about Stinetto, who had him?”

Charlie One Ear sank a little lower in his chair.

“I‟m afraid I have to plead guilty,” he said. “It was a double-up, Dutch. We knew they were going to

dinner together, so I told—”

“So you told Chino to go to the restaurant and you‟d cover the house,” he said, finishing the sentence.

“Right.” Callahan said, “It‟s routine with him, Chief. Tagliani goes to Bronicata‟s every Sunday for

dinner. He usually meets one or two of his capi there. Draganata, Stizano, Logeto. Like that.

Bronicata usually sits with them.”

“Big deal, so who does the dishes? What [want to know is who was at dinner?”

“Logeto and, uh, the red-haired guy...” Chino said.

“O‟Brian,” I coached.

“Yeah. And, of course, Bronicata.”

“I suppose you was eyeballing Bronicata, too, right, since you was there anyway,” Dutch growled at

Chino.

“1 had Bronicata,” Callahan said quietly. “They all split together. 1 put Bronicata home before 1 came

back here.”

“Who had O‟Brian?”

Lewis raised his hand. “Same thing,” he said. “He went straight home too.”

“What happened there in the restaurant?” Dutch said.

Chino said, “1 was inside, watching the whole team. So Bronicata gets this phone call, comes back

looking like he just swallowed a jar of jalapeño peppers. There‟s some chi chi—”

“Chi chi? What the hell‟s chi chi?” Dutch asked.

“They was whispering.”

“Oh.”

“Then the Irishman and Logeto both split like the place was on fire. Coupla minutes later the waiter

brings the check, tells me the joint‟s closing for the night. „What the hell‟s goin‟ on?‟ I say. He tells

me the chef had a heart attack. I guess the call was to tell them the old man got aced.”

Dutch, who was twirling one side of his moustache and staring at the ceiling, said, “it don‟t make a lot

of sense, y‟know. Tagliani follows the same procedure every Sunday. There he is, in the car with only

Stinetto and the chauffeur, who couldn‟t shoot the shit with the pope. An easy mark, yet the shooter

chooses to waste two guard dogs and blow up Turner and Sherman in the house.”

“It‟s Tagliani and Stinetto,” Charlie One Ear said sedately. All that bought him was a dirty look.

“Salvatore,” Dutch went on, “who was your mark?”

“Stizano,” he said. “He‟s home also. 1 left his place when you called us in.”

“Cowboy?”

“The playboy—what‟s his name?”

“Logeto?” I suggested.

“Yeah, him. He‟s home too.”

“Everybody‟s home tonight,” Zapata said with a chuckle.

“Is any of this stuff from the past few weeks, from when you started watching these guys, is any of

this on paper?” I asked.

Dutch said, “We don‟t make reports. You put it on paper and somebody can read it.”

“Like who?” I asked.

“Somebody, anybody,” he said vaguely.

“You know what burns me?” said Chino. “What fuckin‟ burns me is that these assholes have got

themselves watertight alibis and they don‟t even know it.”

“Wouldn‟t it be fun not to tell them,‟ Charlie One Ear said wistfully.

Dutch said, “Okay, Charlie, put your good ear to the ground, see if you can turn up something. The

rest of you, back out on the range; see if we can stop this daisy chain before it goes any further. If you

run across the Mufalatta kid, Kite Lange, or the Stick, tell them to get in touch. Any questions?”

There weren‟t any.

As the gang started to disperse, Cowboy Lewis got up and walked straight toward me. He moved two

desks out of his way to get to me.

“It‟s Jake, right?” he said.

“Yeah.”

He stuck out his hand.

“My name‟s Chester Lewis. They call me Cowboy.”

“Right.”

“You want this asshole Nance, right?”

“Yeah, I want him, Cowboy.”

“Then he‟s yours.”

“Thanks,” I said, pumping his hand.

“You got a right,” he said, whirled n his heel, and headed straight out the door. As he left, a new face

appeared in the doorway.

I knew who it was without asking.

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