Hooligans

MEMORANDUM

Okay, Cisco, you‟re always complaining that I don‟t file reports. So I have a thing about that. I can‟t

type and it takes me forever to peck out one lousy report. Also there are never enough lines on the

forms and I can‟t get the stuff in between the lines that are there. If you want to know the truth, it‟s a

royal pain in the ass. But if I were going to write a memorandum, it would probably go something like

this

I‟ve been in Dunetown less than twenty-four hours. So far I‟ve witnessed one death, seen three other

victims, fresh on the slab, been treated like I got smallpox by Dutch Morehead and his bunch of

hooligans, and seen just enough of Dunetown to understand why they call it Doomstown. It‟s an

understatement.

Due process? Forget it. It went out the window about the time Dunetown got its first paved road. As

far as the hooligans are concerned, due process is the notice you get when you forget to pay your

phone bill. Most of them think Miranda is the president of a banana republic in Central America.

Stick understands the territory but he‟s kind of in the squeeze. He has to go along with the hooligans

so they won‟t tumble that he‟s a Fed. On the other hand, he‟s smart enough to know that any evidence

these guys might gather along the way would get stomped flat at the door to the courthouse.

What we‟re talking about, Cisco, is education. Stick is a smooth operator. The rest of Dutch

Morehead‟s people would rather kick ass than eat dinner. Yesterday I tried to discuss the RICO

statutes with them and Chino Zapata thought I was talking about a mobster he knows in Buffalo.

The only exception is Charlie “One Ear” Flowers, who knows the game but doesn‟t buy the rules.

He‟s like the rest of these guys—they‟ve been fucked over so much by the system that they walk with

their legs crossed. I‟m not making any value judgments, mind you. Maybe some of them deserved

their lumps.

Take Salvatore, for instance. He was up on charges in New York City when Dutch found him. The

way I get it, Salvatore was on stakeout in one of those mom and pop stores in the Bronx. It had been

robbed so often, the people who owned it took out the cash and put it on the counter every time

somebody walked into the store. The old man had been shot twice. Classic case. It‟s the end of the

year and Salvatore is behind two-way glass and this freak comes into the store and starts waving a

Saturday night special around. Salvatore steps out from his hiding place, says, “Merry Christmas,

motherfucker,” and blows the guy into the middle of the street with an 870 riot gun loaded with rifle

slugs. The police commissioner took issue with the way Salvatore. did business. Now he‟s down here.

One thing about them, they don‟t complain. Between you arid me, I‟m glad they‟re here.

You can add this to everything else: every time I go around a corner I get another rude shock. Like

going out to the beach today. I wasn‟t ready for that. The traffic should have been a clue. It got heavy

about a quarter mile from where the boulevard terminates at Dune Road, which runs parallel to the

ocean. See, the way I remember Dune Road, it was this kind of desolate macadam strip that merged

with the dunes. It went out to the north end of the island and petered out at the sea; one of those old

streets that go nowhere in particular.

Now it‟s four lanes wide with metered parking lots all over the place. There are three hotels that

remind rue a lot of Las Vegas, and shops and fast-food joints one on top of the other, and seawalls to

protect the hotel guests from the common people. Two more going up and beyond them condos

polluting the rest of the view. And the noise! It was a hurricane of sound. Stereos, honking horns, and

hundreds of voices, all jabbering at once.

La Cote de Nightmare is what it is now.

See what I mean about rude shocks? The Strip, that‟s one rude shock.

Anyway, I‟m on my way out there with Stick and Charlie One Ear followed in his car. Going

anywhere with Stick is taking your life In your hands. He doesn‟t drive a car, he flies it. He can do

anything in that Pontiac but a slow roll and I wouldn‟t challenge him on that. I ought to be getting

combat pay.

Without boring you with details, Salvatore and Zapata made this St. Louis pimp named Mortimer

Flitch and we went out to have a chat with him.

He was hanging out on the Strip and before I go any further with that, let me tell you about the Strip_

The first thing I noticed when we got there, the hotels are almost identical triplets. Take the Breakers,

for instance. The lobby is the size of the Dallas stadium. It would take about five minutes to turn it

into a casino. I could almost hear the cards ruffling and the roulette balls rattling and the gears

cranking in the slot machines. When Raines pushed through the pari-mutuel law, he promised there

would never be any casino gambling in Dunetown. Well, you can forget that, Cisco. They‟re ready.

It‟s just a matter of time. I‟ll give them a year, two at the most. What we‟re looking at is Atlantic City,

Junior. About fifteen minutes told me all I wanted to know about the Strip.

When we got there, the pimp, Mortimer, is sitting in a booth in the coffee shop looking like he just

swallowed a 747. Salvatore is sitting across from him, kind of leaning over the table, grinning like

he‟s running for mayor. One thing I left out: Salvatore carries a sawed-off pool cue in his shoulder

holster. It‟s about eighteen inches long and it‟s always catching on things, which doesn‟t seem to

bother him a bit. Zapata is standing by the door. That‟s their idea of backup.

When we arrived, Zapata split. He‟s on the prowl for Nance and Chevos. That makes me feel real

fine, because if Chevos and Nance are within a hundred miles of here, Zapata will find them. I‟ll

make book on it.

We join Salvatore and Mortimer at the table and then I see why this Mortimer Flitch has got that

screwy look on his face. Salvatore has his pool cue between Morti men‟s legs and every once in a

while he gives the cue a little jerk and rings Mortimer‟s bells.

“Tell him what you told me there, Mort,” Salvatore says, and bong! he rings the bells and Mortimer

starts singing like the fat lady in the opera.

“I got in a little trouble in Louisville about two months ago and—”

Bong! “Tell „em what for,” says Salvatore.

“Beating up this chippie. She had it coming—

Bong! “Forget the apologies,” says Salvatore.

“Anyway, the DA was all over me and—”

Bong! “Tell „em why,” says Salvatore.

“It, uh, it—”

Bong!

“It was my fifth offense. Anyway, I give a call to a friend of mine, does a little street business in

Cincy, and he says forget it out there, things are real hot, I should try calling Johnny O‟Brian down

here. So I did and he sends me the ticket.”

Mortimer stopped to catch his breath and Salvatore gave him another little shot.

“Tell „em about the hotel and all,” he says.

“Look, O‟Brian did me all right. I could get blitzed over this.” Bong! “„Told „em about the fuckin‟

hotel, weed.”

“He gets me a suite here in the Breakers, gives me two G‟s, and says I got a couple of weeks to line

up some ladies. It‟s a sixty-forty split. He gets the forty.”

Salvatore looked over at me and smiled.

“What else you want to know?”

“Did you bring any ladies with you?” I asked.

“Uh-.-”

Bong!

“Yeah, yeah. Two.”

“That‟s the Mann Act,” I said.

“Look, could we maybe meet somewhere else if we‟re going to keep this up?” Mortimer pleaded. “I

could take a boxcar ride just talking to you guys.”

“How many pimps does O‟Brian have working down here?” I asked.

Mortimer looks at Salvatore wild-eyed and says, “Swear to God, I don‟t know. 1 got the hotel, that‟s

all I know.”

“This is your territory exclusively?” Charlie One Ear asked, and Mortimer nodded vigorously.

“Okay,” I said. “Finish your breakfast. We wanted information; we‟re not going to tell anybody about

our chat. Don‟t screw up and leave town.”

He shakes his head. Salvatore pockets the cue, and we split.

“Can we use this?‟ Charlie One Ear asks on the way out.

“No,” I said, “but it‟s nice to know.

“Coercion, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Now I know why Salvatore carries a pool cue. He calls it his sweet nutcracker.

See what I mean about due process, Cisco?

22

DRIVE-IN

Stick drove intelligently on the way back. Neither one of us had much to say. About halfway to town

he wheeled into a drive-in and got us each a hamburger and a beer. Re pulled around behind the place

and parked under some palm trees in the parking lot and we opened the doors to let the breeze blow

through.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Sure, why?”

“I figure maybe you got the blues.”

“How come?”

“You got that look in your eye.”

“I‟m doing fine.”

“1 know the blues when I see them.” He looked at me with that crazy sideways smile. “I just thought

I‟d let you know I‟m a good listener and I got an awful memory”

“It‟s nothing you haven‟t heard before,” I said.

“I‟m only thirty-one,” he replied. “You‟d be surprised what I haven‟t heard yet.”

“I‟ll keep that in mind.”

There was a lot of activity in the parking lot; a lot of young girls wearing just about as little as the law

allowed and young men with acne and cutoff jeans making awkward passes at them. The beer was ice

cold and it tickled the tongue and made the mouth feel clean and fresh, and the hamburgers were real

meat and cooked just right. So I hunkered down in the seat, bracing my knees on the dashboard, and

took a long pull on my bottle. It had been a long time since I had spent lunch watching pretty young

girls at play.

“Just look at that, would you,” Stick said wistfully.

“I‟m looking,” I said, just as wistfully.

After a while two girls in a TR-3 pulled in and parked near us. One of them got out and threw

something into the trash can. She was wearing thin white shorts that barely covered her bottom and a

man‟s white shirt tied just under her breasts, which were firm and perilously close to popping out. She

stood by the door of the TR-3 for a minute, flirting with Stick, and then she got in and leaned over and

whispered something to her friend. When she did, the shorts tightened around every curve and into

every crevice and you could see the lines of her skimpy bikini through the cotton cloth and see the

half-circles of her cheeks.

“Holy shit,” Stick muttered, “that‟s damn near criminal.”

“She‟s not a day over fifteen, Stick.”

“1 don‟t remember fifteen-year-olds being stacked like that when I was a kid,” he said somewhat

mournfully. “Do you remember them looking like that?”

I remember Doe at fifteen, coming up to Athens with Chief for homecoming, flirting with me every

time Teddy or Chief looked the other way. She definitely looked like that.

“Seems to me they were all flat-chested and giggled a lot,” Stick went on.

“They‟re giggling,” I pointed out.

“That‟s a different kind of giggling.”

“They‟re just beginning to figure it out,” I said.

“Figure what out?”

“How to drive a man up the wall.”

“She‟s got the angle, all right,” he said, drumming the fingers of one hand on his steering wheel and

staring back at the little cutie, who lowered her sunglasses and stared back.

“Oh my,” Stick moaned. “You just don‟t know where to draw the line.”

“About three years older than that,” I said.

“What a shame.”

He took a long pull on his beer, smacked his lips, and sighed.

“I missed all that,” he said. “They were little girls when I went to Nam and they were grown up and

spoken for when I got back. What a fuckin‟ ripoff.”

The girl in the TR-3 leaned her head way back and shook her long black hair across her face, and then

she leaned forward and flipped it back and smoothed it out with her hands. The shirt came perilously

close to falling completely open.

“She‟s doing that on purpose,” Stick said, watching every move. He looked back over at me. “Fifteen,

huh?”

“At the most.”

“Shit. What a fuckin‟ ripoff.”

The driver of the TR-3 cranked up and pulled around in a tight little arc so they drove past us.

“Love your hat,” the girl in the white cotton shorts purred as they went by. Stick whipped the hat off

and scaled it like a Frisbee in the wake of the TR-3. It hit the parking lot and skipped to a stop as the

sports car vanished around the building. Stick retrieved his hat and got back behind the wheel.

“All bluff,” he muttered, and then added, “I may have to take the night off.”

“I wouldn‟t mind taking the rest of my life off,” I said. “I been on this case too long. Almost six years.

I‟m sick and tired of the Taglianis. They‟re enough to give anybody the blues.”

“Relax. The way things are going there won‟t be any of them left to be sick and tired of,” he said

almost jauntily, staring at another young girl in a bikini bathing suit who was sitting on the back of a

convertible, her face turned up toward the sun. Her long, slender legs were stretched out in front of

her and her breasts bubbled over the skimpy top. The driver, skinny kid in surfing trunks and a cutoff

T-shirt, stared dumbly at her in the rearview mirror.

“Look at that kid in the front seat,” Stick said. “He doesn‟t know what the hell to do about all that.”

“It‟ll come to him,” 1 said.

“They‟re all over the place,” Stick cried lasciviously. “You know what this is? It‟s a plague of young

flesh, Do you get the feeling this is a plague of young flesh?”

“Yeah,” I said. “God‟s throwing the big final at us. He‟s testing our mettle.”

“Mettle, shmettle,” Stick said. “If that little sweetie in the back of the convertible takes a deep breath,

her top‟ll fly off and kill that kid up front.” After a moment he added, “What a way to go.

He finished his beer and put the empty bottle on the floor between his legs. “That‟s all it is then?

You‟re tired of the Tagliani case?”

I wondered whether he was fishing and what he was fishing for. Then I thought, who cares, so he‟s

fishing. Suddenly I had this crazy thought that while Stick was younger than me and newer at the

game, he was protecting me. It was a feeling I had known in the past and it scared me because it made

me think about Teddy.

“I‟ve been chasing Taglianis longer than anything else I‟ve done in my whole life,” I said. “Longer

than college, longer than law school, longer than the army. I know everything there is to know about

the fucking Taglianis.”

“That‟s why you‟re here enjoying the land of sunshine and little honeys,” Stick replied. “Think about

it—you could be back in Cincinnati. Now that‟s something to get the blues over.”

“1 hope you‟re not gonna be one of those jerks who always look on the bright side,” I said caustically.

In a crazy kind of way, I felt a strange sense of kinship with the Taglianis, as if I were the black sheep

of the family. My life had been linked to theirs for nearly six years. I knew more about the Tagliani

clan than I did about the Findleys or any of the hooligans. I knew what their wives and their

girlfriends were like, what they liked to eat, how they dressed, what they watched on television, where

they went on vacation, what they fought about, how often they made love. I even knew when their

children were born.

“You want to hear something really nuts?” I said. “I almost sent one of the Tagliani kids a birthday

card once.”

“I knew a detective in D.C., used to send flowers to the funeral when he wasted somebody. He always

signed the cards „From a friend.”

“That‟s sick,” I said.

“You know what we oughta do, buddy? When this fiasco is all over we ought to take a month‟s leave,

go down to the Keys. I got a couple of buddies live down there, sit around all day smoking dope and

eating shrimp. That‟s the fuckin‟ life. Or maybe get the hell out of the country, hit the islands Aruba,

one of those. Sit around soaking up rays, getting laid, forget all this shit.”

“Wouldn‟t that be nice?” I said.

“We‟ll do it,” he said, slapping the steering wheel with the palm of his hand, and then he said

suddenly, “Hey, you married?”

“No, are you?”

“Hell no. What woman in her right mind would spend more than a weekend at the Holiday Fuckin‟

Inn.”

“That‟s where you‟re staying, the Holiday Inn?”

“Yeah. It‟s kind of like home, y‟know. They‟re all exactly alike, no matter where you are, If you get

one of the inside rooms overlooking the pool, the view doesn‟t even change.”

“I had this little basement apartment when I was in Cincy,” I said. “I took it by the month because I

didn‟t think I‟d be there that long. There weren‟t even any pictures on the wall. Finally I went out and

bought some used books and a couple of cheap prints to try and doll the place up but it didn‟t work. It

always seemed like I was visiting somebody else when I came home.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said. “It‟s been like that since Nam. We‟re disconnected.”

That was the perfect word for it. Disconnected. For years I had worked with other partners but always

at arm‟s length, like two people bumping each other in a crowd. I didn‟t know whether they were

married, divorced; whether they had kids or hobbies. All I knew was whether they were good or bad

cops and that we all suffered from the same anger, frustration, boredom, and loneliness.

“Don‟t you ever wonder why in hell you picked this lousy job?” I asked him.

“That‟s your trouble right there, lake, you think too much. You get in trouble when you think too

much.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. Thinking can get you killed. You didn‟t make it through Nam thinking about it. Nob.ody

did. The thinkers are still over there, doing their thinking on Boot Hill.”

There was a lot of truth in what he said. I was thinking too much. There was this thing about Cisco

telling me to forget murder unless it was relevant. That bothered me. Hell, I was a cop and murder is

murder, and part of the job, like it or not, is to keep people alive, like them or not, and keeping them

alive meant finding the killer, no matter what Cisco said. It was all part of the territory. And there was

the lie about Teddy which I hadn‟t thought about for years, because I had stuffed it down deep, along

with the rest of my memories. I had walked away from the past, or thought I had. I had even stopped

dreaming, though dreams are an occupational hazard for anyone who has seen combat. Now the

dreams had started again. You can‟t escape dreams. They sneak up on you in the quiet of the night,

shadow and smoke, reminding you of what has been. You don‟t dream about the war, you dream

about things that are far worse. You dream about what might have been.

“Hell, it‟s very complicated, Stick,” I said finally. “I don‟t think I‟ve got it sorted out enough to talk

about. Sometimes I feel like I‟m juggling with more balls than I can handle.”

“Then throw a couple away.”

“I don‟t know which ones to throw.”

“That‟s what life‟s all about,” he said. “A process of elimination.‟

“I thought I had it all worked out before I got here,” I said. “It was very simple. Very uncomplicated,”

“That‟s the trap,” he replied. “Didn‟t Nam teach you anything, Jake? Life is full of incoming mail.

You get comfortable, you get dead.”

“That‟s what it‟s all about, Alfie?”

“Sure. It‟s also the answer to your question. We‟re cops because we have to keep ducking the

incoming. That‟s what keeps us alive.”

Finally I said, “Yeah, that‟s what we‟ll do, go down to the islands, lay out, and forget it all.”

“That‟s all that‟s bugging you, a little cabin fever then?”

“Right.”

He flashed that crazy smile again.

“1 don‟t believe that for a fuckin‟ minute,” he said as he cranked up the Black Maria.

23

HEY, MR. BAGMAN

Cowboy Lewis was waiting in the Warehouse when we got back. The big, rawboned man was sitting

at a desk, laboriously hunting and pecking out a report on a form supplied by the department. He

didn‟t worry about the little lines or how many there were. He typed over them, under them, through

them, and past them. Getting it down, that was his objective. There were a lot of words x‟d out and in

one or two places he had forgotten to hit the spacer, but I had to give him A for effort. At least he was

doing it. His face lit up like the aurora borealis when he saw me.

“Hey, I was writing you a memo,” he said, ripping it out of the Selectomatic in mid-word. “I‟ll just

tell you.”

I looked at the partially completed report and told him that would be just fine. The thought occurred to

me that I could sign it myself and send it to Cisco. That would probably end his bitching about my

reports, or lack thereof, forever.

“Salvatore says you‟re interested in that little weed, uh...” He paused, stymied temporarily because he

had forgotten the name.

“Cohen?” I helped.

“Yeah. Little four-eyed wimp, got his head on a swivel?” he said, twisting his head furiously back and

forth to illustrate what he meant.

“That‟s him,” I replied. “Unless times have changed, he‟s the bagman for the outfit.”

“Yeah,” he said, which was his way of agreeing. “Carries one of those old-timey doctor‟s bags, black.

Hangs on to that sucker like he‟s got the family jewels in there.

“That‟s about what it is,” said Stick, “the family jewels.”

“I shadowed him three days—Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, last week—and got him cold.” Lewis

took out a small black notebook. “He stays real busy in the morning. Moves around a lot. Goes to the

bank every day at two o‟clock, just as it closes.”

“Every day?” I asked.

“All three days he went to the bank there on the river.” He nodded.

“This activity in the morning—does he always go to the same places?” Stick asked.

Lewis shook his head. “He‟s all over town. But he always seems to wind up on the Strip around noon.

Leastwise he did these three days.”

“Where does he bank?” I queried.

“Seacoast National, down there by the river like I said. Although sometimes he makes deposits at the

branches.”

The good-news worm nibbled at my stomach. That was Charles Seaborn‟s home plate.

“Cash deposits?” I asked.

“Never got that close,” Lewis said with a shrug. “Didn‟t wanna tip my hand, y‟see. He travels first

class. Big black Caddy limo with a white driver looks like he could carry the heap in his arms. Then

there‟s another pug in the front seat and a souped-up Dodge Charger with a high-speed rear end

fo1lowing them. Usually two, three mutts in it.”

“Like a little parade?” Stick suggested.

“Yeah,” he said with a smile, “a little parade. Any one of „em could win an ugly contest, hands down.

The Charger is usually in pretty tight. Half a block behind at least.”

“And he moves around a lot, you say?” I threw in.

“Uh-huh. But he always ends up there at the bank by the river, just before it closes.”

He offered me his notebook, which had notations scrawled everywhere. Slantwise, up the sides of the

pages, upside down. It was far worse than his typed report.

“What does all this mean?” I asked.

He looked a little hurt. “That‟s addresses and stuff,” he said. “See here, 102 Fraser, that‟s an address

where he stopped. Here‟s Bay Br. That‟s the Bay branch of the bank. Uh, I don‟t know what this one

is for sure, but I can figure it out.”

“Any of these addresses mean anything to you?”

“Well, some of „em do. See here where I wrote down „Port?‟ That‟s the Porthole Restaurant on the

way out to the Strip. He hit there two days, Tuesday and Friday. Bron,‟ that‟s Bronicata‟s joint. That

was Wednesday.”

“He sure eats a lot,” I said.

“Naw. Never stays that long. Five minutes, sometimes ten. I ambled in behind him once at the

Porthole. He has a cup of coffee at the corner of the bar, goes to the can, and leaves. Two guys from

the Charger sit a few stools away, another grabs a table near the door. The other two stand by the car.

He sure ain‟t lonely.”

It was an excellent tail job, but it was impossible for me to decipher his notes.

“This is a great job,” I told him, “but I need a big favour. Can you list the places he stopped with the

dates and times for me? Nothing fancy, just write them down in a straight line on a sheet of paper.”

“Can‟t read my writing, huh?” he said, looking hurt again.

I tried to ease the pain. “It‟s strictly my problem,” I said. “I have a very linear mind.”

His “Oh” told me that he didn‟t quite get my meaning but wasn‟t interested in pursuing it any further.

“Does Dutch have you shadowing Cohen anymore?” I asked.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “I‟m pulling a double. Logeto tonight, Cohen in the morning. Then I‟m off a

day.”

“Maybe he ought to watch the car instead of Cohen,” Stick suggested. “Some of his operators

probably have a key to the trunk. He parks in a lot or on a side street somewhere, goes into a place,

and while he‟s gone, the henchman makes a drop in the trunk.”

“Excellent idea,” I said. “Also you might switch cars with one of the other guys. These people are

very nervous. They keep their eyes open; that‟s their job.”

“That and cutting down anybody that gets near the family jewels,” Stick said.

“Got it,” Cowboy said. “I‟ll get right on this list.” He returned to his desk.

I pulled Stick out of earshot. “When he gets finished,” I said, “we need to pull a link matrix on this

stuff, just to see where these pickups overlap. The same with the rest of the gang. This Cohen is very

particular. I‟m sure he‟s smart enough to avoid any obvious patterns, but in the long run he‟s going to

end up setting patterns whether he likes it or not.”

“What‟s the significance of the restaurants?” Stick asked.

“I‟d have to guess.”

“So guess.”

“Bronicata probably owns the Porthole, as well as his own place. Maybe some other eateries around

town as well. That‟s probably dope money. The hotels‟ is probably skim. I‟m sure they have doubleentry books to keep the Lepers off their ass.”

Stick said, “We might have Salvatore pay Mortimer another visit and find out who he pays and when.

That could give us a lead on the pros take.”

He had learned his lessons well, the Stick. He was revealing himself as a first-class detective with a

handle on how the mob operates and I told him so.

“Thanks, teacher,” he said with that crooked smile of his. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. It wouldn‟t hurt to know who owns the businesses they frequent. We‟ve got to start putting

together some kind of profile on the whole Triad operation here.”

“Charlie One Ear‟s the man for that He knows all the tricks and you can‟t beat that computer he uses

for a brain. I can help with the legwork.”

“Good enough,” I said.

“How about dinner tonight?” Stick asked. “Maybe hit a few hot spots afterward.”

“I‟m tied up tonight,” I said. “Can we shoot for tomorrow night?”

Stick smiled. “I‟ll check my dance card,” he said.

Charlie One Ear appeared from the back of the building with an expression that spelled trouble.

“You need to have a chat with Dutch, old man,” he said to

“Trouble?”

“I think his feelings are hurt.”

“Oh, splendid,” I replied.

“I‟ll fill Charlie in,” Stick said as I headed back toward the big man‟s office. Dutch operated out of a

room the size of a walk-in closet. A desk, two chairs, one of which he occupied, and a window. The

desk could have qualified for disaster aid. It was so littered with paper that he kept the phone, which

he was using when I knocked, on the windowsill.

“Talk to ya later,” he barked into the phone, and slammed it down. I decided to close the door.

“You don‟t have t‟do that,” he growled. “We ain‟t got any secrets here.” He pointed to the other chair.

“Take a load off.”

I sat down. He cleared his throat and moved 1unk around on his desktop for a minute or so, then took

off his glasses and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

“I don‟t wanna sound unappreciative,” he started, “but I got a way of doing things, okay? It may not

be SOP, and it may not be to the Fed‟s liking, but that‟s the way it is. No it seems to me that all of a

sudden you‟re kind of running this operation, got my people running errands all over town, doing

little numbers on wayward pimps, like that, and I like to get things off my chest, so I‟m speaking my

piece right up front.”

“Is that all that‟s bothering you?” I asked. I sensed that there was something else behind his

annoyance but I wasn‟t sure exactly what.

“So far.”

“Okay,” I said. “Since it‟s your ballgame, maybe you better tell me the rules.”

He opened a drawer and took out a sheet of paper.

“This here‟s my schedule sheet, I spend a lot of time workin‟ this out, make sure all the bases are

covered, people have some time off when they need it. You go short-stoppin‟ me and it‟s goin‟ to get

to be a big mess.”

I don‟t like to be put on the defensive, nor do I like apologies and excuses. “That‟s fair enough,” I said

“Can we work out a compromise?”

“Such as what?”

“Such as you and me sitting down and drawing up a list of priorities.”

“I got a list of priorities.”

“It would help if you explained them to me.”

“When it comes up, I will.”

“See here, Dutch, I didn‟t come here to screw up your operation. You‟ve got a good bunch of people

here. A little rough around the edges, but that may be good in the long run. All I‟m trying to do is give

them a little direction.”

“There‟s channels,” he said brusquely.

“What channels? You? You‟re the channel, Dutch. I‟m sorry if I stepped on your toes—”

“It ain‟t that,” he said, cutting me off.

“Then what is it? Look here, if you want to keep boosting dips and hassling street pushers and

hookers, that‟s your business. I didn‟t come here to kick ass, 1 came here to do a job, which is to

dump the Tagliani outfit. I thought w saw eye to eye on that.”

“Don‟t screw up my schedule!” he bellowed, slamming his fist on the desk.

I jumped to my feet.

“Fuck your schedule,” I said quietly. “Maybe I better get some help in here from the field and go it

alone. And don‟t raise your voice to me. This isn‟t high school.”

It was a bluff but I decided to call his hand before the pot got too big to cover. Sometimes the best

way to defuse a situation is to light the fuse. He didn‟t like it one hit. It caught him off guard. His eyes

glittered dangerously and beads of sweat popped out in his moustache. I started for the door.

“You shoulda told me about you and Doe Raines,” he said, before I could get to it.

So that was it. Titan had let the tiger loose.

“Why? It‟s personal business. Titan knows that.”

“Titan didn‟t tell me.”

“Nobody else knows about it,” I said. “That was twenty years ago, damn it.”

He leaned back and raised his eyebrows. “Babs Thomas” is all he said.

I felt like a fool. The last thing I needed to show Dutch at this point was misjudgement. We stared at

each other for what seemed like an hour. Finally his shoulders loosened and he wiped his mouth with

the back of his hand.

“Sheiss,” he growled, half under his breath, then waved at the chair. “Sit down. Let‟s start over.”

I sat down. There was no point in pushing it any further. We both had made our points.

“Suppose you tell me how you want to run the show,” I said. The storm was over. “It ain‟t that,” he

said quietly. “I just got

hot under the collar, see. I didn‟t like hearin‟ things about a man I‟m workin‟ sock and shoe with from

the local gossip.”

“She‟s guessing,” I said.

“Is she guessing right? Did you have an affair with Doe Raines?” “Shit, Dutch, I had a college

romance with Doe Findley. That was over and done with a long time ago. Besides, what‟s that got to

do with the price of eggs?”

“Right now a scandal could really upset the apple cart.” I felt like getting righteously indignant except

that he was cutting close to the bone. I wasn‟t sure how to deal with the situation without straight-out

lying to the man.

“There‟s not going to be any scandal,” I said finally.

“Is that a fact?” he asked seriously.

“That‟s a fact.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay,” he said. “I‟m sorry I brought it up but I‟m lust as glad we got it out of the

way. Anyway, I got run through the wringer this morning. Titan and Donleavy both shoved it up and

broke it off.”

“Does Donleavy know about Doe and me?”

“I doubt it. It didn‟t come up.”

“So what‟s their beef?”

“No more‟n you could expect,” he moaned. “My job was to keep people like Tagliani outta here. Now

they want the whole mess cleaned up. Titan‟s idea is to just run them out of town.”

“That stuff went out with Buffalo Bill.”

“Tell them that. So far, Raines hasn‟t figured it all out. The name of the game is sweep it under the

rug.”

“It‟s gone too far for that.”

“You know it and I know it.”

“But they don‟t, is that it?”

“Livin‟ in the past,” he mused. “Donleavy doesn‟t know anything about the rackets. He‟s seen too

many James Cagney movies.”

“Unless I‟m mistaken,” I said, “Donleavy had a hand in all this. He was supposed to screen these

people.”

“I think it goes something like this: the buck stops here,” he said, pointing to himself. “It doesn‟t go

any higher.”

“How did you get yourself in this fix?“ I asked. “You‟re not the kind of man that kisses the ass of

people like Donleavy.”

I was thinking of what Charlie One Ear had told me, about the way Dutch hired him and Salvatore. I

was sure Dutch had used the same kind of judgment in hiring all the hooligans.

“The rules changed on me,” he said sadly. “Leadbetter was supposed to be the in-between man. When

he went down, it fell to me. Up until now, I didn‟t have any bitch.”

“Up to now it didn‟t mailer,” I said -

He looked over at me for a long time. I was putting the squeeze on him and he knew it. What he

wanted was for me to let him off the hook, but I couldn‟t do that. 1 needed Dutch right where he was,

standing between me and the damned Committee. And that meant he had to stand up to them, like it

or not.

“You don‟t give a man much, do you, son?”

“I‟m not telling you how to run your business, Dutch. I could ask you to trust me but you don‟t know

me that well. What I will tell you is that this thing is going to blow and soon. The powder keg‟s in the

fire.”

“So what‟s the answer?” he said, holding his hands out like a man going down for the third time.

“Try to beat the explosion,” I said. “1 need to find the key that will put the Triad against the wall.”

“What key?”

“I need to build a RICO case against these bastards.”

“That could take years!” he cried.

“Except we have one edge,” I said. “I already know the players and how they operate. It‟s not like we

were starting from scratch. What I need is the local buy-out.”

“Who do you suspect?” he asked.

“Hell, there‟s so many termites in this woodpile it‟s hard to say. Just give me free rein with your

SOB‟s for a few days. We can work together. But if something pops I don‟t want to have

-to run you down and explain it. Trust me that far. I may work your boys to death, but it‟ll be worth it

in the long pull.”

“I‟ll give you this—you already made believers outta Charlie One Ear, Salvatore, and Cowboy Lewis.

Zapata‟s still on the fence but he‟s about to come around. „That leaves only Kite Lange, the Mufalatta

Kid, and Pancho Callahan to convince. I don‟t know how you did it, but you sure moved fast.”

“I‟m just a charming fellow,” I said with a smile, trying to ease the pressure.

“You don‟t have any ideas?” he asked, pressing the question.

“It could be Raines. Maybe that‟s the reason he‟s so coy. He‟s keeping arm‟s length from the action.

And Donleavy could be his front.”

“That don‟t even make good sense, Jake. They got more to lose than anybody, particularly Harry.”

“Harry Raines didn‟t get where he is by running on empty,” I said. “He‟s ambitious and he‟s got more

than his share of pride. The mob might be making him a bigger offer than just governor of the state.

Their clout in Washington is scary.”

He shook his head. “You got one helluva devious mind,” he said.

I didn‟t say any more. I couldn‟t tell him that I wanted Raines to be in it. Or Donleavy. Or that my

reasons were purely selfish because I was in love with Raines‟ wife. Hell, I‟m only human.

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