Hooligans

TITAN DEALS A HAND

The tension was broken by the appearance of another limo. This one was black and I had seen it

before, in front of the Ponce Hotel after Draganata was killed. I even remembered the license plate,

ST-I. It pulled slowly toward us until its headlights were shining between us and Uncle Jolly‟s goon

squad. All weapons magically vanished. I heard Craves‟ window glide quietly back up.

“A lot of limos here tonight,” I said.

“Either one of these is a lot of limos,” the Mufalatta Kid said.

The driver‟s door opened and a tall, rangy man in a county uniform got out. He wasn‟t an inch over

six six and probably didn‟t weigh more than two hundred fifty pounds. He walked with a decided

limp and there was about him a bug-eyed, almost haunted look. It was a look I had seen many times

before, eyes full of fear of what they might see next—or had already seen. He limped toward the front

of the car and leaned against the hood. He didn‟t do or say anything, just leaned against the hood.

The goon squad turned like robots and marched back inside the arena.

“Luke Burger, the sheriff‟s man,” said Zapata. “He‟s only got one good leg but he can kick the shit

out of a rhino with it.”

“What happened to him?” I asked.

“What! heard,” said Mufalatta, “he was chasing a bootlegger on his hog, lost it going over South

River Bridge, took a header over the railing, and went through the roof of some public housing two

stories down. I hear it took them six months to glue him back together. One of his legs ended up three

inches shorter than the other.”

Zapata said, “I also heard Titan covered all the bills his insurance didn‟t take care of.”

Graves‟ man sauntered back to his boss‟s Lincoln and passed a roll of bills through the window.

All of a sudden it was business as usual.

“I had enough of this party for one night,” Zapata said. “1 think I‟ll just haul my ass outta here. You

comin‟, Kilmer?”

“I think it‟s time for me to have a chat with Mr. Stoney,” I said.

“I‟ll stick around,” the Kid said. “I get a bang outta surprises. Take the pickup. I‟ll go back with

Kilmer.”

I walked toward the black Cadillac. Behind me, I heard the big-wheel scratch off in the sand. As I

neared Titan‟s car, his man opened the back door.

“Get in,” Titan‟s crusty voice said from the back seat.

I got in.

“You got more guts than a slaughterhouse floor, doughboy,” he said, “but a sparrow‟s got more

brains.”

He sat forward, almost on the edge of the seat, his legs tucked close to the black cane, his gimlet eyes

glittering like diamonds. When he wanted, his voice had the lilt of Irish flavoured with molasses, a

voice you listened to and wanted to believe. It could also be as tough as a cowhand‟s behind.

“I‟ve heard you‟re a smart cop,” he said quietly. “Very savvy, they say. I can believe that. You were a

helluva good ballplayer. Too bad about the foot.”

“It was my ankle.”

“Foot, ankle, what‟s the difference? So you remember me, eh?”

“Hell, Mr. Stoney, who could forget you? I remember everything. That was one hell of a summer.”

“It‟s a dead and buried summer. Best you forget it or move

on.

I didn‟t respond to his veiled threat, I just listened.

“I know everything that happens in this town, this county. If a cow fails, I know it. I‟ve had my eye on

you since you got off the plane. You been havin‟ quite a time for yourself.”

“Just doing my job,” I said.

“I could get you recalled with a phone call, doughboy. You got yourself way off base.”

“Seems to me that‟s my business.”

“Don‟t be a dreamer. Best you forget the past and get on with your work. In the first place, you don‟t

even have the credentials. Besides, she‟s a happy woman, just gets a little lonely.”

“Did Chief send you to—”

“Chief doesn‟t know you‟re here. If he did, I doubt he‟d remember you. He‟s still livin‟ in 1969.

Teddy‟s death destroyed him.”

“It didn‟t do a helluva lot for Teddy either.”

“You gonna turn out to be a smartass?”

“I was with him when he died. That kind of thing stays with you.”

“I saw the letter,” he said. He was staring straight ahead, not looking at me or anything else in

particular.

I gave him my hardest stare. “You never did like me, did you, Mr. Stoney? You never thought I was

good enough for her.”

“I told you what! thought,” he said. “You were a good halfback until you got busted up. After that..

He let the sentence dwindle away. Fill in the blanks.

“It was all part of watching out for Dunetown, right? Like you‟re doing now. Sticking your nose in

my business again.”

He looked at me and his lip curled up on one side.

“You found your level, doughboy,” he said.

“Just like you, right?”

He sat for a few beats more and then, without looking at me, he said, “Harry Raines has a brilliant

future. It wouldn‟t do for his wife to be caught screwin‟ around with a cop.”

“Or anybody else,” I added.

“There ain‟t anybody else, doughboy.”

“How about Tony Lukatis?”

His eyes narrowed. “You sure been busy prying into things that don‟t matter.”

“That makes two of us. Besides, you brought the subject up,” I said. “Seems to me everybody‟s

awfully concerned about Harry Raines‟ future and nobody particularly gives a damn about his wife.”

“She ain‟t runnin‟ for office.”

“That‟s all it‟s about, running for office?”

“Look, don‟t go making a monkey of yourself. She‟s vulnerable right now. I‟d hate to think you were

takin‟ advantage of the situation.”

“You‟ve got a lot of time invested in him, don‟t you?” I pressed on.

His eyes continued to twinkle, even in the subdued interior of the limo. He nodded his head sharply.

“Bet your ass I do,” he said.

“I can understand your concern.”

“Hasn‟t a damn thing to do with that. Chief and Doe are family to me. I won‟t stand by and see either

of them hurt.”

“I wasn‟t planning on it.”

“Anything else would be tomfoolery,” he snapped. The molasses in his tone had changed to flint.

“Could be there‟s more to it than that,” I suggested.

“Now what the hell‟s that supposed to mean?”

“How long do you think you can keep this under the table? How long can Harry Raines play dumb?”

“He ain‟t playing nothin‟,” the sheriff snapped vehemently. “If Morehead was doin‟ his job, none of

this would‟ve happened.”

“That‟s bullshit and you know it. If the Committee had done its job, none of this would‟ve happened.”

At my mention of the Committee, he reared back as if I had slapped him. I went on before he could

say anything.

“That makes you as much to blame for what‟s happening here as anybody. I could understand

Donleavy and Seaborn being naive enough to swallow Tagliani‟s line. You‟re the sheriff, Mr. Stoney,

lord high protector of Dunetown and all its peasants and all its kings. You should have tumbled to

therm. Why dump it off on somebody else?”

“Doughboy, I‟m beginning to think you‟re suicidal,” he said softly, and with enough menace that it

made me pucker a little.

“Okay,” I said, “I‟ll put it on the table. How clean is Raines?”

“Don‟t be silly,” he snapped. “You think Harry Raines had anything to do with this?”

I said, “If anybody local sold out to the Taglianis, they‟re looking down the throat of a RICO case.

And that means you, Harry Raines, or anybody else.”

“You have to prove racketeering on the Taglianis,” he said. “From what I hear, you ain‟t got doodlyshit on any of them. You‟re gonna bust out here, just like you did up north. They got you buffaloed,

doughboy. Admit it.”

I wanted to tell the crafty old bastard more, but I decided not to. Instead, I said:

“If he‟s dirty, he‟s going to get turned up.”

“I said, don‟t be silly, boy. Harry Raines is as honest as a Swiss pocket watch. You‟re dreamin‟ if you

think different. Dangerous dreamin‟. Harry, Sam Donleavy, me, we all did our best to keep Dunetown

clean. Sounds to me like you may be tryin‟ to put a size two shoe on a size ten foot.”

“On the other hand, if the shoe fits..

I let the rest of the sentence dangle.

“Let me put it to you straight, doughboy,” he said with unmistakable authority. “You stay away from

Doe Raines.”

I didn‟t answer him. We sat and stared through the shadows for several moments. His jaw was

flinching.

“This isn‟t going anywhere,” I said finally. “I owe you my thanks. I don‟t know what you‟re doing out

here, but I‟m glad you showed up. A little law never hurt anybody.”

“A little law ain‟t worth a damn,” he said. “Either you got muscle or you got numbers. You didn‟t

have either.”

I asked it suddenly. I wasn‟t planning on it, it just popped out, kind of like my gun popping out at the

dog fights.

“Is this your game, Mr. Stoney?”

He chuckled to himself, a mischievous chuckle, a tsk-tsk chuckle, which made me feel like a wahoo,

which is exactly what he wanted.

“I‟m gonna give you a little advice, us being in the same game, so to speak. I been at it forty-five

years. How about you?”

“Almost ten.”

“People are gonna gamble, doughboy, it‟s natural. The reason it‟s natural is because most people are

losers and they see themselves as losers and they don‟t think they‟ll ever amount to a goddamn, so

they gamble because in their eyes it‟s their shot at changin‟ their luck. So people‟ll gamble, and a lot

of hardass law ain‟t gonna change it. The same thing can be said of whorin‟. Always gonna be

whorin‟ goin‟ on, doughboy. A man wants to get laid, he‟s gonna get laid. Now, my job isn‟t to teach

„em not to gamble or not to get laid; that‟s a job for a preacher. No, my job is to make sure they don‟t

get hurt bad at it. We all know gamblin‟ and whorin‟ can attract some unsavoury characters around it,

so for that reason I keep my finger on things. I like to know who‟s doin‟ what. That way I keep things

from gettin‟ outta line, my folks from gettin‟ hurt.”

“That didn‟t answer my question,” I said.

“The answer to your question is yes and no. I own quite a few fightin‟ dogs. It‟s kind of a tradition in

my family. Been fightin‟ dogs all my life, just like my pap and his pap before him. The Titans‟ve

raised pit dogs since before Georgia was a colony. But I don‟t run the game, Mr. Kilmer. That‟s

gaming and that‟s felonious, and while I can tolerate it and my conscience doesn‟t have a problem

with misdemeanours, it balks when it comes to felonies.”

It was my turn to laugh.

“That‟s the damnedest bit of rationalization I‟ve ever heard,” I said.

“Call it what you will, it‟s the way I keep law and I haven‟t had a lot of trouble doin‟ it and I been at it

for longer than you‟ve been alive, so that ought to tell you something. Besides, this ain‟t Cincinnati or

Chicago or New York, it‟s south Georgia.”

“You want to tell me what happened between Nose Graves and Cherry McGee? There was a definite

touch of the Bronx to that.”

“Why are you interested?”

“Because Cherry McGee had done dirty laundry for Tagliani in the past. I don‟t believe in

coincidence, Mr. Stoney.”

“Mm-hmm. So finish it.”

“So I think Cherry McGee was sent in here by Tagliani to test the waters, find out if there was any

local problem. Graves turned out to be a permanent problem for McGee, Then Uncle Franco decided

to cool it. Now why do you think he backed off? It wasn‟t his style.”

“It‟s your story, boy, why don‟t you tell me.”

“Maybe he didn‟t want to attract any more attention. That‟s a possibility.”

“Obviously not one you favour,” he said sarcastically.

“No.”

“And what‟s your notion, doughboy?”

“Maybe he was told to back off.”

Titan never changed his expression his knuckles got a little whiter over the cane.

“Now, who might do a thing like that?” he asked.

“I thought you could tell me.”

“Until this very minute, I never thought to connect the two together.”

“It‟s just a thought,” I said. “If Franco had been in bed with somebody in Dunetown, that somebody

might have told him to cool it before the whole deal went sour.

“You got a hell of an imagination.”

“Not really. I can‟t imagine why the man that did McGee in is sitting over in that other limo and he‟s

counting the take from the first fight, and the sheriff is sitting thirty feet away discussing modern

romances.”

“I‟ve known Luther Graves since he „as a bulge in his mama‟s belly. What he does, he does honestly.

He‟s like a snake—he only gets mean when you step on him. Like I told you, this is still a small town

and it‟s still my job to keep an eye on it. If it‟s gonna happen anyway, I like to deal with people who

are predictable.”

“You telling me he runs a straight game? Is that what you‟re saying?”

“However you care to put it.”

“Well, Mr. Stoney, it‟s been your county for so long I guess you can run it any way you want to.”

He looked over at me finally, a smile flirting with the corners of his mouth, his eyes still gleaming

under shaggy white brows.

“You probably got a little more brains than I gave you credit for,” Titan said. “Now I‟ll ask you a

question. Did you kill „em, doughboy?”

“Did I kill them?”

I had to laugh at that one. But I stopped when I realized he wasn‟t kidding. It was definitely

something he had considered.

“I can get off right down there,” I said. “That blue Ford.”

Titan‟s man was still leaning on the hood.

“You avoidin‟ my question?”

“It‟s an instilling question, Sheriff. Besides I was with half a dozen other cops when two of the

slayings took place and I was on an airplane flying down here when Tagliani and his party got iced.

And besides that, I‟m not in the killing business. Thanks for calling off the dogs, if you‟ll pardon the

pun.”

I started to get out of the car.

“Just don‟t go around here actin‟ like Buffalo Bill or Pat Garrett or something. I got enough problems

on my hands.”

I got out of the limo and leaned back in and offered him my hand. He kept his folded over the gold

handle of his cane.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said.

“Take my advice about Doe Raines, one law officer to another,” he said, without looking at me. He

pressed a button and the window slid up. The conversation was over.

48

SO...LONG..

The Kid was sitting in the front seat when I got in my car. As I was about to find out, he was the

philosopher of the outfit.

“Okay I hop a ride back to town with you?” he said. “We don‟t want you to get lost or something”

“Where‟s your pickup?” I asked.

“I gave it to Zapata,” he answered. „He put his bike in the hack.”

“My pleasure,” I said, cranking up.

“Well,” he said, “I didn‟t hear no shootin‟ so I guess you two got along.”

“More or less,” I said.

“You sure don‟t volunteer much,” the Kid said.

“It was kind of a personal thing,” I said. “I used to know Titan, a long time ago.”

“How come you showed up out here?” I asked.

“It was Dutch‟s idea for Zapata to come out. He said you get in trouble when you‟re out alone. I was

following Graves.”

“Very astute of Dutch.”

“No sweat. Is it any of my business what the flick you were doin‟ out here?”

“O‟Brian‟s button is running scared. He wants an escort out of town.”

“Did he give up anything for it?”

I laughed. “I‟m not really sure,” I said. “According to him it‟s just one big happy family out there.”

“You believe that?” the Kid asked.

“Sure. I also believe in the tooth fairy and the Easter Bunny.”

“Must bum your ass, puttin‟ in all that work on this bunch and they get wasted all over the place.”

“I don‟t like murder,” I said, “no matter who the victims are.”

He was quiet for a moment, then he said:

“My stepfather told me once, you take two violins which are perfectly tuned, okay, and you play one,

the other one also plays.”

“No kidding,” I said, wondering what in hell violins had to do with anything.

“The old fart was full of caca,” the Kid went on, “but he played the violin. Not good, but he at least

played the fuckin‟ thing. I couldn‟t do it, man. Me and the violin, it was war at first sight. Anyways, I

figure he‟s probably right on that score.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, wondering what he was leading up to. Then he told me.

“He only told me one other thing in my whole life that I remember, and that didn‟t make any sense to

me at the time. Shit, I was just a kid; it was later on I figured it out, what he meant, I mean. Anyways,

what it was, I was pissed off, see, because my best friend at the time didn‟t always see things exactly

the way I did. The old man says, „Trouble with you, Fry‟—he called rue Fry „cause I was small as a

kid; that always pissed rue off too— „trouble with you, Fry, you think everybody sees things the same

as you.‟ Then he reaches down, scratches his ankle. „My foot itches. That‟s reality to me. Yours don‟t.

That‟s reality to you.‟ That‟s it; he goes back to the sports page.

“So, y‟know, I‟m maybe eight, nine, at the time, what do I know from reality and itching feet. I figure

the old man‟s temporarily unwired. Twenty years later I‟m after this creep in the French Quarter, a

three-time loser facing a felony; I get him, he‟s down for the full clock, right? Son of a bitch is always

one step a-fuckin‟-way, I can‟t quite lay my hand on him. I‟m thinkin‟ I know this guy better than

anybody, why can‟t I nail his ass? Then one night I remember what the old fart told me. What I come

to realize is that maybe I know this guy‟s MO, front and back, but I‟m not thinking like him, instead

I‟m thinking like me thinking like him, see what I mean?”

“So did you catch him?” I asked.

“I would have but the dumb son of a bitch shot himself cleaning his .38. Really burned my ass. But I

would‟ve had him. So what I been tryin‟ to do, see, I been thinking like whoever‟s icing all these

people here.”

“And what‟ve you come up with?”

“Not a fuckin‟ thing,” he said.

I sighed. For a moment I thought the Kid had come up with something important. But he wasn‟t

finished yet. “I don‟t know the why, see,” he went on. “If I had a handle on the why, I would nail his

ass. Or hers. Y‟know, it could be a fancy, ever think of that?”

“Well,” I said, rather pompously, “once we establish motive—”

He cut me off. “We‟re not talkin‟ motive, man. We‟re not talkin‟ about motive, we‟re talkin‟ about

where that fucker‟s head‟s at. Why he‟s doin‟ it. Y‟see, life ain‟t logical. That‟s the myth. Truth is,

nothing is real, it‟s all what we make it out to be. It‟s the same thing—when his foot itches and we

scratch ours, that‟s when we nail his ass.”

“Okay,” I said, “if my foot starts itching I‟ll let you know.”

He chuckled. “Think about it,” he said.

“And thanks for the backup.”

“It‟s what it‟s all about,” he said.

Five minutes down the road my headlights picked up Zapata. The pickup was idling on the shoulder

and he was waving at us with a light. I pulled over.

“Kid, you know where South Longbeach Park is, down at the end of Oceanby?”

“Then follow me. Don‟t drag ass.”

“What the hell‟s going on?” I yelled at him as he crawled back into the pickup.

“There‟s been a massacre out there,” he yelled back, and roared out onto the highway in front of me.

1-le had a red light on the roof and a siren screaming under the hood. I haven‟t driven like that since I

was in high school. Most of the time I was just hanging on to the steering wheel.

It took us thirty minutes to get to South Longbeach. We came in behind the theatre, a grim and

foreboding spectre in the darkness, even knowing as little as we did.

This one had drawn the biggest crowd yet, at least a dozen cop cars, red and blue lights flashing

everywhere.

The brass buttons were in a semicircle about fifty yards in diameter around the front of the theatre.

Nobody got inside the circle, including them. Several men from homicide were stretching a yellow

crime scene banner around the perimeter of the movie house and car.

Nick Salvatore, smoking a cherry cigar, was sitting on the fender of his car, looking as sad as a basset

hound. Dutch was sitting sideways on the front seat of his car, his legs stretched out into the street.

“It‟s funny,” he said, to nobody at all. Then he looked around and said, “Is this whole thing getting

funny to anybody else or is it just me?”

“What the hell happened?” I asked.

“Somebody tried to top the Saint Valentine‟s Day Massacre,” Dutch said.

“Right in front of my fuckin‟ eyes,” Salvatore said, shaking his head.

Dutch was shaking his head too. “The last four days, that‟s a year‟s work for the geniuses in

homicide. If we‟re real lucky, they might turn up a clue by the next census,”

“Who is it this time?” I asked.

“The family man,” said Dutch. “That‟s what I remember you saying about him. A big family man.”

“Stizano?”

“And a rather large party of friends. Salvatore saw it go down. He‟s an eyeball witness, can you

believe that? Doesn‟t anybody see the humour in all this?”

Salvatore ignored Dutch. He was anxious to tell his story again.

“You won‟t believe this,” he said, speaking very slowly and deliberately, as though he were being

recorded, and pointing out little scenes of interest as he described the massacre. “Stizano, when he

comes outta the show, I‟m maybe a hundred yards from him, all of sudden it‟s like.. . like somebody

started shaking the ground. They fuckin‟ keeled over. Now here‟s where it really gets weird, man. I

don‟t hear nothin‟, I don‟t see nothin‟. The loudest noise was the slugs, thumpin‟ into them. Then the

glass started going, the box office, marquee. Sweet Jesus, it got fuckin‟ surreal.”

There were five bodies lying helter-skelter in front of the theatre. Glass and debris everywhere.

Several slugs had whacked the car.

“Looks like a bomb went off in front of the place,” I said.

“It was fuckin‟ surreal, is what is it was,” Salvatore intoned.

“Who‟re the rest of these people?” I asked, pointing at the massacre.

“Coupla shooters, the driver, and another guy I‟ve seen with Stizano more often than not,” Salvatore

said.

“Pasty-faced little runt, looks like he died of malnutrition?” I asked.

“That‟s the one.”

“Name‟s Moriarity. He‟s Stizano‟s number one button.”

“Not anymore,” Salvatore said. His tone was changing, becoming almost gleeful.

The scene was as bizarre as any Fellini film.

Stizano lay on his back, staring at the underside of the marquee with a smile on his face and a cigar

still clamped between his teeth. His black suit was full of bullet holes. It looked like a rabid dog had

chewed up his chest. One of his shooters was five feet away, huddled against the box office on his

side in an almost foetal position. His Borsalino hat was knocked down over the side of his face,

somewhat rakishly. The bodyguard, whom I had pegged as a onetime Chicago hoodlum named

Manny Moriarity, a.k.a. Dead Pan Moriarity, was leaning against the side of the theatre on his knees,

his right hand under his coat, and the only expression he ever had, on his face. Two slugs in the

forehead, one under the right eye, and his chest was open for inspection. The other gunman, who

looked like a body builder, lay face down with his hands buried beneath him, clutching the family

fortune. The chauffeur had managed to get around the side of the car and had sat down, made a little

cup in his lap with his hands, and tried to stop his insides from spilling out. He hadn‟t been very

successful but it didn‟t make any difference. He was as dead as the rest of them.

As the little Italian completed his story, the Stick arrived in front of a trail of blue smoke that wound

like an eel back down the dark street and, looking at the scene of the crime, said, “They giving away

free dishes?”

“You‟re very sick,” Dutch said. “There‟re five people dead over there.”

“Bank night,” Stick said.

Salvatore repeated his story to the Stick and then pointed across the street to the park.

“Had to be from over there. And, uh, uh

“Yeah?” Dutch said.

“This is gonna sound a little crazy.”

“I‟d feel there was something wrong if it didn‟t,” Dutch said wearily.

“Okay.. . I don‟t think—judging from the way these people went down, okay—I don‟t think. . . or

what I think is, it was one gun.”

“One gun did all this?” said Dutch. “This looks like the Battle of the Bulge here.”

“I know it. But, see, uh, they went down just him, barn, boom, right in a row, like they was ducks in a

shootin‟ gallery, starting with the driver, there, swingin‟ straight across. Next it was the two gunners,

then the button—what was his name?”

“Dead Pan Moriarity,” I coached.

“Dead Pan Moriarity,” Dutch repeated, and smothered a giggle.

“Yeah, him, and finally Stizano. I mean, Dutch, it was some kind of fuckin‟ weapon. Took „em all out

in like. . . ten seconds!”

The Stick was leaning over Stizano, pointing his finger and counting to himself. He stood up, shaking

his head.

“1 make it eight slugs in Stizano, could be more. Look at him, he didn‟t know it was coming. Fucker‟s

still smoking his cigar and smiling.”

Stick giggled, a kind of uncontrollable, quirky little giggle, which got Dutch started, only he didn‟t

giggle, he laughed, and the laugh grew to a roar. Then Salvatore broke down and started in and before

I knew it, I was laughing along with the rest of them. The harder we tried to stop, the harder we

laughed. We were standing there in hysterics when the chief of police arrived.

Chief Walters was fifty pounds overweight and had bloodshot eyes, a nose full of broken blood

vessels, and a neck that was two sizes too big for his collar. He looked like a man who sweats easily.

“I must have missed something,” he said, in a fat man‟s laboured voice, heavy with bourbon. “What

the hell‟s so funny?”

“You had to be here, Herb,” said Dutch.

“Obviously you weren‟t,” Walters said. “Maybe we better talk about this in the morning.”

“We can talk about it right now,” Dutch said with more than a touch of irritation as his smile faded.

“Right now I think I‟d better join my people,” Walters said, leaning on the “my.”

Dutch defused the situation by introducing Walters to me, earning me a damp, insecure handshake.

“Dutch can obviously use all the help you can give him, right, Dutch?” he said.

“Why don‟t you go over and give the boys in homicide a pep talk,” Dutch said.

“I‟ll help you in any way I can, Khmer, just pick up the phone. I answer all my calls personally.”

“That‟s wonderful,” I said.

As he walked away he added somewhat jovially, “At least you can‟t say we‟ve got a dull town here,

right, Kilmer?”

I began to wonder if the whole damn police force had been recruited from some funny farm for old

cops.

“Well, you‟ve met the chief,” Dutch said, “now you can forget him.”

“Twelve in Stizano and this guy with the hat,” the Stick cried out, returning to his self-appointed task

of counting bullet holes in dead people.

Callahan was last to arrive, wearing a three-piece gray suit with a rose in his lapel. He got out of his

car and looked around. No comment. While we were counting bullet holes and scratching our heads,

Callahan vanished into the park and returned five minutes later with a whiskered, filthy relic wearing

the dirtiest trench coat I‟ve ever seen. You could smell his breath from across the street.

“Don‟t anybody light a match,” Salvatore said as they approached.

“Saw something,” Callahan said, explaining the bum in tow.

The drunk sniffed a few times, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

“D‟wanno trouble,” he mumbled.

Dutch leaned over him, his hands stuffed in his pants pockets and an unlit Camel bobbing in his

mouth. “I‟ll tell you what,” he said. “You don‟t spit it out, you‟ll have more trouble than a constipated

goose.”

The bum looked offended at first, until it dawned on him that he was, for the moment, the centre of

attraction. Suddenly he started singing like a magpie.

“1 was down in the park near the pond, see, grabbing forty on a bench, and, uh, first thing I know, see,

I hear a lotsa like clicks. Sounded like, uh, m‟teeth.” He hesitated and laughed but the laugh turned

into the worst cough I‟ve ever heard.

“Keep talkin‟, pops,” Dutch said. “You‟re doin‟ fine. Just don‟t cough up a lung before you‟re

through is all I ask,”

The bum‟s Sterno eyes glittered feebly. “What‟s in it fer me?” he demanded. Then, looking around,

he said, “Got a butt?” to everybody in earshot.

The Stick gave him a cigarette, steadying the old man‟s hand while he lit it.

“What‟s your name?” he asked.

“J. W. Guttman,” he said proudly. “My friends call me Socks.” He grinned and pointed to his feet. He

wore no shoes but his toes wiggled through holes in a pair of rancid, once-white sweat socks.

“Okay, Socks, so you were on your favourite bench down there, you heard somebody‟s teeth

clicking,” Dutch said.

“That‟s what it sounded like.” He flicked his uppers loose with his tongue and rattled them sharply

against his lower plate. “Tictic-tic-tic, like that.”

“Fine,” Dutch said, rolling his eyes.

“And then all them lights down to the movie start blowin‟ up. Sounded like the Fourth of Julahrrgh.”

He coughed again, cutting off the end of the sentence.

“Did you see anything?” Dutch asked him.

He gathered his breath together and sighed. “Been tryin‟ to tell yuh—seen, uh, this car.”

“Where?”

“On Pelican Avenue, goin‟ toward the beach.”

“What kind of car?” Dutch demanded.

“Just a car. They all look alike.”

“Did it have a colour?” Dutch asked.

“Uh, well, it was a dark car.‟

“Verdammt,” Dutch said.

“Black?” the Stick asked. “Two-door, four-door?”

“Tol‟ ya, it was dark. Coulda been—” He stopped and thought hard for several seconds. “Blue, right?

Sure enough, in the dark there, see, coulda been blue. Dark green, maybe. .

He hunched up his shoulders, coughed, shivered, and did a little jig. Something under the stack of rags

he was wearing was gnawing on him.

“Anybody know what‟s he talking about?” Dutch said.

“Maybe he thinks it‟s a test,” Salvatore said.

“Somethin‟ else,” J. W. Guttman said, when he had regained his breath.

“Don‟t make me beg,” Dutch said.

“Had funny wheels.

“Funny wheels,” Dutch said.

Guttman nodded vigorously. “That‟s right.”

“What kind of funny wheels?” Dutch asked, and, turning to me, said under his breath, “I‟m beginning

to feel like a straight man for this old fart.”

“Big floppy wheels. I could hear them... flop, flop, flop, up there on Pelican.”

“What the hell‟s he talkin‟ about?” the Stick asked.

“Beats me,” said Dutch. “Floppy wheels, huh, J. W.?” “Popeta, popeta, popeta. That‟s what it

sounded like.” “Maybe somebody had a flat,” I suggested.

Socks smiled grandly, a man suddenly thrust into the limelight

by tic-tic-tic and popeta, popeta, popeta.

“That‟s it?” said Dutch.

“It was dark,” J. W. Guttman whined.

“I know it was dark,” Dutch snapped.

The little man cowered.

“Five people get blown away and the best witness we can muster up is a whacked-out dipso,” Dutch

said, shaking his head. “Go back to your bench, Mr. Guttman.”

“Socks.”

“Socks.” Dutch started to walk away and Socks grabbed his sleeve. “Look, Cap‟n, how „bout takin‟

me in, maybe you could, uh, book me for like a material witness. Cap, I ain‟t had a square meal since

Saint Patrick‟s Day.”

Dutch took out a tenspot and motioned one of the patrolmen over.

“Take Socks here over to the lunch counter, buy him a decent meal, and stay with him until he eats

it,” Dutch said.

“Me?” the cop said in disbelief.

“Who d‟ya think I‟m talkin‟ to, God?” Dutch growled. “Just do it.”

“Right.”

He started to lead Guttman away.

“Cap‟n?”

“What is it now?”

“Can I get a pack o‟ butts, too?”

“Get him a pack of butts, too,” Dutch said to the policeman.

“Yes, sir.”

“God bless ya,” Socks said, and stuck out his hand. Dutch recoiled in horror. “Take that thing away

from me,” he said to Socks, arid to the cop: “Make him wash his damn hands before he eats; he‟s

liable to poison himself.”

Salvatore and Callahan returned to the fold with half a dozen brass buttons in tow.

“Just did the park. Nothin‟,” Callahan said, in his Western Union parlance.

“Had to be the car,” said Salvatore.

The Stick was standing across the street, near the entrance to the park, looking back at the marquee.

He waved us over and pointed at the front of the theatre. Light bulbs had been blown out across the

front of it. Wires hung down, spitting at each other. Several of the letters were blown out.

What was left of the sign spelled SO—LONG——----

49

WHOS NEXT?

The shootout at South Longbeach had attracted most of the SOB‟s and others were on the way. Only

Kite Lange and Cowboy Lewis failed to show up for the festivities. While the hooligans were

gathering, I grabbed a minute with Stick.

“Anything new on Nance and Chevos?” I asked.

“Nothing on Nance yet,” he said apologetically. “No, nothing new but Kite Lange is still staked out at

the marina where Chevos lives.”

„1 wonder how come Stizano didn‟t make the wake?”

“He did. He and his entourage left early, I guess to catch the flicks.”

As far as I was concerned that still left Nance in the picture. I wasn‟t kidding myself or trying to

conceal my joy.

Charlie One Ear was next to appear, as dapper as ever in tweeds although he had replaced shirt and tie

with a turtleneck sweater.

“God, what a mess” was Charlie One Ear‟s reaction. Callahan said, “Take a look, other end of the

park.”

“Why?” asked Charlie One Ear. “Is it worse down there?” “Line of fire,” said Callahan, in his

abbreviated English.

“Also we got a witness, thinks he saw a car,” Salvatore added.

Charlie turned his back on the police gala in front of the theater and said, “Let‟s get off the firing line,

shall we, gentlemen? I‟ve got a bit of news I‟d rather not share with the masses.”

Dutch led us to the hot dog stand, where he ordered two dogs suffocated by chili, kraut, mustard, and

raw onions. The rest of us settled for coffee, which was strong enough to poison a whale. Charlie One

Ear ordered tea. We moved down the street for a powwow.

“So far it‟s a goose egg,” he began. “Nobody knows anything, nobody‟s heard anything. I cruised the

hotels out on the Strip, spent the afternoon at the track, and didn‟t see a face that worried me. I got on

the horn, checked the network

He counted them off on his fingers.

“New Orleans, New York, Cincy, Detroit, Saint Looey, Chi, Vegas, L.A. What I got from that was

bupkus. As of this minute, I‟ll stake my pension there aren‟t any outside guns in this town. At least

none I can connect to this little hurrah.”

“Maybe we should just sit back and wait a day or two more,” Salvatore said. “There won‟t be

anybody left and we can forget it.”

“If this was an outside mob moving in, somebody would know about it,” Charlie One Ear said. “That

kind of information moves faster than a dirty joke at a wedding reception.”

“Any of these insiders of yours try a guess as to the why of it?” Dutch asked.

Charlie One Ear shook his head. “No, but the word is about. The Taglianis, or what‟s left of them, are

very nervous. Apparently they haven‟t got the foggiest either.”

Dutch moved away from the group and stood on the curb, shaking his head, then turned suddenly and

threw his cup at the wall. Coffee showered all over the sidewalk.

“What a bunch of sheiss kopfes,” he growled to himself, “and I lead the parade. Twelve people! We

had eyeballs on them all, they still get shot right out from under us!”

Frustration shimmered around him like an aura. He turned and looked down at me, his blue eyes

burning fiercely behind his glasses.

“I‟m goddamned embarrassed, if you want to know the truth,” he said. It was one of the few times I

heard him use profanity in English.

“Don‟t take it personally,” I said. “These people have much more experience taking care of each other

than you or I. If they can‟t keep themselves alive, it‟s not our fault.”

“Look, I‟m really sorry, old man,” Charlie One Ear said, “but I may have a consolation prize for you.

I‟m not sure whether it ties in or not, but a chap I know is carrying a rather large snow I monkey. He

says the coke market‟s been dry for more than a month, but the local snowbirds are dancing in the

street. The word is, the drought is about to end.”

“Harry Nesbitt mentioned that,” I said.

“When‟s this snowstorm going to happen?” asked Dutch.

“Imminently.”

“Does this snitch know who the importer is?”

“I wish you‟d refrain from calling them snitches,” Charlie One Ear said. “Some of these people take a

great deal of pride in working for me. It‟s rather like a public service for them.”

“Charlie, all canaries sing alike. Does he know who the distributors or not?”

“He only knows his own street connection.”

“Want a guess?” I said. “Bronicata. It‟s his game.”

“That makes sense,” Stick said. “Unless maybe it‟s Longnose Craves.”

The Mufalatta Kid broke his silence. “Nose don‟t touch hard stuff,” he said.

“Times are changing,” I countered. “This place is ripe for toot; it‟s wallowing in heavy rollers.”

“I ain‟t stickin‟ up for the dinge,” the Kid said. “On the line, he ain‟t nothin‟ but a shanty-ass, nickeldime nigger, say. He just don‟t fuck with heavy drugs, man. Ain‟t his style.”

Dutch stepped in. “Any idea how much coke we‟re talking about here?”

“Rumours vary. I would say fifty kilos, pure.”

“Gemutlich!” Dutch rumbled under his breath.

Salvatore whistled softly through his teeth. “We‟re talking bucks here,” he said.

Charlie One Ear took a thin, flat calculator from his shirt pocket and started adding it up.

“Let‟s see. A hundred and ten pounds of stuff, which they‟ll likely kick at least six, perhaps eight, to

one. Let‟s say roughly eight hundred pounds, which is roughly thirteen thousand ounces, which is

roughly three hundred thousand grams. At eighty dollars a gram, that would come to twenty-four

million dollars along the Strand. Roughly.”

That stopped conversation for almost a minute. Stick broke the silence.

“Well, that‟ll cover the old car payment,” he said.

Dutch turned to me again. “You‟re the one knows these people,” he said. “Do you think they‟d snuff

each other over twenty-four million bucks?”

“Hell, I might kill them for twenty-four million bucks, Dutch. The question is, does it make sense?

My answer is no, it doesn‟t. They deal in bigger numbers than that every week.”

Salvatore added his thoughts:

“I agree. It could happen if there was some rhubarb over territory, somebody in the family got his

feelings jacked off, personal shit like that. Then, maybe. I don‟t see them cuttin‟ each other up over

some dope deal either.” He shook his head vigorously. “That don‟t come across as a possibility.”

“So we‟re back to square one, and w got five more corpus delictis on our hands,” Dutch said.

“I‟ll keep digging, of course,” Charlie One Ear said, and went off to the other side of the park with

Salvatore and Callahan to look for car tracks.

They returned ten minutes later. Charlie stood with his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, rocking on

his heels. After a proper dramatic pause he said, “It‟s highly likely the damage was done from the

other end of the park. We found what could be tire tracks. Actually it looks like someone may have

wrapped burlap or some other heavy material around the wheels so they wouldn‟t leave any

identifying tracks.”

“How far is it from back there to the theatre?” Dutch asked.

“About a furlong,” Callahan said, and when we all stared dumbly at him, he added, “Two hundred

yards, give or take a few feet.”

“An M-16 with a good scope could handle that,” said the Stick.

“Isn‟t that comforting,” Dutch said.

I took Callahan aside and told him about the game at the Breakers Hotel and Thibideau dropping over

fifteen grand.

“Interesting,” said Callahan. “Disaway‟ll go off, twenty, thirty to one tomorrow. It rains, pony wins,

„Thibideau can buy the Breakers.”

“Maybe I‟ll come to the races tomorrow afternoon,” I said.

“Back gate, one o‟clock. I‟ll wait ten minutes.” And he drifted back with the gang.

Dutch walked over and joined me.

“Twelve people blown out from under us,” he said, “and all we‟ve done so far is provide airtight

alibis for every good suspect we got. . . at least the ones that are still alive.”

“All but one,” I said.

“Who‟s that?” Dutch asked.

“Turk Nance.”

“You sure got a one-track mind,” he said, drifting off to talk to the Kid and Zapata. I checked the

time. It was half past twelve. I sought out Stick.

“How about a nightcap?” I suggested.

“Sure. Want to meet at the hotel?”

“Ever been to a place called Casablanca?” I asked.

His eyes widened. “I‟ve been to almost every place in town at least once,” he said. “Once was enough

for that place.”

“We‟ll take my car,” I said, ignoring his comment.

“Done,” he said with a shrug. As we headed for my rented Ford, Stick tossed his car keys to Zapata.

“Take my heap back to the Warehouse, will you, Chino?” he asked. “And keep it in second under

forty, otherwise it‟ll stall out on you” And then to me, “Let‟s go to the zoo.”

I was about to find out what he meant.

50