Hooligans

A LITTLE R AND R

“I was about to abandon hope,” I said. She sat down. She was wearing a kind of bunched-up-looking

khaki jumpsuit with a lot of pockets and a First Cay patch on the shoulder. The full-length zipper was

pulled about halfway down to her waist, which for Casablanca was conservative.

“I hope you don‟t mind the little subterfuge with Lark,” she said.

“She‟s a friend of yours?”

“She works in the bank with me.”

“I‟m developing a healthy respect for Mr. Seaborn,” I said.

“Mr. Seaborn‟s all right. A little stuffy maybe.”

“There‟s nothing wrong with his taste.”

“Thank you. I told Lark I wanted to talk to you alone. She agreed to try and lure away anybody who

might be with you.”

“Try?”

She laughed. “Actually, she thought your friend was cute.”

“If that was an act, she ought to get out of the banking business.”

“She‟s a free spirit. Lark does whatever makes her feel good. I wish I could. I come here twice a

week. Lark says it‟s a good way to get rid of my inhibitions. This isn‟t even my outfit; I borrowed it

from her.”

“You have a problem with your inhibitions?”

She rolled her eyes. “You don‟t know what a trauma it was to write that note to you.”

“Well, I‟m glad you did.”

She had to lean closer to hear me The music seemed to be getting louder by the minute.

“I. I feel a little dishonest about this,” she said.

. .

“About what?”

“Asking you to meet me. Actually 1 want to ask a favor.”

“I didn‟t think you were going to propose.”

She laughed and began to relax.

“I‟ve thought about you often over the years,” she said. “I was so jealous of you and Doe and Teddy

Findley that summer. The three of you were so happy all the time; you just seemed to have

everything. I was fourteen; all I had was acne and a terrible crush on you.”

“On me!”

“Crazy isn‟t it?” she said, lowering her eyes. “I guess in a way I still do. You never quite get over the

early ones.”

I thought about that for a moment or two and shook my head.”No, I guess you don‟t,” I said. Then I

began to get that feeling on the back of my neck again, only this time it wasn‟t pleasant. I shifted

slightly in my chair and looked around the room, what I could see of it, but this time there was no

tawny lioness skulking through the dancers. I saw no faces I recognized.

I gave my attention back to DeeDee.

“So what‟s the favour?” I asked, to make it easier for her.

“I‟ve heard you‟re a detective now,” she said.

“Well, not exactly. I‟m a government investigator.”

“The FBI?” She sounded startled.

“No, why? The possibility seems to worry you.”

“I don‟t know.” She hesitated before she went on. “It‟s about my brother Tony. I‟m very worried

about him but I can‟t go to the police.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she said, “he may be involved in something wrong.”

“You mean against the law, that kind of wrong?”

She nodded.

The din in Casablanca had become hazardous to the health. The music kept getting louder, the dancers

more frenetic, and the special effects more surreal. The lights went out, strobes reflected off smoke

and fog, lasers crackled from one side of the room to the other.

1 got that weird feeling in the back of my neck again. This time when 1 turned I thought I saw

someone, but it was a momentary flash through light spasms and haze.

DeeDee shrugged her shoulders as though a cold wind had blown by her.

“I‟m sorry,” she said. “I guess all the noise and----”

“Why don‟t we get out of here,” I suggested. “I‟ll call a cab. We can go someplace and talk over

coffee.”

“I have my car,” she said. “That was part of the deal. Lark would get your buddy and the car, I‟d get

you and keep mine.”

“Did you rehearse this act long?”

She laughed. The idea of leaving seemed to brighten her. I paid the bill and we elbowed through the

crowd and left.

The street was empty except for the eerie gas lamps flickering along the river‟s edge through the mist.

The hazy figure of a man stepped briefly through one of the halos, half a block away.

Barely audible over the din from Casablanca, a car door opened and closed.

We started toward the circular iron stairway that led up to the promenade. The street echoed with the

throbbing of the music. The damp fog settled over us. Our footsteps sounded like horse‟s hoofs on the

cobblestones.

I heard the car start. Then the stick dropped into place. It started to move, slowly at first.

No headlights.

Through the mist I could see the mouth of an alley thirty feet away.

I said to DeeDee, “Listen to me carefully. When we get to that alley, I‟m going to shove you in. Start

running. I‟ll be right behind you.”

“What—” she started, but the tires behind us bit into the cobblestone street and squealed to life.

“Let‟s go!” I yelled, and started running, pulling her beside

Headlights pierced the gray swirling world around us. The car was beading in on us. I was almost

dragging her as we reached the narrow passageway between two old warehouses. I shoved her in.

There were half a dozen garbage pails piled up at the mouth of the alley.

“Down!” I yelled, and shoved her behind the cans.

The car, a black Pontiac, swept by a moment later, its brakes squealed, and there were three shots. I

didn‟t hear them; they exploded against the cans and the wall behind us.

I clawed for my .357 and gave them three back. They smacked into the side of the car and it sudden y

backed away from the mouth of the alley.

I looked behind us. The alley was about a car and a half wide, two hundred feet long. No doorways,

although there was a loading platform and alcove about halfway down. The loading platform lip

1utted three feet into the alley. There was dim light at the other end.

“We‟re going to run for it,” I said. “I‟ll be behind you. If you hear any shooting, keep running. If they

come after us in the car, keep running.”

She looked at me, terrified.

“Go, now!” I gave her a shove.

She pulled off her shoes and took off. I went after her. She could move, I‟ll give her that, even in

stocking feet on cobblestones. We were almost to the end of the alley when I heard the rumble of the

sedan.

The car had gone around the warehouse and was in front of us. Its headlights burst back on, turning

the swirling fog into dancing halos.

“Damn,” I cried, spinning her around. We dashed back the way we had collie. The car screamed

around the corner behind us. I heard a pop, heard the slug wheeze past my ear, heard rubber tearing at

cobblestones. Light flooded the alley.

We ran to the loading platform and I dove up onto the lip, pulled her on top of me, and rolled over

against a metal door at the back of the loading alcove.

The driver of the car swerved toward our side of the alley, saw the platform lip too late. Metal

screamed against wood. The corner of the platform pierced a headlight, ripped through it, and tore

part of a fender away. The sedan lurched sideways, its tires trying to get a grip on the cobblestones as

it skidded sideways and raked the opposite wall with its rear end. Sparks showered from its tortured

rear end.

The gunner was undaunted by all the action. Three more shots spanged off the metal door behind us.

Among other things, I‟m a rotten shot. But my .357 was equipped with phosphorescent T-sights and I

swung the heavy pistol with the car, steadied my hand, lined up the little green button on the end of

the barrel with the notch in the back sight, and started shooting at the face leering in the rear window.

Three slugs splattered the rear windshield.

They were playing hardball. The sedan slammed to a stop and I could hear the driver slapping it into

reverse. Before he could let out the clutch I heard a cannon explode at the other end of the alley. It

exploded three times. Two shots blew out the rest of the rear glass. The third one streaked off the rear

bumper, an inch above the gas tank.

Stick‟s voice yelled down the alley:

“Go for the tires!”

Followed by another blast that sparked off the cobblestones barely an inch off target.

That whiskey-troubled voice was the sweetest sound I have ever heard.

“It‟s okay,” I told DeeDee. “It‟s Stick. We‟re home free.”

I lined up my little green sights and put two slugs into the left rear. The tire blew like a hand grenade

going off. The driver shifted gears and roared off in retreat, the deflating tire peeling off the rim and

the steel hub shrieking along the street. The hubcap spun off and clattered loudly against one wall.

The ruined sedan ploughed into the garbage cans, showered them into street and river, screeched

around the corner, and was swallowed by the fog.

I turned back to DeeDee, who was leaning against the metal door. Her eyes were the size of full

moons.

“Okay?” I asked.

She stared at me for several seconds and then nodded furiously. “Are you good on numbers?”

“I w-w-work in a b-b-bank, remember,” she stammered. “B-C-O-3-9-6,” I said.

She repeated it. “Is that the license?” she asked.

“Right.”

A moment later the Stick came running up, his .357 in hand.

“You two okay?” he asked breathlessly.

I threw my arms around him.

“Yeah, and damn am I glad to see you,” I said, bear-hugging him. “Where the hell did you come

from?”

“When we left the place there was a joker standing up the street under a light,” Stick answered. “So

we stopped at the edge of the park for a couple of minutes, just in case.”

“So that‟s what that was all about,” Lark pouted as she brought up the rear. “I thought it was love.”

Stick gave her that crazy look of his. “It was both, darlin‟,” he said. “I doubled up.”

“Whatever that means,” she said.

“It means we‟re still alive,” I said, “for which we‟ll be eternally grateful.”

“Just part of our twenty-four-hour service,” he said gleefully. “Keeps us on our toes.”

I helped DeeDee off the platform and she sighed and fell up against me. I could feel her heart

thumping against my chest.

“C‟mon, we‟ll follow you pal,” Stick said, pulling roe up the alley by the arm. “Dutch is right. You‟re

dangerous when you‟re out alone.”

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