Hooligans

LONGNOSE GRAVES

The usual twenty-minute drive across Dunetown to Back O‟Town took the Stick less than fifteen. He

turned off the siren six or seven blocks from the scene and flew dead-stick the rest of the way in.

Dutch smoked two cigarettes, back to back, without taking them out of his mouth once they were lit.

He didn‟t say anything, just sat stiff-legged, puffing.

“Go a block past the club and pull in behind the drugstore across the street,” Dutch told Stick as we

neared the end of the journey. “Kid doesn‟t want we should turn him up to Graves‟ bunch.”

“Gotcha,” Stick said. He wheeled in behind the drugstore, stopped, braked, turned the car off, and was

outside on his feet before I could pull mine out of the floorboards. All Dutch said was “Phew. He

never drove like that with me before.”

“He never drove any other way with me,” I said. “You‟re damn lucky.”

The drugstore was an antique, like the ones I remember from childhood, like Bucky‟s was, in

downtown Dunetown, before it became Doomstown. It had a marble fountain top and wire-rung

chairs and smelled of maraschino cherries and chocolate instead of vitamin pills and hair spray. A

gray-haired black man behind the counter sized us up and nodded toward the Kid, who was sitting

back from the front window, sipping something pink that looked medicinal. He was watching a twostory row house, which stood alone in the middle of the block. A vertical neon sign over the front

door of the place said that it was the Saint Andrew‟s African Baptist Church.

“I didn‟t know he was the Reverend Graves,” I said.

“Used to be the church,” Mufalatta said. “When they moved to their new place, the sign ran the wrong

way, so Nose bought it. He calls the place the Church.”

“Doesn‟t that upset the Saint Andrew‟s African Baptist congregation?” I asked.

“Naw, he‟s head of the choir,” the Kid said, and left it at that.

“Who‟s around?” the Stick asked.

“Two carloads of „em just went inside,” Mufalatta said. “Man, are they feelin‟ high. You never saw

such grins in your life.”

“How did they waste the shrimp company?” I asked.

“Just drove in, two cars of „em, pulled up to the front door, got out, and checked to make sure the

place was empty. Then they doused it with Molotov cocktails and tossed a couple sticks of dynamite

in the front door as they was leaving. Man, the place went sky high.”

We all stood there, staring across the street at the Church, wondering what to do next.

“If we‟re going to arrest him, don‟t we need a warrant?” I asked.

“Arrest them? Arrest who, man? Graves?” was the Kid‟s amazed response. “The four of us are gonna

sashay in there and bust Nose Graves and maybe eight of the meanest motherfuckers south of Jersey

City? Us four? Shit, man. Death with honour, si; death by suicide, bullshit.”

“Then why don‟t I just go in and have a talk with him,” I suggested.

Mufalatta looked at me like I was certifiable. Dutch chuckled deep in his throat, like he had just heard

a dirty joke. The Stick didn‟t do anything; he stood there and pro and conned the idea in his head. He

broke the silence.

“Why?” he asked.

“He‟s being suckered,” I said. “Maybe we can stop this craziness before anybody else dies.”

“Do tell,” said the Kid. “And you think he‟s gonna give a royal shit what you think, man?”

“What‟ve we got to lose?” I said. “Stick and Dutch, keep an eye on our front and back doors. The Kid

and I‟ll go in and gab with Graves.”

“Absolutely crazy as shit,” the Kid said.

“I‟ll second that,” said Dutch.

“Hell, why not?” the Stick said. “Sometimes crazy shit like that works.”

Dutch sighed. “Let‟s get some moxie backup over here,” he said.

“Why?” I asked. “This isn‟t the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. We just want to talk.”

“The man just blew up a business,‟ Dutch reminded me. “If he knows he was seen doing it, he‟s not

gonna be too receptive to any chitchat with the cops.”

I shrugged. “Then we won‟t tell him yet,” I said, and walked out the front door and across the street:

with Mufalatta legging it beside me.

“This is crazy, man,” he said. “This guy has no fuse at all, okay? No fuse, man. You light him up, he

blows all over the fuckin‟ place. They will hear it in West L.A. Shit, they will hear it in West Fuckin‟

Berlin, is what they‟ll do. You hear me talkin‟, man? Am I just makin‟ my gums bleed for fun?”

“I heard you, Kid,” I said. “He‟s got a short fuse.”

“No fuse, brother. None. N-o-n-e. None!”

We entered the club.

“Okay, okay,” Mufalatta said as we walked into the dark stairwell. “Just let me get us to the man,

okay? Let me do that because, see, I think in this case I have a gift f communication which you

don‟t.”

“How‟s that?” I said.

“Because you‟re a thick-headed, fuckin‟ honky, that‟s why, and this man don‟t even trust high

yellows.”

“Get us to the man,” I agreed with a nod.

We walked up a short flight of steps to the main floor of the building. It was a cathedraled room with

a pulpit at one end and pews shoved back in a semicircle to form a large dance floor. The room was

tiered. On the second tier there were low-slung tables surrounded by large cushions. The colour

scheme was cardinal red and devil black. Four stereo speakers the size of billboards were booming

against visible sound waves. The music was so loud it hurt my Adam‟s apple. Not a ray of sunshine

penetrated the once sacred interior.

Two black giants were sitting in wooden chairs at the top of the stairs. They looked both of us up and

down, then one of them said rather pleasantly, “Sorry, gents, no action till four o‟clock.”

“It ain‟t that way,” Mufalatta shouted. “We‟re here to talk with the man.”

The two giants exchanged grins, then laughed loud enough to drown out the music. One of them

yelled, “What you gonna do, turkey, ask him to boogie?”

“Yeah,” I said, taking out my wallet and letting it fall open to toy buzzer. “Here‟s our dance card.”

“Shit,” the Kid said. “There goes diplomatic relations down the fuckin‟ toilet.”

„The big guy doing the talking looked like I was waving a pretzel at him. He looked at Mufalatta, then

me, trying to put us together, then pointed at me. “You stay right there, both of you,” he said, and to

his partner, “Keep an eye on them.”

He turned and lumbered across the dance floor, up into the shadows. The other giant stood and glared

at us alternately, his eyeballs clicking back and forth. Obviously he was a man who followed orders to

the letter. When you‟re that big, you don‟t have to think.

There was a minute or two more of musical torture and then the music magically stopped.

“Up here,” Ape One yelled down. “Do them first.”

“On the wall,” Ape Two said. “I‟m gonna toss you.”

He patted us down and took a .357 and a switchblade knife away from Mufalatta. All I had that

looked threatening was a nail file, which he studied for several moments.

“It‟s a nail file,” I said finally.

“No shit,” he said. “I thought it was a toothpick.”

Ape Two led us across the hardwood floor and up into the far corner of the room to the only booth in

the place. Inside the booth was a round table and, behind it, a hand-carved chair big enough to suit the

Queen. Graves was sitting in the chair with one leg draped over an arm. He was dressed like a

Brazilian banker, in tan linen with a dark brown handkerchief draped from his jacket pocket and a

brown-and-white-striped tie. Like Zapata, he wore sunglasses in the dark.

Several of his lieutenants slipped back into the shadows. They didn‟t go anywhere, they just became

part of the ambience.

Graves leaned forward and pulled his glasses down slightly, peering over them.

“Well, what do you know, it‟s the dog lover.”

I smiled. The Kid didn‟t do anything.

“You shouldn‟t do that,” Graves said in a whispery rasp. “Come in a man‟s place flashing all that shit

around.”

Mufalatta smiled. “Well, what is was, King Kong and Mighty Joe Young there didn‟t think looks was

enough to get us an audience.”

Graves smiled. He was a handsome man. Whoever had done the job on his nose had done him a

favour.

“Who the flick are you?” he said quietly.

“Feds,” I told him.

He whistled softly through his teeth. “That‟s bad,” he said. “Am 1 drafted?”

“Yeah, the marines can hardly wait,” Mufalatta said.

“So, say your thing, man. What‟s it about?”

“Can we keep this between just a couple of us?” I asked.

Graves looked at Ape Two.

“They‟s totally clean,” the black giant grunted.

Graves leaned back and waved his hands. “Okay,” he said, “give us some air. You men drink?”

“Not right now,” I said.

“You the talker, dog lover?” he asked, nodding toward me.

I said I was.

“So talk.

I didn‟t know how I was going to start or exactly what I was going to say. I had to wing it. Graves was

no fool. If we were there because of the morning raid on Chevos‟ shrimp company, we would have

come in force with warrants. We wanted to talk and he was all ears.

“Things come to me,” I said. “Because of my business I hear things.”

“And what‟s been comin‟ at you, man?” the lean, ebony mobster said, still smiling.

“It comes to me that a Cincinnati gangster named Tagliani and his outfit came down here to set up

shop. They wanted the Front Street action, but they knew they had to get past you, one way or

another. They may have had some local help moving in here—that‟s up for grabs right now—but one

person Tagliani definitely did not have help from was Stoney Titan, and since you and Stoney have a

deal, they couldn‟t ease you out. It comes to me that the Taglianis decided to try the water, find out

just how tough you were, so they sent an Ohio hoodlum named Cherry McGee in to test you. He

couldn‟t take you, so Tagliani managed to frame you, and after you did your clock, you came out and

blew McGee up, along with a couple of his pistols.

“Meantime, they started taking over, squeezing in here and there. They started dealing heavy drugs,

mostly cocaine, to service the big rollers from out of town, which, it comes to me, is not your style.

They also had big money, and that‟s where they started hurting you. They were squeezing you out

because they had the financing.

“So it comes to me that you decided to make one big move, a coke connection in South America that

would net you maybe twenty, thirty mil on the street plus bite a big hole in their trade.

“Then, last Sunday, Tagliani hijacked your load, killed your people, and burned the boat, which left

you without your goods and owing the connections that fronted you. So, it comes to me, you declared

war and started wasting Taglianis. And then when Harry Raines got hot under the collar over all the

shooting, you put him away.”

I paused for a moment and then said, “That‟s the way it comes to me.”

He took off the sunglasses and bored holes in me with cast iron eyes.

“Dog lover, you‟re so full of shit you‟re contagious,” Graves murmured, without humour. “Comes to

you, my ass.”

“I said that‟s the way it comes to me, I didn‟t say that‟s the way it was. But that‟s how it could be

played, if enough people wanted it done that way.”

He leaned back and toyed with the glasses. Now I had his interest.

“Okay,” he whispered, “how do you think it was?”

“Well, here‟s the way it wasn‟t. I don‟t think you killed any of the Tagliani clan, except maybe

McGee and some of his gang. And I don‟t think you put Harry Raines away. Not only that, but I can

probably prove you didn‟t.”

“That‟s damn nice of you, brother,” he said. “What do you want rue to do in return, marry your

sister?”

“I want you to call off your guns, right now. Before the shooting really starts and a lot of people who

don‟t have anything to do with this get wasted.”

“You want we should stand in the middle of the boulevard and invite that fuckin‟ Nance to have target

practice on us, that it?” his voice rasped.

“I‟ll take care of Nance,” I said. “I got more reason than you. He‟s tried to kill me twice.”

For some reason that impressed Graves. He said, “I‟m not real clear on what it is you‟re offering me

to do for what.”

“If you hang up your guns, I‟ll see to it that the Taglianis do the same. Then all you have to do is sit

back and let the Feds put the rest of the Tagliani clan away and it‟ll be all yours again.”

“And the Feds‟re just gonna leave rue alone, right?”

“That‟s the way it‟ll work out,” I said.

“And what it is, you‟re just doin‟ this because you‟re a fine, upstanding dude that does good work,

right? Shit, man, what you take me for? I wasn‟t out pickin‟ cotton when the brains were handed out.”

“Look, I know about your deal „with Mr. Stoney and I don‟t—”

“1 ain‟t got no deal with Mr. Stoney ,“ he said. “He don‟t deal, man, don‟t come grubbin‟ around wit1

his hand out lookin‟ for part of the action, shit. That ain‟t his style. Me and Mr. Stoney have an

understanding. If I fuck up, I get hammered. If I don‟t, everything‟s velvet.”

“What I‟m saying is, I‟m after Tagliani. I don‟t care how you and Mr. Stoney run the town. It looked

pretty good to me in the old days.”

“You talked to Mr. Stoney about all this?”

“He‟ll figure it out by himself,” I said. “Personally, I think you‟re getting suckered into this gunfight

with Tagliani.”

His smile vanished, but the voice didn‟t change.

“1 don‟t get suckered, dog lover. That ain‟t my style.”

“You want to listen?” I said bluntly.

He put his leg back on the floor and leaned over the table toward me. “Okay,” he said, “we‟ve come

this far. Just don‟t piss me off.”

“They need a fall guy for the whole enchilada.”

“Who needs?”

“Maybe Chevos. Maybe Costello. 4aybe even Bronicata, although I doubt it. Whoever knocked aver

twelve Taglianis so far this week. Somebody had to go down for it and they‟re setting you up to be the

guy.”

He leaned back in his chair, making a church steeple of his fingertips, and stared up at the dark

ceiling. There was a lot to sort through, most of it guesswork on my part, and very little of it, if any,

could be substantiated.

Without looking down, Graves whispered:

“Also I didn‟t kill McGee. Man, I was gonna whack that little cocksucker off but somebody else did

the job for me.”

That one caught me by surprise, although I did my best not to show it.

“I‟ve had my people killed in this thing,” he said. “Hard to forget.”

“So why get more killed? It‟ll just get harder to forget. I understand people went down on both sides.”

Pause.

“That‟s true,” he agreed. Then, still looking at the ceiling, “I take the fifth on that cocaine shit. That‟s

federal. Put that motherfucker back in the file.”

“You‟re clean on that one too,” I said. “If somebody else lifted the load, you‟re not guilty of violating

anything. Whoever stole and brought it in, that‟s the guilty party.”

He looked down at me and smiled. “You could be in the wrong game, dog lover,” he said. “You

oughta be a fixer.”

“I used to be,” I said.

“Well, shit, how about that.”

“Can we talk about Leadbetter?” 1 asked. I wanted to know about the dead police chief. That was

another coincidence I didn‟t believe in. Mufalatta was staring at me, open-mouthed, as I pushed it as

far as it would go.

“What about him?”

“Was he giving you any trouble?”

Graves shook his head very slowly. “Him and Mr. Stoney,” he said, entwining two angers., “like

that.”

“Do you know why he was killed?”

“1 heard it was an accident,” he said.

“There‟s one other thing,” I said. “Did Tony Lukatis ever do a job for you?”

“Shit, don‟t be a jive-ass. I hardly knew the little motherfucker.”

“You didn‟t like him, then?”

“I didn‟t think about him one way or the other.”

“So he wasn‟t working for you on the Colombia run?”

“If there was a Colombia run, he wouldn‟t have been workin‟ for me, nohow. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“So what the hell‟s the plan, baby? Do we wait for you to tell us the truce is on or what?”

“I need a couple of hours,” I said.

“To do what?”

“Cool the situation down. Just stay low, that‟s all you got to

He stroked his jaw with a large, rawboned hand that sparkled with a diamond ring as big as the house

I was born in. He started to chuckle in that whispery, gravel voice of his.

“I don‟t believe this, y‟know. I mean, me trustin‟ a fuckin‟ honky Fed. What‟s your name, man?”

“Kilmer. Jake Kilmer.”

“Like the poet?”

“You read poetry?” I said.

“Why not,” he said. “1 got class.”

66

SHOOTOUT IN BACK O’TOWN

“Okay, you got a deal,” Graves said, offering roe his hand. “We‟ll stay cool until you get Nance and

the rest of them off the street. But they come lookin‟ for trouble, Kilmer, forget it. I ain‟t standing still

for any motherfucker.”

A phone rang somewhere in the darkness of the Church. It kept ringing persistently until it was finally

answered. A voice in the darkness said, “It‟s for somebody named Kilmer. Is that either one of you?”

I stood up, followed by Graves‟ hard glance.

“I hope this ain‟t some kind of stand-up, „cause if it is, man, you go down first.”

“Probably my broker,” I said, and followed a vague form back to the cash register. The phone was on

the wall, an old-fashioned black coin-eater.

“Kilmer,” I said.

It was Dutch. “Get your ass outta there now,” he told me.

“We‟re doing fine here,” I said.

“Kite Lange just called central from his car He‟s following Nance and two carloads of Tagliani

gunsels, and they‟re headed your way.”

“Call in some blue and whites.”

“I‟ve done that but you got maybe a minute to get out of there before shooting‟s likely to start.”

“Goddamn it,” I said, “Nose has agreed to a cease-fire!”

“Then you better get your ass out here and tell that to your buddy Nance, „cause he‟s about to come

around the corner.”

I slammed down the phone and stumbled through the darkness back to Graves‟ table.

“We got a problem,” I said as calmly s I could. “Nance is on his way with two cars.”

An S&W .38 appeared in Graves‟ fist. There was a lot of movement around us. The gun was a beauty,

a Model 19 with a four-inch barrel, Pachmar grip, the cocking spur shaved off. Not fancy, all pro.

“What the fuck‟s goin‟ down here?” he hissed.

“That was our partner. One of our people spotted Nance and his bunch heading this way. Police cars

are coming. Just stay inside, keep your heads down. Let us handle it.”

“You ain‟t goin‟ nowhere till this gets unwound, dog lover.”

An explosion ended the conversation. The front door erupted and yellow flames lashed up the

stairwell, followed by bits and pieces of wood and glass that seemed to float lazily in the updraft.

The place shook like an earthquake had hit us.

The Kid dove sideways, out of Graves‟ line of fire, and pulled me with him. Graves couldn‟t have

cared less about us, though. He dashed toward the door.

Handguns started popping down on the street. Then a shotgun bellowed and somebody screamed.

The Kid turned a service table on its side, smacked a leg off with his elbow, grabbed it like a club, and

motioned me to follow him to a side door.

Another explosion. I looked back and saw a gaping hole in the side of the room. Light slashed through

smoke and fire, showing me several men with guns, heading toward the front stairs, fire be damned.

More gunfire. Another scream. Handguns were popping off all over the place. I could hear several

sirens shrieking out on the street.

Heavy artillery boomed behind the door lust as we got to it. The Kid kicked it open and came face to

face with one of Turk Nance‟s goons. His Remington twelve-gauge had lust blown a hole through one

of Graves‟ men, who was tumbling down the stairs behind him. The Kid jumped back inside as the

hoodlum swung the shotgun up. Mufalatta pulled the door shut, and dragged me to my knees beside

him as the riot gun blew a six-inch plug out of the centre of the door. The Kid counted to three and

then slammed the door open again, right into the gunman‟s face. The shotgun barrel slid through the

hole it had just made in the door. The Kid grabbed the barrel with one hand, pulled the door shut

again, and wrenched the weapon from the gunman‟s hands. He reached through the hole, grabbed a

handful of the hoodlum‟s shirt, pulled him against the shattered door, and slammed the butt end of the

table leg into his chest. The gangster fell away from the front door, gagging, and the Kid charged out,

swinging the table leg like Lou Gehrig, and almost took off the goon‟s head. The gunman hit the stairs

halfway down, bounced once, and piled up in the doorway.

We followed him down the stairs. The shotgun was an 870P police riot gun loaded with pellets, an

awesome weapon. At the foot of the stairs we peered cautiously around the corner of the door. One of

Nance‟s cars was parked twenty feet away. They saw the Kid‟s black face and every gun in the car

opened up.

We jumped back as the doorjamb was blown to pieces.

“There‟s one of „em outside the car on the other side,” the Kid said. “I‟m gonna squirrel the son of a

bitch and get us a little breathin‟ room.”

Squirreling is a useful trick. Fire a shotgun or any projectile weapon at less than a forty-five-degree

angle into anything solid, and the bullet or pellets will ricochet exactly eight inches off that surface

and stay at that height. That‟s just low enough to go under a car. The Kid got the shotgun ready,

leaned around the corner, and cut loose twice.

Kow-boom! Kow-boom!

Forty-eight pellets sang off the sidewalk and showered under the car, tearing through the ankle and

shin of the man on the other side. He went down screaming. The Kid took advantage of the hiatus to

put another blast through the rear window. The car took off, with the wounded thug hanging on to the

front door.

Outside, all hell had broken loose.

At least two of Nance‟s shooters and one of Craves‟ men were down in the street.

Pedestrians were cowering behind parked cars and in alleyways.

The Church was in the middle of a block with Gordon Street in front of it and Marsh Street behind.

Empty lots on both sides. It was under siege. The front of the place was aflame, as was a police car

sitting sideways in the middle of Gordon Street on blown-out tires.

Both ends of the street were clogged with blue and whites.

The mob car slammed on its brakes as it neared Gordon, and the human cargo hanging on to the door

was vaulted end over end into the street. He lay there clutching his ankles until a volley of gunfire

from the Church stilled him. The Nance car spun around and started back our way. As it did, Dutch

Morehead pulled his Olds out of Marsh Street, into the lot, jumped out, and dashed for cover. The Kid

shot off a rear tire and most of the rim as the sedan roared past. The Nance car lost control, tried to

swerve out of the path of the Olds, slammed into the front end of the Dutchman‟s car, vaulted over it,

and slid to a grinding halt on its side.

Nance‟s men started crawling out of doors and windows. Cops swarmed up from Marsh Street and

were all over them.

The other car was nowhere to be seen. Then it suddenly burst backward out of an alley beside the

drugstore and into Gordon Street, spun around on screaming brakes, and careened into the lot as the

Stick‟s black Pontiac roared out of the alley in pursuit. Longnose Graves dashed from the door of the

Church and emptied his pistol into the fleeing car.

As Nance‟s car passed our doorway, showering dirt and debris toward us, the Mufalatta Kid sent one

burst into its rear window. He could handle a shotgun, all right, but it didn‟t slow down the escaping

car. It cut left into Marsh, glanced off a police car, sideswiped a brick wall, and was gone, with Stick

growling off after it.

Fire trucks and ambulances arrived. More confusion.

The Church was burning out of control. Graves‟ people tumbled out into the street, coughing and

rubbing their eyes. A fast body count showed three of Nance‟s men dead to two of Graves‟ gunmen.

Graves was not in the roundup.

Dutch said, “He must‟ve slipped us in the confusion.”

I didn‟t believe that. I went back to the side door and ran upstairs. Smoke swirled through the Church.

Flames were snapping at the far end of the room.

Graves was sitting on his wooden throne, tie askew, suit and face smoke-smeared, a bullet hole high

in his left chest, his .38 aimed at the floor. He looked up with surprise as I stumbled through the

smoke to the booth.

He raised the pistol and pointed it at my head. His rasping voice said, “Shit, dog lover, you don‟t

know when you‟re well off.”

“Why don‟t you get out of here while you can,” I said.

“I ought to kill you on general principles,” he said.

“What‟s stopping you?”

His finger squeezed and an electric shock sizzled through me. The hammer clicked harmlessly.

“Out of bullets, poet,” he said, laughed, and threw the gun at my feet.

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