Hooligans

GOODBYE HIT

An hour crept by. It seemed like four or five. At first the TV monitor discouraged conversation. I

figured the room had to be bugged. After I got my wits together I decided to give it a test. I looked

straight into the camera and said, “Would it be too much to ask for a glass of water?” Nothing 1ad

happened, so I kicked on the door. Sweetheart Pravano answered my summons. He was still wearing

the battle scars from the fight at the Warehouse: a mouse on his right eye and a four-inch gash in his

jaw. He glared at me when I made the request and shut the door in my face, but a minute or two later a

young kid who was wearing both suspenders and a belt, as well as an empty shoulder holster under his

arm, brought us each a glass of ice water. „Then they left us alone.

“What do you think they‟re going -to do with us?” Doe asked.

“I don‟t know,” I said, quite honestly.

During the remainder of that hour Doe and I talked quietly but steadily. I explained who Tagliani was,

although she seemed to have a vague notion already. I also told her Tony Lukatis had been slain

hijacking the cocaine shipment, which she didn‟t know, although the information didn‟t seem to upset

her too much.

“So you knew about Tony?” she said. “That was over such a long time ago. Poor Tony. He wanted so

desperately to make something of himself, to be more than...” She tried to explain Lukatis‟ obsession,

but it wouldn‟t come out.

“I can understand that,” I said. “He just picked the wrong way to do it.”

“Was he involved with these people?”

I shook my head. „1 don‟t think so,” I said, but didn‟t take it any farther. I still didn‟t know who he

was involved with.

“I guess I was the cause of all that, too,” she said, and started to cry. “1 caused it all.”

“No, that‟s not true,” I said. “You were a pawn in the game, like a lot of us.”

“It was all over between us before he ever got in trouble,” Doe went on, purging the memory of

Lukatis. “He wouldn‟t accept that. He kept calling, sending me cards, leaving little gifts. Then I saw

him one day and he told me things were going to be different. He called it his big score. I had no idea

he was going to She let the sentence drift off. She was having a lot of trouble finishing sentences.

That‟s when I told her about Sam Donleavy. Her shoulders sagged as the story unfolded. Tears welled

in her eyes. The shock of disbelief pulled at her face, like the heavy hand of time. I took her in my

arms and held her as tightly as I could and let her sob it out.

Then I heard the throb of heavy engines outside. There was a lot of yelling and laughter, people

entering the other room. A few minutes later there was what sounded like an angry exchange,

although I couldn‟t tell for sure who was talking to whom, or what the rhubarb was all about. Then the

door opened.

The lights of Thunder Point Marina twinkled like stars on the bay a half mile away. Stick hunched

down in the cockpit of the sailboat, his hat pulled down over his eyes so the wind wouldn‟t blow it off.

There was a strong wind coming in from the southeast and the sails were full, billowed out like

shrouds above him in the darkness. He had the sheets pulled in as tight as he could and the boat was

keeled low in the water. The waves bounded past his elbow like a river on a rampage.

For ten minutes he had been watching Costello‟s yacht as it sailed into the inlet from open water and

headed for the marina. Now it was pulling into the dock.

He set the tiller, tied it down, reached under the seat, and pulled out a waterproof bag. First he took

out the .357 and checked the chamber. It was loaded with cont rolled-expansion treasury rounds.

Then the 180, his little jewel. He checked the silencer and snapped a 180-round drum into the

chamber, mentally ticking off his firepower as he did. He turned on the laser scope and watched the

little red dot dance across the swollen sails. Next came the M16, the old standby, fully loaded with a

thirty-shot clip. He took a forty-millimetre grenade from the hag and inserted it in the grenade

launcher under the barrel. Finally he got the ammo bag, which held two drums for the 180, six clips

for the 16, six grenades, and five quick-loads for the Magnum.

Not bad. Seven grenades and 786 rounds of ammo.

He mentally counted the enemy: Costello, Bronicata, Chevos, and two other gunmen on the boat.

Nance, Sweetheart Pravano, and at least four others he could think of inside the marina, and the two

guards with sawed-off shotguns on the dock.

Thirteen. About sixty rounds per man plus the grenades. Piece of cake. He‟d been up against a lot

worse.

He adjusted the night sight on the M-16 and checked out the deck of the yacht. There they were:

Costello, Chevos, Bronicata, Drack Moreno, all the heavyweights bi4 Nance and Pravano, who had

to be inside somewhere, and Cohen, who was probably home in bed.

Beautiful, he thought. The timing couldn‟t be better. Just one big happy family.

That was fine about Cohen. Cohen belonged to lake. The rest of them were his. He started smearing

black shoe polish on his face.

This time it was Dutch who snatched up the phone when it rang. He was waiting for the call. It was

Cowboy Lewis, patched in from the police helicopter.

“We spotted „em, Dutch. Costello‟s barge is pullin‟ into the private dock on the back of Thunder

Point Marina right now.”

“You sure it‟s him?”

“It is unless he cloned that boat of his. Ain‟t another one around here like it.”

“How far away are you?”

“Half a mile, maybe.”

“Can you get down low enough to check the parking kit for that cinnamon Eldorado without getting

your kiester blown off?”

“We‟ll have to use lights.”

“Okay, but be careful. We‟re heading out there anyway, just in case. I‟m tired of sitting on my duster

back here.”

“See ya,” said Lewis.

Stick trimmed his sails and slid quietly past the end of the dock. The two guards were leaning against

the side of the yacht, talking.

Stick studied the layout. The marina was to his left, separated from the private dock by a concrete

wharf and twenty feet of water. A walkway led from the dock up to the house.

A hundred meters maybe, no more, from dock to house.

Plenty of trees for cover plus a terraced lawn that led down to the water.

Two big lights on a pole at the end of the dock. Fuck it, no problem.

The house itself was one-story. That was good. No high ground for them. He swept the house with his

night scope, planning his attack. From left to right, he made the kitchen, with a sliding panel out to a

terrace; the main room, big, with a cathedral ceiling; a bedroom with a large picture window

overlooking the water, and a circular waterbed in the center of it; and a smaller room at the end of

the house. At first he thought that room was dark; then he saw a sliver of light streaming through the

drapes. That‟s where they had to be. And they were here. He knew that because Nance was here.

He counted heads.

Three in the kitchen, including Bronicata.

Five in the living room, including Moreno and Pravano.

Chevos, Nance, and Costello in the bedroom.

Eleven, just as he had figured. He still had the touch.

Behind him, out over the bay somewhere, he heard a chopper whop-whop-whopping. He ignored it.

He tied down the tiller, slung the ammo bag over his shoulder, grabbed the 180 and M16, and

clambered over the cabin to the front of his boat, stretched out on the deck, and got the submachine

gun ready. The sailboat sliced through the water and sailed into the orb of light from the two big dock

lights.

The door opened and Costello was standing there.

He looked like Yankee Doodle Dandy: white slacks, a blue blazer, a red silk scarf flouncing around

his neck.

“Well, well,” I said, “it‟s Captain America.”

By that time I was ready to take on the Russian army.

“You just never give up, do you, Kilmer?” he said, in that flat, no-nonsense lawyer‟s voice of his.

“Offhand, I‟d say your little bubble has blown sky high,” I said.

“You talk big for a man who could be sixty seconds from his own funeral,” he said. “Notice I said

could be. I‟m all that‟s standing between Nance and a bullet in your head.”

I ignored the threat. “You‟re going across, Costello. First murder, now kidnapping. I‟ve been wrong

about you. I thought you were smarter than the rest of these wahoos. You just wear cuter clothes.”

Doe was hanging on to my hand like a drowning woman.

“Why don‟t you let her go?” I said. “This is between us boys.”

“I didn‟t have anything to do with this,” he said. “I‟ve been out on the water for the past four hours.

My cuffs are clean.”

“I can hardly wait to see the look n the jury‟s face when you run that one by them.”

He pulled a chair over and sat down in front of us.

“The monitor‟s turned off,” he said. “So we can talk straight. First of all, Nance and you have had this hard-on for each other for a couple of years. I‟m not responsible for his actions. And from the

looks of him, you could be looking at a case of police brutality, anyway.”

“And what‟s the lady here guilty of, holding my coat while I did it?”

“I‟ll admit that bringing you two out here was bad judgment on somebody‟s part, but we can work all

this out.”

“Good, I‟m glad you see it that way,” I said. “If you‟ll just arrange for a ride back to town, we‟ll be

leaving.”

“Not quite.”

“You‟re skating on no ice, Costello. You may not be guilty of kidnapping, but holding us against our

will sure as hell makes you an accessory.”

“I‟m just trying to arrange a negotiation here,” he said, holding his hands out at his sides and smiling.

“So everybody comes out happy.”

“There‟s no way that can happen.”

“You‟re all bluff, Kilmer. Right now you couldn‟t lick a postage stamp in a court of law, and you

know it.”

“I‟ve got Donleavy cold for murder one,” I said. “And I‟ve got Seaborn and his bank against the wall.

Before it‟s over, they‟ll both be singing like Pavarotti.”

“I never had anything to do with either one of them,” Costello said. “1 may have said hello once or

twice.”

“Oh, I get it. It‟s Save Costello‟s Ass Week, that‟s what we‟re talking about here? Okay, here are my

terms. You give us Nance for murder and kidnapping, Cohen and his books for violation of the RICO

acts, Chevos for smuggling and accessory to murder, and you become a friendly witness for the Fed.

I‟ll see if maybe we can get you off with five to ten.”

“Dream on,” he said with a laugh - It was his last.

The chopper was bearing in, coming closer.

Whah, whah, whah, whah...

Christ, he thought, just like the old days.

The guards didn‟t even hear the boat until it bumped the dock. He was ready.

“What the hell‟s that?” one of them said. They both turned toward the boat.

The laser‟s red pinpoint settled over the heart of the first one. He still had his shotgun over his

shoulder.

Brrddtttt.

He went down like an elephant stepped on him. The other one started to scramble. He didn‟t have

time to yell; he made a dash for the trees. Stick squirreled a burst into the sidewalk, twenty meters in

front of him. A dozen rounds whined off the walk and tore through his legs. He went down on his face.

The second burst finished him.

Stick jumped ashore and ran toward the house. He blitzed the two big lights as he ran. The chopper

was getting louder but Stick was committed. He didn‟t need any air for this one. This one was a piece

of cake. Piece of fuckin‟ cake.

He dropped behind a tree, twenty yards from the door to the main room, swung the M-16 up, and

checked the kitchen and the living room one more time. Bronicata was leaning over a large pot,

sipping something from a spoon. The other two were standing next to him.

The five were still in the living room, gabbing. No women, thank God.

He swung the M-16 around and launched a grenade into the center of the big room.

It happened fast. Chevos opened the door and said, “There‟s a helicopter coming in from the bay,

flying pretty low.”

“Probably some businessman coming home late for dinner,” Costello said.

I could see through the door into a bedroom. Nance was sitting on a large, round waterbed, holding an

icepack against his jaw. Beyond that there was a large, high-ceilinged room with half a dozen or so

goons, and beyond that the kitchen. Bronicata was cooking something. Just a nice domestic gettogether. The boys‟ night out.

Suddenly the living room erupted in a garish orange flash. The explosion followed an instant later and

blew the room to pieces.

After that, everything happened so East, I remember it almost like a series of still pictures.

Sweetheart Pravano was lifted four feet off the ground and thrown against the wall. His face was

gone.

Another hoodlum went out the back window head first as if he had been bounced off a trampoline.

Another fell to his knees in the middle of the room, clutching a bloody mess that had been his chest a

moment before, and fell forward screaming, “Mother!”

Bits and pieces of furniture were thrown around the room like dust.

In the kitchen Bronicata was almost knocked into his soup pan.

The explosion blew Chevos‟ face forward into the room.

I grabbed Doe, twisted her around, and went to the floor on top of her.

Costello was knocked off his chair.

An M-16 started chattering.

Bronicata did a toe dance in the kitchen while his pots and pans exploded around him, then fell across

the hot stove as if embracing it.

His two pals were slammed against the wall and riddled.

In the other room Nance whirled and dropped to his knees behind the bed.

Chevos was on his knees, a .32 in his fist, his glasses hanging from one ear, hissing like a snake.

Costello rolled over and shook his head.

The smell of gunpowder flooded the room.

Nance turned toward me, his smashed face curdled with hate, his Luger in his hand.

I dragged Doe to her feet and pushed her toward the far corner of the room, away from the doorway.

The Luger roared and I felt the round twirl through my arm and hit the wall beyond. I knocked

Chevos‟ glasses off, grabbed his arm, and twisted him around, turning his gun hand down and away

from his body.

The M-16 thunked again and the waterbed erupted. Geysers of water plumed up from it. Nance dove

face down on the floor, huddling by the bed.

Costello pulled a .38 and leaped for the corner, grabbing at Doe.

I got the .32 away from Chevos, shoved him out of the way, jumped across the room, got a handful of

Costello‟s jacket, and threw him against the other wall. It didn‟t stop him. His lips curled back and he

swung the .38 up. I shot him twice in the chest. He fell back against the wall and dropped to his knees.

The gun bounced out of his hand. His knuckles rested on the floor. He stared at my belt buckle; then

his mouth went slack and dropped open.

The window beside me burst open. The drapes crashed down, and then I heard the dentist‟s drill, an

inch from my ear, hum its tune.

Brrdddtttt.

So much for Chevos.

I stuffed a handkerchief inside my jacket. The bullet wound burned. I could smell the almond odour or

arsenic. The Stick jumped through the window with the grace of a dancer, the 180 submachine gun in

one hand, the M-16 in the other. He held a finger to his lips and pointed toward Nance‟s room.

We heard footsteps run across broken glass and debris and smash a window. Stick jammed the 180

under his arm, pulled a .357 out of his belt, tossed it to me, and dove through the doorway into the

bedroom, the chattering 180 back in hand as he went.

“He‟s heading for the water,” Stick yelled, and went over the windowsill and into a garden behind the

place. “Stay with the girl. He‟s mine.”

A shot whined between us and smacked the windowsill. Stick hunched down and took off in a crouch,

jumping this way and that, threading his way through the trees. He didn‟t make a sound.

I went back into the other room. Doe was facing the wall with her hands over her face. lied her

outside, to the side of the house away from the shooting.

“Stay right here, don‟t move,” I said. “You‟ll be safer here. I‟ve got to check the rest of the house.”

She nodded but her eyes didn‟t like the idea.

I went back inside.

A quick check turned up ten bodies in the house. Nobody had survived. The bomb, or whatever it

was, and the burst from the M-l6 right after it, had killed five gunmen in the living room and three in

the kitchen.

There was a shot outside.

A muffled burst of M-16 fire.

I checked the .357 and half ran, half stumbled out the back door. Another burst, down near the water.

I started after them.

Nance was out on the dock. He started to get aboard the yacht. I heard the pumf of the grenade

launcher, and the back end of the yacht erupted. Nance was blown back onto the dock. He got to his

feet, kept running away from Stick. The big luxury boat started to burn. In the light of the flames, I

saw Nance scramble aboard a sailboat at the end of the dock, her sails furled loosely around the boom.

The Stick was hunched near the bowline. He moved away from me, toward the shadows on the Far

side of the sailboat. Then suddenly he leaped over its side.

His submachine gun was chattering.

Nance got off three shots before he started his dance. He went up on his toes, spun around, slapping

his body as if bugs were biting him. His hands flew over his head, and he fell backward onto the deck

like a side of beef. One foot kicked half-heartedly and he went limp.

I picked up the M-l6 and ran out onto the dock. The Stick was walking awkwardly toward the stern,

where Nance was lying.

“Stick!” I yelled.

He turned and crouched in a single move; then his shoulders drew up suddenly, his knees buckled,

and he fell over onto the deck.

I jumped aboard the sailboat and ran back toward the stern, where he was lying. I was ten feet from

him when he raised up and lifted the 180. For a second I thought he was going to shoot me. 1 just

froze there. He swung it up, to my left, and squeezed off two or three bursts. The bullets chewed a

ragged line up the mast. Bits and pieces of wood flew out of it, followed by streams of white crystals.

They poured out of the bullet holes in the shattered mast, sparkling like snowflakes, were caught in

the wind and whisked away, out over the bay and into the darkness. Stick sighed and his head fell

back on the &ck.

I leaned over him. His eyes were turning gray.

He flashed that crazy smile.

“Wasn‟t it. . . one helluva. . . blast,” he said, in a funny, tired, faraway voice, “while it lasted? Huh,

Jake?”

“It was one helluva blast.”

His lips moved but he didn‟t say anything.

“You did it all, didn‟t you? Took on the whole Tagliani clan?” I said.

He didn‟t answer. All he said was “Burn. . . boat, „kay?”

The Stick winked, then sighed, and it was all over.

Up near Chevos‟ compound, I could hear sirens and see red and blue reflections through the trees.

People shouting. Doors slamming.

I turned Nance over. Half a dozen slugs had removed most of his chest. He wouldn‟t be soaking any

more slugs in arsenic. The look frozen on his face was pure terror, the mask of a man who had died in

fear. That‟s one I owed that I‟d never repay.

I checked over the mast. It was on hinges, the kind that can be lowered for repairs and going under

low bridges. I examined it closely, then picked up the machine pistol and raked the mast with gunfire.

I started at the base and let the .22-caliber slugs tear it to pieces. As the slugs ripped up the birch pole,

the shining white crystals sifted out, sparkling as the wind caught them and tossed them, twinkling,

out over the water. I kept shooting until the gun was empty. The powder poured out. I sat down next

to Stick and watched twenty-four million dollars‟ worth of cocaine dance on the wind and dissolve in

the sea. It took a while.

I rolled Nance‟s body off the deck ad watched it splash into the bay. Then I carried Stick ashore and

fired a grenade into the engine of his sailboat. The back end of the sleek craft exploded, then burst

into flames. I threw the M-l6 and the 180 as far out into the bay as I could fling them and headed back

up the hill to see what was happening.

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