Hooligans

DOOMSTOWN

Dutch was waiting for me under the awning in front of the Ponce, the political watering hole of

Dunetown, a grand, old, creaky hotel, dripping with potted plants, and one of the few things in

Dunetown that hadn‟t changed. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of a bagged-out, nondescript

suit, and a Camel was tucked in the corner of his mouth. If he had a care in the world, it didn‟t show. I

parked behind a large black limo, gave the keys to the garage man, checked in, gave a bellhop five

bucks to drop my bag in my room, and tossed my briefcase into Dutch‟s backseat.

As 1 crawled into the front seat, I was still shell-shocked from the sights and sounds of Dunetown.

“Okay, let‟s roll,” he said, pulling into the dark, palm-lined street.

He didn‟t have anything to volunteer; his attitude was still cooperative but cautious. And while I was

interested in getting the lowdown on Tagliani-Turner, for the moment 1 was more interested in what

had happened to the local landscape.

After a block or two of silence I asked, “What in hell happened to Dunetown?”

He stared over at me with a funny look on his face, then, as if answering his own question, said, “Oh,

yeah, I keep forgetting you lived here once”

“Not here,” 1 said. “Not in this town. Anyway, 1 didn‟t live here. I was, oh. . I guess you could say I

was a summer guest.”

“When was that again?”

I was trying to be casual, trying to keep away from personal history. I didn‟t know him well enough to

show him any scars.

“Twenty years ago, just for a couple of months. It‟s hardly worth mentioning,” I answered in an

offhand way.

“You were just a kid then.”

“Yeah, a senior in college.” While I didn‟t want to get too personal, I didn‟t want to play games,

either.

“Teddy Findley was my best friend,” I added after a second or two.

“Oh,” he said. “Then you know what‟s been going on.”

“No, I got out of touch with the family,” I said.

“You know the Findley kid is dead?”

“You mean Teddy?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes,” I said. “It‟s after that I kind of lost track of things.”

“Well, what happened was the racetrack, that‟s what. The town got bent. Twenty years ago there was

probably, what, seventy-five, a hundred thousand people?”

“Sounds about right.”

“Probably three hundred thousand now, about half of ‟em from the shady side of the tracks. What you

got here, you got a major racetrack, and a beauty. Looks like Saratoga. A classy track, okay? That‟s a

gimmee.”

“Where is it?”

“Back behind us, on the other side of the river. It‟s dark now, anyway.”

“Okay, so you got a classy track. Then what?”

“I think maybe what the money in town expected was kind of another Ascot. Everybody standing

around sipping tea, wavin‟ their pinkies in the air. What they got is horseplayers, which come in every

shape, size, and variety known to mankind, and about half of them smoke tea; they don‟t drink it.”

“So that‟s what Front Street‟s all about?”

“It appeals to some of that element. It isn‟t Front Street‟s gonna make your gonads shrink. It‟s what

happened to the rest of the town. They turned it into a little Miami.”

“They? Who‟s they?”

“The wimps that took over. Look, Chief Findley‟s an old man. Most of the rest of the old power

structure‟s dead. They turned it over to their heirs. Keepers of the kingdom, right? Wrong. Wimps, the

lot of „em, with maybe an exception or two.”

“1 probably know some of them,” I said.

“Probably. But it wasn‟t just them, it was anybody had a square foot of ground they could sell.

Condos all over the place. High-rise apartments. Three big hotels on the beach, another one going up.

Real estate outta sight. Two marinas as big as Del Mar. You feel bad now, wait‟ll you see Doomstown

in the daylight.”

That was the first time I heard it called Doomstown, but it was far from the last.

“I‟m still surprised Chief Findley and the old power structure let it happen,” I said.

“Couldn‟t do anything about it,” Dutch growled, “They died or were too old to cope.”

An edge had crept into his tone, a touch of anger mixed with contempt. He seemed to sense it himself

and drove quietly while he calmed down.

I tried to fill in the dead space. “My father used to say you can inherit blood but you can‟t inherit

backbone.”

For the first few blocks we drove through the Dunetown I wanted to remember, the large section of

the midtown area that had been restored to its Revolutionary elegance.

I remembered driving through the section with Chief and Teddy one Sunday afternoon a long time

ago. It had fallen on hard times; block after block of broken-down row houses that were either

boarded over or had been converted into cheap rooming houses. We were in Chief‟s black Rolls

convertible and he was sitting on the edge of his seat, shoulders square, his white hair thrashing in the

wind.

“We‟re going to restore this whole damn part of town,” he had said grandly, in his soft, Irish-southern

accent, while waving his arm at the drab ruins. “Not a damn museum like Williamsburg. I mean a

livin‟, breathin‟ place where people will be proud to live. Feel like they‟re part of her history. Share

bed and board with her ghosts. This is the heart of the city, by Cod! And if the heart stops, the city

dies. You boys just remember that.” He paused to appraise the street, then added, half under his

breath, “Someday it‟ll be your responsibility.” And Teddy looked over at me and winked, in those

days I was one of the boys.

It seemed he had kept that bargain, although Cod knows what miserable trade he had made, allowing

the business section to go to hell. That part of it didn‟t make sense. This part did. The parks and

squares opened the town up, letting it breathe and flourish naturally, giving it a personality of its own.

Here and there, expensive-looking shops and galleries nudged up against the townhouses. You could

tell that zoning here was communal, that the rules were probably shaped by common consent.

“This is better,” I said. “But Front Street, Jesus!”

“They had to give the two-dollar bettors someplace to play,” Dutch said matter-of-factly.

We took a left and a right and were back to reality again. We were on the edge of Back O‟Town, a

kind of buffer between Dunetown and the black section. You could feel poverty iii the air. The fancy

shops gave way to army-navy stores and cut-rate furniture outlets. it was the worn-out part of town. A

lot of used-car lots and flophouse hotels.

We drove in silence for a minute or two, then I asked, “How long you been here, Dutch?”

“Came down from Pittsburgh almost four years ago, right after they passed the referendum for the

track.”

“They built it when?”

“It opened for business year before last and the town went straight to hell. From white Palm Beach

suits to horse blanket jackets and plaid pants overnight. You gotta bust an eardrum to hear a southern

accent anymore.” His own was a kind of guttural Pennsylvania Dutch.

“You mean like yours?” I joked.

He chuckled. “Yeah, like mine.”

“Town on the make,” I said, half-aloud.

“You got that right.”

“Flow long you been a cop?”

“Forever,” he said, without even thinking.

He turned down a dark residential street, driving fast but without circus lights or siren.

“Hell of a note,” I said. “Chief and his bunch pampered Dunetown. it was like a love affair.”

“Well, pal, that‟s a long time ago. it‟s a one-night stand now.” He paused and added, “You know the

Findleys that well, huh?”

I thought about that for a minute before answering.

“Well, twenty years dims the edges,” I said.

“Ain‟t that the truth.” Dutch lit a cigarette and added, “Sounds like you thought a lot of the old man.”

I nodded. “You could say that.”

“The way it comes to me, his kid was a war hero, got himself wasted over in Nam. After that the old

guy just folded up. Least that‟s the way I hear it.”

“Too bad,” I said. I was surprised at how indifferent my words sounded.

“I guess.”

“I gather you‟ve got reservations about Findley,” I said.

He shrugged. “It‟s the machine. I don‟t trust anybody‟s been in politics longer than it takes me to eat

lunch. And I‟m a fast eater.”

Old feelings welled up inside me, noodling at my gut again, a passing thing I couldn‟t quite get in

touch with. Or didn‟t want to.

“It was like a fiefdom, y‟know,” he went on. “A couple of heavyweights calling all the shots. Now it‟s

a scramble to see who can get richest.”

It was an accurate appraisal and I said so.

“It‟s what power‟s all about,” I told him.

“So I got a dollar, you got two. That makes you twice as good as me?”

“No,” I said, “twice as dangerous.”

He thought about that for a few seconds.

“I guess it all depends on who you are,” Dutch said. Then he dropped the bomb. “Findley‟s daughter

tried to take up the slack. After his son was zeroed, I mean.”

Bang, there it was.

“How‟s that?” 1 asked, making it sound as casual as a yawn.

“Married herself a hotshot All-American. He grabbed the ball from Findley and took off with it. Harry

Raines is his name. Talk about ironic.”

“How so?”

“Findley‟s own son-in-law‟s head of the racetrack commission.”

„That one caught me a little off guard.

“How did that happen?” I asked.

“Wasn‟t for Raines, there wouldn‟t be a racetrack. We‟d all be dustin‟ our kiesters someplace else.”

“Raines I echoed.

“Harry Raines, the son-in-law,” he said.

“Yeah, I know. I was just thinking about the name. Harry Raines,” I said.

“Know him?”

“Vaguely.”

Harry Raines. I remembered the name but I couldn‟t put a face with it. Faces come hard after twenty

years.

“Raines put it all together. This whole racetrack thing.”

“Why?”

“You‟ll have to ask him that,” said Dutch.

“This Raines a stand-up guy?”

“I couldn‟t say different. What I hear, old Harry‟s gonna be governor one of these days.”

“You mean because of the racetrack?”

“I guess that‟s part of it.”

“What‟s the rest of it?” I asked.

“It‟s a long story,” he said. “Worth a dinner.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“About whether Harry Raines is going to be governor or not?” “I think the sun rises in the east and

sets in the west,” he said. And that was the end of that.

4

LEADBETTER’S LEGACY

The rain had turned into a driving storm by the time we got to Dutch Morehead‟s war room, which

was in a small, rundown shopping center in the suburbs, a mile or two from the center of town.

Lightning etched in purple monochromes a shabby, flat, one-story building that had once been a

supermarket. Its plate-glass windows were boarded over and the entire building was painted flat

black.

“Looks like Gestapo headquarters,” I said.

“Psychological,” Dutch grunted.

A less than imposing sign beside the entrance announced that it was the SPECIAL

OPERATIONS BRANCH. Below it, even less imposing letters whispered DUNETOWN

POLICE DEPARTMENT. I had to squint to read that line.

“Nice of you to mention the police department,” I said.

“I thought so,” Dutch said.

“What exactly does Special Operations Branch mean?” I asked. “I‟m not real sure myself,” he said. “I

think they just wanted to call us the SOB‟s.”

A moment later Dutch roared like a lion demanding lunch. “That sorry, flat-assed, pea-brained

sappenpaw!” he said, curling his lip.

“Who?” I said, thinking maybe I had offended him.

“That six-toed, web-footed, sappenpaw, klommenshois Callahan,” he raved on. “The mackerelsnapping, redheaded putz stole my damn parking place again! If I told him once, I told him—arrgh...”

His voice trailed off as he whispered further insults under his breath.

A half dozen cars in various stages of disrepair were angle-parked along the front of the building.

Dented fenders, cracked windshields, globs of orange primer where paint jobs had been started and

never finished, hood ornaments and hubcaps gone; it looked like the starting line of a demolition

derby.

“Your boys got something against automobiles?” I asked.

He growled something under his breath and wheeled into a spot marked only THE KID.

“I‟ll take Mufalatta‟s place,” he said defensively. “He‟s never around anyway.”

We were fifty yards from the front door, a long way in the raging storm. He cut the engine and leaned

back, offering me a Camel.

“No thanks, I quit,” I said.

“I don‟t wanna hear about it,” he said, lighting up. He cracked the window and let the smoke stream

out into the downpour.

“I can understand about your feelings toward old man Findley,” he said. “The old boy had a lotta

class, I‟ll give him that. He dealt one last hand before he retired.”

“How‟s that?”

“His last hurrah. He brought in Ike Leadbetter to head up the force here. Findley was smart enough to

know the burg needed some keen people to keep an eye on things when the track was built—the local

cops were about as sophisticated as a warthog in a top hat. Leadbetter had been through the mill

already. He‟d done a turn up in Atlantic City before he came here, so he was savvy. Was Leadbetter

brought me in.”

“And Leadbetter is good?”

“Was.”

“Where‟d he go?”

“No place. He‟s dead. Leadbetter knew what was gonna happen, I mean law-wise. He had learned a

lot in Atlantic City. And he was honest.”

“What happened to him?” I asked.

“Three years ago, ran his car into the river, if you can believe that.”

“You don‟t?”

“I stopped believin‟ in accidents an hour after I got here.”

I was beginning to wonder how Tagliani ft into the picture. Killing a police chief was not exactly his

way of doing things.

Anger crept hack into Dutch‟s tone. „The way it was, the case went to the homicide boys. You lump

that whole bunch together, what you end up with is a bigger lump. Not a one of „em can count to

eleven without takin‟ off his shoes.” Pause. “It went down as an accident, period, end, of course.”

“Who took Leadbetter‟s place?”

“Herb Walters.”

“What‟s the score with him?”

“Old-timer. Up through the ranks. Scared for his job. He don‟t swim upstream, if that‟s what you

mean. Herb likes calm waters.”

“Is he honest?”

“That‟s an excellent question. I just don‟t know. I guess old Herb‟s okay; he just hasn‟t had an

original thought since the first time he went to the john by himself.” He stopped, then after a moment

added: “Actually he‟s just a kiss-ass to the people on the green side of town.”

I laughed. “I gather you don‟t like him.”

“That‟s very smart gathering.”

“Why would anybody want to blitz Leadbetter?”

“Why would a lotta people not want to? A smart, tough, no-nonsense cop, honest as the Old

Testament, in a town going to hell. When Leadbetter was running the show, you couldn‟t find a

pimpmobile anywhere on Front Street. Now every other vehicle you see‟s either a pink Caddy or a

purple Rolls-Royce.”

“How does your outfit fit into all this?”

“It‟s borderline. We try to monitor the out-of-towners, but local stuff is handled by vice. Don‟t even

ask me about them.”

I slid down in my seat and shook my head.

“Wonderful,” I said. “Maybe I‟ll just take some sick leave and sleep this one out.”

“Stick around and watch the fireworks,” he said.

“You think that‟s going to happen, eh?”

“Well, what I don‟t think is that Turner and his pistol and his wife had a suicide pact.”

I laughed. “His name‟s Tagliani,” I said.

“Whatever.”

“1 agree,” I said. “It‟s my experience that when a Mafioso capo di tutti capi gets wasted, it doesn‟t

just quietly blow over.”

“Verdammt!”

“If you‟re right and Leadbetter was assassinated, that could have been the kickoff, right there.”

Dutch threw away his butt and checked the weather, It was still like a monsoon outside. He sighed.

“Look,” he said, “here‟s the long and short of it, okay? The way it went was that big daddy Findley

plugged in Leadbetter, tells him keep the town clean. But Leadbetter inherits a department so old and

leaky, if it was a bucket you couldn‟t carry rocks in it. He can‟t lust vacuum out the whole outfit.

That‟s where I come into the picture. Ike brings me in, gives me a decent budget, says, „Go out, get

yourself a dozen or so of the toughest no-shit lads you can find. Boys who know something about the

LCN and can‟t be bent.‟ So I went lookin‟. What I got is one mean bunch of hooligans. They‟re savvy

and tough enough to take heat. And they‟re about as friendly as a nest of copperheads.”

I said “Uh-huh” pensively. There was a message in all that for me.

“I just want you to understand the way the land rolls, see,” he went on. “What it was, Leadbetter

didn‟t trust anybody on the old force. Our job was to keep our eyes open, build up our snitches, hassle

the out-of-town conmen, grifters, dips, hustlers. Put a little heat under the undesirables so they‟d move

on. Try to keep a line on who‟s who and what‟s what. The tough thing is to do it without walkin‟ on

toes. We hassle a hooker, vice gets pissed. We break down an out-of-town dice game, bunco goes

crazy. So we pretty much been spinning our wheels up till now. I mean, we do okay, but He paused,

looking for the next sentence, and finally said, “Maybe I‟m just tired of doin‟ rounds with the front

office.”

I let it all sink in. What I thought I was hearing was that the local police were either stupid or on the

take. It was Morehead‟s job to cover all the bases.

“Leadbetter and Findley played it real smart,” Dutch continued. “They gave us very loose power, so

to speak, and fixed it so we report to a select committee of the city commission.”

“You‟re not part of the department, then?”

“Yeah. We deal with them when we have to. But Walters can‟t fire any of us, so we pretty much play

it our way. He don‟t like it, but it‟s a tough-sheiss situation for him. Otherwise, we‟d probably all be

sorting files in Short Arm, Kansas, by now”

“He fights you?”

“Not in the open. But he wants control. He‟s a back-fighter. Hell, I‟m talkin‟ too much,” he growled

suddenly, and fell silent. I could tell from his flat monotone that he was having trouble trusting me.

He was being just friendly enough not to be unfriendly.

The storm rolled over and the rain turned to a fine mist.

He locked the car and we headed for the front door, squeezing up against the building to keep out of

the rain that swirled under its eaves.

“Once ya get t‟know the gang, you can come, go as ya please,” Dutch said as we hurried toward the

door. “For now, they ain‟t gonna give you a dime for the toilet unless I‟m with you.”

I stopped and he almost ran into me. He loomed over me, his hands jammed in his pockets and an

unlit butt in his mouth.

“You got a hard-on for Feds?” I asked.

“Let‟s just say we‟ve had a few bad rounds with „em,” he said, studying me through eyes the colour of

sapphires. Rainwater dribbled from the brim of his battered brown felt hat.

“Well, who hasn‟t?” I said.

“You are the Fed,” he said.

“Look, I‟m on your side. I‟m not the Feebies or the Leper Colony. You‟ve dealt with the Freeze

before. You and Mazzola are practically old pals by now.”

“Like I said, it‟s one-on-one in there. These guys don‟t even trust each other sometimes.”

“How about you?” I asked. “Am I on probation with you, too? Where do you stand?”

“Out here in the rain getting soaked, „he said. “Can we maybe continue this inside? There‟s a lot more

of me getting wet than there is of you.”

And he turned and stomped off toward the door.

5