Hooligans

HIDE AND SEEK

Stick was hiding behind the morning paper in the lobby of the hotel when I left the restaurant. He

flashed that crazy smile of his when I spotted him.

“Not bad, not bad at all,” he said. “Doe Findley and Babs Thomas for breakfast. And I was afraid

you‟d get lonely.”

“Strictly business,” I said.

“Hey,” he said, spreading his arms out at his sides, “1 never doubted it for a minute.”

“I‟m sure you have my social calendar filled for the day,” I said. “What‟s up?”

“A little war conference with the troops.”

“You mean they‟re speaking to me?”

“They‟re thinking about it,” he said, leading me out the door. His Black Maria was hunched down in

the loading zone, like it was looking for trouble.

“Why don‟t I take my car?” I suggested. “In case we have to split up.”

“No worry,” he said, opening the door for me. “I‟m your tour guide for the day. It was a raffle. I lost.”

“Keep it under ninety, will you?” I asked as I got in.

“It stutters under ninety,” he answered.

“Fine, let‟s listen to it stutter for a while.”

He took me to a bright, airy place in a row house overlooking the river. It didn‟t look like a restaurant;

it was more like having coffee in someone‟s living room. The place was about five minutes away,

hardly time for the Maria to get up to speed, for which I was momentarily thankful. I was sure I

wouldn‟t be that lucky for the entire day. Zapata, Salvatore, and Flowers were seated at a table in the

back.

“Hey, Mildred,” Salvatore yelled across the room as we entered, “two more javas.”

They all stared at me as I approached their table.

“What‟s the matter, is my fly open?” I asked as 1 sat down.

“Sorry,” Charlie One Ear said. “We haven‟t seen you in the daytime.”

“What you see, gentlemen, is a ruin,” I said. “Give me a couple of days to get some sun. I look much

better with a decent night‟s sleep and a little colour.”

“It‟s the fluorescent lights in the Warehouse,” Charlie One Ear 1oked. “They give everyone a ghastly

pallor.”

“Well,” I said, smiling at everybody, “thanks for not judging me on first appearances.”

“Yeah, you‟re welcome,” said Salvatore.

“Y‟see what it is, Kilmer, we decided to throw iii with you,” Zapata said. “On a temporary basis, see

what happens.”

“Gee whiz, I don‟t know what to say,” 1 replied sarcastically.

“Thank you‟ will be fine,” said Charlie One Ear.

“Thanks again.”

“Our pleasure,” Charlie One Ear replied. “Now, just what specifically is it we‟re looking for?”

“What I need,” I said, “is connections.”

“Like such as?” Chino Zapata asked.

“Like maybe a hooker who‟s been bending her heels in Louisville, suddenly shows up here. Chances

are, she‟s on the circuit. The mob moves them around like that.”

“How about pimps?” Charlie One Ear queried.

“Sure, the same thing. Maybe I can tie a pimp to some outfit in Cincy or Chicago. Next step is, who‟s

he working for? How did he get here? Pimps don‟t move from town to town. What I mean is, they

don‟t free-lance. They move when the heat‟s on. They usually work for the man. He tells them where

to go.”

“So what‟s different about Dunetown?” Salvatore said. “That‟s pretty common, isn‟t it?”

“What‟s different is that the Tagliani family is here,” Stick threw in.

“Right,” I said. “If I can make a connection between here and someplace else, that‟s the start of an

interstate case. If I can tie it to Tagliani‟s mob, that‟s part two. If I can prove it, then I can take it to

the Justice Department. That‟s three, and then it‟s their problem. Anything else I lay off on you guys.

I‟m not here to make collars, okay?”

“All that is by way of telling us you‟re looking for out-of-town talent, correct?” Charlie One Ear said.

“Right. I‟d also like to know the names of companies owned by the Triad. Where they bank. Who

they do business with. What kind of straight businesses they‟re into.”

“That‟s a little outta our line,” Zapata said.

“The key man is the accountant, Cohen,” I said. “He‟s the bagman. Unless he‟s changed his MO, he

makes three or four pickups a day, never at the same spots. He carries a little black satchel, like one of

those old-fashioned doctor‟s bags, and it‟s probably full of cash. That‟s the skim, the money they need

to wash.”

“The TGG,” offered Charlie One Ear.

“Correct.”

“This is street money, right?” Stick said, playing along with me. “Gambling, prostitution, dope, that

kind of thing.”

I nodded.

“So why don‟t we just grab the bag away from the little shit and take a look?” Zapata suggested.

“For one thing, he‟s probably got four r five cannons escorting him,” I said.

“Yes,” Charlie One Ear said snidely. “It‟s also against the law. It‟s called robbery. One to five for first

offense, which might not be applicable in your case.”

Zapata looked at him and laughed.

“They don‟t usually put their swag in the bank,” Salvatore offered.

“I agree,” I said. “But Cohen‟s a crafty son of a bitch. He may have something worked out at the

hank.

“They‟re in cahoots?” Zapata asked.

“Not necessarily,” I said. “He may be depositing in several different accounts or putting it in a safe

deposit box. The bank doesn‟t have to be involved.”

I was trying to be honest about it, but I couldn‟t help wondering whether Charles Seaborn, president

of the bank, and a member of the Committee, knew Cohen personally. And if so, whether Sam

Donleavy knew that Seaborn knew Cohen. And whether Raines knew that Donleavy knew that

Seaborn knew Cohen. It was time I faced up to the facts. I wanted Raines and Donleavy to be up to

their necks in it, because if things had gone differently and Teddy were still alive, I would have been

in Donleavy‟s boots. I didn‟t want to feel that way, but coming back to Dunetown had stirred old

emotions that I thought were tong dead, and the lies, the hurt, the resentments, were as visceral as

fresh wounds. I could taste the blood. So there it was. What can a man do?

“We should maybe talk to Cowboy,” said Salvatore, breaking up my train of thought. “He shagged the

little weed for a couple days.”

“Good,” I said. “If we can put together enough evidence to show cause, we might find a judge who‟ll

let us look into their bank accounts or let us have some wiretaps.”

“Kite Lange can handle that,” said Zapata.

“He means legal wiretaps, el retardo,” said Salvatore.

“In the meantime, I can throw a few crumbs your way,” I offered.

“How‟s that?” said Zapata, slurping his coffee.

I decided to try Charlie One Ear out, to see if he was as good as everybody said he was.

“1 spotted Spanish Eddie Fuereco on the way in,” I said.

“At the airport, no doubt,” Charlie One Ear piped up immediately.

Zapata stared over at him, obviously impressed.

“Right,” I said.

“How‟d you know that, Charlie?” asked Zapata, who appeared to be genuinely in awe of the oneeared detective.

“And in the bar,” Charlie One Ear added.

“Right again,” I said.

“Geez,” Zapata said.

“The old coin trick,” Charlie One Ear said. “Was he spinning heads and tails?”

“You got it,” I said.

“What‟s the coin trick?” Zapata asked.

“He marks the top of a quarter, say on the heads side but along the ridges so you can‟t see it unless

you‟re looking for it,” said Charlie One Ear. “He lets the mark spin the coin. Spanish Eddie never

touches it. The mark doesn‟t suspect anything, y‟see, because he‟s controlling the spin and Eddie‟s

calling whether it‟ll fall heads or tails. He can tell by the mark on the coin. He‟s also a sleight-of-hand

artist. If the mark wants to switch coins, he always has another one ready.”

“Geez,” Zapata said again, his wonder still growing.

“He‟s very good,” Charlie One Ear said. “On a real good night he can score enough to buy a new car.”

“So how come you knew he was at the airport?”

“If the mark starts getting pushy,” Charlie One Ear said, “Fuereco switches to a regular coin, plays on

the mark‟s money for a few rounds, then has to catch a plane. That‟s why he does airports. Gives him

an excuse to end the game.”

“I‟ll be damned,” Zapata said. He looked over at me. “Charlie knows every scumbag in the business,”

he said with great pride.

“Only the cream of the crop,” Charlie One Ear threw in. “And Spanish Eddie Fuereco only by

reputation. I‟d love to go a few rounds with him, before I put the arm on him.”

“He‟ll beatcha,” Zapata said. “He can read the coin.”

“I‟m not too bad at sleight of hand myself” Charlie One Ear said proudly. “I‟ll mark two coins and

switch them back and forth so he keeps reading them wrong. What a coup, beating Fuereco at his own

game!”

“He‟s all yours,” I said.

“1 love con games,” Zapata said. “Did you ever wonder who dreams them up?”

Charlie One Ear stared at Zapata for a moment or two, then said, “No, I never really thought about it

before.”

“I also saw Digit Dan out there,” I said.

“Ah, now there‟s a man with talent,” said Charlie One Ear. “Fastest hands I‟ve ever seen. Nobody

works the shoulder bump like Dan.”

“The shoulder bump?” Zapata said, his sense of wonderment continuing to grow as Charlie One Ear

showed off.

“He works crowds, bumps the shoulder of the mark. Usually the mark will touch his wallet to make

sure he hasn‟t been boosted. That does two things for Digit. One, it tells him where the mark‟s wallet

is. Two, the next time he bumps him, the mark is too embarrassed to check his belongings. Bingo!

The wallet‟s gone and so is Dan.”

“You don‟t miss a trick, there, Charlie,” Zapata said, shaking his head.

“The thing about Digit Dan that‟s remarkable,” said Charlie One Ear, “is that he always hits

somebody who‟s well heeled. He has that talent. He can look at a mark and tell how much money he‟s

got in his kick.”

“Amazing,” Zapata said, shaking his head.

“He‟ll be working the track tomorrow,” Charlie One Ear said. “We‟ll nail him. Now, about your

problem. Perhaps we can give you something there.”

That didn‟t surprise me.

“A pimp named Mortimer Flitch, alias Mort Tanner,” he continued. “A wimpy sort and not too flashy.

Handles high-class clientele, usually four or five girls at most. He calls Saint Louis home. He also has

a thing for ladies of means.”

“Rich broads, you mean,” Zapata said.

“Yes, Chino, rich broads.”

“A gigolo, eh?” said Stick.

“I hate to give him that distinction,” said Charlie One Ear.

“Where‟d you see him at?” Zapata asked.

“Out on the Strip, a week or two ago. This Turner thing came up and I never followed through.”

“It‟s Tagliani,” said Salvatore.

“What‟s he look like?” Zapata asked.

“Tallish, a little under six feet. Slender, I‟d say one forty, one forty-two. Wears three-piece suits.

Lightweight for the climate. Goes in for coloured shirts and has atrocious taste in ties. Flowers, lots of

bad colours, that kind of thing. Brown hair and not a lot of it. Combs it over his forehead to stretch it

out. Brown eyes. Always wears black boots.”

“Quirks?” Zapata asked.

“Bites his fingernails.”

Zapata turned to me. “You want this guy?”

I wasn‟t sure what I‟d do with him, but I said, “Sure, it‟s a start.”

“Thirty minutes,” Zapata said. “Wait here. Come on, Salvatore, I need company,” and they were

gone.

“Zapata‟s amazing,” Charlie One Ear said, watching them rush out the door. “Nose like a

bloodhound.”

“Looks more like a waffle iron,” I said with a laugh.

“True,” said Charlie One Ear. “But that doesn‟t impede his instinct for finding people. He‟s unerring.”

I got the impression maybe Zapata had been hit one or two times too many on the soft part of his

head. Later I learned that he was as streetwise as any cop I‟ve ever known. He may have been short

on Shakespeare, but he was long on smarts.

“He was a middleweight contender, you know,” Charlie One Ear continued. “Got full of patriotism,

volunteered for the army, and spent a year in Vietnam. Then he came back and joined the Hell‟s

Angels. I‟ve never quite understood why.”

“You seem to have a nice team going,” I said. “You spot them, Zapata finds them, and Salvatore

sticks to them.”

“Like flypaper,” said Charlie One Ear.

Stick excused himself to go call the coroner and see if there were any autopsy reports yet. When he

left, I leaned over the table toward Charlie One Ear.

“I‟ve got to ask you something,” I said. “It‟s a personal thing.”

“Yes?”

“1 heard your father was an English kid and your mother was a Ute Indian. Whenever your name

comes up, somebody says that.”

“Only partly correct. It was my grandparents and she was a Cree. I inherited my memory from my

father and my instincts from my mother. Thank God it wasn‟t the other way around. I‟m quite

flattered you‟ve heard of me.”

“Charlie Flowers, the man who smashed the Wong Yang Fu opium ring in San Francisco almost

single-handed! You‟re a legend in your time,” I said with a smile.

“I really enjoy this, y‟know,” he said, grinning back. “I have an enormous ego.”

“Is it true you once busted so many moonshiners in Georgia that they threw together and hired a

couple of Philly shooters to do you in?”

“Actually it was four, including Dancing Rodney Shutz out of Chicago, who was reputed to have

killed over sixty people, a lot of whom didn‟t deserve the honour.”

“And you got „em all?”

“Yes. Without a scratch, I might add. They made a mistake. They all took me on at once—I suppose

they thought there was safety in numbers.” He paused for a moment and then flashed a twenty-dollar

smile. “Dancing Rodney was so aghast I don‟t think he realizes to this day that he‟s dead.” We both

broke out laughing.

“So what‟re you doing here?” I asked.

His smile stayed but got a little brittle. “Well, I don‟t share Dutch Morehead‟s consternation with

condos. My wife and I enjoy ours quite a lot. Beautiful view. We‟re near the water. The climate‟s

wonderful He paused. He could have let it drop there, but he went on. “Besides, I couldn‟t get a job

anywhere else.”

“What!”

He took out one of those long, thin Dutch cigars, lit it, and blew smoke rings at the ceiling. “I was

working internal affairs for the state police out in Arizona a couple of years back. There had been a lot

of killing and they suspected it was dope-related. The main suspect was a big-time dealer named

Mizero. They sent me in, undercover, to check it out. It was Mizero‟s game all right, but he had an

inside man, a narc named Burke, who was very highly situated. What they were doing, Mizero would

make a big sale. Maybe a hundred pounds of grass. Then Burke would step in, bust the buyer,

confiscate his money and goods, tell him get lost and he wouldn‟t press charges. If the buyer got

antsy, Mizero would push him over. Then they‟d re-sell the dope.

“I got too close to the bone and blew my cover. So Burke decided he had to get rid of Mizero. The

trouble was, it went the other way. Mizero dropped Burke. The locals made a deal with the state to

keep Burke out of it. It was an election year and this was a big case. Nobody wanted to deal with a

bad-cop scandal.

“I was a key witness for the prosecution. They knew they couldn‟t muzzle Mizero, so they wanted me

to testify that Burke was working undercover with me. I said no, I won‟t do that. Some things I‟ll do,

but I won‟t perjure myself for anyone, particularly a bad cop. Next thing you know, they ship me out

of state so the defense can‟t call me, and put out the word I‟m a drinker, a big troublemaker. And, get

this, they put it out that I committed perjury! For over a year everybody in the business thought I was

a drunken liar. And I don‟t even drink.”

“How about the Feds?” I said.

“They didn‟t want me back. I was always too independent to suit the bureaucrats. Anyway, Dutch

heard about it. I was living in Trenton working a security job and lie showed up one day, didn‟t ask

any questions, just offered me a job. After I took it, I said, „I don‟t drink and I‟ve never told a Ii e

under oath in my life,‟ and he says, „I know it,‟ and it‟s never come up since.”

Then he leaned across the table toward me. “That‟s my excuse, what‟s yours?”

“I know the rest of the Cincinnati Triad is here. I just want to dig a hole under all of them. I don‟t care

where they fall, but I want them to drop.”

“Is it because you couldn‟t nail them up there?”

“That‟s part of it.”

“And the rest of it‟s personal?” he said.

I nodded. “Absolutely.”

He gave me another big smile. “Splendid,” he said. “I truly admire a man who‟s strongly motivated.”

He offered me his hand. “I think Zapata and I will have a go at finding this Nance chap.”

“I‟d like that a lot,” I said.

A minute or two later Stick came back to the table. “Zapata just called,” he said. “They‟ve already

spotted Tanner. He‟s at the Breakers Hotel eating breakfast.”

“See what I mean about Chino?” Charlie One Ear said with a grin, and we were on our way.

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