Hooligans

DUE PROCESS

Charlie One Ear was killing time near the water fountain when I left Dutch‟s office. His expression

asked the question. I made a circle with thumb and forefinger and winked.

“Just your basic lack of communication,” I said.

“Good,” he said. “He‟s a fine man, Dutch. There‟s not a man in the squad who wouldn‟t kill for him.”

“He deserves it,” I said. “He‟s got a mean job and right now the local hotshots have got him shoved

against the wall.”

“I just wanted to make sure you understood,” said Charlie One Ear. “You‟re a nice chap and all that,

but we‟re throwing in with you because it appears to be the only chance he‟s got.”

It was obvious that Charlie One Ear was the spokesman for the SOB‟s, or perhaps chairman would be

closer to it.

“I appreciate your honesty, Charlie. Just so there‟s no misunderstanding either way, I intend to take

advantage of that loyalty every chance I get.”

He smiled and put out his hand. “Thus far you seem to know what you‟re doing. Someday I hope to

add a new chapter to the legend that seems to be growing around me. Busting the Triad with Jake

Kilmer.”

“Let‟s hope you can write it,” I said. “We got the clock against us.”

“I have already come to that conclusion,” he said as we walked toward the door. “There seems to be a

covert attempt in Dunetown to ignore the Tagliani kill-out.”

“You noticed that, huh?”

“Yes. Obviously they‟re hoping for a break before they have to fess up,” he continued. “I‟m certain

the powers that be are aware that the homicide division couldn‟t find their collective asses if they

were all farting „Dixie‟ in harmony.”

“Did Stick talk to you about the information we need?”

“Yes,” he said. “I‟ll start on it this afternoon. I just wanted to make sure everything was A-one with

Dutch.”

“He just wants me to stop fucking up his schedule,” I said, laughing.

“He‟s been days behind on the bloody schedule since the first week we started,” Charlie One Ear said

with a grin.

“I think he just needed to blow off a little steam,” I answered.

“By the way, just so you‟ll know. Cowboy may seem a bit dense at times, but he‟s really quite bright.

He‟s on about a ten-second flash-to-bang delay.”

“Okay,” I said. “Has he always been like that?”

Charlie One Ear shook his head. “He got the back of his head blown off in Vietnam. There‟s a steel

plate in there. That‟s why he wears that ridiculous baseball cap. It covers up the bald spot.”

I didn‟t know how to respond to that. What do you say? Gee, that‟s tough? Everybody knows it‟s

tough.

“Actually I mentioned that because Cowboy was a sheriff in Waco, Texas, before he went off to war.

When he came back nobody would hire him. Dutch found him working on the docks in New

Orleans.”

“Thanks, Charlie, I‟m glad to know that.”

“I‟m sure he‟ll have that list up for you by tomorrow, even if he has to work on it all night.”

“Tell him I said thanks,” I said.

“Tell him yourself” said Charlie One Ear. “I‟m off for the hall of records.”

Cowboy Lewis was right where I left him, labouring over his errant notebook.

“Cowboy, don‟t kill yourself on that, okay?”

“Tomorrow,” he said, shoving the baseball cap back on his head. “I got to tail that Logeto tonight but

I‟ll have it tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”

“By the way, Zapata said to tell you be went out to find that creep that shot you.”

“His name‟s Turk Nance,” 1 said.

“Turk Nance, right.” He smiled. “Zapata‟ll find him, you can put that in the bank.”

“I‟ll thank him when I see him,” I said.

“I think I‟m going to have to take writing lessons,” he said as I was leaving. “I can‟t read my own

fuckin‟ writing.”

As I headed for the door a new figure loomed in my path. It was the cop with the waffle-iron features.

“We didn‟t have a chance to get acquainted last night,” he said. “I‟m Kite Lange.”

“Jake Kilmer.”

“I‟m a good wire man,” he said. “You need anything wired, you call me, okay? I can bug a fly in

motion right in front of your face, you wouldn‟t see me do it.”

“Terrific.”

“I‟m not bragging,” he said, and his battered features broke into a smile. “It‟s a God-given talent.”

“And I‟m sure you don‟t abuse it,” I said.

“Not unless somebody asks me to,” said Kite, then he added, “I hear you were in Nam.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“When was that?”

“„67, „68. I got held up coming home by Tet.”

“What outfit?”

“Military intelligence. How about you?”

“Medevac chopper pilot,” he said.

“How many missions did you fly?” I asked.

“You‟d throw up ill told you.”

I hesitated for a moment before asking him the next question, but I figured, what the hell. I was

getting to be one of the boys.

“Mind if I ask you a personal question?” I said.

“Shoot.”

“How did you luck up and get in this squad?”

Lange‟s smashed face bunched up and he howled.

“Hey, that‟s getting right to the point,” he said. “Well, I was flying helicopter traffic control for the

Denver PD. Three guys heisted a bank and I was tailing them at about five hundred feet. A blue and

white was closing in on them but he lost his car and went off the road. So I dropped right down on top

of the getaway car. You know, a couple of feet. I was hanging right in there, radioing back his

position, trying to force him off the road, when we came to a railroad bridge. At the last minute I had

to pull up to get over it.”

“Yeah.”

“I didn‟t see the freight train that was crossing the bridge at the time. Flew right into an open boxcar.

It happened to be the mayor‟s favourite chopper. Had his name on the side and everything. You

should of seen it, the chopper, I mean.” He stopped a moment and chuckled. “It looked like the Jolly

Green Giant had it for lunch.”

“So you got the old heave-ho for breaking the mayor‟s toy, huh?”

“That, and the city had to buy a new boxcar for the train. They didn‟t even give me a going-away

party.”

I said, “You‟re lucky you lived through it.”

“What d‟ya think happened to my face?” Kite said, still grinning.

“What were you doing when Dutch found you?” I asked, expecting him to tell me he was selling used

cars or something.

“A traffic gig in Roanoke, Virginia, with a lady reporter,” he said. “It was kind of demeaning after

doing police work, but it had its moments. She used to give me head on the way back from the

afternoon rush every day.”

It was my turn to laugh. “You must be some kind of pilot,” I said.

“After Nam, it‟s all pie a la mode.”

Then I got an idea. I still don‟t believe what I did next. Old Mr. Due Process, ex-lawyer, always-do-itright Kilmer. Maybe the hooligans were beginning to rub off on me.

“I got an idea,” I said.

“Shoot.”

“You know the Seacoast Bank‟s main branch down near the river?”

“I can find it.”

“I‟d like to know who the president‟s doing business with. Who he talks to during the day, that kind

of thing. His name‟s Charles Seaborn.”

“How about the phone?” Lange asked. “You want it bugged, too? I got a two-for-one special on.”

“No, they wouldn‟t be that dumb.”

Lange spread another smile over his boxcarred face.

“Done.”

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