Hooligans (22 page)

or not.

“You don‟t give a man much, do you, son?”

“I‟m not telling you how to run your business, Dutch. I could ask you to trust me but you don‟t know

me that well. What I will tell you is that this thing is going to blow and soon. The powder keg‟s in the

fire.”

“So what‟s the answer?” he said, holding his hands out like a man going down for the third time.

“Try to beat the explosion,” I said. “1 need to find the key that will put the Triad against the wall.”

“What key?”

“I need to build a RICO case against these bastards.”

“That could take years!” he cried.

“Except we have one edge,” I said. “I already know the players and how they operate. It‟s not like we

were starting from scratch. What I need is the local buy-out.”

“Who do you suspect?” he asked.

“Hell, there‟s so many termites in this woodpile it‟s hard to say. Just give me free rein with your

SOB‟s for a few days. We can work together. But if something pops I don‟t want to have

-to run you down and explain it. Trust me that far. I may work your boys to death, but it‟ll be worth it

in the long pull.”

“I‟ll give you this—you already made believers outta Charlie One Ear, Salvatore, and Cowboy Lewis.

Zapata‟s still on the fence but he‟s about to come around. „That leaves only Kite Lange, the Mufalatta

Kid, and Pancho Callahan to convince. I don‟t know how you did it, but you sure moved fast.”

“I‟m just a charming fellow,” I said with a smile, trying to ease the pressure.

“You don‟t have any ideas?” he asked, pressing the question.

“It could be Raines. Maybe that‟s the reason he‟s so coy. He‟s keeping arm‟s length from the action.

And Donleavy could be his front.”

“That don‟t even make good sense, Jake. They got more to lose than anybody, particularly Harry.”

“Harry Raines didn‟t get where he is by running on empty,” I said. “He‟s ambitious and he‟s got more

than his share of pride. The mob might be making him a bigger offer than just governor of the state.

Their clout in Washington is scary.”

He shook his head. “You got one helluva devious mind,” he said.

I didn‟t say any more. I couldn‟t tell him that I wanted Raines to be in it. Or Donleavy. Or that my

reasons were purely selfish because I was in love with Raines‟ wife. Hell, I‟m only human.

24

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.”

25

All the way back to the hotel I was thinking she had probably called and left a message canceling out.

It kept building up in my mind until I broke out in a sweat, the way you do when you want something

so bad you‟re sure you won‟t get it. I started getting pissed and by the time I got to the hotel I had this

dialogue between us worked out in my head. I would get it all off my chest, once and for all.

Then I got to the room and there were no phone calls or messages. It was almost a letdown.

I was still in a sweat so I peeled off my shirt and pants and sat down in front of the air conditioner in

my shorts. I sat there until got chilled. That took about fifteen minutes, which meant I had four more

hours to go.

I kept waiting for the phone to ring, expecting her to call the whole thing off. The suspense was awful.

I took the phone off the hook but it started screeching like bad brakes do and I hung it up. I sat on the

bed and took it off the hook and waited until it screeched; then I‟d depress the little bar and wait a

minute and let it up again. I killed another fifteen minutes that way until my finger got tired.

About six o‟clock I ordered a steak, potatoes, salad, and coffee. I had forgotten how bad room-service

food is until I took the first bite. I wasn‟t hungry anyway. The coffee was in one of those ugly purple

Thermos pitchers that always look dirty and it was lukewarm but I drank it because it was something

to do.

I was killing time. Hell, who am I kidding, I was watching it crawl by on its hands and knees,

checking the clock every five minutes. In desperation I started to read Cisco‟s report on Dunetown. It

might just as well have been written by the chamber of commerce for all it told me. I dropped it in the

wastebasket and stared at the television set for another thirty minutes.

At about seven I decided to take a bath, soak my tired muscles, and kill another half hour. I turned on

the spigots and the radio. The water was so hot it took ten minutes f juggling and dipping before I

settled in. A bath is great therapy,, particularly when it‟s just about too hot to bear. It opens up the

head, clears away the cobwebs, helps you sort the real stuff from the bullshit. Kind of like medication.

About ten minutes after I got into the tub the muses began to whisper to me. They were saying things

I didn‟t want to hear. The muses don‟t always cooperate.

Wake up, Kilmer, the voices said, you made Dutch a promise. No scandal, you told him, and he took

you at your word, no questions asked.

Wake up, Kilmer, you can‟t erase twenty years with a kiss and a smile and a roll in the hay. 1963 is

history. You had prospects then. What have you got now? Stick spelled it out, the Holiday Fucking

Inn, that‟s what you‟ve got. Now that would really give Doe a laugh—for about the first five minutes.

Wake up, Kilmer. You don‟t even know what‟s real and what‟s fantasy anymore.

I was getting pretty fed up with the muses, and the radio didn‟t help. It was set on one of those easylistening stations and Eydie Gormé was singing “Who‟s Sorry Now?” Just what I needed, background

music with a sob in every note.

I lifted my foot and turned on the hot water with my toes and waited until I had to grit my teeth to

stand it. The water was reaching the boiling point when I turned it off. That killed another fifteen

minutes.

I needed to get a little perspective on things, separate what was real and what I wanted to be real. I

needed to be objective.

But that‟s not what! did. What! did was think about that place at the base of her throat, the soft spot,

the one where you can see the pulse beating. I used to stare at it and count the beats. I could tell when

she started getting excited.

I thought about the way she closed her eyes and parted her lips about a quarter of an inch when I was