Hooligans (37 page)

rear pocket.

When the crowd outside the arena had thinned to half a dozen, a tall, pole-thin black man got out of

the front seat of the Lincoln. The rear window glided silently down and he reached in and drew out a

wad of bills big enough to strangle Dumbo. I got a quick look at a handsome black face at the

window. I had imagined Nose Graves to be ugly. If that was Nose Graves, and I was fairly sure it was,

he was the lady-killer type. Older than I‟d thought, probably forty-five or so, give or take a couple of

years either way. His bushy hair was graying at the temples and he had a deep scar almost the width

of one eyebrow, another over his ear that carried a gray streak with it. His nose was straight and no

larger than mine. He was wearing gold-rimmed sunglasses. My guess was, Nose Graves probably

wore those glasses to bed.

The window went back up without a sound and the skinny man headed for the rear door of Uncle

Jolly‟s. So that was the pitch, then. Longnose Graves was the banker. It was his house.

I sauntered up to the gate. My sawbuck vanished into the keeper‟s fist. He cut me about six ways with

his black eyes before jerking his head for me to go in.

Noise, heat, odour, hit me like a bucket of hot water. Tiers had been built up and away from a pit in

the middle of the room. Fruit jars of moonshine were being passed back and forth. Some of the

families had brought picnics and were wolfing down dinner, waiting for the tournament to start.

Smoke swirled around half a dozen green-shaded two-hundred-watt bulbs that hung from the ceiling

over the plywood rink.

Most of the crowd could have been dirt farmers living on food stamps—until the betting started.

That‟s when the U.S. Grants and Ben Franklins appeared.

The place suddenly sounded like a tobacco auction. Graves‟ man stood in the ring and handled it with

the bored finesse of a maitre d‟. A wizened, mean-looking little creep, with a flimsy white beard,

whom I took to be Uncle Jolly, stood behind him with a large roll of movie tickets over one wrist,

handing out chits as the bets were made, after scribbling what I assumed to be the size of the bet and

the number of the clog on the back.

A lot of money was going down, big money. And this was only the first fight. Clyde Barrow could

have knocked over this soiree and retired.

45

It had seen better days, the South Longbeach Cinema, a movie palace once long ago, when Garbo

and Taylor were the stars and glamour and double features eased the pain of the Depression. Its

flamingo-painted walls were chipped and faded now, and the art deco curves around its marquee

were terminally spattered by pigeons and sea birds.

It stood alone,
consuming,
with its adjacent parking lot, an entire block, facing a small park. Behind

it, looming up like some extinct prehistoric creature, was the tattered skeleton of a roller coaster,

stirring bleak memories of a time when the world was a little more innocent and South Longbeach

was the playground of the city‟s middle class.

Now the theater was an ethnic showplace, specializing in foreign films shown in their original

language. It attracted enough trade to stay open, but not enough to be cared for properly. The park

across the street was rundown too. Its nests of palm trees dry and dusty, the small lake polluted, most

of its lights broken or burned out. At night nobody went near the place but drunks, hoboes, and

predators.

The ocean was hidden from the area by an abutment, the foot of one of the many towering dunes from

which the city had taken its name. The road that wound around it to the beach was pockmarked by

weather and strewn with broken bottles and beer cans.

A long black limousine was parked in the “no stand‟ zone in front of the theater. The double feature

was
Roma
and
La Strada.
Stizano and his bunch had come only for the last feature,
La Strada.

Stizano, an inveterate movie buff, had dropped his wife off, and come back to the movies with his

number one button and two other gunsels. It was his way of relaxing.

They were still dressed in black. First came the shooters, both of whom looked like beach bums in

mourning, their necks bulging over tight collars. They studied the street, then one of them stepped

back and opened the theater doors and the number one button exited, a thin, sickly-looking man, the

color of wet cement. He shrugged and summoned his boss.

Stizano was portly, with white hair that flowed down over his ears, and looked more like the town

poet than a mobster. He walked with an ebony cane, his fingers glittering with rings.

The chauffeur walked around the back of the car to open the door.

Suddenly they were marionettes, dancing to the tune of a silent drummer. Tufts flew from their

clothes; popcorn boxes were tossed in the air.

The only sound was the thunk of bullets tearing into the five of them, then the shattering of glass as

bullets ripped into the show windows of the theater and an explosion of shards as the box office was

obliterated, then the popping of the bulbs in the marquee.

Poppoppoppop. . . poppoppoppop...

Poppoppoppoppoppop...

Broken bulbs showered down on the street.

Five people lay in the outer lobby, on the sidewalk, in the gutter.

It had happened so fast there were n screams.

Nor the sound of gunfire.

Nor the flash from a weapon.

Nothing.

Nothing but five puppets dancing on the string of death.

Then, just like that, it was all over. Silence descended over the park.

There was only the wind, rattling the dried-out palms.

A
bird crying.

Somewhere, far on the other side of the park, a car driving lazily past on the way to the beach.

And the sizzling wires dangling in front of the theater.

46

Harry Nesbitt was sitting up in the back of the arena, in a corner under a burned-out light. I stopped a

couple of rows below him and checked out the crowd. Nobody „as interested in us; they were

concentrating on the two dogs getting ready for the first fight. One was a dirty gray pug, its lacerated

face seamed with the red scars of other battles. The other, a white mutt, part bulldog, was fresh and

unscathed and an obvious virgin to the pit.

Two men, obviously the owners of the dogs, were on opposite sides of the pit but not in it, and they

seemed to be washing the dogs down with a white substance. One of the men reached over and nipped

the bulldog‟s neck.

I moved up and sat down next to Nesbitt.

“I wasn‟t sure you‟d show,” he said.

“I‟m a real curious fellow,” I said. “Besides, I like your pal Benny Skeeler.” -

“Yeah, what a guy.”

“What are they doing?” I asked, nodding toward the arena.

“Checking out each other‟s dogs. That white stuff there, that‟s warm milk. They‟re checking for

toxics in the dog.”

“Why‟s that one guy biting it on the neck?”

“Tastin‟ the skin. Some claim they can taste it if the dog‟s been juiced up.”

He pointed down at the small bulldog.

“Lookit there, see that little no-hair mutt down there, looks like a bulldog only uglier.”

“I really don‟t like dog fights, Nesbitt.”

“Call me Harry. Makes me feel secure, okay?”

“Sure, Harry.”

“Anyways, that ugly little bowser, that‟s called a hog dog. You know why? Because they use them

kind of mutts to hunt wild boars. The dog grabs the boar by the ear, see, and he just hangs on for dear

life, pulls that fuckin‟ hog‟s head right down to the ground and holds him there. Tough motherfuckers.

I got a hundred down on that one.”

“You do this often?”

“Every week. Better than horse racing. The reason I picked the place, nobody‟ll ever go with me. So I

know I ain‟t meetin‟ unexpected company, see what I mean?”

The owners retrieved their animals arid took them into the pit. For the first time the two animals were

aware of each other, although they were tail to tail across the arena. Hackles rose like stalks of wheat

down the back of the scarred old warrior. The bulldog hunkered down, sleeked out, his lips peeled

back to show gum and tooth.

Neither of the dogs made a sound, no growling, no barking. It was eerie.

The betting was done. The crowd grew quiet, leaning forward on the benches.

The referee, a lean man with a warty face and a jaw full of chewing tobacco, whistled between his

teeth and the place was silent.

“Gentlemen,” warty-face said, “face yet dogs.”

I turned away, looking over at Nesbitt, who was wide-eyed, waiting for two dogs to tear each other to

pieces.

“So let‟s get on with it,” I said.

I heard the referee cry, “Pit?”

The crowd went crazy. The dogs still did not bark. I was to learn later that they are trained to fight

without a sound. It conserves energy.

My companion was really into it. He was on his feet. “Get „im, ya little pissant!” he screamed.

“So let‟s get on with it,” I yelled to Nesbitt. “This isn‟t one of my favourite things here, with the

dogs.”

“You know what‟s goin‟ down, man. Do I look like I wanna end up a chopped liver sandwich?” he

said, without taking his eyes off the pit. He was almost yelling so I could hear him above the crowd.

“Okay, speak your piece,” I said.

“Look, Kilmer, I didn‟t have nothin‟ to do with Jigs gettin‟ pushed across.”

“What are you telling me for?”

His speech came in a rush. He was talking so fast he almost stuttered.

“I‟ll tell you why, see. Because I was eyeballin‟ you in the restaurant up until you left. You had

breakfast with a couple of guys, then you talked with a couple of other guys, then you went down and

got your own car, okay? 1 drive on out the highway ahead of you, see, wait at [he, place, at Benny‟s.

You pass it goin‟ in. I was there when you come by. It was exactly five to eleven.”

“So?”

“So I couldn‟t of killed him. Shit, I talked to him on the phone right after you finished breakfast.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you talk to him?”

“Look, I don‟t trust none of this, okay? I mean, O‟Brian says he wants to bullshit with you. Lay off,

he says, I promised him I‟d be alone. It‟s one on one, he says. So I keep an eye on you when you

come down in the morning, I call to tell him where everything‟s at, he says go to Benny4s arid wait

until you leave. I didn‟t have time to nix him, for Chrissakes.”

One of the dogs let out the damnedest sound I ever heard. It was a cry of agony that seemed to go on

forever. My eyes were drawn to the pit.

The old fighter had the little hog dog by the thigh and was shaking his head while the newcomer was

trying desperately to back away.

“He‟s got my boy fanged,” Nesbitt said.

“What‟s fanged?”

“Bit right through his thigh and impaled his own lip. He can‟t let go, that ugly one can‟t.”

The referee cautiously approached the fighting animals and took a stick and started prying the old

warrior‟s jaws loose. I‟d seen enough.

“Look, can we go outside and talk? This definitely is not my thing.”

“Weak stomach?”

“Yeah, right.”

“They take a little time out here, when the ref has to use the breaking stick like that.”

“So what‟d O‟Brian say when you called him?” I asked.

“Nothin‟. Nobody was around. Some shrimpers, a guy trying to make city marina in a sailboat. That

was it.”

“What time was that?”

“You left at ten-oh-five.”

“You‟d be up shit creek if I turned the time around a little, wouldn‟t you?”

“Where you think I am right now? Up shit creek without the proverbial, no less, is where I‟m at.

Everybody‟s on my ass, okay? The locals, the Fed, the Tagliani family, what‟s left of them. I mean, I

got everybody on my ass but the fuckin‟ marines.

“Somebody threaten you?”

“I don‟t have to hear from the pope, pal. I was O‟Brian‟s chief button. My job was keepin‟ him alive.

I flicked up. You think I‟m gonna get a second chance? O‟Brian was family, he was son-in-law to old

man Franco.”

“Maybe that‟s what they wanted.”

“What the hell‟s that mean?”

“I‟m talking about supposing somebody wanted Jigs out of the way, somebody big in the family.

Supposing they put it to somebody to ice Jigs. And this somebody rigs the whole thing to provide

himself with a perfect alibi—like me, For instance. Shit, Harry, what do you take me for—”

“Hey, you think I done O‟Brian in? You think I done that thing? C‟mon. And the family put my nose

to it? Come on. Shit, you need help, dreamin‟ up a story like that. The whole fuckin‟ family‟s getting

aced one on top of the other, you think it‟s one of them behind it?”

“Why not? This is quite a plum, Doomstown. Be a nice place to control.”

“Shit, you think this is an inside job, you‟re on the wrong trolley.”

“How about Chevos? Or Nance?‟

“That‟s family!”

“Not really.”

“There ain‟t any bad blood there. Everybody was happy until the Tagliani knockover. Everybody had

their thing.”

“It‟s happened before, y‟know. Somebody gets greedy. Like that.”