Hooligans (40 page)

“Thanks for the ride,” I said.

“Take my advice about Doe Raines, one law officer to another,” he said, without looking at me. He

pressed a button and the window slid up. The conversation was over.

48

SO...LONG..

The Kid was sitting in the front seat when I got in my car. As I was about to find out, he was the

philosopher of the outfit.

“Okay I hop a ride back to town with you?” he said. “We don‟t want you to get lost or something”

“Where‟s your pickup?” I asked.

“I gave it to Zapata,” he answered. „He put his bike in the hack.”

“My pleasure,” I said, cranking up.

“Well,” he said, “I didn‟t hear no shootin‟ so I guess you two got along.”

“More or less,” I said.

“You sure don‟t volunteer much,” the Kid said.

“It was kind of a personal thing,” I said. “I used to know Titan, a long time ago.”

“How come you showed up out here?” I asked.

“It was Dutch‟s idea for Zapata to come out. He said you get in trouble when you‟re out alone. I was

following Graves.”

“Very astute of Dutch.”

“No sweat. Is it any of my business what the flick you were doin‟ out here?”

“O‟Brian‟s button is running scared. He wants an escort out of town.”

“Did he give up anything for it?”

I laughed. “I‟m not really sure,” I said. “According to him it‟s just one big happy family out there.”

“You believe that?” the Kid asked.

“Sure. I also believe in the tooth fairy and the Easter Bunny.”

“Must bum your ass, puttin‟ in all that work on this bunch and they get wasted all over the place.”

“I don‟t like murder,” I said, “no matter who the victims are.”

He was quiet for a moment, then he said:

“My stepfather told me once, you take two violins which are perfectly tuned, okay, and you play one,

the other one also plays.”

“No kidding,” I said, wondering what in hell violins had to do with anything.

“The old fart was full of caca,” the Kid went on, “but he played the violin. Not good, but he at least

played the fuckin‟ thing. I couldn‟t do it, man. Me and the violin, it was war at first sight. Anyways, I

figure he‟s probably right on that score.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, wondering what he was leading up to. Then he told me.

“He only told me one other thing in my whole life that I remember, and that didn‟t make any sense to

me at the time. Shit, I was just a kid; it was later on I figured it out, what he meant, I mean. Anyways,

what it was, I was pissed off, see, because my best friend at the time didn‟t always see things exactly

the way I did. The old man says, „Trouble with you, Fry‟—he called rue Fry „cause I was small as a

kid; that always pissed rue off too— „trouble with you, Fry, you think everybody sees things the same

as you.‟ Then he reaches down, scratches his ankle. „My foot itches. That‟s reality to me. Yours don‟t.

That‟s reality to you.‟ That‟s it; he goes back to the sports page.

“So, y‟know, I‟m maybe eight, nine, at the time, what do I know from reality and itching feet. I figure

the old man‟s temporarily unwired. Twenty years later I‟m after this creep in the French Quarter, a

three-time loser facing a felony; I get him, he‟s down for the full clock, right? Son of a bitch is always

one step a-fuckin‟-way, I can‟t quite lay my hand on him. I‟m thinkin‟ I know this guy better than

anybody, why can‟t I nail his ass? Then one night I remember what the old fart told me. What I come

to realize is that maybe I know this guy‟s MO, front and back, but I‟m not thinking like him, instead

I‟m thinking like me thinking like him, see what I mean?”

“So did you catch him?” I asked.

“I would have but the dumb son of a bitch shot himself cleaning his .38. Really burned my ass. But I

would‟ve had him. So what I been tryin‟ to do, see, I been thinking like whoever‟s icing all these

people here.”

“And what‟ve you come up with?”

“Not a fuckin‟ thing,” he said.

I sighed. For a moment I thought the Kid had come up with something important. But he wasn‟t

finished yet. “I don‟t know the why, see,” he went on. “If I had a handle on the why, I would nail his

ass. Or hers. Y‟know, it could be a fancy, ever think of that?”

“Well,” I said, rather pompously, “once we establish motive—”

He cut me off. “We‟re not talkin‟ motive, man. We‟re not talkin‟ about motive, we‟re talkin‟ about

where that fucker‟s head‟s at. Why he‟s doin‟ it. Y‟see, life ain‟t logical. That‟s the myth. Truth is,

nothing is real, it‟s all what we make it out to be. It‟s the same thing—when his foot itches and we

scratch ours, that‟s when we nail his ass.”

“Okay,” I said, “if my foot starts itching I‟ll let you know.”

He chuckled. “Think about it,” he said.

“And thanks for the backup.”

“It‟s what it‟s all about,” he said.

Five minutes down the road my headlights picked up Zapata. The pickup was idling on the shoulder

and he was waving at us with a light. I pulled over.

“Kid, you know where South Longbeach Park is, down at the end of Oceanby?”

“Then follow me. Don‟t drag ass.”

“What the hell‟s going on?” I yelled at him as he crawled back into the pickup.

“There‟s been a massacre out there,” he yelled back, and roared out onto the highway in front of me.

1-le had a red light on the roof and a siren screaming under the hood. I haven‟t driven like that since I

was in high school. Most of the time I was just hanging on to the steering wheel.

It took us thirty minutes to get to South Longbeach. We came in behind the theatre, a grim and

foreboding spectre in the darkness, even knowing as little as we did.

This one had drawn the biggest crowd yet, at least a dozen cop cars, red and blue lights flashing

everywhere.

The brass buttons were in a semicircle about fifty yards in diameter around the front of the theatre.

Nobody got inside the circle, including them. Several men from homicide were stretching a yellow

crime scene banner around the perimeter of the movie house and car.

Nick Salvatore, smoking a cherry cigar, was sitting on the fender of his car, looking as sad as a basset

hound. Dutch was sitting sideways on the front seat of his car, his legs stretched out into the street.

“It‟s funny,” he said, to nobody at all. Then he looked around and said, “Is this whole thing getting

funny to anybody else or is it just me?”

“What the hell happened?” I asked.

“Somebody tried to top the Saint Valentine‟s Day Massacre,” Dutch said.

“Right in front of my fuckin‟ eyes,” Salvatore said, shaking his head.

Dutch was shaking his head too. “The last four days, that‟s a year‟s work for the geniuses in

homicide. If we‟re real lucky, they might turn up a clue by the next census,”

“Who is it this time?” I asked.

“The family man,” said Dutch. “That‟s what I remember you saying about him. A big family man.”

“Stizano?”

“And a rather large party of friends. Salvatore saw it go down. He‟s an eyeball witness, can you

believe that? Doesn‟t anybody see the humour in all this?”

Salvatore ignored Dutch. He was anxious to tell his story again.

“You won‟t believe this,” he said, speaking very slowly and deliberately, as though he were being

recorded, and pointing out little scenes of interest as he described the massacre. “Stizano, when he

comes outta the show, I‟m maybe a hundred yards from him, all of sudden it‟s like.. . like somebody

started shaking the ground. They fuckin‟ keeled over. Now here‟s where it really gets weird, man. I

don‟t hear nothin‟, I don‟t see nothin‟. The loudest noise was the slugs, thumpin‟ into them. Then the

glass started going, the box office, marquee. Sweet Jesus, it got fuckin‟ surreal.”

There were five bodies lying helter-skelter in front of the theatre. Glass and debris everywhere.

Several slugs had whacked the car.

“Looks like a bomb went off in front of the place,” I said.

“It was fuckin‟ surreal, is what is it was,” Salvatore intoned.

“Who‟re the rest of these people?” I asked, pointing at the massacre.

“Coupla shooters, the driver, and another guy I‟ve seen with Stizano more often than not,” Salvatore

said.

“Pasty-faced little runt, looks like he died of malnutrition?” I asked.

“That‟s the one.”

“Name‟s Moriarity. He‟s Stizano‟s number one button.”

“Not anymore,” Salvatore said. His tone was changing, becoming almost gleeful.

The scene was as bizarre as any Fellini film.

Stizano lay on his back, staring at the underside of the marquee with a smile on his face and a cigar

still clamped between his teeth. His black suit was full of bullet holes. It looked like a rabid dog had

chewed up his chest. One of his shooters was five feet away, huddled against the box office on his

side in an almost foetal position. His Borsalino hat was knocked down over the side of his face,

somewhat rakishly. The bodyguard, whom I had pegged as a onetime Chicago hoodlum named

Manny Moriarity, a.k.a. Dead Pan Moriarity, was leaning against the side of the theatre on his knees,

his right hand under his coat, and the only expression he ever had, on his face. Two slugs in the

forehead, one under the right eye, and his chest was open for inspection. The other gunman, who

looked like a body builder, lay face down with his hands buried beneath him, clutching the family

fortune. The chauffeur had managed to get around the side of the car and had sat down, made a little

cup in his lap with his hands, and tried to stop his insides from spilling out. He hadn‟t been very

successful but it didn‟t make any difference. He was as dead as the rest of them.

As the little Italian completed his story, the Stick arrived in front of a trail of blue smoke that wound

like an eel back down the dark street and, looking at the scene of the crime, said, “They giving away

free dishes?”

“You‟re very sick,” Dutch said. “There‟re five people dead over there.”

“Bank night,” Stick said.

Salvatore repeated his story to the Stick and then pointed across the street to the park.

“Had to be from over there. And, uh, uh

“Yeah?” Dutch said.

“This is gonna sound a little crazy.”

“I‟d feel there was something wrong if it didn‟t,” Dutch said wearily.

“Okay.. . I don‟t think—judging from the way these people went down, okay—I don‟t think. . . or

what I think is, it was one gun.”

“One gun did all this?” said Dutch. “This looks like the Battle of the Bulge here.”

“I know it. But, see, uh, they went down just him, barn, boom, right in a row, like they was ducks in a

shootin‟ gallery, starting with the driver, there, swingin‟ straight across. Next it was the two gunners,

then the button—what was his name?”

“Dead Pan Moriarity,” I coached.

“Dead Pan Moriarity,” Dutch repeated, and smothered a giggle.

“Yeah, him, and finally Stizano. I mean, Dutch, it was some kind of fuckin‟ weapon. Took „em all out

in like. . . ten seconds!”

The Stick was leaning over Stizano, pointing his finger and counting to himself. He stood up, shaking

his head.

“1 make it eight slugs in Stizano, could be more. Look at him, he didn‟t know it was coming. Fucker‟s

still smoking his cigar and smiling.”

Stick giggled, a kind of uncontrollable, quirky little giggle, which got Dutch started, only he didn‟t

giggle, he laughed, and the laugh grew to a roar. Then Salvatore broke down and started in and before

I knew it, I was laughing along with the rest of them. The harder we tried to stop, the harder we

laughed. We were standing there in hysterics when the chief of police arrived.

Chief Walters was fifty pounds overweight and had bloodshot eyes, a nose full of broken blood

vessels, and a neck that was two sizes too big for his collar. He looked like a man who sweats easily.

“I must have missed something,” he said, in a fat man‟s laboured voice, heavy with bourbon. “What

the hell‟s so funny?”

“You had to be here, Herb,” said Dutch.

“Obviously you weren‟t,” Walters said. “Maybe we better talk about this in the morning.”

“We can talk about it right now,” Dutch said with more than a touch of irritation as his smile faded.

“Right now I think I‟d better join my people,” Walters said, leaning on the “my.”

Dutch defused the situation by introducing Walters to me, earning me a damp, insecure handshake.

“Dutch can obviously use all the help you can give him, right, Dutch?” he said.

“Why don‟t you go over and give the boys in homicide a pep talk,” Dutch said.

“I‟ll help you in any way I can, Khmer, just pick up the phone. I answer all my calls personally.”

“That‟s wonderful,” I said.

As he walked away he added somewhat jovially, “At least you can‟t say we‟ve got a dull town here,

right, Kilmer?”

I began to wonder if the whole damn police force had been recruited from some funny farm for old

cops.

“Well, you‟ve met the chief,” Dutch said, “now you can forget him.”

“Twelve in Stizano and this guy with the hat,” the Stick cried out, returning to his self-appointed task

of counting bullet holes in dead people.

Callahan was last to arrive, wearing a three-piece gray suit with a rose in his lapel. He got out of his

car and looked around. No comment. While we were counting bullet holes and scratching our heads,

Callahan vanished into the park and returned five minutes later with a whiskered, filthy relic wearing

the dirtiest trench coat I‟ve ever seen. You could smell his breath from across the street.