Hooligans (46 page)

Doomstown. Designer jeans, a two-hundred-dollar shirt, five-hundred-dollar boots. And one other

thing—he has a shiv mark, from here to here.” He drew a line with a thumb from ear to mouth.

“I‟ll be damned,” Stick said. “Stitch Harper?”

“Fits him like homemade pyjamas. He also had an empty holster on his belt,” said the Dutchman. „So

what sailor do you know dresses like that and packs heat?”

“Who‟s Stitch Harper?” I asked.

“One of Longnose Graves‟ top honchos.”

“If it‟s Stitch Harper,” Dutch said, “we just might have us a whole new scenario working. And I‟ll

know in an hour or so. I got photos of both victims comin‟ in on the telex.”

“Okay, let‟s hear the theory,” I said.

The way Dutch had it figured, Longnose Graves was bringing several kilos of coke by boat from

Colombia to Doomstown. Graves bragged the information to Della Norman and she bragged it to her

new boyfriend, Tony Logeto, who, in turn, passed it on to the rest of the Taglianis. Somewhere east of

Jacksonville Beach, someone from the Tagliani clan hijacked the shipment, killed the crew, and

burned the boat. If that‟s the way it happened, it was a clever scheme. It did Graves out of several

million dollars‟ worth of snow and at the same time made him a loser to his people.

“I think,” Dutch concluded, “that Craves is on the warpath. Add to all this his old lady gettin‟ snuffed

in bed with Logeto, you got to have one angry mobster on your hands.”

The idea had a lot of merit and I told him so. If Dutch‟s theory was true, the most likely person to

have pulled off the hijacking was Turk Nance, which could account for Nance‟s whereabouts for the

past few days.

“The way I see it,” Dutch said, “it‟s either Costello or Craves who‟s behind all the killing. And right

now Graves is the only one with a motive.”

“We don‟t have anything to move on,” Stick said.

It was true—it was all ifs and maybes. I decided to play devil‟s advocate.

“Supposing that Costello is real greedy,” I said. “Maybe he decided to scratch out everybody except

the ones he needed, which would be Tuna Chevos, who controls the waterways, Lou Cohen, his

financial wizard, and Bronicata, who‟s the narcotics pipeline to the street. Maybe they got together,

made a front-end deal to waste all the rest of the family, ruin Graves‟ credibility, and split the town up

three ways.”

“It‟s not as strong as the case against Graves,” Dutch said. “He‟s fighting for his life and he‟s got a

revenge motive to hoot.”

“Either way, we need that dope,” the Stick said, “Without the coke, all we got is speculation.”

One thing we all agreed on: If the dead black man wasn‟t Stitch Harper, or somebody from Graves‟

gang, Dutch‟s hunch would be colder than an Alaskan picnic. We decided to table all further

discussion until the pictures arrived.

While we were waiting, I went looking for Charlie One Ear. He was sitting in his cubicle, dressed in

his best with a cigarette bobbing at the end of a fancy holder, touch-typing a report at about a hundred

and twenty words a minute.

“You do that like you know what you‟re doing,” I said.

“My mother believed in the broadest kind of education,” he said.

“Do me a favour, will you?” I asked. “I‟m trying to get a line on a Tony Lukatis, thirty years old,

dark...”

“I know Lukatis,” he said. “Did time in Little Q. Pot smuggling.”

“That‟s him.”

“Is he in trouble again?” Charlie One Ear asked.

“His sister‟s a friend of mine,” I said. “She thinks he may be involved in another—”

I stopped in midsentence. My stomach was doing slow rolls.

“My God,” I said, and ran back to the telex room with Charlie a few steps behind me. Dutch was

sitting beside the machine, leafing through some reports.

“These things are embarrassing,” he said as we entered the room. “If anybody else read them, they‟d

swear Salvatore and Zapata were illiterate.” Then he looked up at me and said, “What‟s wrong with

you?”

I handed him the Polaroid of Tony Lukatis.

“Know him?” I asked.

He took a look. “Sure, that‟s Tony Lukatis. He did a deuce for smuggling grass. Titan nailed him.”

“Titan? I got the impression he more or less tolerated pot.”

“Smoking, not smuggling,” Charlie One Ear said. “What‟s this all about?”

“The white guy that floated up with Stitch Harper, it could be Lukatis,” I said.

“Why?” asked Dutch.

“Hunch,” I said. “He‟s been missing since Sunday. His sister thinks he may have been involved in

smuggling.”

The first photo rolled off the tube twenty minutes later.

“Stitch,” Dutch said, “or what‟s left of him.”

Crabs or sharks or both had done a lot of damage to the black man‟s face but there was enough left to

tell who he was. The white man was not as lucky. He was missing a foot, his face was nibbled to bits,

and he was badly bloated. I hoped the dead man would be someone else, anybody else. I remembered

DeeDee‟s picture of Tony, pleasant, dark, good—looking kid. And I was thinking about DeeDee, to

whom life so far had been one bottom deal after another. First her father, now the brother she adored,

warts and all. I didn‟t hope for long.

“It‟s Lukatis,” Dutch said.

“You‟re sure?” I asked.

He nodded. “There isn‟t much, but there‟s enough.”

I turned away from the photo. I knew I would be the one to tell DeeDee. And now something new „as

gnawing at me.

Who had „Tony Lukatis been working for? Longnose Graves or the hijackers?

55

The Quadrangle was a grassy square formed on three sides by old brick warehouses that dated back to

the Federalist period, and bordered on the fourth by the river. Cobblestone walks crisscrossed the

park; a sundial at its center gleamed under a broiling, bronze sky. In one corner of the green oasis was

a large oak tree, knobby with age, that shed what little shade there was, although nobody had sought

it‟s comforting shadows yet. There was hardly a breath of wind.

It was five to twelve when I got there. The park was beginning to fill up with pretty young girls in

cotton summer dresses and men who looked awkward and uncomfortable in their business suits, most

of them with their jackets tossed over their shoulders, A hot dog stand was doing record business. It

was a pleasant enough place to enjoy lunch, despite the heat.

The Seacoast National was on the ground floor of one of the buildings. Facing it on the other side of

the Quadrangle was Warehouse Three, where I was to break bread with Sam Donleavy the next day.

The third building, which ran lengthwise between them, facing park and river, turned out to be an old,

one-story counting house that was now a maritime museum.

I sat on a concrete bench near the corner of the bank, so I could watch both entrances, and waited for

DeeDee. I didn‟t have to wait long. At about five after, she and Lark came out, a striking pair that

turned heads like waves as they walked by.

She eyed me uncertainly as they came toward me, as if she wasn‟t sure whether we were still

speaking. I broke the ice.

“1 thought maybe we could get back to being friends and forget business,” I said.

Lark took the hint.

“Hot dogs and Cokes, anybody?” she asked brightly. “I‟m buy-lug.‟

DeeDee and I both ordered one of each and Lark slithered off toward the hot dog stand, stopping

conversation all along the way.

“You were right this morning,” I said. “It would‟ve been a dishonest thing for you to do and I‟m sorry

I asked.”

“What‟s the difference,” she said, still edgy. “You got the numbers anyway. Your friend convinced

Lark it was the patriotic thing to do.”

“Obviously he has more of a way with women than I do,” I said jokingly.

“Oh, I wouldn‟t say that,” she said, without looking at me.

We started walking and I took her by the arm and guided her under the large oak, away from the

noonday sun worshippers. She turned suddenly and faced me, looking rip straight into my eyes and

sensing my anxiety.

“There‟s something wrong,” she said. “I can tell.” And then after a moment she added, “It‟s Tony.

Something‟s happened to Tony!”

I nodded and said awkwardly, “I‟m afraid it‟s bad news.”

Her eyes instantly glazed over with tears. Funny how people know before you ever tell them.

“Oh my God,” she said. “He‟s dead, isn‟t he?”

I nodded dumbly, trying to think of something to say, some gentle way of putting it when there wasn‟t

any.

“Oh no,” she said. Her voice was a tiny, faraway whimper.

She sagged against rue like a rag doll with the stuffing punched out of it. I put my arms around her

and stood under the tree for a long time, just holding her. I could feel her body tightening in ripples as

she tried to control the sobs; then the ripples became waves of grief that overwhelmed her and

suddenly she started to cry uncontrollably. I lowered her to the grass and sat beside her, clutching her

to me, rocking her back and forth, as if she were a child who had just lost her first puppy dog.

I saw Lark walking back across the square, engrossed in a hot dog. When she saw us, I waved her

over. She knew what had happened before she got to us. She stared at me, her eyebrows bunching up

into question marks. She didn‟t say anything, just sat down next to DeeDee and began to rub her back,

trying to fight the tears captured in the corners of her own eyes.

As we sat there I looked over at the bank and caught a glimpse of Charles Seaborn staring out the

window. He stepped back into the shadows when he realized I had seen him. I looked back at the

third-floor windows of Warehouse Three. I don‟t know what I expected, perhaps Donleavy sending

semaphore messages across the park to the banker. The windows were empty, like blind eyes staring

sightlessly out of the old building. All the power that had once ruled Dunetown seemed focused on

this grassy flat, only now it seemed to be replaced by fear.

We sat under the tree for fifteen minutes, trying to console DeeDee. Finally she got the courage to ask

what had happened.

“A boating accident,” I lied. I didn‟t seem to have the guts for the truth at that moment. For the first

time since Nam, I felt desperately sorry for someone on the bad side of the law.

Regardless of what „Tony Lukatis had done, I knew what demons had taunted him to his death. Doe,

the promise of Wind-song, the easy life, the same demons that had taunted me, distorted my values,

left me emotionally barren after Nam. I remembered the day I wrote the letter to Doe and Chief. It

was like history repeating itself, except this time I couldn‟t escape behind a letter. DeeDee was here

and I had to face her grief to touch it, to feel her tears against my face.

Finally she started asking the inevitable questions, questions for which I didn‟t have answers yet.

Where? When? Did he drown? Probably. Was he doing something wrong when it happened? I wasn‟t

sure. Where was his body now? I didn‟t know. Was it terribly painful? No, I said honestly, I didn‟t

think so, it was very quick.

“Look,” I said. “There‟s something I have to do. I‟ll tell Seaborn what happened. Take her home,

Lark. Call the doctor and get her a sedative. I‟ll be over as soon as I can get there.”

We took her to her car and Lark got behind the wheel. DeeDee sat motionless beside her, staring

through her tears at nothing.

“Damn, damn, damn!” she cried vehemently, her anger suddenly spilling over. “Damn them all!” And

she covered her face with her hands as Lark pulled away.

Seaborn‟s spidery fingers were dancing along the edge of a barren

desk the size of a soccer field. He was trying to look busy when

I tapped on the door and entered the room without being invited.

He was startled, his eyes widening like a frightened fawn‟s.

The office was big enough to comfortably accommodate the enormous desk and was as barren as the

desktop. Behind the high-back desk chair, facing the door, was an oil portrait of a stern-looking man

with devilish eyebrows that curved up at the ends and unsympathetic eyes. I guessed from his dress

that the man in the painting was Seaborn‟s old man. There was one other picture in the office which I

assumed to be of Seaborn‟s family. Otherwise, the room was as sterile as a spayed bitch. He started to

object when I entered but I cut him off.

“DeeDee Lukatis‟ brother has been killed,” I said. “Lark is taking her home. I told them I‟d tell you.”

“My Cod,” he said, “how frightful. What happened?”

“Boating accident,” I said, perpetuating the new lie. “He was in the water for a couple of days. The

predators made quite a mess of things.”

His face turned gray contemplating what I had just told him.

“What can I do?” he said, half-aloud, as though asking himself the question.

“Well,” I said, “a little tenderness and understanding would help.”

“Of course, of course,” he said. Seaborn seemed to have trouble saying anything once. After a

moment he cautiously asked, “Did this have anything to do with. . uh, the, uh. .

“Murders?” I said. He winced at the word. “Why would you think that?” I asked.

“Her brother‟s been in trouble before, you know,” he said, as though letting me in on a secret.

“I‟ve heard,” I said. “I can‟t answer that question. Right now I‟m more concerned about DeeDee than

why her brother died.”

“Of course, of course,” he repeated. And then, “What is she to you?”