Hooligans (9 page)

canaries about this. I should think somebody,
somebody,
would have heard some goddamn thing!”

The rest of them stared at the floor and moved imaginary objects around with their feet. All except

Lewis, who stared at a corner of the room through squinted eyes, and Callahan, who spoke up again.

“Why you getting steamed up, Dutch?” he said. “We didn‟t know who they were until last week. Up

till then we were just following them because Charlie One Ear had a hunch.”

“I‟m including myself,” Dutch said. „We been making a lot of racket for these past nine months.

Busting pimps and pros, dropping dealers with a nickel bag in their shorts. We got a little too big for

our hats.”

“We didn‟t know until—” Salvatore started.

“He‟s right,” Charlie One Ear said. “We were much too casual about this mob. I was one of the

worst.”

“You, Chino, you were on Tagliani tonight, right?” Dutch asked.

“Who?”

“Franco Tagliani,” Dutch said, leaning an inch from the Mexican‟s face. “He‟s the one got killed

tonight while you were parked in his front yard. Remember?”

“I keep forgetting the new names,” Zapata said.

“Well, stop forgetting them. I don‟t want to hear any more about Frank Turner or Nat Sherman or any

of the other monikers their people are using. From now on, we use their real-life names, okay?”

The group nodded in unison.

“So what happened?”

“On Sundays, oh. . . Tagliani and... oh.. . Nicky Stinetto go to. . . Bronicata‟s joint for dinner, so I

went there and waited. Shit, you stand out like a blind man at a tit show, out there on Thunderhead

Island. There‟s only one other house on Tur. . . Tagliani‟s street. Twice I been hassled by the fuckin‟

downtown blue and whites, fer Christ sakes.”

“So it‟s your call to jump ahead of your mark that way?” Dutch asked.

“It was just a routine surveillance, Dutch. Shit, I was hungry, nothing to eat for seven hours. I went

ahead, grabbed some groceries so I‟d be ready when he split. Who had any thought he was gonna get

hit?”

“I‟m sorry you didn‟t get a printed invitation!” Dutch said. “How about Stinetto, who had him?”

Charlie One Ear sank a little lower in his chair.

“I‟m afraid I have to plead guilty,” he said. “It was a double-up, Dutch. We knew they were going to

dinner together, so I told—”

“So you told Chino to go to the restaurant and you‟d cover the house,” he said, finishing the sentence.

“Right.” Callahan said, “It‟s routine with him, Chief. Tagliani goes to Bronicata‟s every Sunday for

dinner. He usually meets one or two of his capi there. Draganata, Stizano, Logeto. Like that.

Bronicata usually sits with them.”

“Big deal, so who does the dishes? What [want to know is who was at dinner?”

“Logeto and, uh, the red-haired guy...” Chino said.

“O‟Brian,” I coached.

“Yeah. And, of course, Bronicata.”

“I suppose you was eyeballing Bronicata, too, right, since you was there anyway,” Dutch growled at

Chino.

“1 had Bronicata,” Callahan said quietly. “They all split together. 1 put Bronicata home before 1 came

back here.”

“Who had O‟Brian?”

Lewis raised his hand. “Same thing,” he said. “He went straight home too.”

“What happened there in the restaurant?” Dutch said.

Chino said, “1 was inside, watching the whole team. So Bronicata gets this phone call, comes back

looking like he just swallowed a jar of jalapeño peppers. There‟s some chi chi—”

“Chi chi? What the hell‟s chi chi?” Dutch asked.

“They was whispering.”

“Oh.”

“Then the Irishman and Logeto both split like the place was on fire. Coupla minutes later the waiter

brings the check, tells me the joint‟s closing for the night. „What the hell‟s goin‟ on?‟ I say. He tells

me the chef had a heart attack. I guess the call was to tell them the old man got aced.”

Dutch, who was twirling one side of his moustache and staring at the ceiling, said, “it don‟t make a lot

of sense, y‟know. Tagliani follows the same procedure every Sunday. There he is, in the car with only

Stinetto and the chauffeur, who couldn‟t shoot the shit with the pope. An easy mark, yet the shooter

chooses to waste two guard dogs and blow up Turner and Sherman in the house.”

“It‟s Tagliani and Stinetto,” Charlie One Ear said sedately. All that bought him was a dirty look.

“Salvatore,” Dutch went on, “who was your mark?”

“Stizano,” he said. “He‟s home also. 1 left his place when you called us in.”

“Cowboy?”

“The playboy—what‟s his name?”

“Logeto?” I suggested.

“Yeah, him. He‟s home too.”

“Everybody‟s home tonight,” Zapata said with a chuckle.

“Is any of this stuff from the past few weeks, from when you started watching these guys, is any of

this on paper?” I asked.

Dutch said, “We don‟t make reports. You put it on paper and somebody can read it.”

“Like who?” I asked.

“Somebody, anybody,” he said vaguely.

“You know what burns me?” said Chino. “What fuckin‟ burns me is that these assholes have got

themselves watertight alibis and they don‟t even know it.”

“Wouldn‟t it be fun not to tell them,‟ Charlie One Ear said wistfully.

Dutch said, “Okay, Charlie, put your good ear to the ground, see if you can turn up something. The

rest of you, back out on the range; see if we can stop this daisy chain before it goes any further. If you

run across the Mufalatta kid, Kite Lange, or the Stick, tell them to get in touch. Any questions?”

There weren‟t any.

As the gang started to disperse, Cowboy Lewis got up and walked straight toward me. He moved two

desks out of his way to get to me.

“It‟s Jake, right?” he said.

“Yeah.”

He stuck out his hand.

“My name‟s Chester Lewis. They call me Cowboy.”

“Right.”

“You want this asshole Nance, right?”

“Yeah, I want him, Cowboy.”

“Then he‟s yours.”

“Thanks,” I said, pumping his hand.

“You got a right,” he said, whirled n his heel, and headed straight out the door. As he left, a new face

appeared in the doorway.

I knew who it was without asking.

10

The new guy was ignored by the rest of the bunch, who were too busy talking about the tapes to

notice him He came straight toward me.

He was what some women would call a primal beauty. Indian features, high cheekbones, long, narrow

face, hard jaw, brown eyes, thick, shining black hair that turned over his forehead and ears. Six feet

tall and lean, he was my height and ten pounds trimmer. His seersucker suit looked like he balled it up

and put it under his pillow at night; his tie had a permanent knot in it and was hanging two inches

below an open collar. The points of his shirt collar curled up toward the ceiling, and I doubt that his

loafers had ever seen a shoeshine rag. Obviously, dressing wasn‟t a real big thing with him.

He looked bagged out, and not just from a bad night. The circles under his eyes were permanent and

his dimples were turning into crevices. He had the deep, growling voice that comes from too many

drinks or too many cigarettes or too many late nights or all three. He was wearing a battered old

brown felt hat, and a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.

Twenty-nine going on forty. One look, you knew he drove the women crazy.

Not jaded yet?

“I‟m Parver,” he said. “Everybody calls me Stick.”

We moved away from the rest of the bunch, back toward the coffeepot.

“You a pool shooter?” I asked, to get the conversation off the ground.

“Not really, why?”

“The moniker.”

“It‟s short for Redstick. Everybody thinks I look like a damn Indian,” he said with disgust. “Truth is,

I‟m Jewish and I‟m from Boston.”

“I‟m Jake Kilmer,” I said. “That‟s all I ever was.”

We shook hands.

“This about the Tagliani chill?” he asked. He said it casually, as though murder in Dunetown were as

common as sand fleas on the beach.

I nodded.

“It looks like two gunners,” I said. “They killed a couple of guard dogs, got by a couple of armed

guards, and killed all three of them.”

“Three?” Stick said. “When Cowboy raised me, he said Tagliani and Stinetto got it.”

“After wasting Tagliani and Stinetto, they dropped off a bomb to finish the job. Tagliani‟s wife

walked in. She died in the hospita1.”

“Too bad,” he said. “Though I can‟t say as I‟m too upset over the two goons.” So much for sympathy.

“How do you figure there were two shooters?”

“The house was wired. Dutch has the whole scene on tape, what there was of it. It was all over in

about thirty seconds.”

“Not so great for you. In town for an hour and your mark gets snuffed out from under you.”

“That‟s the breaks.”

“Guns and bombs,” he mused. “Sounds like the Lincoln County war.”

I said I hoped not.

“The boys giving you a hard time?” he asked.

“How‟d you guess it?”

“I got some jazz when I first came on. Kind of like an initiation. But they think Dutch hired me, so

they weren‟t as suspicious as they will be toward you. You‟re a Fed, man. That makes you a badass.

Don‟t let it get you down; they‟ll come around.”

“So as far as they‟re concerned, you‟re just another one of the boys, that it?”

“You got it.”

“What‟s your angle in all this?” I asked.

“Dutch‟s had me playing the field, kind of getting my feet wet. One day this guy, the next somebody

else. But the last week, since .Mazzola made the Tagliani gang, I‟ve been hawking Costello and that

little fink, Cohen.”

“And...

“Hell, you know the outfit better than any of us,” he said.

Then, smiling, Stick added, “Don‟t you ever do reports? I didn‟t know shit about Tagliani until Cisco

filled me in. I mean, there‟s some chicken-shit stuff in the box about them, but nothing with any meat

on it.”

“Yeah, I know. I‟m bad about reports. I‟m like Dutch. Anybody can read them.”

“In answer to your question, Costello keeps away from the rest of the players.”

“How about Cohen?”

“The same. A mousy bookkeeper.”

“Don‟t undersell him. He‟s got more tricks than a gypsy magician.”

“I‟ll keep that in mind. Have you seen Cisco yet?”

“Talked to him on the phone. I‟m meeting him for breakfast. Maybe you ought to join us.”

“I think I‟ll pass. If any of these guys spot me with you this soon they could get antsy. Right now they

trust me. I‟d like to keep it that way.”

“Whatever,” I said as Dutch joined us.

“That was a nice job,” he said to me. “I liked the little heart tug at the end.” And then to Stick: “What

have you been up to?”

“Hound-dogging Costello. He and Cohen spent the day on his yacht, talking business.”

“Great. That‟s two more we can alibi.” Then back at me: “You talk to Cisco yet?”

“Just before the meeting. He suggested maybe Stick and I should team up. is that a problem?”

“I guess not. It‟s a pretty loose operation. I‟ll move you around a little bit, just so‟s the rest of the boys

don‟t wonder why I‟ve put the two newcomers together. So what can I tell you, you don‟t know

already?”

“Anybody on the local scene I ought to know about?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.

“Just Longnose Graves,” Dutch said.

“Longnose Graves?” I said, chuckling at the moniker. Dutch stared at me through his hooded eyes.

“He ain‟t a laughing matter,” the big man said.

“Oh? Who is he?”

Dutch scratched the edge of his jaw with a thumb. “The local bandit,” he said. “Not a local bandit, the

local bandit.” He tossed a sideways glance at the Stick. “This business tonight, I hope it doesn‟t blow

up like the Cherry McGee thing.”

“Cherry McGee?” I said. “Would that be the McGee from up in Pittsburgh?”

“The McGee I‟m talking about is planted in the local cemetery,” said Dutch. “Compliments of Nose.”

The Stick drew himself a cup of coffee and poured me one. It was strong enough to swim the English

Channel.

“So what‟s the story on Graves? What‟s he called? Longnose?”

“Not to his face,” Dutch said. Then he ran down the pedigree:

“Graves once had a beak, made Durante look like he had a nose job. He had an inch or so shaved off

it in a fight, but the name sticks. He‟s black, a dandy, but not pimp-dandy, know what I mean? Sports

jackets, shirt and tie, likes sports cars—that‟s more his style. Long before I got here, Graves

controlled whatever underworld Dunetown had in the old days. Ladies, sharking, the book. He doesn‟t

deal iii hard drugs; in fact, he probably kept them out of Doomstown.”

“That‟s a switch,” I said.

“Moral fiber,” said the Stick.

“Sure,” Dutch snickered, and went on. “About two years ago this outsider, Cherry McGee, moved
into

town with a bunch of roughnecks and decided to take some of the action. First he tried easing Nose

out. When that didn‟t work, he tried buying Nose out. Still no dice. So then McGee decides to burn

down one of Graves‟ clubs, to show Nose he was serious. A mistake.”

Stick chimed in with a character observation.

“Graves has great comeback talent,” he volunteered. “Going against him was no different than McGee

jumping off the Bay Bridge and thinking he could fly.”

Dutch continued, “McGee did something uncharacteristic. He dropped a frame on Graves. Extortion.

And it washed. Graves did a deuce off a nickel in Little Q.”

“Little Q?”

“Felony Disneyworld,” said the Stick. “A very hard-time joint in this state—or any other for that